#bahorel/feuilly | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

combeauferre · 11 months ago

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all i could ask for

les miserables, 5.4k, rated t

Feuilly doesn't feel like he's a regular enough attendee to be considered a true member of Les Amis. New Years is the perfect time for Les Amis to show him how wrong he is.

written for @wilwywaylan for the @lesmisholidayexchange !

read on ao3

“Fuck, I am tired,” Feuilly huffs as he lets himself into Bahorel’s apartment, flopping right down on to the couch, his head landing heavily on Bahorel’s thigh.

“Ow, watch out!” Bahorel whines, lifting his hands quickly to avoid getting hit. “That was almost my dick!”

Looking up at him through ginger curls, Feuilly lifts his head only to nip playfully, grumpily at Bahorel’s thigh through his jeans.

“’M nowhere near your dick,” he grumbles, burying his face back into Bahorel’s thigh and sighing. “I swear I barely get a second to breathe, I fucking hate Christmas.”

“I hope you’ve made time for next Saturday night,” Bahorel says, running his hands through Feuilly’s hair. There’s a sharp hiss when he hits a knot, and he begins working it out, as gently as he can with his thick, clumsy fingers.

“What for?”

“For the New Years party.”

Feuilly looks up at him, yelping again when Bahorel fails to let go of his hair in time.

“What New Years party?”

“At Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s,” Bahorel says, “I told you about it.”

“You said it was for Les Amis only.”

Bahorel laughs.

“Yeah, I did. It’ll be quiet, chill, come on, you never make it to Les Amis events, everyone will want you there.”

“But I’m barely Les Amis,” Feuilly says, frowning.

“What?”

“I’m hardly ever there, you said so yourself,” he continues, rolling on to his back and resting his head back against Bahorel’s leg, “I’m nowhere near as active as the rest of you. Being your boyfriend and their contact to the working class doesn’t make me one of you, Alf.”

“No, being our friend and someone we respect and enjoy the company of makes you one of us,” Bahorel deadpans, tugging on Feuilly’s hair again. “Where’s all this come from?”

Feuilly pulls a face.

“It’s not come from anywhere,” he says, “this is how it is. I love going and contributing, but I’m not there often enough to be part of your inner circle.”

“You are, Antoine,” Bahorel says, pushing Feuilly up by his shoulders until he’s sitting up properly, “they want you there, I swear.”

“Can you do me a favour?” Bahorel asks, after a full ten seconds of reading over his textbook.

“What part of shut up and do your studying do you not understand?” Courfeyrac grumbles, looking up from their own textbook. They have a whole three bullet points of notes after half an hour of studying with Bahorel, and compared with their usual sessions with Enjolras, this is the least productive they’ve felt in months.

“This is important!” Bahorel whines. “I tried to tell Feuilly to keep next Saturday free for the party, but he thinks he’s not part of Les Amis.”

“What?” Courfeyrac says, putting down their pen. “That’s ridiculous, of course he is.”

“That’s what I told him,” Bahorel says, “but he’s adamant, he says he doesn’t go enough.”

“There’s no attendance grade!”

“I know!”

Courfeyrac sighs.

“I really want him there, I want us to finally have a complete photo for our wall.”

“I told him that,” Bahorel says, “but he’s never seen your photo wall, he thinks I’m bullshitting. He’s running himself into the ground at the moment, Jules, he needs the break as much as anything.”

“Maybe I can get Enjolras to talk to him?”

“As much as I love Enj,” Bahorel says, “Feuilly might just think it’s courtesy if it comes from him. I was thinking you could ask him?”

Courfeyrac thinks for a moment, then pulls out their phone. After a few quick taps, they lift it to their ear.

“Fee, my love, I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time?”

There’s a muffled sound on the other side, and Bahorel smiles despite himself.

“Lunch break, great! Okay, I’m just trying to get a head count on food for Saturday, so I wanted to check what you’re bringing and that you know about everyone’s allergies and stuff.” Another pause. “For the party, obviously! You are coming, aren’t you?”

There’s a longer pause, and Bahorel’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out to see a text from Feuilly.

>Little shit.

Bahorel grins.

<I don’t know what you’re talking about.

