hogwarts AU with werewolf Feuilly? yes. okay. it’s very angsty and not very shippy. Sorry.
The morning after a full moon always felt like the continuation of the nightmare of the past day rather than a break from it. As if he wasn’t quite awake yet, not quite human-shaped again. Even if, in the last two years, Feuilly had usually found himself on a plush mattress, his head propped on a pillow, fresh sheet around his body, he was always sore, bruised, an so hurt and detached from his body it was as if he’d woken up in someone else’s bones.
It wasn’t far from the truth. His body had been broken down into pieces and rebuilt into something else’s, and even though, afterwards, when the worst was over, he looked more or less like the boy that he had been before, his body wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be. It could never be again.
Chocking on a sob that bubbled in his (his) throat, Feuilly took a deep breath – or attempted to.
A sharp, stabbing pain to his chest brought tears to his eyes and down his cheeks.
“You have broken ribs,” a deep, soft voice floated through the agony. Enjolras. “Take it easy. We bandaged them but they’re not fixed yet.”
Feuilly became aware of a cold cloth on his forehead; he reached out an arm that didn’t-quite-feel-like-his to touch it, but the pain once again spiked, and he cried out.
“Take it easy,” Enjolras repeated. Feuilly focused on his voice, the perfectly formed vowels of his southern accent. “Valjean had to stay at the school overnight so Cosette has gone to find a healer. I’m – sorry. You were hurt more than usu- than we anticipated.”
“What happened?” He said as the spasms receeded. Even though the day was overcast as it usually was in Scotland this time of the year, Feuilly didn’t have the strength to open his eyes yet, the light in the room too brutal.
He heard Enjolras take a small breath, and Feuilly was thankful – Enjolras valued honesty and truth immensely, and his warmth was almost reassuring. His voice was compassionate, but never pitying.
“We don’t know. We found you a little further than usual this morning. It looked like you had a rough night.”
The euphemism would have made Feuilly laugh, if he could.
“Yeah,” he swallowed. He tasted blood at the back of his throat. “I don’t… I don’t remember any of it.”
The voice that came out between his lips sounded so small, so raspy. It didn’t belong to him, it didn’t.
“I know,” Enjolras said. He took Feuilly’s hand – the one place Feuilly didn’t feel bruised and sore and raw – and squeezed it gently.
Enjolras didn’t care much for empty words, so he said nothing. For five, ten, fifteen minutes – or seconds. Time slowed down when you were in so much pain, but it gave Feuilly enough time to tentatively breathe again. Inhale, exhale. The bandaged around his broken ribs were tight. Inhale, exhale. His head swam. He couldn’t remember anything. Enjolras’ hand was cool around his. Feuilly’s body had never ran hot before; was this new? Or did he have a fever? What else had irreparably changed?
He couldn’t remember anything. Had he hurt someone else? Was this why this morning was so different?
“Would it help,” Enjolras began tentatively, and finally blinking, Feuilly saw him bite his lip, face drawn and pale, as if he hadn’t slept. “If I told you it wasn’t you? Whatever happened, whatever might happen- ” and once again, Feuilly appreciated Enjolras’ honesty, his clear vision, knowing how useless it was to pretend the risk of Feuilly hurting someone wasn’t terrifyingly real. “It’s not you.”
Feuilly swallowed again, the taste of blood making him nauseous and dizzy.
It wasn’t him. He could move his toes, could open his eyes and see his friend sitting beside him, feel the broken ribs and the bruises and the cuts.
But it wasn’t his body anymore.
What did that make him?
“No,” he whispered. “It doesn’t help. I know it sounds good but. Sorry. It doesn’t help.”
Enjolras nodded gravely. Maybe Feuilly would share with him someday, even if he didn’t fully understand – and Feuilly wished Enjolras never understood. Maybe someday, he would find the words to explain, the energy, the strength.
