#emmie writes

Feyre had never seen Rhys look as nervous as he did now, standing in front of the wooden door of his little sister. He was tense as he lifted his hand to knock, hesitating as he took in a nervous breath.

“I think you’re being a bit dramatic.” Feyre mumbled, raising a hand to gently rub his tense back, biting her lip to hide her amusement as he shot her an accusatory look over his shoulder.

“You don’t understand, she’s not my little star during her cycle” His voice trailed into a whisper, “she’s a chocolate hoarding dragon.” Feyre couldn’t hold back her laugh at his dramatics, so scared of his closest family member, his baby sister.

“I assume she’s going to be even worse as you’ve sent her mate off to gods know where.” Feyre giggled, hiding her smile behind her hand when Rhys narrowed his eyes at her and huffed. He took a deep breath before turning back around and finally raising his hand to gently knock on the door, turning the doorknob and entering at the soft ‘come in’ that emerged from the room.

The curtains were drawn, leaving the room in darkness hiding the mass under the heavy black sheets of the bed. Feyre rolled her eyes at Rhys’ hesitation to enter, giving him a gentle shove forward before closing the door behind him, leaving him to face his sister alone.

‘Traitor.’ He shot down the bond, his lips curving up slightly at her soft laugh that he felt through his chest. He cautiously approached the bed, eyebrows crunching together at the small sniffle that leaked from her. He felt guilt swarm him at her pain, her cycles much more painful than the ordinary fae.

“You better have chocolate Rhys.” You growled, your eyes peaking out from under the blankets to glare at your older brother who was now crouching down in front of you. He looked so much like your mother like this, his eyes soft as he examined the scrunch of your brows. He raised his hand, revealing a pouch from your favorite sweet shop in town. He grinned and set them on the night stand, next to your mates’ dagger, the one he always left by your side.

“Thank you.” You mumbled, cringing when another wave of pain travelled through you, your back and abdomen cramping painfully. Rhys frowned and gentle wiped the sweat from your brow, cupping your cheek softly as his talons slipped into your mind to ease some of the pain coursing through you.

“I’m still mad at you, for sending him away.” He sighed and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, making himself comfortable, ignoring your glare as he rested his head on your mates pillow.

“It was urgent and I assure you he will be back soon little star.” He had a teasing grin on his face as he bumped your foot with his. “Besides I’m sure he’ll give me enough of a beating when he gets home.” He snickered, he never turned down an opportunity to roll around the training mat with the shadowsinger.

A soft sniffle left you as you rested your temple on his shoulder, taking a few deep breaths. His scent easing your mind slightly, knowing you were safe with your best friend by your side. You could never truly be mad at your brother, a fact he knew and took advantage of often. While most compared him to your father, you always saw your mother in him. In his gentle eyes, in his caring actions, in his selfless actions, in his court.

“I miss him.” You mumbled, tears dripping down your cheeks as Rhys rested his cheek against your hair, humming softly.

“What can I do?” He asked gently, his heart aching at your pain and tears. A sight that he couldn’t stand.

“I just want Azriel.” You sniffled, wiping your cheek on his shirt, not even feeling guilty at the damp spot on his shirt. He sighed and sat up, pulling your head onto his lap as he ran his fingers through your hair soothingly. Humming softly as your eyelids started to droop.

“He’ll be home soon I promise little star.” Rhys said softly, his words sending you into a blissful sleep full of shadows and gleaming hazel eyes full of love and laughter.

-

You grumbled when you felt something caressing your cheek, a soft cool touch that drew you from the sweet dream you were having of your other half. You peeled your eyes open, blinking a few times to clear the fog of sleep. Your gaze snapped to a soft hazel gaze, kneeling next to the bed with a gentle smile was your mate. Your Azriel.

Your lip wobbled as you processed that he was here, your hand lifting from the blankets to hold the back of his caressing your cheek.

“Hey baby.” He mumbled, his eyes tracking the fresh tears now gathering in your waterline.

“Az.” You whined, tugging his hand. He complied, sliding under the blankets and huffing a laugh when you immediately curled into his body, leg draping over his hips as his arm slid over your shoulders to tug you into chest. You buried your face into his neck, taking long breaths of his scent, the smell of home. His palm slid down until it pressed against your lower back, the spot he knew always gave you the worst pains.

“Never leave me again.” You mumbled into his throat, smiling when he made a noise of agreement, the sound rumbling down to his chest. His other hand lifting to stroke through your hair, his nose pressed into your temple taking deep breaths of his beloved mate.

It could have been hours, perhaps days that you spent in this position with him, your body finally fully relaxed. But alas the moment was ruined, by your traitorous stomach letting out a deep grumble of protest. Az let out a puffed laugh, pressing a soft kiss to your hair before sliding you up onto his chest and rising from the bed.

You grumbled unhappily at the loss of the soft sheets and buried your head in his neck as he carried you out into the dining room, full of your loud and nosy family. Nose scrunching at Rhys and Mor loudly arguing over whom had the better hair in the family, you scoffed softly knowing it was neither of them.

“Oh, Az what do I have to do to get you to carry me around like that?” Cassian drawled, waving you off when you raised your head to snarl at him. You glared at his cheeky smile, softening slightly when he winked at you.

“For the last time Cassian, you are not my type.” Azriel groaned in fake annoyance, his lips tipping up slightly. You giggled when Cas held his hand to his heart and groaned dramatically, his own mate rolling her eyes, shooting you a soft smile before turning back to her conversation with Feyre.

Your heart warmed at the picture of your family, all cozied up on the comfy couches in front of the roaring fireplace, laughter ringing through the room as each member of your family relaxed with each other. A sight you had thought wouldn’t ever happen again 50 years ago, the joy and care radiating from everyone in the room was enough to tip your lips up, your pain from your cycle almost completely forgotten as your mate tipped his back with a roaring laugh as his brother continued his teasing.

Your eyes met Rhys’ as he smiled at you, his arm wrapped around his mate as she laughed at something Nesta was explaining, probably an embarrassing fact about poor Cassian. You smiled back, your eyes filling with happy tears as you finally witnessed the love and happiness on his face, after a long life of suffering, the pair of you were finally happy.

