Valentine's Day Fest: Gift for coloneldespard
For: coloneldespard
Story by: tcregan and mmejavert
Prompt: Enjolras! Courfeyrac! Not fussed if it's romantic or not, but if sexy, let it be romantic (not game playing, fun though that is)
For Courfeyrac, every day was a day of love. Every day an opportunity not to be missed. He looked at every evening without some new friend - platonic or romantic - or new adventure or experience as a loss. But would take up the challenge again the next morning. February thirteenth came and went as one of those losses, but in no way did he let that dampen his spirits. The day of Eros dawned sunny and brisk, and he dressed with a song in his heart and a smile on his lips. Today he had planned everything. First, they would picnic in the park, recite poetry and talk of love and art. Then a trip down the Seine as Courfeyrac serenaded his love. The evening would consist of dancing either at a party if his partner was feeling sociable or alone in his apartment if they were not. They would dine together over a romantic candlelit supper and he would take his willing partner (because at that point, he reasoned, who wouldn’t be willing) to bed.
It was the perfect plan with just one small flaw. He hadn’t anyone to share it with.
The Musain’s main room was empty that morning, but the picnic basket was packed. Louison rebuffed his advances, but he never took that personally - she rebuffed all his friends’ advances. Walking down the hall, he wondered what his friends were up to. Combeferre no doubt would be studying amidst all his books and collections. Bahorel would have found some eager grisette by now - the idea pained him that Bahorel would find a Valentine before him - and Feuilly had his latest mistress. They were quite adorable together, thought Feuilly rejected his idea of a potential roll in the sack together with the doe-eyed creature. Joly and Bossuet, he knew, would be spending it with Musichetta, lavishing attention and love on one another. Grantaire… poor Grantaire, he thought, must be alone in his apartment with his own mistress - the Green Fairy. Which left one person.
The person in question, he found, was sitting in the Musain’s back room, poring over papers and maps. The blond hair, desperately in need of a trim, fell forward into his eyes as he scratched out a few more notes. The cup of coffee beside him went completely untouched. Courfeyrac shifted the picnic basket from one hand to another, adjusted his hat, and marched right up to the table. Even the shadow that he threw upon the papers didn’t catch Enjolras’ attention. He knew better than to clear his throat - it would be a wasted effort. With a sigh, he set the picnic basket down atop whatever it was Enjolras was writing.
“Oh, hello Courfeyrac. Your basket seems to be on my work. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind moving it so I can continue.”
“Mm. I would, you see. But it’s a wonderful day and I was thinking a picnic would be nice.”
“Hence the basket?”
“Hence the basket. So. As you are the only one here, you get to humor me.”
Enjolras sat back with a sigh. “A picnic.”
“Just a few hours out in the sun and fresh air. Some nice food and drink and me to talk to. What could possibly be better?”
Courfeyrac readied his next argument, the grin never leaving his face as Enjolras considered.
“All right.”
“Because you see- what?”
“I said all right.” Enjolras stood and picked up his own coat and hat, donning both as he walked toward the door. He looked back at Courfeyrac, who stood, slightly dumbstruck. “Are you coming?”
The grin brightened, and Courfeyrac followed.
It wasn't until they got to Courfeyrac's favourite picnic spot by the river that he noticed that Enjolras had left his things behind: books, papers, all of it.
"Why did you say yes?"
Enjolras looked up at Courfeyrac, a perfectly guileless expression in his eyes. "Did you not want me to? You asked."
"I didn't think you'd agree so readily," Courfeyrac admitted, and set down the picnic basket. "I mean. I did want you to. Why did you?"
"Look around you, Courfeyrac." With a sweeping gesture and a calm eye, Enjolras indicated the river, the bridges, the streets, all of Paris. "Sometimes, sitting in that back room, I tend to lose sight of the world around us, instead thinking of the idyllic utopia we are working to create. Combeferre tries to remind me daily that while the ideal smiles upon us all, we have to work with a world dark and real and gritty, not always shining and bright and pure. From here, I can see all of those things merged into one." He paused, and gazed at the river. "You would never think to dive into that water, not here in the middle of the city. Yet think: only a few miles upriver, out of our city, the water is sparkling and clean enough to swim in and perhaps drink from, if you go further towards its source. But as this body of water winds its way from that little spring into a wide river through our city, it turns from pure to filth. Combeferre has spoken to me of miasma, of disease, of theories brought forth by learned men that it is the putrid water that causes the disease. Combeferre disagrees and thinks it is unhygienic habits, not the dirt itself, that cause disease, but that is not the point. The point is that somehow this water has become putrified. Like the water, so has the country. The country began a tiny spring of a republic in 89, trickling larger and wider through 93, and then stagnated into a pool with the ascent of that Buonaparte. A river cannot run backwards, only forwards, and that stagnated water eventually moved forward into dirtier and dirtier climes, from the fall of Buonaparte to the return of the Bourbon pigs. And yet here we sit, beside a river filled with waste and death and putrefaction, but looking further ahead, can we not find a way to purify the water? Combeferre thinks we can. If we can purify the water, we can swim and bathe in it. And so, we must purify the country and return it to its natural state: a state of freedom. That is what I see, having a picnic out here with you."