But for now, he focused on Enjolras’ hand around his, and tried to sleep until Cosette arrived with the healer.
^_________^ First of all, thank you! ^_^ Second of all, THIS IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE THINGS. Seriously, I love Feuilly being just a little bit younger than everyone. I love how enthusiastic he is and how he wants to know all the things and make the world a better place and something about that energy just reads as a little bit younger to me? Plus I’ve seen quite a lot of stories and headcanons which either place them the same age or have Feuilly being older and experienced and I kind of prefer the reverse dynamic? So. ^_^ I’m glad you like it, too!
(And it’s possible that writing this may have whetted my appetite for more of that dynamic and that I’m contemplating a longer piece for Rare Pair Week. Just saying. ^_~)
When Enjolras first meets Feuilly, Combeferre is jealous of the praise that Enjolras heaps upon Feuilly. How extensive your knowledge is! How enthusiastic you are to learn more! It’s Feuilly this, and Feuilly that. Combeferre has never felt threatened by Courfeyrac, whose abilities lean more towards common sense, or Joly, whose abilities lean more towards the medicinal. Feuilly, on the other hand, knows everything about everything, and he had learned it alone, with no mother, father, or school to guide him. Combeferre knows he’s being petty and knows he has to find a way to resolve his pettiness before he meets Feuilly, lest he make the poor boy feel bad for no reason than his own pettiness. And he’s being unfair besides – no one wants to be an orphan.
So Combeferre’s a total mess about his feelings, and hasn’t resolved them at all by the time he meets Feuilly. He’s dreading meeting Feuilly, his stomach hurts, everything hurts – until he actually meets Feuilly. And then Feuilly is just so enthusiastic about meeting this person whom Enjolras admires so much and who loves learning, and Combeferre is so excited to meet someone who is as enthusiastic about all kinds of knowledge as he is that they hit it right off.
Everyday, it’s like, “BRO, did you know that –” and “NO, I did not. Did YOU know that–” until the Les Amis de l’ABC meeting begins.
Enjolras
was frowning down at the page in front of him. For the last couple of hours he
has been trying to compose a pamphlet but the words simply refused to come –
everything he wrote fell flat or rang empty. He leant back in his chair,
staring up at the ceiling, but alas the spider minding its own business in the
far corner didn’t prove all that inspirational either.
He bent
back over the paper, trying to force the words out when a loud banging at the
door broke his concentration, shattering the silence of the night. So loud in
fact, Enjolras worried it would rouse the whole neighbourhood.
Surprised,
concerned and somewhat irritated he darted to the door and tore it open, ready
to tell off whoever was making this unholy racket. His snarl quickly melted off
his face however: the offending knocker was no other than Feuilly.
The poor
man was clearly worse for the wear – white as a sheet, except for the places
where he was purple and blue or, most alarmingly, red. Enjolras quickly pulled
him into the room, shutting and bolting the door after him.
Feuilly
stumbled, legs buckling under him. Enjolras, keeping a steady grip on him led
him to the sofa and gently pushed him down. Feuilly opened his mouth to stay
something but Enjolras was already off to fetch water and bandages. Only when
he returned and helped Feuilly out of his torn coat and shirt did he ask what
happened.
‘My meeting
with the printers went well’ Feuilly started ‘Girauld agreed to print out a
batch of our flyers…’
‘That can
wait, tell me about the meeting when you’re all patched up and had a drink.
Your injuries, what happened?’
‘I was
mugged. On my way back from the press…’ his voice broke and he trailed off. He
took a deep breath and went on ‘There were two of them… I gave them my money
but they refused to believe that was all I had. I managed to break away and… well,
your flat was nearest…’
‘You did
well, coming here’ Enjolras murmured, trying with all his might to keep the
flaring rage out of his voice.
He
methodically cleaned the wounds and bruises, pausing to critically examine a
deeper gash on Feuilly’s forearm – presumably from a knife and, based on its
position, acquired while defending himself.
