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.
“Ah, Monsieur Mabeuf,” said Cosette gently as she entered the room of the old man, who was staring at the wall, morose. When he looked up at her, frowning as if he was trying to remember who she was, she felt her heart clench. “It’s so warm in this room, Monsieur. Wouldn’t you like to get a bit of fresh air with me in the garden?”
“The garden,” repeated Monsieur Mabeuf, his eyes suddenly slightly brighter.
“Yes.” Cosette smiled. “Éponine mentionned to me that you had a fondness for flowers. I happen to have a lot of them, and i’ve neglected to see them for a long time now.”
“It’s no good to do that,” said Monsieur Mabeuf, shaking his head. “Flowers, they need care, and love. I had the book for you – i had, i had a lot of books…” His voice trailed off. He sighed. “I don’t know if I can move much, my lady. I am quite tired. Old men should not, perhaps, survive two bullets in the chest.”
“I won’t insist if you are too tired of course,” said Cosette carefully, moving in to rest a gentle hand on his frail shoulder. “But I would love to hear your advice, and i’ll be honest with you, it’ll be nice to have company to keep my mind off Marius’s sickness…”
“Oh,” said Mabeuf, startling. “You’re Marius’s lady. I thought – i was told you never left his side these days.”
Cosette’s cheeks turned dark, but she did not falter.
“Marius is well-cared for while I am absent,” she told Mabeuf. “He is with his friend Monsieur Courfeyrac, whom I think you know. Still, I can’t help feeling a bit agitated, as you understand. All signs point to him getting better, and yet -”
There was no pretense in the way her voice shook at the idea that Marius might truly never wake up. The thought horrified her still, and being far from him did not help her ease her worries. But the emotion seemed to do the trick at last. Mabeuf awkwardly patted her hand.
“There, there,” he said softly. “If an old man like me could get out of this barricade, I’m sure Marius can only do so too. He’s a brave boy, like his father. Help me out of his chair. We’ll go see your flowers now. Truly, flowers are more fragile than young men, we have to make sure they’re doing well.”
“ – 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.’