Courfeyrac listened, entranced with the words. Even speaking of putrefaction and disease, Courfeyrac could easily see the world infused with light in which Enjolras lived, and wanted so desperately to bring some animation and life to that stark world that Enjolras envisioned.
"Well, yes. A dirty river must needs be cleaned to serve the needs of the people, so too must the monarchy be cleansed and returned to its republican roots. You cannot be the people's king, it's an oxymoron. Have some macarons, even if I can't tempt you to any of the wine."
Enjolras blinked, brought back to the world, then smiled at Courfeyrac. "I think I will. To both." Upon seeing Courfeyrac's surprised look, he shrugged. "Why not?"
They shared a glass, and Courfeyrac smiled at his friend over the glass. Enjolras was contemplating the sky, a half-eaten macaron in one hand, his knee pulled up and hand resting upon it as he gazed and thought.
Courfeyrac smiled at his friend, and took advantage of his abstraction by keeping the wine glass filled until the bottle was empty. Admittedly, Courfeyrac drank most of it, but what little Enjolras did drink of the wine lent a pleasant flush to his cheeks which Courfeyrac admired quite a bit.
They sat on the riverbank for several hours, Enjolras doing more of the listening and Courfeyrac doing more of the talking. Enjolras looked pre-occupied, but every time Courfeyrac asked a question or prodded his attention, Enjolras startled him anew by answering him clearly, quickly, fluently.
“Come, my friend. It’s getting cold and dark. I have dinner plans too.”
“A picnic and dinner?” Enjolras gave half a smile as he stood, handing the empty macaron box to Courfeyrac to return to the basket. “I wonder if you plan to take me to the theatre next.”
“Well no.” Courfeyrac swung the basket in his lightheartedness. “Although there is a charming little play at the Odéon which we could drop in on--”
“Dinner and a picnic, perhaps, but I won’t go to the theatre with you, Courfeyrac.”
“Well, we’ll have to go back that way to pick up your books from the back room,” Courfeyrac pointed out, quite reasonably he thought.
“Yes. But that doesn’t mean we need to stop off at the theatre.”
“No, I suppose not.” Courfeyrac slung his arm around Enjolras’ shoulders, a gesture which Enjolras didn’t protest.
Enjolras didn’t drink further at dinner. When Courfeyrac insisted, Enjolras asked him whether he were trying to get him drunk, and merely ordered a pot of coffee. Even Courfeyrac’s most pretty pout didn’t sway Enjolras.
Still, dinner passed pleasantly enough, and Courfeyrac, warm and lighthearted, even more so from the wine and the company, decided to see if he could press Enjolras into spending further time with him.
Enjolras smiled at him when they returned to the Musain, much later in the evening. “You are awfully happy about something.”
“Of course.” Courfeyrac beamed at him as he pulled the back door open. “I have spent the day in positively the best company possible. What reason is there not to be happy?”
Enjolras shook his head, and turned to fetch his books and papers. But Courfeyrac stayed him by grabbing at his hand.
“No, wait. You’ll leave after you get your things, won’t you, and I have somethiing else I want to say.”
“What?”
“This.” Courfeyrac closed the distance between them and kissed Enjolras gently on the lips.
Enjolras didn’t pull away, but let Courfeyrac kiss him. “Oh,” he said, some seconds afterward. “Is that so.”
“Yes, very much.” Courfeyrac looked at him. “You don’t mind?”
“Of course I don’t mind,” Enjolras replied, mildly. “If you wanted to seduce me, you didn’t have to take me to dinner and a picnic first.”
“...oh.” Courfeyrac blinked, then grinned as he put his arms around Enjolras. “I didn’t?”
“You didn’t.” Enjolras kept a straight face. “Shall I continue to be graced with your company for the rest of the evening, then?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“I live nearby,” Enjolras said, setting his books down in a pile on a nearby table.
“Mmm. We’ll go in a minute.” Courfeyrac kissed him again, and Enjolras didn't object to the delay in the slightest, readily giving into the kiss and into Courfeyrac's effusive warmth.