‘I wonder
if this needs stitches… mmm… Bahorel had a similar cut last month and Joly only
bandaged it… Yes, I suppose bandaged will do. Do try and be careful with it
though. And show it to Joly or Combeferre tomorrow.’
Feuilly
nodded with a shaky smile.
Silence
reigned for a while, as Enjolras cleared away his medical equipment and handed
Feuilly a clean shirt.
‘Come my
friend’ he whispered, lightly touching an uninjured patch of Feuilly’s arm ‘I
was just about to eat something, come and join me.’
Enjolras
was, of course, a dirty liar, he was planning no such thing. In fact if Feuilly
didn’t turn up he would have gone on agonising over his writing till morning.
Feuilly,
for his part, blushed and dipped his head.
‘I didn’t
mean to invite myself over or cause any inconvenience…’
‘You didn’t.’
‘It’s just…
I was frightened and unsure if they were still following me and your flat was
the first safe place I could think of…’
‘Like I
said, you did the right thing coming here. I’d also advise you to stay the
night. You’re injured and rattled, and your flat is far away.’
Enjolras
was careful to keep his voice calm and clinical, as if his offer was
coming from pure logic alone. For someone so generous, who was in full support
of charity when others were benefiting of it Feuilly sure abhorred being on the
receiving end of it.
But tonight
he was rather too shaken and tired to put up a fight.
Enjolras
quietly laid out the table, pouring Feuilly a generous helping of the brandy
which he kept around for guests. His friend was silent, staring ahead morosely.
Finally he spoke up in a quiet, bitter voice.
‘They took
everything I had. All three francs I made today. Such astounding wealth, no?
Worth beating and cutting a man for… What horrible place must these men come
from? I know the darkness they must live in… but these poor souls must have given
up the fight against it. We have so much to do, Enjolras… I sometimes wonder if
we’ll ever manage it…’
Enjolras
shook his head, smiling a little despite his anger. Feuilly was truly the best
of them, thinking of the hard lives others, his attackers even, must lead even
in his distress. Enjolras, for his part, would have had no qualms about cutting
up the bastards, ideals aside.
But this
was no time dump even more negativity on poor Feuilly.
‘I do
believe that the day will come when all of mankind will live in peace and
prosperity and such acts will not occur anymore. It will come. Maybe not in our
lifetime, but soon. It will come.’
He took
Feuilly’s hand in his and smiled down at the man, willing himself to believe
his own word once more.
Rain and wind often come together, which, Enjolras think, is the worst part. Still, at this exact moment she is tempted to curse the heavy materials of her dress more than the elements themselves. At least she knows Feuilly kept the pamphlets that had just been printed, so they won’t be too damaged – although Enjolras can’t say as much for her clothes; she can’t remember the colour her shoes were before they were covered in mud. Every step she takes, she feels like one of her shoes will leave her feet and stay stuck, probably sinking in the mud.
Thankfully, Enjolras manages to keep both of her shoes on, though by the time she reaches Feuilly’s rooms, she is certain she will never feel dry again.
“Here.” Instead of a greeting, Feuilly hands her a towel as soon as she opens the door to let Enjolras in, her expression a cross between amused and disapproving. “You didn’t have to come in this weather, you know.”
What a pitiful sight Enjolras must be to warrant that look. Feuilly’s face is pale – she has been working longer hours than usual, Enjolras knows, her workshop having lost several workers in the recent breakout of cholera. There are ink stains smudged over her cheek and nose, but she looks more respectable than Enjolras does, at the moment. Enjolras can feel cold strands of hair sticking to her face, dripping down her back. She choses not to address Feuilly’s question.
“I couldn’t even find a ‘bus,” she says instead.
“I can’t blame them, really.” Feuilly shakes her head stiffly. “Take off your dress and your shoes. Hopefully they will have time to dry a little by the fire while we work.”