“You are coming?” Courfeyrac says, “Okay, great! So anything you want to bring is fine, we just have a few ground rules to keep everyone safe, obviously.” They put Feuilly on loudspeaker and pull up the notes app on their phone, clearing their throat. “Okay, so: no pork, no shellfish, no beef, for various religious reasons; every other kind of meat is okay, though. And we’re keeping the kosher separate from the halal, don’t worry. Anything veggie is good too. No gluten, because of Joly, no nuts, because of Enjolras, and- oh! How strictly do you keep kosher?”

There’s a brief, hurried spurt of talking on the other end, and Courfeyrac frowns animatedly.

“Oh stop it, it’s not a bother!” Courfeyrac’s telling-off tone of voice is rarely ever heard by anyone in Les Amis, until, of course, they say something truly outrageous. Like “oh, I don’t want to be a bother, anything is fine, I can just eat before”, or any of the other multitudes of things Bahorel knows Feuilly might have said. “So we can cook the meat and dairy separately – we can do dairy earlier in the night and meat later? Okay, and it’ll have to be in the same fridge, but we’ll keep them on separate shelves, is that okay?” After another pause, Courfeyrac beams. “Okay, great! Thanks, Fee, we can’t wait to see you!”

They hang up and grins at Bahorel.

“Thank you, thank you,” they say, bowing from their seat. “No one can say no to me.”

“I’m gonna get so bollocked when I get home, I hope you know that,” Bahorel laughs.

“It’ll be worth it to have you both at the party,” Courfeyrac says, “Ferre’s gonna be so happy when I tell him. It never feels complete without Fee, Alf, you know it’s the truth.”

Bahorel smiles crookedly, and shrugs.

As Courfeyrac turns back to their textbook, Bahorel opens his mouth again.

“Courf, can we-”

“God, what now?” Bahorel just laughs when Courfeyrac looks up and stares daggers at him. “I know you don’t care about this kind of thing, but this case work is due tomorrow.”

“All the more reason to put it off,” Bahorel says with a grin, “Anyways, maybe we could do something special for Feuilly? You know how he is, he’s going to spend the whole party thinking you’re all just being polite and go right back to keeping well out of your way once it’s over.”

Courfeyrac chews their lip and closes their textbook again.

“You’re right,” they say, sighing, “Enj and Ferre should be back soon, let’s talk to them about it?”

Bahorel nods.

“Thanks Courf,” he says, finally opening his own textbook, “I just want him to feel welcome, you know? I want him to feel wanted.”

Courfeyrac smiles at him softly.

“You’re a big sap under all that muscle, Alf, u know that right?”

Bahorel flips them off.

“Do your work,” he grumbles.

“I’m trying!” Courfeyrac laughs.

A half hour later, Courfeyrac finally managing to take a page of notes and Bahorel huffing, getting up to make more coffee, making origami swans the way Feuilly had taught him, and only briefly irritating Courfeyrac with a paper aeroplane, Combeferre and Enjolras walk in the door.

“Saved!” Bahorel cheers, jumping up and throwing his textbook back into his bag.

Courfeyrac rolls their eyes and closes their textbook, looking down sadly at their notes.

“It’ll have to do, I suppose,” they say, standing up and going to give Combeferre a peck on the lips, “hey, love.” They turn and kiss Enjolras’s temple before going into the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Yes please!” Bahorel yells.

“You’ve had enough, dickhead,” Courfeyrac yells back. They don’t see Bahorel flip them off, but they laugh good naturedly anyway, because they knows it’s being sent their way.

When Courfeyrac returns a few minutes later with two steaming mugs, Enjolras is leaning over their notes, adding his own adjustments and comments.

“Oh God, thank you,” Courfeyrac says, laughing, “I’ve gotten nothing done thanks to this asshole.”

“Hey, you should be thanking me!” Bahorel says indignantly, “I’m trying so hard to save you from the horrors of law school, I’m doing my best work here!”

Courfeyrac rolls their eyes.

“Anyway,” they say, “we have something to discuss.”

They bring their own coffee back into the kitchen, as well as a begrudging mug of decaf for Bahorel, and snuggle in next to Combeferre on the couch. They explain their situation, and Enjolras frowns and stares solemnly into his coffee.

“I’ve always tried to make Feuilly welcome,” he says, “I always ask for his opinion, he’s the person I go to any time I need some help reaching people, and he’s so good at contacts-”

“I think that might be the problem,” Bahorel says, smiling sadly, “he thinks that’s all he is, a contact. And obviously we all know he’s not, but…”

“We need to set some ground rules,” Courfeyrac says firmly, “No shop talk. Looking at you, Enjo.”