Story by: tcregan and mmejavert
Prompt: Enjolras! Courfeyrac! Not fussed if it's romantic or not, but if sexy, let it be romantic (not game playing, fun though that is)
For Courfeyrac, every day was a day of love. Every day an opportunity not to be missed. He looked at every evening without some new friend - platonic or romantic - or new adventure or experience as a loss. But would take up the challenge again the next morning. February thirteenth came and went as one of those losses, but in no way did he let that dampen his spirits. The day of Eros dawned sunny and brisk, and he dressed with a song in his heart and a smile on his lips. Today he had planned everything. First, they would picnic in the park, recite poetry and talk of love and art. Then a trip down the Seine as Courfeyrac serenaded his love. The evening would consist of dancing either at a party if his partner was feeling sociable or alone in his apartment if they were not. They would dine together over a romantic candlelit supper and he would take his willing partner (because at that point, he reasoned, who wouldn’t be willing) to bed.
It was the perfect plan with just one small flaw. He hadn’t anyone to share it with.
The Musain’s main room was empty that morning, but the picnic basket was packed. Louison rebuffed his advances, but he never took that personally - she rebuffed all his friends’ advances. Walking down the hall, he wondered what his friends were up to. Combeferre no doubt would be studying amidst all his books and collections. Bahorel would have found some eager grisette by now - the idea pained him that Bahorel would find a Valentine before him - and Feuilly had his latest mistress. They were quite adorable together, thought Feuilly rejected his idea of a potential roll in the sack together with the doe-eyed creature. Joly and Bossuet, he knew, would be spending it with Musichetta, lavishing attention and love on one another. Grantaire… poor Grantaire, he thought, must be alone in his apartment with his own mistress - the Green Fairy. Which left one person.
The person in question, he found, was sitting in the Musain’s back room, poring over papers and maps. The blond hair, desperately in need of a trim, fell forward into his eyes as he scratched out a few more notes. The cup of coffee beside him went completely untouched. Courfeyrac shifted the picnic basket from one hand to another, adjusted his hat, and marched right up to the table. Even the shadow that he threw upon the papers didn’t catch Enjolras’ attention. He knew better than to clear his throat - it would be a wasted effort. With a sigh, he set the picnic basket down atop whatever it was Enjolras was writing.
“Oh, hello Courfeyrac. Your basket seems to be on my work. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind moving it so I can continue.”
“Mm. I would, you see. But it’s a wonderful day and I was thinking a picnic would be nice.”
“Hence the basket?”
“Hence the basket. So. As you are the only one here, you get to humor me.”
Enjolras sat back with a sigh. “A picnic.”
“Just a few hours out in the sun and fresh air. Some nice food and drink and me to talk to. What could possibly be better?”
Courfeyrac readied his next argument, the grin never leaving his face as Enjolras considered.
“All right.”
“Because you see- what?”
“I said all right.” Enjolras stood and picked up his own coat and hat, donning both as he walked toward the door. He looked back at Courfeyrac, who stood, slightly dumbstruck. “Are you coming?”
The grin brightened, and Courfeyrac followed.
It wasn't until they got to Courfeyrac's favourite picnic spot by the river that he noticed that Enjolras had left his things behind: books, papers, all of it.
"Why did you say yes?"
Enjolras looked up at Courfeyrac, a perfectly guileless expression in his eyes. "Did you not want me to? You asked."
"I didn't think you'd agree so readily," Courfeyrac admitted, and set down the picnic basket. "I mean. I did want you to. Why did you?"
"Look around you, Courfeyrac." With a sweeping gesture and a calm eye, Enjolras indicated the river, the bridges, the streets, all of Paris. "Sometimes, sitting in that back room, I tend to lose sight of the world around us, instead thinking of the idyllic utopia we are working to create. Combeferre tries to remind me daily that while the ideal smiles upon us all, we have to work with a world dark and real and gritty, not always shining and bright and pure. From here, I can see all of those things merged into one." He paused, and gazed at the river. "You would never think to dive into that water, not here in the middle of the city. Yet think: only a few miles upriver, out of our city, the water is sparkling and clean enough to swim in and perhaps drink from, if you go further towards its source. But as this body of water winds its way from that little spring into a wide river through our city, it turns from pure to filth. Combeferre has spoken to me of miasma, of disease, of theories brought forth by learned men that it is the putrid water that causes the disease. Combeferre disagrees and thinks it is unhygienic habits, not the dirt itself, that cause disease, but that is not the point. The point is that somehow this water has become putrified. Like the water, so has the country. The country began a tiny spring of a republic in 89, trickling larger and wider through 93, and then stagnated into a pool with the ascent of that Buonaparte. A river cannot run backwards, only forwards, and that stagnated water eventually moved forward into dirtier and dirtier climes, from the fall of Buonaparte to the return of the Bourbon pigs. And yet here we sit, beside a river filled with waste and death and putrefaction, but looking further ahead, can we not find a way to purify the water? Combeferre thinks we can. If we can purify the water, we can swim and bathe in it. And so, we must purify the country and return it to its natural state: a state of freedom. That is what I see, having a picnic out here with you."