I love you Rhys.

I love you too, little star.

Azriel carried you into the kitchen, setting you on the counter as he turned to rifle through the cupboards, he always made you food when you were on your cycle, knowing you loved his cooking.

You sent a pulse of love down the golden string attaching your souls together, smiling widely when he shot a cheeky wink over his shoulder at you.

With the laughter flowing into the room from your family, and the sound of Azriel humming softly to himself as he started cooking, you felt your body relax. You had faced darkness head on and you knew at this moment that you would face it again if it meant that this life was waiting for you at the end.

“What do you mean Helion is hotter than me?! That is bullshit!” Cassian exclaimed from the other room, causing a loud laugh to leave your lips as your mate turned to grin at you, his own laugh leaving him as his eyes twinkled.

Watching you giggle and turn to shout back at Cassian, Azriel knew he would face death itself to keep the glittering smile on your face for eternity.

Feuilly didn’t know why he had accepted Combeferre's invitation. He’d meant to say no, that he was busy, anything, but Combeferre had looked so hopeful, and… he hadn’t had the heart to disappoint him. And so he found himself at the front door of Combeferre’s family home along with Courfeyrac and Enjolras, feeling terribly, horribly out of place.

'Maybe this was a mistake….'

An older man answered the door just as he was contemplating finding an excuse to leave and he sighed, resigned to his fate, following as the porter led them inside to… more outside?

Courfeyrac, noticing his bewildered expression, leaned over to whisper, “The courtyard.”

“Oh,” he said in reply, not understanding at all.

They passed through another door and into the house proper. Feuilly glanced about as they walked, more than a little intimidated at how expensive everything looked; the walls trimmed with gold and with landscapes painted directly onto them, the floor under his feet covered with carpet, a glittering chandelier hanging from the ceiling that almost felt redundant with all the natural light that flooded in from the many windows.

People lived in a building like this?

There were dozens of chairs, but only a handful were being used—or had been, as the occupants all rose as they entered the room. Combeferre quickly crossed over to greet them, a smile on his face. “My friends, thank you for coming.”

“The pleasure is ours.” Courfeyrac clasped his hand with a bright smile of his own. “It has been far, far too long!”

He turned to address the others then with a warm sort of familiarity and Feuilly realized all at once just how much of a stranger here he truly was. Of course the others not only knew places and people such as these, they knew this place and these people, too. What had he been thinking? Just because Combeferre had invited him didn't mean he belonged here; no, far from it. Surely, he had only invited Feuilly in an effort to be polite, and they both would have been better off if he'd simply declined the offer as soon as it'd been voiced.

“You’re Feuille?”

He startled and looked down to find a little girl staring at him. “Uh… it’s Feuilly.”

“Feuilly,” she repeated slowly, her face scrunching up in concentration. Then she gave him an excited smile. “My brother’s told me all about you. He says you paint fans! Did you bring one? I want to see!”

“Well— no, I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay! You can bring one the next time you visit!”

She took his hand and he stumbled forwards in surprise as she began to tug him into the room, but before he could do much more than glance helplessly back at the others Courfeyrac was sweeping forwards and scooping the child up into his arms. “My, could this be little Rosalie? Look how you’ve grown!”

“You were here a few weeks ago, silly!”

“And you’ve grown at least a third of a meter since then!” he insisted, and he booped her nose, making her giggle in delight. 

Feuilly lingered by the door as they moved further into the room, doing his best to blend in with the painted walls behind him and wishing he was anywhere else. He had just started to edge closer to the hall when his wandering gaze landed on a book that had been left on the table nearby and he picked it up, examining the cover curiously.

All at once he realized that someone was standing next to him. He startled again, but to his relief he saw it was only Enjolras. He wasn’t looking at Feuilly, though; his gaze was fixed on the conversation across the room.

“He’s quite good at that,” the other boy murmured, almost to himself.

“What?”

He glanced over at Feuilly then, something indescribably fond in his expression. “Being the center of attention.”

Feuilly looked back over to the other side of the room. Combeferre and his family had loosely gathered around Courfeyrac, listening as he regaled them all with some story or another. None of them had seemed to notice that neither Enjolras nor Feuilly had yet to join them.

He breathed a little sigh of relief at the thought.

“What do you have there?”

His attention snapped back to Enjolras, who had moved closer, then to the book still in his hands, and he hurriedly moved to put it back on the table. “I was just looking, I swear! I—”

Enjolras settled a hand on his arm, making Feuilly’s voice die in his throat. “It’s alright, I was merely curious.”

Feuilly released a breath again and looked back down at the book. “De Materia Medica. It looked interesting, so I thought I’d ask Combeferre if he might be willing to let me borrow it.”

“I’m sure he would.”

Enjolras sounded certain, but Feuilly wasn’t so sure. “I hope so. But, it looks rather… expensive, doesn’t it?”

“It looks worn out,” Enjolras replied bluntly. He pointed at one of the pages, which was coming loose. “It must be well loved, if he still keeps it around.”

“Then he probably wouldn’t want us to be touching it.”

“I truly don’t believe he would mind; Combeferre loves nothing more than sharing knowledge, and we’ve borrowed books from each other before. But if you’d rather ask him first….”

They both looked over at the conversation across the room again and faltered, neither one wishing to intrude, nor to do anything at all that would draw attention their way.

“I don’t like these sorts of gatherings, so I am grateful for the way Courfeyrac draws others to him. It frees me from being compelled to join in their idle chatter," Enjolras finally said. Then, more quietly, he confessed, "Sometimes I can even leave, or sneak into another room for a while, with no one the wiser.”

“Sneak into another room?” Feuilly echoed. “Is that allowed?”

“Technically, no. But I’ve yet to be caught.” He quirked a brow as Feuilly, not entirely sure if he was being serious or not, searched his expression. Then he inclined his head towards the door, a small smile on his face. “Perhaps we could do so now.”