“What?” Enjolras folds his arms, “I managed the no shop talk rule last year, what’s all this?”

“Oh please,” Bahorel laughs, “we had to drag you and Combeferre out of the kitchen last year because you were stood over the pan arguing about some philosophy bullshit while the latkes burnt.”

“Hey,” Enjolras waves an accusing finger in Bahorel’s face, “I was in there trying to convince Ferre to ask Courf out, I’ll have you know.”

“Not when we came in, you weren’t,” Courfeyrac says, “You’d sailed right past that conversation and into some kind of ridiculous discussion of ethics.”

“We’re getting off topic,” Bahorel says, raising his hands, “Enj, you spent way too long shop talking with all of us last year, not just Ferre. No shop talk at all this year, okay? None.”

Enjolras snaps his mouth shut and glares at Bahorel, who rolls his eyes.

“Maybe we should drop the secret Santa this year too,” Courfeyrac says, “if it’s not too late? I know Fee struggles for money, and we’re already asking him to bring some food, I don’t want him to feel pressured.”

“You’re right,” Bahorel says, “I’ll spread the word.”

Feuilly is halfway through peeling potatoes when Bahorel walks in from class, immediately dropping his bag and walking into the kitchen to wrap around Feuilly and kiss his cheek.

“Hey there,” Feuilly smiles, leaning into him, “How was class?”

Bahorel laughs.

“How are your potatoes?”

Feuilly grins, rolling his eyes.

“Not peeling themselves,” he replies, trying to shake free from Bahorel’s hold. “Come on, here’s the recipe, measure out all those flours, will you?”

Bahorel sees the recipe and raises his eyes.

“Four different kinds of flour?” he asks, his voice high pitched.

“I had most of them lying around the cupboard,” Feuilly shrugs.

“Oh yeah, I know I too have tapioca flour just hanging around in the kitchen,” Bahorel deadpans.

“It’s from when Jehan helped me make boba!” Feuilly says indignantly. “That whole bag of flour cost less than one fucking drink, and it tasted better too.”

Bahorel rolls his eyes and does as he’s told, pulling out the scales and measuring the tapioca flour.

“When did you make boba with Jehan?”

“A couple of months ago,” Feuilly says, “it came over with me after a meeting. It was nice.”

“Jehan loves you, you know,” Bahorel says, “Did I hear it say it’s coming to help you get ready on Saturday?”

Feuilly smiles.

“Yeah,” he says, cutting up his potatoes and putting them into his steamer. “I don’t know what it thinks it’s gonna find in here, but apparently I’m gonna be getting all dolled up. It asked me how I felt about makeup yesterday.”

Bahorel grins.

“What did you say?”

“That I’ll try anything once.”

“Well I for one think you’d look killer in eyeliner,” Bahorel says, leaving his scales to lean over and pull Feuilly into a kiss, “Do you have Sunday off work?”

“I do, as a matter of fact,” Feuilly grins, leaning back in to nip Bahorel’s lip. “Why? Got something planned?”

“Maybe,” Bahorel shrugs, turning back to his flour, “I think we deserve a lazy day in bed, don’t we?”

Feuilly grins, rolling his eyes and going back to his potatoes.

When Saturday rolls around, Feuilly is distinctly more uncomfortable about Jehan’s coming over than he had been. His wardrobe is barren, the most fancy thing he owns being his old, tattered, patchwork interview jacket. It’s worn through places from years of use, and it’s still smart enough to wear every now and then, but it’s nothing compared to what he expects the others will be wearing. As he’s convincing himself that this is ridiculous and he should text Jehan and make up some emergency or late call into work, there’s a knock at the door.

Taking a deep breath, Feuilly makes his way over to the door.

“Fee!” Jehan grins as the door opens, raising its hands above its head and pulling Feuilly into a hug. It looks like it must be freezing, wearing only a crop top and shorts, with a thinly crocheted cardigan over its shoulders. It’s simpler than Feuilly expected, and he feels his anxiety begin to ebb away.

“Do you want something to drink?” Feuilly asks, welcoming Jehan in and heading straight through to the kitchen. “I still have that weird herbal tea you brought over last time.”

