#feuillyrel

[wilwywaylan]

Drink me, and the bromos!

Okay that wasn’t really what you asked for, but I had an idea, so…. enjoy :D

Also on AO3 !

Feuilly turned another page of his book, and winced. He’d been studying for so long that his neck was stiff, his fingers were frozen, and according to the low rumbling in his stomach, he had once again forgotten to eat. With a sigh, he stretched, groaning when his shoulders gave a series of painful snaps. His eyes landed on the clock at his left. Quarter past… He blinked. And again. Rubbed his eyes to get rid of the sleep clouding his sight. But no. It really was quarter past two. He had been sitting there at his desk reading for four hours, barely moving, except to turn his pages. No wonder he was stiff as a board and his elbows were hurting.

He got up, trying to ignore the low burning feeling in his thighs. Maybe there would be something to eat in the fridge that he could quickly gobble before going to bed. Or at least lie down and tackle a few more pages. He opened the door, careful not to be heard. Bahorel must have gone to bed now. Except that, he suddenly realized, he hadn’t heard him come home. Usually, it was quite hard to miss. Bahorel signaled his presence by a series of loud noises : bag hitting the ground, shoes against the wall, grunts, opening and closing the fridge, loud singing, doors banging… A whole concerto.

That had been suspiciously absent that night. It wasn’t worrying, of course, it wouldn’t have been the first time that Bahorel had come home at the small hours of the morning, or even not at all. He was an adult, and didn’t need permission from anyone to party as much as he wanted to. And Feuilly didn’t frown at this, even when he learnt later that it included drinking his own weight in beer, getting into dangerous shenanigans with Courfeyrac (often fire-based), Jehan (in very strange places around Paris) or Grantaire (both). Or all three of them, usually ending in chaos, street fights and various acts of mischief. Three times this year already, Feuilly had had to go and bail them out. He’d been welcomed by four idiots way too cheerful for the situation or that time of the night, and he’d taken greatest delight in bringing those smiles down a notch by threatening to rat them out to Combeferre. All in all, there was no worry to have about Bahorel’s whereabouts. He’d be home in the morning for breakfast as if nothing had happened, with only a bruise or two more.

Feuilly walked down the hallway, trying to remember what was left in the fridge that he wouldn’t need for his lunch the next day, when he suddenly noticed that the light was on in the living room. Did he forget to turn it off when he left earlier ? He mentally slapped himself. Ecology and sparing ressources were huge talking points during the ABC meetings, and here he was, wasting electricity because he was too absorbed in whatever was currently piquing his interest.

He walked to the couch, and it was then that he realized that someone was lying on it. Someone whose huge feet were clad in Bahorel’s favourite neon socks. Feuilly was absolutly convinced that no one else owned such an abomination and his friend was the proud possessor of the only pair ever made. So the body lying on the couch was probably his. Now, why he had crashed there instead of his bed, Feuilly didn’t know. From the soft snores that he could hear, it was probably due to an alcohol-related balance impairment.

Since he was now assured that Bahorel was alive, Feuilly focused on his prime objective. A look in the fridge gave him some lunch meat and a bit of cheese that he stuck between two slices of bread. Now provided with a snack, he wandered back to the living-room, wondering if he should wake Bahorel up and kick him out of the couch to preserve his back, or he would be in for a world of pain the next day, and complain Feuilly’s ear off. But he looked so comfy, laying like that, a furry pillow held tightly against his chest, that he didn’t feel like…

Wait. A furry pillow ? Since when did they have furry pillows ? Feuilly hated those things, the touch was always off, like something that tried to pass as something alive but wasn’t, an abomination in the shape of a square. So what was one now doing in their flat ? All good will Feuilly could have mustered disappeared in light of this treason, and he poked Bahorel in the leg sharply. This was enough to wake him up. The eyes that landed on Feuilly after a few owlish blinks were softer than usual, probably due to the certainly incredible alcohol quantities drunk during the evening.

- Hello, squirrel, Bahorel managed to say with a huge grin.

Judging by the way his words were just a little slurred, he wasn’t drunk off his ass. Good. As much as he loved him, Feuilly couldn’t have lifted him even an inch off the couch.

- Did you have fun ? he asked instead.

- Yeah ! We went to that pub, y'know the one, the one with the weird key hanging on the wall, they have that awesome beer you like. (Feuilly nodded.) They have trivia night so Jehan wanted to play. A bunch of asses made fun of them, y'know, “girly stuff”, sissy, blah blah blah (he made a mouth gesture with his hand.) Jehan handed the whole of them their asses off at trivia. One of them even accused him to cheat. So they handed them their asses off again, but with fists. Of course, R had to intervene. And I did too.

- That may explain the bruises.

Bahorel lifted his hand to his eye, where the skin was an interesting shade of purple.

- Yeah. But we did good. Could have been better if the owner didn’t throw everyone out.

- So ? You decided to call it a night ?

Bahorel barked a laugh.

- Certainly not ! We found another bar, and since we still had some energy to spend, we got into an arm-wrestling contest. Kicked everyone’s butts. Or arms. Dunno.

Feuilly tried to picture built-as-a-stick Jehan in an arm-wrestling contest, pinning arms right and left. Not hard to believe, in fact. Never trust their frame, they were a powerhouse.

- And so,  I won that one, Bahorel annouced, gesturing to the pillow on his stomach.

- You won a furry pillow.

Bahorel frowned, seemingly confused by the distaste in his voice.

