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.’
M. When it rains/snows/storms.
Marius feels a thrill of apprehension as he hears a knocking
at his door over the howling of the wind. It isn’t a storm yet, not truly, but
neither is it a night to be about without business. And what business would
anyone have with him? Not a visitor then – perhaps a neighbor? That thought
does little to quiet Marius’ concerns, given what little he’s seen of them.
But when he opens his door, he finds the ever-smiling face
of Courfeyrac, soaked through and holding out a coat and umbrella – both
miraculously no more than damp.
“Ah, I am delighted to find you at home!” declares
Courfeyrac. “I doubt I’ll be back this way today if I can help it. I was
passing through on my way to visit some associates and wished to pay my
“Some…associates,” says Marius, doubtfully.
Courfeyrac waves a hand in dismissal of the implied
question, sending drops of rain flying. “I must introduce you soon – but never
mind that. I have discovered that this coat is the wrong color for me, and the
cut unflattering. But it would favor you – your build is more classical than
mine and your coloring a match for darker shades. Won’t you take it and spare
me the trouble of throwing it away?”
“I don’t want charity,” says Marius firmly. He may be cold,
and his old coat nearly as full of holes as his rooms are, but he stands on
that. He catches himself looking longingly at the proffered coat and umbrella
and makes himself look Courfeyrac in the face instead.
“Don’t call it charity,” says Courfeyrac mildly, “it’s no
more than a small favor to me if you take it. I do hate to waste such nice
fabric. And if you want to make the favor double, you may aid me by taking this
umbrella before my friends see it. They will tease me mercilessly.
Marius isn’t sure he believes him, but he takes the coat and
umbrella anyway, already feeling a little warmer for reasons he can’t explain.
I AM 100% OK WITH THIS TURNING INTO A CM FIC. 😀 And, AW, Courfeyrac, how utterly transparent can you be?? ^______^ AWWWWWW. Seriously, everything about this made me smile. Thank you!!
[Caption: two gifs from Leverage. Hardison is working on his computer, saying, “You know, this man has his computer hooked up to the city’s free Wi-Fi? My nana could hack this thing.”]
There was one thing Hardison never told anyone. Not Nate, not Sophie, not Parker or Elliot. Hardison had a teacher. The way Parker had Archie, Hardison had her. She used to work for NASA, wrote out the flight codes by hand. She helped launch the shuttle that put Armstrong on the Moon. And she taught him everything. At ten he was writing his own computer codes in spiral notebooks during math classes he could have passed in his sleep, taking them home and showing them to her.
“Look, Nana! This one draws butterflies on the screen.”
“That’s good, Alec. But you switched from COBALT to C++ in the middle here. That’s not gonna do you any good baby. Here’s how you fix it…”
Her pension from the government helped pay for all of Nana’s kids, but when she got sick, it wouldn’t quite cover her medicine or doctor. She wasn’t going to short the kids any, and Alec knew that. He also knew that they’d look at her first if he took money out of an account linked to her job. He knew this because she told him, because she knew how his mind worked. That’s how he wound up hacking an overseas bank that had lent money to her old boss, the one who denied her request for government healthcare. And if he left behind some breadcrumbs for the authorities to find that led to that jerk, well, there are worse things to do on Prom night.
Believe it or not, I am still working on these nonsexual intimacy prompts!! I do really enjoy writing them, and I am excited about every one I got, I just have a lot going on these days and am moving slowly on them.
This is Carry On!Feuilly and Jehan, and it happens about a month or so after the end of that story. Also it has minor spoilers for what happens in that fic (just in case there’s someone following me who wanted to read it but didn’t yet? I feel like at this point that’s pretty unlikely).
Feuilly slid into the chair,
stifling a sigh. It had been one of those days that feel like
they’ve gone on for hours and hours, but when you look at the clock
it’s only 9 in the morning–and he’d only barely managed to get away
from work by 5:30. That was just enough time to ride 2 buses home,
change, and make it to the cafe where the ABC Society met, but not
enough time to eat dinner at home, so he’d ordered a panini at the
front counter of the coffee shop. He was regretting sitting down to
wait for it now, because that meant he’d have to stand up again when
his order was ready.
“Is everything okay?”
Jehan asked. Feuilly knew being blind could enhance the development
of your other senses, but was Jehan’s hearing really that good, to
pick out a tiny little sigh in a noisy, crowded coffee shop? Or had
Feuilly not been as good at hiding his exhaustion as he’d thought?