It was admittedly an extremely tempting offer, and Feuilly had barely even begun to consider it when he found himself nodding. “And the book?”

“I don't see why we couldn't bring it with us. It's not as if we'll be leaving the premises."

Feuilly nodded again, a thrill of excitement filling him at the prospect of sneaking around with a friend as they quietly slipped out of the room and into the next. He took one of the armchairs by the window, expecting Enjolras to take the other; instead the other boy sat on its arm, leaning in close as Feuilly carefully opened the book so he could see the pages as well. 

Feuilly glanced up, more than a little surprised at the close proximity. Enjolras stared back at him, and after a moment he tilted his head, his brow furrowing. “Is this okay?”

“Oh, yes! Yes, it’s fine,” Feuilly quickly reassured him. “I don’t mind at all.”

Enjolras nodded and turned his attention back to the book. Feuilly followed suit, only to realize with dismay that none of the words were decipherable to him.

“This… isn’t French, is it?”

“No, it’s Latin.” Enjolras paused. “Are you familiar with it?”

He sounded earnest enough, but Feuilly still felt his face burn at the question. “Uh. No….”

“I can read it, then.” He held his hands out for the book, and Feuilly hesitated for only a moment before handing it over, scrambling to catch a page that came loose as Enjolras flipped through it in interest. “There are illustrations.”

“Yes, but what does it say?”

Enjolras went quiet at that, thoughtfully studying the page he’d ended up on. Then, haltingly, he began to read, “When digging, stand and beg Apollo and Aesculapius to observe the flying eagle, as they say for a fact she does not fly without danger. A bird causes death if seen digging hellebore.”

“The eagle causes death?” Feuilly said in surprise. Then, unable to help himself, he muttered, “Reminds one of what’s happened to Poland, doesn’t it?”

Enjolras blinked at him. “What happened to Poland?”

“The three black eagles, of course! Austria, Prussia, Russia— they tore apart the nation’s sovereignty piece by piece until nothing was left, and no one did a thing to stop them!”

“Oh yes,” Enjolras mused. “I remember you mentioned that before.”

“It bears repeating! Can you imagine if something like that happened to France?”

“That could never happen to France!”

“It could! Despotism respects no borders, not even France’s, and the moment people care only about what affects them personally we let down our guard to the same danger!”

“There is danger, yes, but we would be remiss not to focus on the despotism that comes from within before contending with the one without.”

“You cannot prioritize one over the other— not when injustice anywhere is injustice everywhere!"

"We live in France, our priority should be France. We cannot risk becoming distracted with the business of other countries when our own is so in need of aid!"

"Distracted!" Feuilly exclaimed, aghast. "In need of aid! When there are people out there with no motherland, who are forced to leave their homes— who are desperate for bread just the same as here! The danger is in that way of thinking. We have a moral obligation to act, to help those who need it, and we are complicit in these atrocities if we do nothing!”

All at once he realized that Enjolras was regarding him with that same fond look and he flushed.

“Enjolras?”

“You are right,” Enjolras said, inclining his head. “We cannot do nothing.”

“Yes,” Feuilly said slowly.

He wasn't quite sure how to react to that look, but before he had a chance to figure it out a soft knock sounded and they both jumped, looking over to see Combeferre standing in the doorway.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but the head cook has just announced that dinner is ready.”

Feuilly stood up, hurriedly taking the book back from Enjolras and crossing the room in order to hold it out to Combeferre. “This is yours.”

Combeferre’s smile softened as he accepted the book back. “Yes, I know, but you’re welcome to borrow it longer if you wish. I can’t imagine you got terribly far in the last fifteen minutes or so.”

“No,” Feuilly admitted. He glanced at Enjolras as the other boy joined his side, and awkwardly cleared his throat. “But I can’t read Latin.”

“Ah, I see.” Combeferre glanced at Enjolras as well and smirked. “And Enjolras translated for you, I assume? Yes, in that case, I am not surprised you did not get very far at all.”

Enjolras raised a brow at that and said nothing.

“We read about how the eagle causes death,” Feuilly told him.

“Ah, yes, what an interesting superstition. I wonder what inspired it.”

“Perhaps it had something to do with Poland,” Enjolras said, his lips twitching as he fought a smile, and Feuilly couldn't help but laugh at Combeferre’s confused expression.

“Perhaps,” Combeferre said after a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face. “A discussion for another time, I'd say. As for now, the others will be waiting on us.”

More than a little reluctantly, they followed him back down the hallway and to the drawing room. As they walked Enjolras stepped closer, his elbow brushing against Feuilly's, and quietly said, “I would like to continue our conversation later.”

“Hey, Pretty.” His teasing voice came through coolly, the background loud and rowdy; he was undoubtedly with his friends.

“Stop with the pet names, fool. Sara is looking for you.”

“I know. I’m avoiding her on purpose,” he replied, a smirk evident in his tone.

“But how can I help you?”

Y/n rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t suppress a grin. “Just thought you should know she’s been asking about you. Sounds like she’s really into this whole dating thing.”

“Yeah, well, I’m just not ready for all that right now,” he said, laughter bubbling beneath his words.

“What about you? How’s life treating you?”

“Complicated,” she admitted, her voice playful. “But at least I don’t have to deal with clingy roommates.”

“Hey, I’m not clingy! I’m just a good listener,” he shot back. “And a fantastic tutor, if I remember correctly.”

“Please, the only thing you taught me was how to get distracted,” Y/n teased, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you enjoyed those study sessions a little too much.”

“Guilty as charged,” he replied, his voice dropping to a mock-serious tone. “But can you blame me? You make studying way more fun.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she said, though the smile was unmistakable in her voice.

“Challenge accepted. But just so you know, I’m up for it,” Gojo said, a hint of mischief in his tone. “So, when are we having our next ‘study session’?”

“Only if you promise to keep your hands to yourself this time,” she shot back, laughing.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he countered, and Y/n felt a flutter of excitement.

