let me tell you about the amazing potential of Cosette and Feuilly as foster siblings opening a coffee shop together
It has a large counter in a U shape, and one half of it is decidated to the coffee and the other to the tea; there are plants and dainty tea cups and feature art and crafts from local people, which Cosette and Feuilly still personally pick and they have impeccable taste
it’s all open space and large tables, there are workshop organised every week – first it’s their friends teaching whoever wants to come about skills, relaxation techniques, or discussions about what’s happening in the world, but it ends up being so popular they have an actual schedule and a website to book your place in one of these workshops
they have poetry nights, too
Cosette makes the sweetest hot chocolates and chai lattes and Feuilly’s so good with latte art
they hire pretty much anyone who needs a job, no matter what their pasts or experiences are – that’s how Marius ended up learning how to make pastries, and he’s good at it
they have a suspended coffee system that never go under a dozen suspended coffees available
because Valjean’s not getting any younger, he feels bad about not being able to do as much as before, and Cosette and Feuilly know he’s getting a bit lonely, so they 100% include him in their venture and he works there part time and he loves it and he meets people and talk to them and I’m so happy guys I just want Jean Valjean to be happy that’s the only thing that matters
Courfeyrac worries he isn’t enough for Feuilly. Feuilly worries he isn’t doing enough.
Together, they work things out.
I’m writing this for Les Mis Rare Pairs Week because apparently that’s the kick in the pants I needed to actually write something the ship I’ve loved for months and months. It’s going to be 3 chapters but since it’s looking like I won’t finish it before the week is over, I figured I should at least post the first one today. Enjoy–and sorry about the angst, i swear it actually gets resolved in this one!
“I, ah, you know we’re getting married at the end of this
week.” Marius said, clutching Cosette’s hand tightly.
“Yes,” said Courfeyrac. “I had figured that out. The
invitation and months of planning helped, I confess.”
“Oh.” said Marius. He seemed as a loss. “Yes, right.” Cosette
nudged him gently with her arm. “Well! Since we’re getting married soon, as,
um, established, I…” He trailed off, gently biting his lower lip as he did when
he was nervous. Courfeyrac lifted an eyebrow encouragingly, and was rewarded by
the sight of Marius’ stubbornly determined face falling into place. “That is,
we though we should do this first.” Marius darted forward and kissed an
astonished Courfeyrac on the mouth.
Courfeyrac stared at him for a moment, blinking in shock. Then
he turned to stare at Cosette, ready to reassure her that her husband-to-be was
temporarily mad, but that no harm would be done in the long run. Surely. No
matter how much and for how long Courfeyrac had been wanting to kiss Marius
But Cosette was smiling at him shyly, a playful light
sparkling in her eyes as she leaned forward and kissed him too.
“Oh.” said Courfeyrac.
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.
All three in one?:D
(aah thank you for asking, I love this one and maybe I’ll color it properly later?!?)
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.
♙:Sharing a bed…
EDIT: so I realised the font was too small and my crappy eyes made a mistake, this wasn’t the prompt you picked. I’m sorry. ;-;
Marius hadn’t really been sleeping; he had been in bed, and his eyes had been closed, but unfortunately, the images he had been projecting on the inside of his eyelids had been a little too flat, not quite bright enough to be dreams.
If he’d been asleep, he certainly would have awoken when he heard the floorboards creak as Courfeyrac moved towards his bed – no, as Courfeyrac sat on his bed. No, lie. On Marius’ bed, above the covers.
“Courfeyrac?” Marius called, alarmed.
“Don’t worry, my friend,” Courfeyrac was laughing, but it was a pitiful sound, wet and weak and broken. “I am quite dressed. Don’t worry.”
The autumn night was too dark for Marius to see anything; nevertheless, he turned around, pushing his friend slightly.
“Just get under the covers. It’s cold and you’re freezing.”
Marius’s bed was barely large enough for one man, let alone two, especially considering Courfeyrac’s sturdier build. But somehow, this Courfeyrac felt so much smaller than the man Marius had befriended.
“Thank you, Marius,” Courfeyrac said, and he sounded like he was trying to smile. “Really.”
Marius bought a hand to his friend’s shaking arm. He hoped it was reassuring – he wasn’t sure what had scared Courfeyrac so much, though he had a vague idea. Battles, canons, friends injured, dying by his side. Enemies dying in front of his eyes. Marius suspected his own father had had similar nightmares. Had he ever shared them? Would Marius ever know? Marius’ father had never been able to talk about what he had seen with his son, but perhaps Courfeyrac would feel better after voicing his own demons.
Still, it took Marius nearly five minutes to ask.
“Do, uh. Do you want to talk…? I mean. I’m here.“
But Courfeyrac was already snoring softly, knees curled up against Marius’s side.