“I’m fine,” he said
“You just sounded tired,”
Jehan said. "Long day?“
“Yeah,” Feuilly admitted.
“And busy. Not–not bad
busy, just busy.”
over to the back of Feuilly’s chair, feeling his way from there to
Feuilly’s back. His fingers traced up Feuilly’s spine towards his
neck. "It must have been a stressful day,“ he said. "Your
shoulders are really tense. Is the new job okay?”
troubling thought crossed Feuilly’s mind: Did Enjolras and Combeferre
tell him? Part of him knew that was unfair; they’d asked his
permission before talking to Courfeyrac, hadn’t they? Still, the ABC
Society people were a pretty tight-knit group, and maybe Courfeyrac,
as open about his feelings as he was, hadn’t realized that Feuilly
wouldn’t want everyone knowing about how he’d fallen apart in
Enjolras and Combeferre’s apartment. The idea–as unlikely as it
was–that people in the group would be keeping an eye on him,
watching to see if he could handle the more challenging work of his
new job, turned Feuilly’s stomach.
great, really great.” He found himself fiddling with the
wrapper from his straw. "My coworkers seem like good people,
and the paperwork isn’t too bad. I’m really happy to be learning
exactly what services are available here, and how to connect my
clients with them, and if there’s anything I can’t figure out, I have
lots of people I can ask about it, which is great. My caseload is
pretty small right now, and it’s going to get bigger, but it
shouldn’t be too bad,
so that’s good, and–“ He broke off, feeling the blood rush to
his cheeks. "Sorry–I’m babbling.”
twitched in a grin. "It’s fine. But–“ He hesitated, his
fingers still running idly up and down Feuilly’s back. "Maybe
I’m wrong, but you just sound like … like you’re trying to
convince yourself? It’s okay if the job isn’t that great–I’m not
going to report back to Courfeyrac or anything.”
a moment, Feuilly thought his fears were confirmed–then he realized
Jehan was referring to the fact that Courfeyrac had helped get
Feuilly the job. He laughed, a few beats too late. "No, the
job is fine. I mean, I might be trying to convince myself that I
can do it, but the job really is great.“
wouldn’t you be able to do it?”
It was a
question Feuilly ordinarily wouldn’t have answered. Maybe it was the
way Jehan asked it–not surprised, as if anybody should be able to
handle the challenge, but not terribly worried either. Maybe it was
the stress of a new job seemed like nothing after all the shit he’d
spilled out before Enjolras and Combeferre. Maybe it was the gentle
touch of Jehan’s hand on his back.
shrugged. "I don’t know, just … it might be too much work,
you know? I was there until 5:30 tonight, and I know I’ll definitely
have more work as I get more cases–and things will go faster once I
know the ropes, of course, but maybe not enough to equal out the
amount of work, and …“
tomato turkey on wheat,” someone called from the counter.
mine,” Feuilly said, taking a deep breath as he gathered his
energy to get up and collect his food. He laughed half-heartedly.
“Sorry, maybe I’m just being a pessimist since I’m hungry.”
find that things look a little more manageable on a full stomach,”
Jehan agreed. He squeezed Feuilly’s shoulder once more before
removing his hand to let him stand up. "But if it doesn’t work
out that way this time … I’ll still be here.“
“I’m in love.” Courfeyrac rolled onto his back and draped his free arm over his eyes. “With the super hot, super brilliant, guy next door and I’m. Not. Allowed. To. Date. Him.”
Courfeyrac loses a bet, which means he’s not allowed to ask anyone out on a date for a month. And then he meets Combeferre.
soooo not quite The Prompt, but I incorporated the word at least? >.> I am rusty at these two. please forgive me. 🙂
aaaah I love it! The feeling of a lazy Morning After (after what? does anyone even really remember?) ,the affectionate mutual snarking,the horrible decor, it’s all great. Thank you!
I am not saying that the lighting is implying something but the lighting really is implying something.
He knew he was dead the moment he opened his eyes. Had he been asked how he knew he would not have been able to say – he certainly looked the same as he always did, and the street around him seemed like any other street of Paris, albeit much cleaner and devoid of passing strangers. Around him his friends too were looking around, and a little ways a few guardsmen still in uniform watched the revolutionaries with guarded eyes. Combeferre knew with the same calm certainty that they too had died, lives lost in service to their cause and their country.