“Oh, yes please,” Jehan grins, following him into the kitchen and perching against the countertop. “How are you feeling about tonight?”

“Honestly?” Feuilly asks, turning back to Jehan, “kind of nervous. It doesn’t really feel like I’m meant to be there.”

“Of course you are,” Jehan replies, smiling warmly and opening the cupboard to get the honey. “We love having you around, Antoine, and you know Courf hasn’t stopped going on about how they’re finally going to have a complete photo of Les Amis for their wall?”

Feuilly laughs.

“I haven’t stopped hearing about the wall since this all began,” he says, “it must be impressive.”

“They’ve cleared a space for our big group photo,” Jehan says, “but it’s amazing, they have photos from way back when they were little, I think they have photos of every event we’ve ever had. And there’s a couple from their first protests with Combeferre and Enjolras. They’re very proud of that wall.”

“It sounds nice,” Feuilly says quietly.

“Now,” Jehan says, picking up its finished mug of tea and walking out the kitchen, “Let’s go see what we’re working with for clothes, shall we? And I’ll do your makeup.”

Feuilly’s nerves creep into his stomach again, and he takes a deep breath as he follows Jehan through.

“It’s not a lot,” he admits quietly, when Jehan opens the closet.

“Nonsense,” Jehan says, waving an arm, “we have plenty here, let me just look through.”

It takes Jehan all of two minutes to find Feuilly’s one nice jacket, and it pulls it out and grins.

“This is perfect,” it says, holding it out, “the patchwork is amazing, I never knew you could sew.”

Feuilly blushes, smiling softly.

“I’m saving to buy myself a machine,” he says, “I took some lessons at school years ago, but I’m kind of rusty now.”

“I have a machine,” Jehan says, spinning around, “but I’m only really just learning to use it. Maybe we could figure it out together?”

Feuilly lights up.

“I’d love that,” he smiles genuinely, “I have a quilt under the bed that I’ve been waiting to finish for years, maybe I could bring it to yours some time?”

“Absolutely,” Jehan says, grinning. It pulls out a plain shirt, some old jeans and a belt and lays them down on Feuilly’s bed. “Maybe we could even try and teach the others. Bossuet knits, you know, and Combeferre embroiders. We could have little get togethers when we’re free. A good ol’ stitch and bitch session, yeah?”

Warmth spreads through Feuilly’s body, and he rests his head on Jehan’s shoulder while he tries to hide how wide he’s smiling. Maybe it’s just Jehan’s usual, welcoming personality, or maybe he might actually be able to fit in with Les Amis, after all.

By the time Bahorel pulls up to take them to the party, Jehan is finishing the final touches of Feuilly’s makeup, which consists of sharp winged eyeliner, some highlighter, and black lipstick. His nails are painted blue and purple, and he can’t tell if he feels out of place, or if he feels hotter than he ever has in his life.

He texts Bahorel to come straight up and Jehan insists he stay in the bedroom until they’re ready for him.

“He has to see you walk out,” Jehan says, standing up when the door opens. “It’s important. He’s gonna die when he sees you.”

Feuilly laughs and rolls his eyes but does as he’s told, sitting on the bed whilst Jehan and Bahorel talk animatedly in the next room. Jehan picks up its own Tupperware box of food and finds Feuilly’s in the kitchen.

“Antoine!” he calls, when he and Bahorel are ready to go. “Come out here please!”

Feuilly takes a deep breath and stands, walking out slowly into the front room. The first thing he sees is Bahorel, jaw dropped, eyes shamelessly dragging up and down Feuilly’s body. Feuilly blushes across his cheeks and neck, and raises an eyebrow at Bahorel.

“Well?”

“I- goddamn, Feuilly.”

He laughs, walking over to loop his arm through Bahorel’s.

“You can thank Jehan,” he says, offering his other arm for it to take, “It’s been here for hours getting me ready.”

Jehan laughs and shrugs.

“It’s nothing,” it grins, “consider it a Christmas present.”

“I will,” Bahorel says, wrapping his arm around Feuilly’s waist and pulling him close.

The apartment building they walk inside is big and tidy, and Feuilly feels out of place in his silly patchwork jacket, but Bahorel puts a hand on the small of his back and guides him to the elevator. When the three of them step out into the hallway, there’s an open door and a considerable amount of music and laughter coming from inside it.

