your baskets! The ingredients you must use in your dish are…”
sets the remote control on the coffee table, next to an empty pint of
Ben & Jerry’s and two spoons resting on the upturned ice cream
lid. Chopped is a show that they can both agree on; Enjolras likes
to learn new tricks he can use in the kitchen (he really is
getting better at cooking, he insists as Courfeyrac teases him),
while Courfeyrac enjoys most any kind of reality competition show.
two of them had been sitting together on the couch, with Courfeyrac’s
head on Enjolras’s shoulder. When Enjolras sits back again after
setting down the remote, Courfeyrac leans against him and rests his
head where it had been before, snuggling close to him. Enjolras’s
hand comes to rest on top of Courfeyrac’s, and he rubs his thumb
gently against the back of his friend’s hand.
a moment, Courfeyrac lifts his head. Enjolras looks over at him,
curious, and the look on Courfeyrac’s face is not one he recognizes.
Courfeyrac takes a deep breath.
Another breath. “Um.”
Enjolras is even more curious now. Courfeyrac’s tone of voice
doesn’t worry him, exactly, but it makes him feel uncertain.
next few words sound as cautious as Enjolras feels. “What are we?”
definitely looks confused. But Courfeyrac barely gives him time to
think before backpedalling. “Scratch that. Don’t answer that.
I’m sorry.” His hand stiffens under Enjolras’s, and he looks down
at it, then back up at Enjolras, as if to ask if this was still okay.
smiles that gentle smile of his, the one that warms something in
Courfeyrac’s chest, and squeezes his hand. “It’s all right.”
shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry. It’s just I’ve never done
anything like this before. I don’t really do the romance thing, and
I know you’ve said you don’t either, but it’s—.”
leans in quickly to kiss Courfeyrac on the cheek. It works as he
intended, and Courfeyrac cuts himself off mid-sentence. “It’s
really all right. Honestly, I don’t have a word for this either.
But… that’s fine, yeah?”
eyebrows flash up for a brief moment, then sighs with relief. “Yeah.
Yeah, that’s fine.”
nestles back into the couch and pats his shoulder. “Come on, the
judging’s about to start.”
laughs and flops back down, his head finding Enjolras’s shoulder as
his hand reaches for his friend’s hand.
Maria you truly do know me!
Also I’m tagging this for #LesMisRarePairsWeek because I’m just in time before the end of the week 😀
28. Stop pinning this on me! You started it!
It is a peculiar sensation, to wake up in a world you don’t quite recognize. Courfeyrac has only felt it a few times before, mostly in the throes of truly spectacular hangovers.
Actually, the one thing that’s reassuringly familiar, this time around, is the hangover itself.
The unfamiliar things: the hotel room, which isn’t his. Enjolras pacing the length of said room, talking way too loudly for Courfeyrac’s pounding head. The ring on his finger which has already started to turn his skin green.
“I can’t believe,” Enjolras says. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”
the #angst with a happy ending tag is now true
Courfeyrac worries he isn’t enough for Feuilly. Feuilly worries he isn’t doing enough.
Together, they work things out.
I’m writing this for Les Mis Rare Pairs Week because apparently that’s the kick in the pants I needed to actually write something the ship I’ve loved for months and months. It’s going to be 3 chapters but since it’s looking like I won’t finish it before the week is over, I figured I should at least post the first one today. Enjoy–and sorry about the angst, i swear it actually gets resolved in this one!
“I, ah, you know we’re getting married at the end of this
week.” Marius said, clutching Cosette’s hand tightly.
“Yes,” said Courfeyrac. “I had figured that out. The
invitation and months of planning helped, I confess.”
“Oh.” said Marius. He seemed as a loss. “Yes, right.” Cosette
nudged him gently with her arm. “Well! Since we’re getting married soon, as,
um, established, I…” He trailed off, gently biting his lower lip as he did when
he was nervous. Courfeyrac lifted an eyebrow encouragingly, and was rewarded by
the sight of Marius’ stubbornly determined face falling into place. “That is,
we though we should do this first.” Marius darted forward and kissed an
astonished Courfeyrac on the mouth.
Courfeyrac stared at him for a moment, blinking in shock. Then
he turned to stare at Cosette, ready to reassure her that her husband-to-be was
temporarily mad, but that no harm would be done in the long run. Surely. No
matter how much and for how long Courfeyrac had been wanting to kiss Marius
But Cosette was smiling at him shyly, a playful light
sparkling in her eyes as she leaned forward and kissed him too.
“Oh.” said Courfeyrac.
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.
“ – In conclusion,” finished Enjolras at last, continuing to
look at Feuilly with almost painful sincerity, “I wish to convey my deep
respect for you as a man, as a friend, for friendship and loyalty and the work
we are all engaged in together, but most especially your part of it.”
Feuilly tried to sift through the several minutes of
impassioned speechmaking he’d just sat through, on everything from the nature
of friendship to the brightness of the future, with a detour through a puzzling
metaphor involving ploughshares and goats. “I’m not quite sure,” he said,
carefully, “but are you saying you want to kiss me?”