- No furry pillow here, squirrel. You hate them.

Feuilly was kind of charmed that Bahorel remembered, even in his inebriated state. But that wouldn’t save him, certainly not ! He crossed his arms, and looked pointedly at the furry not-pillow-but-still-weird-thing on Bahorel’s chest. The man followed his glance. A large grin spread on his face.

- This ? This is not a pillow ! he claimed, poking the thing.

Said thing gave a low groan and… stretched, emitting a strange “mrep” sound. It now had a head, two triangular ears, and large paws that kneaded Bahorel’s shirt. Or rather ripped it to shreds.

- What the…? Feuilly blurted. Is that…?

- It is ! Bahorel announced proudly, like he was giving him the secret of the universe. It is a cat !

Feuilly thought really hard about facepalming. Then he realized that the situation really deserved a facepalm. Count on Bahorel to always manage to spin his expectations on their heads and exceed them in every possible way. He glared at the other man, who was rambling on happily as if someone wasn’t trying to melt him by the sheer force of his look.

- I won him. Dude seemed very happy to get rid of him. Couldn’t free him in the street. Jehan couldn’t take him in because of the Montparnasses, Courf is not a cat person, and R thinks he can’t take one in because he’s not able take care of one.

The cat and Bahorel both looked at Feuilly with huge, pleading eyes, and he could feel his resolve melt. Count on his friend to always know how to sway him ! Of course he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving a defenseless cat outside, alone, in the cold. And Bahorel was very aware of that fact. And of course, he was using it against him.

- Defenseless, really ? he tried, arms crossed and brow furrowed, the perfect imaage of reprobation. That cat could rip you in two.

He wasn’t just grasping at straws. The paws kneading Bahorel’s shirt - and stomach under - were huge, with impressive claws, and the cat was of way more than average built. In fact, it looked more like a small lynx that a cat.

- He’s a Norwegian Forest Cat, Bahorel announced proudly. Well, not a pure breed, or the guy would probably have asked for my liver as payement. But he’s more than half. Did you know that those cats fight bears in their natural habitat ?

- You’re really made for each other. Do you even know how to keep a cat ?

- Of course I do ! And if I don’t, I can always ask Jehan, or Enjolras, or Bossuet, or Joly. They wil be more than happy to help me dote on that sweet guy here.

Said sweet guy was now sprawled on Bahorel’s stomach, paws in the air, and was purring up a storm. Feuilly came to sit on the couch, or rather on Bahorel’s legs that were on the couch, and offered a hand to the cat, who caught it between his paws, bit lightly on his fingers, then rubbed his head against it. Feuilly could feel his heart melt.

- I’ve always wanted a cat, he mused. Or a dog. A pet. But you know…

Bahorel nodded. Feuilly had filled him and the others on all the details of his life in the orphanage when he spoke on budget cuts for all foster care services, and they had discussed at length later, during the small hours of the morning where alcohol and lack of sleep tend to lower one’s defenses.

- Does this guy has a name, at least ? he asked.

Bahorel caught the cat in his arms, sat up straight and deposited the ball of fur on Feuilly’s lap.

- Squirrel, let me introduce you to Fluffy the Terrible. Third.

Feuilly was torn between laughing and facepalming a second time.

- Don’t you think it lacks something ? he said, playing with the fuzzy tail. I mean, that cat is regal enough, we could add something at the end, like, I don’t know… Doctor ? PhD ?

- Esquire ! Fluffy the Terrible III, Esquire. What do you think ?

Feuilly looked at the cat sprawled on his lap, took one of the large paws in his hand, and shook it.

- Pleased to meet you, Fluffy the Terrible III, Esquire.

The cat batted at his hand playfully, then curled up on himself and promptly went to sleep. Which was honestly very tempting. Feuilly was very aware that he should be sleeping by now, or at least on his way. Instead, he was sitting on the couch, a big beast pinning him in place. A big, plushy, friendly beast. He thought about spending the night there, scratching the cat, letting him keep him warm. Very tempting too. But it pained him to admit, his ass was starting to hurt. And his boss would probably not be very happy to see him crawl to work the next morning.

- Hey dork, he called.

Bahorel, who was patting the ground to find the remote, looked up at him.

- Get your monster back, I need to go to bed.

Bahorel grabbed the cat again. The beast seemed to be quite annoyed at being manhandled like that, and stuck his claws in Feuilly’s leg to keep himself at the right place. When it wasn’t enough, he opted for scratching Bahorel’s arms. His owner didn’t seem to mind, and soon, they were comfortably settled as they were before, despite the red lines now on Bahorel’s arms. Well, they didn’t stand out with the bruises already there.

Feuilly got up, shaking his legs slightly to get his feeling back. He patted Bahorel on the thigh, scratched the cat behind the ears, starting the purring storm again, and retreated to his room for his much needed sleep. Tomorrow, they would have to get everything they needed for Fluffy. Feuilly wasn’t sure they could afford it (well he couldn’t, Bahorel probably could), but it didn’t really matter. He had dreamed of having a cat for so long, he couldn’t blame him. Already, he could see himself sit in the couch and read with Fluffy on his lap. That would certainly better his reading sessions. Maybe he could Bahorel something to thank him ? Maybe something cat-related. He would certainly love that.

(He almost went back on every positive advice he had when Fluffy came to wake him up at five in the morning to  be fed. Feuilly was very glad to free him in Bahorel’s room and close the door.)