“Hey! Will you lot keep it quiet out here?” Bahorel yells. Courfeyrac’s beaming face sticks out the door and they flip him off, laughing.

“Get in here, asshole,” they say, reaching out to pull him into a hug. “Feuilly!” they exclaim, pulling away from Bahorel and opening their arms again. “I’m so glad you came! I love your jacket! And God, your makeup! Jehan’s work, I assume?”

“You assume correctly,” Jehan says, stooping to kiss their cheek.

“Come on in, guys.”

The flat is bigger than Feuilly’s, but not as big as he’d imagined. He sees Courfeyrac’s photo wall immediately: photos of different members of the group and of Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s family, the stand-out one Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and another person he thinks must be Enjolras. Years prior, at some kind of sleepover, they look just as animated as they are now. Combeferre and Courfeyrac look similar to how they do now, but Enjolras looks distinctly more feminine, and less radiant, less confident. It makes Feuilly shrink back a little, to see their fearless leader, small and visibly uncomfortable.

“Enjolras won’t let us take that one down,” Courfeyrac says, appearing behind him. “It’s from our school years, right after I moved to France. I hadn’t even known them that long but I was their best friend. That was our first sleepover.”

Enjolras and Combeferre are cuddled together on a double bed, Courfeyrac below them, huddled in a sleeping bag on the floor. The photo is rushed, and Feuilly can imagine them getting ready for a timed photo on an old camera, Courfeyrac’s blurred hand making a peace sign right as the shutter closes.

The rest of the photos are just as haphazard, speedily taken, often candid, of different members of Les Amis and of people Feuilly assumes are Courfeyrac’s family. He notices right away that he is in none of these photos, and his heart aches. There’s space in the middle of the wall, however, for a new photo.

“We have a camera for tonight, too,” Courfeyrac says, pulling Feuilly away, “so you can take as many as you like. I want to get some with you, if that’s okay. I’d love to add some photos of you with everyone to my wall.”

He reaches over to the coffee table where his camera sits, and turns it around to take a selfie.

“Smile!” he says, wrapping an arm around Feuilly and grinning so wide his eyes scrunch closed. Feuilly laughs as the trigger pulls, and Courfeyrac turns the camera around to see a blurry photo of them laughing together.

“Perfect!”

Feuilly smiles and shakes his head. Jehan comes bouncing over, Combeferre in tow, still holding their Tupperware boxes.

“Oh, my food!” Feuilly says, taking the box from Jehan. “Where do I put it?”

“Ah,” Courfeyrac says, “come and see where the magic happens.”

The kitchen seems to be in some kind of organised chaos, three pans on the stove and another waiting, the oven on, a slow cooker set up to the side, and a mini fridge on the floor marked “halal”. The pans on the stove each have “dairy” written on their handles, and Courfeyrac pulls Feuilly over.

“Let me give you the grand tour,” he says, pointing to the first pan, “this is chai on the go, it’s Bossuet’s mother’s recipe, it’s really good,” they turn to the next pan, frying what looks like doughnuts – “this is gulab jamun, Bossuet’s again. He and Joly have been here for a few hours, and Musichetta will be over soon. She’s bringing veggie samosas.”

The next pan is boiling some pasta, and Feuilly stares over it, watching it intently.

“I tried my hand at gluten free pasta for the first time this year,” Courfeyrac says, “it’s gone pretty well, considering. That’s trofie, I have some pesto to go with it. My nonna’s recipe, although I had to adapt it to have no pine nuts for Enjolras. She was horrified the first time I told her, but she likes Enjo well enough to let it go.”

Feuilly laughs.

“Ferre says you have to wait a few hours between eating dairy and meat, right?” Courfeyrac says, opening the fridge before they get a reply, “so we have a few dishes waiting for later in the night, or maybe tomorrow if we get that far. Some chicken wings and turkey, and a leg of lamb in the slow cooker.”

“This is…”

“A shit tonne of food?” Courfeyrac asks, grinning. “Last year we barely had enough to go round, so everyone’s kind of overcompensated this year.”

“I’ve never seen so much food in my life,” Feuilly says sincerely, “I might not be able to manage much, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Courfeyrac says, putting an arm around him, “there’s no judgement about how little or how much you eat, and there’ll be leftovers anyway if you want to take some how with you. No pressure at all, we just want you to enjoy yourself.”