Enjolras managed to flush slightly red without changing his
earnest and sincere expression in the least. “If that is what you would wish,
but I have the utmost respect for you and your choices regardless and would
continue in any –”
Feuilly decided to kiss him before the goats made another
I’m not writing anything at the moment, so Les Mis is as good as any! I’m. So rusty, though, what a throwback this fandom is.
Courfeyrac pays him no heed, throwing clothes into a satchel with ill-disguised rage. He shoves past Enjolras to his desk, sweeping all the papers into the bag with one fell swoop.
If Enjolras couldn’t already tell that something was very, very wrong, the fact that Courfeyrac doesn’t seem to care about the fact that ink is rapidly spreading all over his favorite linen shirt, staining the insides of his bag.
“Go away, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac snaps. “I don’t have time for revolutionary business.” He spins around, snatches an errant sheaf of papers off the floor and shoves it into Enjolras’s chest, making him stumble backwards. “Here. Your maps.”
“Courfeyrac, stop.” Enjolras snaps his arm forward before Courfeyrac can rush off again. “Tell me what’s happened.”
Courfeyrac is livid, his normally sunny face twisted into a snarl. “You don’t care,” he hisses. “You don’t care, nobody cares, just leave.”
“No.” He tightens the fingers around Courfeyrac’s list.
“Do you honestly think I care for nothing but politics?” Enjolras asks quietly. “That I’d do anything for my beloved Patria and nothing at all for my beloved friend?”
Courfeyrac sags in his grip, and Enjolras leads him to sink into the chaise, wordless. He waits.
“It’s my family,” Courfeyrac whispers, licking his dry lips. “There’s trouble.”
“You have to leave.”
Courfeyrac nods. “I’m sorry.”
“Well.” Enjolras looks at him solemnly. “I will do my best to throw documents into the fireplace in a fit of dramatics while you are gone.”
Courfeyrac bursts into laughter, and the room brims with sunshine.
If the word had been said with Obi-Wan’s usual irreverence, Anakin wouldn’t have stopped. The day had been long, and he was tired down to his bones. And somewhere under the exhaustion, there was the fear that the darkness stretching out before him would swallow him, would devour the best of him.
So he stayed.
Obi-Wan was afraid. Anakin could feel the fear coming off of him in palpable waves, rolling and roiling over him the nearer he walked to where Obi-Wan was seated in the shadows.
“Can’t you feel it?” Obi-Wan asked. His voice was trembling, and when Anakin stood in front of him and gripped his shoulder, he found that his body was shivering, too.
“Feel what?” Anakin asked. But he knew. Of course he did.
The end. Of everything. Of the Republic, of the Jedi.
His fingers dug down into Obi-Wan’s shoulder, and when Obi-Wan pressed his face against his stomach, Anakin closed his eyes and moved his fingers to the nape of Obi-Wan’s neck.
“The dark,” Obi-Wan whispered, arms wrapping around Anakin’s waist and breath hot and fast against his stomach.
Yes, he felt it.
Nothing had ever been more intimate with him than the dark.
Not even Obi-Wan, when his lips pressed where his breath had touched.
And in that moment, Obi-Wan knew that Anakin loved him.
Not as a brother loved his brother, or a friend loved his friend, no – Anakin loved him as he loved Padme, deeply and wildly and passionately. It scared Obi-Wan, not because of its intensity or its heat, but because of how immensely he enjoyed the way Anakin cared for him. It should have been a burden, it should have made him recoil, should have made him warn his former Padawan to tread lightly where attachment and affection and want were concerned.
But instead, it only made Obi-Wan warm, to look into Anakin’s eyes, to look into the eyes of the boy he had trained and the man that he called friend and brother, and to know that he loved him enough to throw aside his entire future in the Order. That Anakin would die for him was not surprising – Obi-Wan had witnessed his short-sightedness before, and on more than one occasion had been on the receiving end of his misguided heroism – but what was surprising was that Anakin had chosen to live for him too.
Leaving was for the best, Obi-Wan knew that. Ending the war was far more important than whatever painful, beautiful love existed in Anakin’s eyes when they watched him. It would do both of them good to be apart from one another, to let the stars separate them and know that they were strong enough to survive without one another. Attachment was forbidden for a reason, it clouded the senses and confused the mind, and the sooner Anakin realized that, the better.
He stopped, sure that when he turned around Anakin would have that same damnable look in his eyes, that cut him to the quick and made Obi-Wan feel that he could never survive so far from him. Stars, Anakin would look half-starved for him, and Obi-Wan wasn’t sure if he was strong enough to not sate his hunger.
His eyes, while needing, weren’t at all primal with hunger when Obi-Wan faced him. They were soft, pained, and Obi-Wan had to keep himself from reaching out to him.
“May the Force be with you, Master,” Anakin said.
There was a goodbye in his voice. Not only because Obi-Wan was leaving. He felt it, and there was nothing he could do but nod and smile, to wish him the same.
There was something else, hidden under his words, buried beneath his farewell.
Something like ‘I love you.’