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.
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.