That was the danger of being around Satoru—he was as addicting as he was handsome. His charm knew no bounds, and Y/n felt like a snake entranced by a snake charmer; Gojo's voice could persuade her to do just about anything. The way he spoke to her, with that playful confidence, always made her heart race. It was exactly that kind of charm that had led her to make some reckless decisions. She couldn’t help but remember the night they’d jumped off a waterfall together. He had dared her, coaxing her with that irresistible grin, and for some stupid reason, she had said yes.

"Y/n, come on! It’ll be fun!” he had insisted, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “What’s life without a little thrill?”

She could still feel the rush of adrenaline, the cold water shocking her system as they plunged into the darkness. But that moment had left her with more than just memories; it had left her with a permanent scar on her ribcage, a reminder of her reckless leap into the unknown. As they chatted, she felt the familiar pull again—the urge to throw caution to the wind and dive headfirst into whatever crazy adventure he proposed next. But she also knew the risks. With Gojo, it was always a fine line between exhilaration and chaos, and she wasn’t sure how much more of either she could handle.

“Yeah, not this time, 'Toru. Sara might put Nair in my shampoo bottle if she caught you hanging out with me.” They shared a laugh, both fully aware that Sara would absolutely consider it—and Y/n couldn’t help but think it would be entirely warranted.

“Yeah, she would definitely try to mess you up, pretty,” Gojo mused, the background noise fading away. He must have stepped away from the crowd to focus on her.

Y/n felt a twinge of guilt at the way his pet name sent a flutter through her. It was sweet, but it also felt wrong. She knew Sara could be overbearing and a bit controlling, but if the roles were reversed, Y/n wouldn’t like it if the guy she was dating—or whatever this situation with Sara and Gojo was—talked to another girl the way he was talking to her. After all, that was precisely why she had stepped back from Gojo months ago.

“Look, I don’t want to cause any drama,” she said, trying to keep her tone light but serious.

“I just think it’s best if you focus on your new thing with Sara. I don’t want to complicate anything.”

“Complication? Nah, we’re just friends, right?” he replied, but there was a hint of playfulness in his voice that made her heart race.

“Besides, it’s not my fault if you’re so easy to talk to.”

“Easy to talk to? Or easy to flirt with?” Y/n shot back, trying to keep it playful despite the underlying tension.

“Both,” he said, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “But I promise, if things get messy, I’ll handle it. Just don’t shut me out completely, Y/n.”

Y/n hesitated, caught between wanting to keep her distance and the undeniable chemistry that sparked whenever they spoke. Shit, her resolve was cracking fast.

"Goodbye, Gojo." Just as she moved to hang up, his voice cut through the speaker. The usual playfulness was replaced with a gentler tone, almost a whisper as if he were afraid that speaking any louder would scare her away.

"Come see me, since I can't come to you. I’ll help you study for your economics exam. I know you hate studying alone, and the graphs confuse you. Just come, please…"

His plea hung in the air, and Y/n felt her heart race. It was hard to resist his charm when he sounded so sincere, and the thought of studying together brought back memories of their late-night sessions filled with laughter—and a little more.

“Gojo…” she started, feeling the familiar pull of temptation. “You know this is complicated.”

“I know, but it doesn’t have to be. Just a study session. Nothing more,” he said quickly, his tone earnest. “I promise I’ll keep it strictly academic. I just want to help.”

Y/n bit her lip, torn. Part of her wanted to say no, to protect herself and the boundaries she had set. But another part craved the connection, the familiarity of being around him again.

“Okay, but just studying,” she finally replied, unable to hide the hint of a smile.

“Great! I’ll even prepare snacks,” he replied, the playful edge returning to his voice. "Just don’t blame me if you end up distracted.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you soon, Satoru.” As she hung up, Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that she was stepping into dangerous territory, but a thrill coursed through her at the thought of seeing him again.

Y/n applied lip gloss in the Uber, a little gift from Gojo, and wondered if she should have opted for something else. She had chosen a casual look to keep things laid-back: a black wife beater, gray sweatpants, and a pair of slides. Comfort was her priority, but a part of her felt a twinge of doubt about her appearance. She had decided to wear her glasses instead of her contacts, and her mini twists were pulled into a ponytail, with a few stubborn pieces escaping to frame her face. To top it off, she doused herself in mocha vanilla perfume and slathered on shea butter, reasoning that she didn’t want to smell bad after spending hours studying in her room. Never mind that she’d already taken a shower and done a deep scrub—she wanted to feel fresh for the occasion. As the car pulled up to Gojo's place, she felt a mix of excitement and nerves. Would he notice her effort, however casual it was? Or would he tease her for being overdressed for a study session? The thought made her smile. Taking a deep breath, Y/n stepped out of the car and smoothed her outfit, reminding herself to keep it cool and casual—just like they had agreed.

But as she walked toward the apartment complex entrance door, she couldn't shake the feeling that today might be anything but ordinary. She smiled at the staff who greeted her at the front desk while signing in, then headed up to that familiar room number, 1025. Standing outside the door, she balanced her tote bag—filled with her laptop, notebook, and pens—in one hand while she knocked with the other. After a few moments, the door swung open, and there he was in all his perfection. Gojo’s white hair glistened with moisture, droplets trickling down from his locks; he must have just finished showering. A black muscle t-shirt clung to his chest, accentuating his toned physique, while oversized red basketball shorts hung loosely on his hips.

“You could have told me you were here, and I would have met you downstairs,” he scolded playfully, stepping aside to let Y/n in. As she entered, Y/n remembered another thing she had overlooked about Satoru: the fact that he was absolutely loaded. He could easily afford to pay rent without a roommate, which meant he often enjoyed his solitude. Sure, his friends loved to hang out at his place, but when he wanted alone time, he had it. It completely slipped Y/n’s mind that the two of them would be entirely alone.

“Uh, hey,” she said, trying to play it cool despite the sudden flutter in her stomach.

“Don't be weird. Make yourself comfortable,” he said, gesturing to the spacious living area. The room was adorned with an eclectic mix of furniture and decor that reflected his laid-back style.

“I was just about to grab a snack. Want anything?”

Y/n shook her head, still trying to absorb the atmosphere. “I’m good, just here to study.”

