It’s nearing midnight, probably, and Feuilly has been dozing on Enjolras’ shoulder, book long abandoned in his lap, for a good hour when Enjolras looks up from his own studies, blue eyes twinkling.
“You should go to bed,” he wraps an arm around Feuilly, trying to gently shake him awake. “You’ll hurt your neck and you’ll be exhausted tomorrow.”
Feuilly sighs deeply but doesn’t open his eyes.
“But y’hair smells good,” he mumbles, moving a little so he can settle more comfortably against Enjolras’ side. “’n it’s soft.”
Alright then, Enjolras smiles, and turns back to his book.
All three in one?:D
(aah thank you for asking, I love this one and maybe I’ll color it properly later?!?)
Enjolras looked up from his reading to see that Courfeyrac had listed over from where he’d been propped up on the pillows on Enjolras’s bed.
No wonder. Courfeyrac had been up since dawn. They had helped some of Enjolras’s friends from a different print shop, and one or two of Feuilly’s fellow fan painters, flee the city a few steps ahead of the police. Charles X was trying to tighten his grip; many of their allies were feeling it close around them.
And now it was past midnight. Enjolras put his book down. He removed the papers from Courfeyrac’s lap and laid him down on the bed, pulling the covers over him. Courfeyrac had already rid himself of boots, coat, waistcoat and cravat. They were strewn about the floor, Enjolras noted in fond exasperation.
He tidied up and changed for bed himself. As he slipped under the blanket, he felt Courfeyrac stir next to him. “Mmmm.”
Enjolras kept silent, hoping Courfeyrac would go back to sleep, but it wasn’t to be. Courfeyrac’s eyes snapped open. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he said, sounding bleary. “I–where’s that letter–I wanted to–”
He flailed out with his arm; Enjolras caught his wrist, and drew it back to the bed. “It needn’t be done right this second, whatever it was.”
Courfeyrac made a soft, harrumphing noise. “I suppose you’re right.” He flopped back down on the pillow and closed his eyes, managing to look sulky about it.
Half-smiling, Enjolras lay down beside him.
It’s been raining all afternoon, and
showing no signs of letting up, but that’s all right. Saturday was a
busy day–putting in the garden, grocery shopping, laundry, running
errands, scouring the little thrift shops in the suburbs for the
perfect end table–but today there’s nothing urgently hanging over
them. They can afford to spend the gray, sleepy day on the couch,
reading and watching movies and drawing. And the newly planted
tomatoes need the water.
Feuilly’s half-asleep, their
paperback slipping from their hands to rest against their chest,
their head pillowed against Courfeyrac’s shoulder, when they feel the
soft touch of lips against their temple. Struggling to blink their
eyes open, they turn to look up at Courfeyrac.
whispers. "I didn’t mean to wake you up. I just. This is so
nice and cozy and I love you a lot and–“ He doesn’t need to
finish the sentence. Feuilly knows that Courfeyrac’s most natural
way of showing affection is through touch; that sometimes his love
for his friends just wells up and he has to hug or kiss or caress.
They know–without having to go through that whole discussion again–that
it doesn’t Mean Anything.
But at the same time it means
everything Feuilly could ever want and more. They smile sleepily up at
Courfeyrac, then settle back against his shoulder, their eyes
slipping closed again.