Courfeyrac rises to consciousness to the steady swish of cars passing below his apartment window on rain-paved roads. He feels cold air settled atop his comforter, feather-light, but he feels none of its chill -- only that barest breath of its weight. He is up to his nose in blankets, and he curls himself even farther beneath them, exhaling contentedly when the fabric whispers over his skin.

“Hm?” Feuilly croaks beside him. Courfeyrac used to hate how easy he was to wake, but now he just turns so he can pull himself into the crook of his boyfriend’s arm.

“Go back to sleep,” Courfeyrac murmurs, rubbing his hand along Feuilly’s collarbone.

Isn’t it great? :D I miss talking about headcanons!

🌙: A headcanon about one of my rarepairs 

Courfeyrac loves dragging Feuilly to all sorts of events and parties and other occasions - an Feuilly complains a bit, because really most of the time his first thought is “I could be spending my free time doing literally anything else”, but in the end they usually have a great time. For one thing, Courfeyrac likes spending time with Feuilly - and absolutely adores when one of Feuilly’s interests come up, even very briefly, just to see Feuilly’s eyes light up as he starts to talk about it. Someone usually ends up learning something, and if not, Feuilly has at least been distracted from his schedule for a few hours. And he wouldn’t admit it, but Feuilly enjoys it, too. It’s - refreshing. And fun. And he likes spending time with Courfeyrac, too.

💖: A headcanon that I wish more people would use 

Feuilly as Valjean’s great nephew/nephew, depending on the timeline you’re working with. It can totally fit with canon, now for more drama and or fluff! not that this book needs it, but.

❣️: A headcanon that I actually prefer over canon 

I know it’s not quite canon - at least probably not what Hugo intended, there might be discourse and meta about it I don’t know - but Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta as a warm lovey-dovey poly relationship that goes in all directions. It’s Necessary, okay.

☘️: A headcanon that I’m surprised more people don’t share 

(omg no it is not bad, I will never not want to write about this ship ^_^)

——————————————————————————————

He’s never been so scared in his life.

At first, it was only on the news; it was a big deal and it was going to change the world as they knew it, but it was all going down in distant countries, and then in big cities on the opposite coast.  It wasn’t here.

Then all of a sudden it was here, and they were running for their lives, dodging rotting corpses and panicked people.  Driving through fields because the roads are choked with traffic and shamblers.  Siphoning fuel from abandoned cars, eating cold beans from a can, sleeping in the back seat and in the trunk of the vehicle, each taking a shift to watch from the front seat while the other three sleep.  The nights are so very dark without the street lamps, the sky full of more stars than Courfeyrac thought possible.

The last seven days have been hell.  Courfeyrac’s seen more people killed than he can count–most of them already dead–and he’s even had to do the killing a few times.  He’s almost died more times than he can count.  He’s seen people eaten alive by dead things.  And none of it’s stopping.  None of it’s ever going to stop.

The fear finally takes over on the eighth day, as they’re exploring the town they camped outside the night before.  The place is tiny–a gas station and a couple of stores, nothing more–and it appears to be deserted, at first glance.  Still, Courfeyrac doesn’t want to go in, wants to beg them to turn around and go back out onto the road, away from the houses.  But the scratch on Joly’s arm is red and hot to the touch, and there’s a chance the convenience store might have neosporin.  So in they go.

There’s a wreck in the main crossroads, so they stop the car and pick their way around the accident on foot.  The silence is eerie as they walk across the street, broken glass crunching under their feet, the route back to the feeble safety of their car getting longer and longer.  Somewhere down the road, a crow cries out, harsh and inhuman.

All of a sudden, Courfeyrac can’t take it anymore.  His knees buckle and he folds up on the weathered pavement, a hand clapped over his mouth to stifle the scream that wants to break out.  His brain is a tangle of wailing sirens.  He’s certain that at any moment teeth will appear, just seconds from sinking into his skin–but he can’t lift up his head to look.

Fingertips brush his shoulder and he flinches away, whimpering.  Someone catches him, fingers clenching his upper arms hard enough to bruise.

“What’s wrong?”  Feuilly’s voice sounds distorted, like he’s at the far end of a tunnel.  

Courfeyrac shakes his head, gasping for breath.  He’s going to scream, he’s going to be sick, he’s going to die.  He can’t do this he can’t he can’t he can’t

A hand on the back of his neck.  His forehead pressed into a rough jacket.

“I’ve got you,” Feuilly says simply.

Courfeyrac is trembling, his stomach a knot of stabbing pain, his chest clenched so tight every convulsive heartbeat shakes his whole body.  His hands scrabble at Feuilly’s jacket, reaching for something to hang on to.  His breath catches in his throat and he’s going to die.

Feuilly’s fingers card through his hair, and in his ear, Feuilly’s voice is murmuring, “you’re okay, you’re okay, I’ve got you.”  

Something inside Courfeyrac cracks, and suddenly he’s crying, heaving sobs that he tries to stifle in his sleeve because he’s being too loud and they’ll come and as miserable as he is he’s still more terrified of them than any other feeling.  But he can’t stop crying either, because the world is falling apart, and he’s killed people, and he doesn’t know what happened to Enjolras and Combeferre, and he’s so. fucking. scared.

“I can’t do this,” he sobs into Feuilly’s jacket.  “I can’t, it’s too much.”  He feels like a little kid, begging for something he knows he can’t have–wanting his stomach flu to go away, wanting Lucky back alive, wanting Mama to come back home.  If only he were a little kid, and he could actually believe in hope.

“Hey, Courf.”  Feuilly pushes him up, hands gripping his shoulders.  “Hey, just look at me.  Breathe.  I’ve got you.”

He shakes his head.  “I can’t do this.”

“Just breathe,” Feuilly repeats.  When Courfeyrac takes one shaky gasp of a breath, he smiles encouragingly.  “Good.  Another.”

Courfeyrac takes another breath, a little longer this time.  Then a third.

“You’re going to be okay,” Feuilly murmurs, his fingers kneading Courfeyrac’s tight shoulder muscles.  “You can do this.  Just keep breathing.”

“What’s going to happen to us?”  His voice is ragged from crying, almost a whimper still.  He doesn’t have enough left to feel embarassed about it.

Feuilly shakes his head.  “One day at a time.  We get through today, and then we think about tomorrow.  For now, just keep breathing.  Just–just stay with us.”  A frown twitches his lips, and impulsively, he pulls Courfeyrac back against his jacket.  “We … we need you, Courf.  Stay with us.”