“Sure, sure. But you know, studying is more fun with snacks.” He flashed that trademark grin that always made her heart skip a beat.

“Is that your way of saying you plan to distract me?” she teased, settling into a nearby chair.

“Maybe,” he replied with a wink, leaning casually against the door frame.

“But you know you love it.” Y/n couldn’t help but smile back, feeling the weight of tension ease just a bit. This was going to be interesting.

Y/n settled into the plush chair, her laptop open in front of her as Gojo moved to sit on the edge of the coffee table, facing her. He spread out her notes and textbooks, a mix of graphs and theories that had been driving her nuts for weeks.

“Alright, let’s tackle this economics stuff,” he said, his tone upbeat. “What’s tripping you up the most?”

Y/n sighed, glancing at the graphs. “Honestly? All of it. I just don’t get how demand curves work. It’s like trying to read hieroglyphics.”

Gojo leaned in closer, his proximity making her heart race. “Here, let me show you.” He pointed at one of the graphs, his finger tracing the line as he explained. “So, this curve represents how much of a product consumers are willing to buy at different prices. Think of it like… a date with me. The more fun I am, the more you want to be around, right?”

Y/n couldn’t help but laugh, shaking her head. “That’s a terrible analogy, Gojo. You’re just trying to distract me.”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted, a playful glint in his eyes. “But seriously, if the price goes up, people want less. Just like if I started charging for my charming company.”

“Right,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You’d be broke in a week.”

“True, true,” he replied, leaning back and crossing his arms behind his head. “But just think about it. If I offered you a discount for an extra hour of my time, would you take it?”

“Stop,” Y/n laughed, trying to refocus. “Let’s stick to the graphs.”

“Fine, fine. But you have to admit, I’m making this way more interesting,” he said, giving her a teasing smile.

Y/n leaned closer to her laptop, but the tension was palpable.

“Okay, okay. What about this next graph?”

As Gojo started explaining again, Y/n found her gaze drifting to him—how the light caught the contours of his face, how animated he was as he spoke. The more he talked, the more her focus wavered.

“Y/n?” he said suddenly, pulling her back to the moment. “You still with me?”

“Yeah, of course!” she replied, though her cheeks felt warm.

“I’m just… trying to absorb the genius here.”

“Genius, huh?” he grinned, clearly pleased. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Just stating the obvious,” she shot back, but her smile betrayed her.

He leaned in closer again, the playful banter turning more intimate. “You know, if you’re really struggling, we could take a break. I’m great at helping with… other types of studies.”

“Other types?” she echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice dropping to a playful whisper. “You know, like finding out what makes you tick. What you really want.”

Y/n’s heart raced, and she felt the warmth spread across her cheeks. “Gojo, we’re supposed to be studying!”

“Studying can wait,” he said, his gaze locked onto hers, the air thick with unspoken tension. “Right now, I just want to know more about you.”

Before she could respond, Gojo leaned in closer, the air between them crackling with an electric tension that made studying economics feel like a distant memory. Y/n felt her eyes flutter shut, anticipation swirling within her. She had spent months trying to ignore the undeniable pull between them, but now, with him so close, she realized there was no way they could remain just friends given their history.

“Y/n,” he murmured, his voice low and wanting, sending a shiver down her spine. There was a flicker of something deeper in his gaze, a longing that mirrored her own.

“ 'Toru,” she replied, her voice barely more than a whisper, caught between curiosity and an ache she couldn’t deny. She wanted to unravel the mystery of his feelings, to understand what lay beneath that confident exterior.

“Do you really think we can pretend this isn’t happening?” His smirk was playful, yet his eyes held a vulnerability that drew her in. The warmth radiating from him enveloped her, urging her closer.

Y/n’s heart raced, torn between fear and exhilaration. “I—” But before she could finish, Gojo closed the distance, capturing her lips in a kiss that felt like a revelation.

It started soft and tentative, but quickly deepened into something fervent, as if they were both trying to bridge the gap of all those unspoken months. Y/n's hands made their way to his white locks and Satoru couldnt get enough of how addictive her lips and soft whimpers were. In that moment, everything else faded—the textbooks, the pressures, the uncertainty. It was just them, and Y/n felt alive for the first time in what felt like ages. When they finally pulled apart, breathless, Gojo’s playful grin returned, but it was laced with something more lustful.

“So… friends, huh?” he teased, raising an eyebrow. But Y/n could see the truth behind his words. They were no longer just friends; they had crossed a line, and there was no going back. Not now. Not after this.

"Friends." Y/n echoed, her voice unsteady, the word feeling heavy with all that was left unsaid.

"Mm.. Let me show you how good friends take care of one another" Gojo replied, his tone shifting from its usual playfulness to something darker, more condescending.

In a fluid motion, he flipped her to face the couch, the sudden change sending a thrill through her body. Y/n had forgotten that despite her size; Satoru could toss her around as if she were weightless to him. Before Y/n could fully process what was happening; Gojo sank to the floor, positioning himself in between her legs with an ease that took her breath away. Y/n gasped sharply as she felt him pull her sweats down to reveal her ass in cute basic yellow panties.

"Always so pretty for me." He murmured in a trance-like state.

His touch to her bare skin ignited a warm blaze that spread through her body; everywhere he touched felt like it was on fire and nothing would put it out.

" 'Toru..." She mewed breathlessly, arching her back into his touch as she fisted the throw blanket on the couch.

Satoru drank in the sight of the delirious girl as his fingers glided over her bare skin before he made his way back to her ass prepared to peel her now damp panties off and do what he had been deprived of for months. Y/n felt a rush of vulnerability mixed with excitement as she felt Satoru's finger poke at where she needed him most. His touch was both tender and reverent, as if he were discovering something precious.

"Satoru, please." Y/n turned to look back over her shoulder to be met with the sight of a man barely holding onto his sanity.

"First you give me the taste of the best pussy I've ever had. Next, you leave me and cut off my supply. Then, you ignore and avoid me for months. Whatever I do to this pussy... my pussy; its your fault." He smacked her ass harshly, watching the skin jiggly back into place before pulling her underwear down to be met with the sight of her dripping cunt.