A few minutes later, Enjolras is standing in front of the fire, wearing a linen nightdress of Feuilly’s that was too short for her, tickling her lower legs were it falls. Her thick blond curls are still dripping, but the dry clothes make her feel, at the very least, a little more human.
Feuilly is sitting on her bed, shoulder slumped. Enjolras had noticed she was looking tired earlier – but now that she, herself, is calmer, she can’t help but notice her friend looks especially exhausted.
“Sit here with me?” Feuilly calls, probably noticing Enjolras’ staring.
“Oh. I wouldn’t want to drip all over your bed,” she says. Feuilly’s bed looks so carefully made, every corner of the blanket tucked under the thin mattress, the thicker wool blanket folded at its foot.
“I’d rather you did that ruin the pamphlets.” Feuilly says, and Enjolras feels her own face heat up despite the chilly humidity of the room. She sits down.
“Besides, my bed is worth much less.” Feuilly continues, nervousness punctuating her words. “I’m not sure I could get them printed again so soon – ”
“We can be patient.”
“Well, you’re here, aren’t you? Because you weren’t patient.” Feuilly’s tone is disapproving, but she reaches up to comb a hand through Enjolras’ ruined curls. Enjolras’ closes her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she says. Feuilly doesn’t respond, but her fingers continue combing through Enjolras’ hair, closer to the back of her neck, short trimmed nails scratching her scalp. Enjolras won’t force her to talk – she knows that rarely yields any results with Feuilly – but she lets her play with her hair, untangling strand after strand, a small puddle of water forming on the blanket. The pamphlets are still carefully hidden away inside a book on Feuilly’s shelf, and neither of them makes a move to grab them.
“I’m sorry, too,” Feuilly says eventually. “It will be alright.”
Enjolras feels herself nod, and Feuilly tugs her closer. She rests her head on Feuilly’s shoulder, and notices the room feels a lot warmer.
♠:One character adjusting the other’s jewelry/neck tie/ etc.
It had been raining for days – no, weeks. Perhaps not quite months, though, as Enjolras liked to think he would have noticed his apartment building floating away, despite the piles and piles of student papers he had been focused on reading and grading.
Enjolras didn’t mind the rain, as a general rule. He liked to listen to the sound it made, tap tap tap against the roof punctuating his thoughts and movements. It made it easier to focus, and easier to fall asleep at night, too, when everyone was home and everything was dark. Still, even he had to admit that after so long, the feeling of the warm rays of sun against his face was quite nice.
He wouldn’t go so far as it call it a caress; he tried to avoid the word if he could. A blanket, though, perhaps. An enveloping, reassuring, soothing blanket of light –
“Here,” Feuilly said, suddenly breaking through Enjolras’ reverie. Enjolras tried blinking his eyes open, but had to close them again, the sun shining directly – and painfully – in his pupils. “Take mine.”
“Uh?” Enjolras turned his head towards his friend, squinting. “What?”
“Forgot your sunglasses, didn’t you?” Feuilly shook his head as he pulled off his own sunglasses from his face. “You’ll get a sunburn, lying down like that.”
“What about you?” Enjolras frowned. He nearly swallowed a blade of grass – thank goodness the ground wasn’t soggy anymore, though now that he thought about it, they could have brought an actual blanket.
Feuilly shrugged. “Come on. Just take them.”
Enjolras thought for a moment. He still felt fuzzy, and warm, and quite sleepy; but he raised his head and extended a arm towards his friend; pushing the offered glasses back towards Feuilly’s face, he adjusted them clumsily before grabbing Feuilly’s hat from his head instead, plopping it over his own face as he lay back down.
“There,” Enjolras said. The hat smelled clean, like shampoo, but also a little like oil paint. He didn’t mind.
“Dangerous move,” he heard Feuilly laugh. “But suit yourself.”
He smiled from under the hat when he felt Feuilly lying down next to him.
eirenical17 