“Well this is a bit dull, don’t you think?“ Courfeyrac had come up behind Combeferre and clapped him on the back now, eyes bright and face devoid of the exhausted strain that had seemed a near-permanent accessory during those last weeks. “I always thought dying would be something grand, not just the same as living. Perhaps the purpose of Hell is to bore us all into second death?”
“You seem quite certain that we have ended up in Hell,” Combeferre remarked absently, eyes scanning the assembled figures in an effort to see how many of them had survived. Not many, it would seem. The visceral reminder of such a loss of life would have depressed him ordinarily but now he felt only calm acceptance, a serenity that he had never quite achieved in life despite his best efforts. Joly and Bossuet huddled close to each other, checking each other for injuries, while Prouvaire and Feuilly looked around with wide eyes at their new surroundings. One of the guardsmen made his way hesitantly towards them – Combeferre realized somewhat belatedly that there were no weapons in sight anywhere – and Prouvaire drew him into their budding conversation, gestures as grand as ever.
“Where else would a philandering revolutionary like me end up?” Courfeyrac asked, the grin on his face making it clear how much he believed his own words. “Though your presence is surprising, I will admit.”
Combeferre shrugged, clambering to his feet. “Perhaps your hypothesis should be reevaluated,” he said. “Certainly this appears closer to limbo than the inferno. If nothing else our standard conceptions of Hell would most likely not permit socializing among the souls of the damned.” Even as he spoke Prouvaire let out a burst of laughter and clasped the guardsman’s hand in delight while even Feuilly seemed amused.
“They do seem quite lax on that point,” Courfeyrac agreed. “Tell me then, man of science that you are, what has happened to us?”
Combeferre shrugged. “I haven’t nearly enough data to speculate,” he said.
“Use your imagination, then!”
“You asked me my opinion as a man of science. If you want flights of imagination you would be better off joining Prouvaire.”
Courfeyrac laughed. “Perhaps I shall,” he said, words undermined by the fact that he made absolutely no move to leave Combeferre’s side. “Maybe someone will come explain things to us.”
“You expect an orientation into the afterlife?” Combeferre asked, raising his eyebrows at his friend.
“It would be impolite of them to leave us without even a specter of understanding,” Courfeyrac said with a grin. It only broadened as Combeferre rolled his eyes.
“You are truly incorrigible,” he said, shaking his head.
Courfeyrac was about to retaliate, no doubt with another pun, but in that moment a nearly blinding light began filling the street, engulfing the buildings and pavestones as it grew. Combeferre and Courfeyrac looked at each other.
“Is that the understanding you desired?” Combeferre wanted to know.
“It’s a start,” Courfeyrac allowed. “I assume we’re to give ourselves up to it and be transported to the next plane of existence.”
“That would be a logical assumption,” Combeferre agreed. Neither made any move to step closer.
It was not Prouvaire but Bossuet and Joly who passed into the light first, walking hand in hand, radiating joy and confidence. They paused just before stepping into it, Bossuet looking back with a brilliant smile. Then they were gone, bodies engulfed by brilliance.
A few of the guardsmen were quick to follow, passing quickly across and leaving nothing to mark their presence but an intangible feeling of rightness and serenity. Courfeyrac and Combeferre glanced at each other. Slowly the others trickled through, all looking equally contented. Combeferre had never seen Feuilly so wholly relaxed nor Prouvaire so utterly blissful. At last it was only them left. Neither spoke a word, though they both knew why they hesitated.
It seemed to take a long time and yet not long at all before Enjolras appeared. His golden hair glowed more fiercely than ever, and the smile on his lips made it clear that he had accepted his fate with open eyes and eager arms. Grantaire lay next to him, hand pressed against Enjolras’ in a way it never had been when they lived. He too smiled.
The two woke nearly simultaneously, faces smoothing out as they took in what had happened. Combeferre kept Courfeyrac back, though he too wanted nothing so much as to embrace his friend. There would be time.
Enjolras let go of Grantaire’s hand and leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead and murmuring something too low for the others to hear. Grantaire laughed, a laugh so devoid of bitterness that it seemed to come from a different man entirely, and clapped Enjolras on the shoulder. With a jaunty wave towards the other two he sauntered into the light, vanishing as the others had. Only then did Enjolras turn to his friends, and his smile lit up his face even more than his glorious hair or the light that beckoned them all onwards. Without a word he draped his arms around Combeferre’s shoulder and Courfeyrac’s waist, pressing their bodies close to him in a silent promise. Combeferre and Courfeyrac found each other’s hands behind his back and together the three friends stepped forward and into the light.