"My pretty girl, I know you've missed me. It's not my fault, your mama is stubborn and so damn prideful but I'm gonna fix all that tonight. Daddy will make it all better." He cooed, rubbing a single digit up and down Y/n's sopping wet core.

Y/n bit her lip in anticipation, she hadn't realized that Satoru was actually upset with how she ending things and knowing how petty the man could get; all she could do was be quiet and hope that the time of them being separated was enough to make him skip the teasing get down to what they both needed. His voice brought her out of her thoughts.

"Hey, is this too much? Tell me to stop and I will." He whispered, his voice hoarse from restraint.

Quinn was always working. It was no surprise, being an NHL star. Between games, practice, charity events, and just existing. It was exhausting sometimes. He loved it, and wouldn’t change it for the world, but sometimes he just needed a break. When summer first hit and he was still in Vancouver, sometimes he wouldn’t leave his apartment for days. He had to take a break, just to recharge his social battery. (Y/N) knew this. Which is why she came over to make sure he made an effort to eat and have some sort of human interaction.

Unlocking the door with bags in hand, (Y/N) stumbled into his apartment. Brock was away on vacation, so Quinn graciously offered to watch Milo and Coolie for a few days. She heard little footsteps running towards her and looked down to see a dog wagging its tail and smiling up at her. “Oh Milo,” She sighed. “What are we going to do with him?” She finished, glancing around the apartment. It was messy, she wouldn't lie. Quinn was a messy person even if he didn't seem like it. Figuring he was napping as he didn’t answer her texts, she began to clean up his kitchen a bit. As she scrubbed the counters of the residue from last night’s dinner, she glanced at the wall of photos diagonal to her point of view. The first one that caught her eye was a family photo from Quinn’s draft day, his crooked smile reflected on the faces of his family members as they surrounded him in his newly adorned Canucks jersey. To the right of that one, was one she took of him, Brock, and Petey at a family skate event a few years back. The last one to catch her eye was her favorite. It was of her and Quinn, taken last summer at the lake in Michigan. She was on his back, both their faces flushed with sun and noses scrunched up in laughter. To an outsider, they could easily be mistaken for a couple.

As she finished cleaning up, (Y/N) began to walk down the hallway, dog in tow and a bag of takeout in her hands. “Knock knock, I’m coming in whether you like it or not.” She exclaimed in a sing-song tone once she reached his room. She couldn’t see it, but Quinn smiled. He loved the sound of her voice.

“I knew you’d show up sooner or later.” He answered, standing up from his bed and grabbing a shirt from the floor.

“Well, I have to make sure you keep yourself alive, don’t I?” (Y/N) giggled. She looked as beautiful as she always did, her sweater falling off her shoulders and her ripped jean shorts hugging her curves in just the right way. Two long french braids fell just past her shoulders. Her tan sandals scraped gently across the floor. She didn't like to wear heels. “They make me feel like a skyscraper Quinn, I’m too damn tall for them.” She always says. Quinn didn't realize he was staring until she finally said something.

“Earth to Quinton. Hello?” She called to him, waving her hands in front of his face. “I’m sorry what, I keep getting lost in you.” Did I just say that out loud? Shit. He thought to himself.

“What?” (Y/N) replied, blushing.

“Nothing. Just forget I said anything.” Quinn said, rushing out of the room into the kitchen.

“Wait! Don’t lie to me Quinn, what did you mean when you said that?” she said, following him.

She wasn’t sure of what she heard when he said it. It gave her a sense of false hope when he said it. Sometimes she wanted to scream out how much she loved him, but was afraid he didn’t feel the way she did. This was one of those times where she thought it to be true that maybe, just maybe, he loved her back. If she was honest, she loved him from the moment she met him. He was an idiot, but a lovable one. She never understood how anyone could stand to break his heart, even on the night they first met. Love, to her, was something that she once believed to be burning red. It ignites a fire in your heart, body, and soul, and burns for that one person. When she met Quinn, she wanted him to be that person more than anything. As they grew closer, she realized he was. But the love she held for him wasn’t the one she always dreamed of. It was different. It shone a bright golden hue, and encapsulated everything about him. (Y/N) was pulled from her thoughts by the sound of Quinn’s voice.

“Can we please just forget that I said anything, (Y/N), please?” Quinn said, turning around to look at her. He began to walk away when she grabbed his hand and pulled him towards her. Looking up at him, she said softly, “I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not looking. You look at me like I’m the only other person on this earth. Don’t you realize that I look at you the same way too?” Quinn was processing what she just said to him, his heart beating a mile a minute. He glanced at their hands intertwined at the side. Neither of them let go. Finally he gained the courage to say something back.

Looking into her eyes, he confessed to her. “I think I’m in love with you and that scares me half to death. No, scratch that, I know I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you ever since the day I met you. I don’t want to look at anything else now that I saw you.” She didn’t say anything back. She wrapped her free hand around his neck and pulled his face down to her height and kissed him. It was exactly the way they both pictured it would be like. They kissed lasted for what seemed like an eternity, until they finally broke apart.

Their heads were pressed against each other, just looking into each other's eyes. (Y/N) was the first one to speak. “I’m yours.” That was all she needed to say for Quinn to know that she loved him too. And while he was sure of it, there was a part of him that hesitated.

“Are you sure about this? Like, are you sure about me?” He wondered aloud.

(Y/N) stared at him, confused. “I just confessed my love for you in the cheesiest and most embarrassing way possible and you’re asking me if I’m sure? Quinn, I know you’re not that dumb.”

Quinn laughed. “No, it’s just like, I know you love me. And I love you too, but like, I don’t want to fuck this up. I’m not really good at this kind of stuff” he confessed, not making eye contact with her out of embarrassment.

(Y/N) put her finger under his chin and pushed it up. “Hey, look at me. It’s me you’re talking to. You don’t have to try with me. Just being the way you are is enough. Love is weird. But the best part is when you get to love your best friend. And that’s us. You’ve just got to step into the daylight, you know? Let it all go. We can figure the rest out on our own. Just let it go.”

