This is our battle cry
I’m giving you a head start,
You’re going to need it,
’Cause I fight like a girl
This sort of started for @thecoffeetragedy because they were kind to me when I was so angry and frustrated, and I think you deserve lots of kindness sent your way too. But then this also turned into me being delighted because i was writing, and also a clumsy way to try out this new FANTASTICAL HEADCANON about Enjolras being the son of a printer (well, in this case, nephew). So. Yeah. Not saying it’s good tho. It was actually my first time writing Enjolras & Feuilly in three years of fandom. I AM ASHAMED. I probably didn’t get them well.
Feuilly hadn’t known what to expect when he had agreed to follow Enjolras to his home. He hadn’t been able to predict in what sort of place Enjolras lived because he had spent most of the way to go there quietly freaking out about saying yes in the first place.
Enjolras wasn’t a stranger anymore, that he could not deny; they had spent too many evenings in the Corinthe, among the same midst of people, to be considered anything less than acquaintances. Some, who considered that a conversation that went well meant friendship, would have even said they were close friends by now, for they’d had their fair share of discussions about politics. But Feuilly didn’t know much about friendship, and was both wary and envious of those who threw the word so carelessly. Friendship required trust, in his opinion, and that did not come easily to him.
And yet, when Enjolras had said: “I have something I would like to talk to you in private. Would you care for a drink? I do no live very far from here.” Feuilly had nodded before his brain even screamed suspicion. In fact, it had taken him almost ten minutes of walking for him to start getting worried – some workers whispered about Enjolras’s smile and his talent for charming people into agreeing with him, but Feuilly, before tonight, had thought himself beyond that.
This is for the Acts of Intimacy meme (I commit myself to accepting prompts from this until the end of time, or until I can’t bear it any more)
They were still out of breath when they reached Joly’s apartment. Courfeyrac headed for the sofa and flung himself onto it.
“Keep your arm raised in the air,” said Joly, not joining him, looking around the room for a box of supplies and for something else, a footstep, another breath, a face. He found the box, but nothing else.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I did something else with it?” asked Courfeyrac. “I’m finding it somewhat difficult to keep the blood away from the sofa cushions.”