“Thanks, Courf,” Feuilly says, relaxing a little. “What should I do with this?” he lifts his Tupperware box and Courfeyrac smiles.

“What did you make?” they ask, opening a cupboard.

“Knishes,” he says, passing Courfeyrac the box, “They’re gluten free and vegetarian, I hope they’re okay.”

“That sounds great!” he says, laying them out on the plate. “You wanna put them on the table? I have a challah to put out too that my sister made. I’m so glad she can bake, the last time I tried to make gluten free challah it came out like shortbread.”

Feuilly snorts.

“It was meant to be a surprise for Ferre last year,” they say, “but I had to get Chiara to send some over from Marseille in the end. She’s lucky she got the good baking genes.”

Enjolras and Combeferre make their way into the kitchen soon after, Enjolras carrying a bag of drinks for the fridge. He sees Feuilly and smiles warmly.

“Ah, Feuilly,” he says, putting the drinks down, “I was hoping I could catch you in private for a second, if that’s okay?”

“Uh,” Feuilly laughs nervously, looking at Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “I guess, is everything okay?”

“Oh, yes! Everything’s fine, I just wanted to clear something up with you.” He doesn’t stop looking nervous, and it makes Feuilly’s stomach churn with worry. Maybe he shouldn’t have come after all, maybe he’s out of place here.

He follows Enjolras into the spare room, where he shuts the door and sits on the bed, inviting Feuilly to sit next to him.

“Sorry to drag you away like this,” Enjolras says, finally looking him in the eye. “I promised everyone there’d be no shop talk so I’ll keep this quick but I think it’s important.” He takes a deep breath. “Feuilly, it’s come to my attention that you’ve been feeling isolated from the group? Like you’re not one of us, or you’re not wanted at our events, or something?”

“Oh,” Feuilly says, looking away and blushing. “Well, it’s all been cleared up now, it’s not a big deal. I just didn’t realise you all wanted me around as much as you do, it’s nothing, I promise. It’s behind me, I’ve been made welcome, I swear.”

“Don’t worry,” Enjolras says, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder. “I just wanted to know, so we can find a way to make you feel more welcome. We thought it was obvious you were part of the core group, I’m sorry we’ve neglected to make it clear to you.”

Feuilly shrugs.

“It’s not your fault my schedule is so tight, I just can’t always make it to meetings, or to meals out, or�� that’s not your problem.”

“We’ve been pushing you away,” Enjolras counters, “and we didn’t realise. We’re going to try and work with your schedule better in the new year, and we’re going to do some more budget-friendly things that you can attend. We want you there, Feuilly, we always miss you when you can’t make events.”

“I don’t want to make things overcomplicated,” Feuilly says, pulling at his nails. “Really, it’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a big deal to us,” Enjolras says, the frown evident in his voice. “We’re going to make it work, for all of us. Please, promise me you’ll tell one of us if you feel excluded like that again?”

Feuilly thinks about it a moment, and then nods.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, smiling. “Now, shall we go back and join the party?”

“Fee!” Jehan comes bouncing over when Enjolras and Feuilly walk back into the front room, opening its arms for him. “Combeferre is breaking out the charades and me and Bahorel need a third, would you do the honours?”

“I take it that means I’m with Courf and Ferre?” Enjolras asks, tiredly.

“I’m afraid so,” Jehan says, grinning, “you’re already spoken for, I’m afraid, no escaping.”

“You don’t seem the charades type,” Feuilly says to Enjolras.

“I’m not,” he laughs, “but Combeferre and Courfeyrac won’t take no for an answer, and we can at least understand each other in times like this. It’s just awful when I have to mime. You guys are going to beat us, easy.”

Surprisingly, they don’t. Despite Feuilly’s best acting and gesticulating (“it’s a fucking kangaroo, Bahorel, what else has feet like this and bounces like this and has a pouch?” “Oh, that’s what it was, I thought you were pregnant”) Bahorel is terrible at guessing. Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, on the other hand, are unstoppable. They have some kind of psychic connection, and the second one starts acting, the others are on their exact wavelength, guessing after seconds.

After an hour, Feuilly, Jehan and Bahorel retire, thoroughly decimated, leaving the other three to bask in their glory. Even with Enjolras’s terrible miming, they overwhelmingly won. Watching the three of them together, Feuilly smiles. They move around each other and interact like they know each other’s every move inside out, like a well-oiled machine. One day, he thinks he could be like that, with all of them.