Courfeyrac listened, entranced with the words. Even speaking of putrefaction and disease, Courfeyrac could easily see the world infused with light in which Enjolras lived, and wanted so desperately to bring some animation and life to that stark world that Enjolras envisioned.
"Well, yes. A dirty river must needs be cleaned to serve the needs of the people, so too must the monarchy be cleansed and returned to its republican roots. You cannot be the people's king, it's an oxymoron. Have some macarons, even if I can't tempt you to any of the wine."
Enjolras blinked, brought back to the world, then smiled at Courfeyrac. "I think I will. To both." Upon seeing Courfeyrac's surprised look, he shrugged. "Why not?"
They shared a glass, and Courfeyrac smiled at his friend over the glass. Enjolras was contemplating the sky, a half-eaten macaron in one hand, his knee pulled up and hand resting upon it as he gazed and thought.
Courfeyrac smiled at his friend, and took advantage of his abstraction by keeping the wine glass filled until the bottle was empty. Admittedly, Courfeyrac drank most of it, but what little Enjolras did drink of the wine lent a pleasant flush to his cheeks which Courfeyrac admired quite a bit.
They sat on the riverbank for several hours, Enjolras doing more of the listening and Courfeyrac doing more of the talking. Enjolras looked pre-occupied, but every time Courfeyrac asked a question or prodded his attention, Enjolras startled him anew by answering him clearly, quickly, fluently.
“Come, my friend. It’s getting cold and dark. I have dinner plans too.”
“A picnic and dinner?” Enjolras gave half a smile as he stood, handing the empty macaron box to Courfeyrac to return to the basket. “I wonder if you plan to take me to the theatre next.”
“Well no.” Courfeyrac swung the basket in his lightheartedness. “Although there is a charming little play at the Odéon which we could drop in on--”
“Dinner and a picnic, perhaps, but I won’t go to the theatre with you, Courfeyrac.”
“Well, we’ll have to go back that way to pick up your books from the back room,” Courfeyrac pointed out, quite reasonably he thought.
“Yes. But that doesn’t mean we need to stop off at the theatre.”
“No, I suppose not.” Courfeyrac slung his arm around Enjolras’ shoulders, a gesture which Enjolras didn’t protest.
Enjolras didn’t drink further at dinner. When Courfeyrac insisted, Enjolras asked him whether he were trying to get him drunk, and merely ordered a pot of coffee. Even Courfeyrac’s most pretty pout didn’t sway Enjolras.
Still, dinner passed pleasantly enough, and Courfeyrac, warm and lighthearted, even more so from the wine and the company, decided to see if he could press Enjolras into spending further time with him.
Enjolras smiled at him when they returned to the Musain, much later in the evening. “You are awfully happy about something.”
“Of course.” Courfeyrac beamed at him as he pulled the back door open. “I have spent the day in positively the best company possible. What reason is there not to be happy?”
Enjolras shook his head, and turned to fetch his books and papers. But Courfeyrac stayed him by grabbing at his hand.
“No, wait. You’ll leave after you get your things, won’t you, and I have somethiing else I want to say.”
“What?”
“This.” Courfeyrac closed the distance between them and kissed Enjolras gently on the lips.
Enjolras didn’t pull away, but let Courfeyrac kiss him. “Oh,” he said, some seconds afterward. “Is that so.”
“Yes, very much.” Courfeyrac looked at him. “You don’t mind?”
“Of course I don’t mind,” Enjolras replied, mildly. “If you wanted to seduce me, you didn’t have to take me to dinner and a picnic first.”
“...oh.” Courfeyrac blinked, then grinned as he put his arms around Enjolras. “I didn’t?”
“You didn’t.” Enjolras kept a straight face. “Shall I continue to be graced with your company for the rest of the evening, then?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“I live nearby,” Enjolras said, setting his books down in a pile on a nearby table.
“Mmm. We’ll go in a minute.” Courfeyrac kissed him again, and Enjolras didn't object to the delay in the slightest, readily giving into the kiss and into Courfeyrac's effusive warmth.