Quinn kissed her again. As he was getting older, he wanted to be defined by the things he loved. And he loved (Y/N). She’s his daylight, afterall.

"Well, well, well, it looks as if everyone has been waiting for me! How kind!"

Feuilly looked up from the sketch he'd been working on at the sound of that voice to see Bossuet enter through the back door, heading over to the table everyone else—except for Enjolras, who was quietly reading in the corner—was sitting at.

"Hello, Bossuet," he greeted. "I'm glad you could make it."

"Me, too," Prouvaire said.

"Yes, I was beginning to think you weren't going to show, and with no warning at that! Now that you're finally here we can get started at last," Courfeyrac exclaimed, and he patted the chair next to him impatiently.

Bossuet pulled the indicated seat out and sat down in one fluid motion, unphased when both he and the chair teetered unsteadily for a moment. “Will Combeferre not be joining us tonight, then?”

Courfeyrac shook his head, and Feuilly's heart sank at the reminder. “He said he had some family obligation to attend to.”

“Ah, I see.”

“And what of Joly? You two usually arrive together.”

“Ah,” Bossuet said again, smirking, “he’s spending the evening with Musichetta, that lovesick lad.”

Feuilly's brow creased at that. “But he knew we were planning on meeting to-night, did he not?”

"Of course! but he's in the middle of a balancing act right now. If he cuts out their regular night together, Musichetta will be unhappy, and she'll make that very clear."

"What does that mean?"

But Courfeyrac waved a dismissive hand before Bossuet could answer. “Oh, well, I can’t blame him for that. I had the privilege of seeing her once; she’s quite the lovely thing. A shame the two of you got to her first! But if she ever tires of Joly, as she did of you….”

He winked at the older man, and Bossuet laughed.

Shocked, Prouvaire asked, “Is it not difficult to see her with another, Bossuet?”

“Not at all!" Bossuet answered good-naturedly, "Not a single hard feeling. After all, I still get to see her; a blessing for the eyes either way.”

Gaining confidence, Prouvaire continued, “If I may ask then, what was it like? You and Joly both seem to like her quite a lot. What sorts of things did you do together? What was your favorite part?”

“Goodness, so many questions!” Courfeyrac exclaimed. “You know, Prouvaire, experience truly is the best teacher, and if you’d actually act upon any single one of your fleeting romances—”

Bossuet clapped Courfeyrac on the back, cutting him off. “Now, now, Courfeyrac, we both know he’s not built like you. I rather worry the reality of it would ruin his dreams.”

Feuilly huffed in annoyance as Prouvaire frowned.

“But to answer your questions…” Bossuet mused, turning his attention back to Prouvaire. “Well personally, I do believe the best part of Musichetta was—is—her physique. You would not believe how—”

“Do let us continue that particular thought later, when our dear, innocent-minded poet isn’t in the room, hm?” Courfeyrac was quick to interrupt. He patted Prouvaire’s shoulder, who was quickly turning red. “See? You’ll make him run away with talk like that! Rather, let us entertain him with the sorts of love stories he’s looking for, and perhaps one day when he’s matured more we can return to such topics in his company, ey, Prouvaire?”

“Oh, yes,” Bossuet conceded. “Yes, you are right. Another time, then.”

Prouvaire quickly ducked his head, his cheeks burning.

Courfeyrac turned to Feuilly then, almost expectantly. “But Feuilly, my friend, you’re more than welcome to join us later if you’d like to learn more. Or perhaps you already have some experience of your own?”

Feuilly stiffened in surprise.

“Uh, no,” he said slowly.

"None at all! What are you waiting for, my friend?"

"Yes, if you are searching for the perfect girl before you start, I'll have you know that I'm certain she would appreciate a fellow who already has some proficiency in these matters," Bossuet added with a wink.

Feuilly frowned. “Actually, I don’t understand the appeal at all.”

Courfeyrac laughed at that, reaching a hand out to ruffle Feuilly's hair, which he quickly swatted away. “Well, you’re still young, and there’s time yet for you to understand—”

“I’m not young—!”

“—but, honestly, when I was your age—”

“Oh, I bet you’ve been a skirt chaser since you were ten,” Bossuet cut in.

Courfeyrac waved his hand. “Not quite that young.”

“Close enough,” Enjolras muttered from across the room.

“You didn’t even know me until I was fourteen!”

“So young??” Feuilly exclaimed at the same time.

“Oh, I assure you I was not the only fourteen year old interested in girls! Now, I’m not saying there weren’t boys like you who only gained interest a few years later, but they were quite few and far in between,” Courfeyrac said. Then he paused, looking back at Enjolras. “And then, of course, there is Enjolras; who is either a rare but beloved bird, or the most late blooming fellow the world has ever known.”

“You say as if you’re not the queerest one here,” Enjolras retorted.

“Now wait just a second!” Courfeyrac protested indignantly. “There’s Bossuet and Joly with me; and Combeferre, who does not shy away from it like you, he simply has other priorities! As for these two, they’re young, but that does not mean they won't start behaving like the rest of us in a few years yet! Don’t paint me as the odd one out— I assure you things would be quite different if we walked into any singular of the Faculties. In fact, give this group a few years to gather members, and it will most certainly start sounding like your average university class.”

Enjolras looked horrified at the very thought. “I shall ban such topics.”

“That will never work.”

“We have a higher purpose here and you know it, Courfeyrac!”

“But a higher purpose does not dissolve the existence of worldly pleasure,” Courfeyrac argued.

Bossuet nodded quickly in agreement. “Yes, we can do both.”

“Revolution cannot exist without love,” Prouvaire added tentatively, and Courfeyrac patted his shoulder again.

“I appreciate the sentiment, Prouvaire, but the love you’re talking about is not the love we’re talking about.”

“It’s a nice thought though,” Bossuet said in agreement.

“Wait— what do you mean by that?” Feuilly asked, only to immediately regret it when Bossuet hurried to cover Prouvaire’s ears with an excited grin.