“Fee, Baz!” Jehan grabs each of their hands and tugs them over to Courfeyrac’s camera. “Come on, let’s get some photos.”

He squishes Feuilly and Bahorel together tightly to get some clumsy, cheesy photos of them, some with Bahorel kissing Feuilly’s cheek, and one where Bahorel kisses him hard and Jehan captures the surprised-but-delighted look on Feuilly’s face. Courfeyrac watches them from the other side of the room, Combeferre falling asleep on his shoulder. They see Jehan turn the camera around to them and grin, leaning down to kiss Combeferre’s hair for the photo.

When Grantaire and Musichetta finally arrive, Jehan bounds over and gives its partner a sound kiss on the lips, pulling him in for more photos with the three of them. Feuilly makes sure to get as many cheesy ones of them as Jehan did of him and Bahorel, and by the end he’s sure Courfeyrac’s camera must be full of just photos of the four of them.

Finally, Courfeyrac wrangles the camera back and calls for everyone together.

“Come on, Feuilly to the front, please!” he says, putting the camera on a tripod and setting the timer. Feuilly blushes, looking nervously at Bahorel.

“Oh, come on then,” Bahorel laughs, dropping down on his knees in front of Joly and Bossuet so he doesn’t block anyone’s view from next to Feuilly.

“Okay, everyone smile now,” Courfeyrac says, pressing the shutter and running to the front next to Feuilly just in time for the photo to take.

“Oh, come on, Bossuet was blinking,” he grumbles, adjusting the angle and motioning for them all to squeeze in closer. “Okay, one more.”

“Yes, dad,” Bahorel grins, receiving a middle finger and a ruffle of his hair.

The second photo is more successful, and Courfeyrac jumps up again before they have time to disperse.

“Wait, wait!” they say, and the resounding groan makes them laugh. “Come on, just one more! A silly one, we have to do a silly one!”

The silly one ends up being a mix of laughing and groaning faces, and Courfeyrac diving in front of Enjolras just in time to be a blur on the photo.

“Okay, this one goes on the wall,” he says, after flicking through the few he has. “It’s perfect, half of you are having a great time and half of you are ready to kill me. That’s the way it should be!”

When most of Les Amis have dispersed, Enjolras, Feuilly and Bahorel sit cuddled on the couch with some steaming tea, Courfeyrac and Combeferre on the floor in front of them.

“Well this was a success, wasn’t it?” Courfeyrac asks, leaning into Combeferre and sipping their tea. “The best one we’ve ever done.”

Combeferre snorts.

“The second one we’ve ever done.”

“Hush, you,” Courfeyrac grumbles, “I think what made the biggest difference was having you here, Fee.”

Feuilly blushes and shakes his head.

“Shut up,” he laughs, “I don’t make that much difference.”

“You do too,” Bahorel grumbles, knocking him with his elbow.

“You complete us, Fee,” Courfeyrac says, smiling. “You’re the last piece in the puzzle, you temper the rest of us. Especially this one.” He gestures to Bahorel and receives an obscene gesture in return.

“It really has made a difference,” Enjolras says, “and I hope you’re able to come to more meetings in the future. We’ll make it more accessible for you, Feuilly, don’t hold back on telling us whatever changes you need.”

Feuilly smiles warmly, closing his eyes and resting his head on Bahorel’s shoulder.

“You guys can stay here tonight, if you want,” Combeferre says, “We have the couch, and the spare room.”

Feuilly thinks about it a moment, then looks up at Bahorel. Bahorel, in turn, is subtly smirking down at Feuilly raising an eyebrow.

Feuilly rolls his eyes and kisses Bahorel’s shoulder.

“Thanks, but I think we’re gonna head back to my place,” he says, standing and pulling Bahorel up after him.

Courfeyrac grins wolfishly.

“Yeah, you two look like you have something real important to get back to.”

Bahorel flips Courfeyrac off with one hand, winding the other arm round Feuilly’s waist and pulling him close.

“Good night, dickhead. Happy new year.”

#ollie writes #ollie has a life #les miserables #les mis holiday exchange #les mis #les amis de l'abc #bahorel/feuilly #fanfiction

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