“Alright, Courfeyrac! Class is in session.”

“AGHH," Prouvaire yelped in alarm. "I CAN STILL HEAR YOU!”

Courfeyrac moved both hands in a reassuring gesture. “Then I shall only speak in terms I’m sure you’ve already come across in poetry—”

Feuilly hurried to interrupt before they could get any more off-track. “No, I mean— love is love?”

"An awfully childish take for someone who insists they aren't young!" Bossuet exclaimed.

Courfeyrac nodded at the other man's words, and Feuilly scowled. “Most everyone would firmly disagree on that— especially the Greeks.”

“Oh, yes!" Prouvaire said, perking up. "The Greeks’ used many different terms to describe affection and desire, although philosophical discussion usually centers on four main concepts of love: philia, goodwill expressed through action; erōs, a longing for beauty and goodness you can never attain; storgē, instinctive love grown out of familiarity; and agapē, self-giving, unconditional love, although that last one only became more prominent with the advent of the New Testament."

“See— I knew you knew more than you act aware of! Poetry is not devoid of these topics.”

“It’s different,” Prouvaire protested.

“Yes, he cannot handle the reality of romance, and that is why he lives vicariously through words on paper,” Bossuet teased.

Feuilly glared at him in response. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Yes, yes, yes, there is nothing wrong with it; but you are most certainly missing out!” Courfeyrac declared. "And here I thought you prided yourself on being wordly, Feuilly! but you sure don't seem eager to expand your experience here. A process which, I assure you, would be quite enjoyable."

“It doesn’t sound like it to me,” Feuilly replied crossly. “Besides. there are more important things to concern oneself about— like Polish sovereignty!”

“Listen, even if you feel too young for the more passionate part of it, surely you see the appeal in simply having a pretty little thing by your side as company? To say sweet nothings to, and to hear sweet nothings in return?”

Prouvaire sighed wistfully at that, and Feuilly’s face scrunched up in confusion.

“Do we not already exchange pleasant words and keep each other company here? One does not need be a pretty lass for that.”

Courfeyrac gave a disbelieving laugh at that, running a hand through his hair without even realizing it. "A friend is very different from a lass! There is a certain special delight that comes from sweet words paired with sweet perfumes."

"Yes," Prouvaire agreed, "there's a gentle and delicate spirit within a woman that is quite different from a man's, like a lovely blossom that could be plucked or crushed at any moment— does it not make you wish to look after them? to ensure they can continue their beautiful bloom unspoiled?"

"Well—"

"To keep from being crushed, certainly, but I'd much prefer to pluck and deflower them myself," Courfeyrac muttered.

Bossuet wheezed in response, smacking Courfeyrac on the back as Prouvaire's expression fell. "You libertine, you!"

"Why would you say that?" Feuilly demanded, aghast. "That was completely uncalled for!"

"On the contrary!" Bossuet returned. "It was the perfect lead-in."

"You ought not to criticize until you have experienced it yourself," Courfeyrac added, far too pleased with himself.

"I don't want to experience it!" Feuilly snapped.

"And I don't want to hear about it!" Prouvaire cried out, distraught. "You said you would—"

Courfeyrac held a hand up. Then, pressing it to his chest, he said, "Yes, yes, my apologies; no more of it— on my honor."

"Yes, back to the, ah, starry-eyed, rose-colored stories our sweet Jehan is seeking," Bossuet added.

"Thank you," Prouvaire murmured, his face still burning.

"Of course, such interest should be rewarded— unlike Feuilly, at least you are actually trying!"

"That's not fair!" Feuilly exclaimed. "This entire conversation, I've been trying to understand!"

Bossuet held his hands up placatingly. "You have been asking questions, and that shows some effort! I stand corrected, my friend."

"But perhaps it will be better for everyone if you save your questions for a later time," Courfeyrac said, reaching across the table again to pat Feuilly's hand. Then he turned to indicate the table Enjolras was sitting at. "For now, I do believe you may be better off over in the celibate corner with Enjolras, where the only relationships that exist are friends and foes.”

“Some are neither,” Enjolras shot back.

“The friends and foes and nothings,” Courfeyrac corrected wearily. Then he looked back at Feuilly and gestured over to the table again. "Well? Go on. We can talk later, when there are less ears waiting."

Feuilly stared at him incredulously, but as rte minutes ticked by and nobody said or did anything in his defense, he began to slowly gather his things, shoving away from the table and marching over to sit next to Enjolras. 

“Can I stay?” Prouvaire asked, glancing back at Feuilly apologetically. “I want to hear your stories.”

Courfeyrac waved his hand again. “Yes, yes. We shall keep the conversation chaste until this trio of fragile maidens are not within earshot, right, Bossuet?”

“Indeed we will,” Bossuet agreed.

Feuilly turned away from them, scooting his chair to face Enjolras instead, and grumbled, “I truly do not understand.”

“You needn’t try,” came the quiet reply.

“Well, I want to.” Feuilly couldn't help but look back at the others and the conversation that had resumed in his absence, something inside of him aching at the sight. “It seems… important to them.”

“Perhaps, yes. But Courfeyrac and Bossuet both like to tease, and they only get worse when together, so I wouldn’t take what either of them say too seriously right now,” Enjolras said, and when Feuilly only frowned in response, he reached out to clasp the younger boy’s arm. “There is nothing wrong with having little experience in nor desire for that sort of thing, I hope you know.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

Enjolras hummed at that. “Their sentiment may be a common one, but that doesn’t make it correct. I for one think it makes little sense.”

“Oh.”

“Were you expecting a different response?” Enjolras asked, tilting his head. 

“Well, I just… I thought this was something that one would understand more with age? That is how the others seem to talk about it, so I’d assumed….”

Feuilly paused. He felt nauseous suddenly— restless, nearly trembling with anger. Even Enjolras' presence, which was normally nothing but comforting, felt disagreeable somehow, and he quickly looked down, fighting to keep his breathing steady. 

Why was he so upset?

So what if they hadn't wanted him to be a part of the conversation? It wasn't as if it had been a topic he was especially interested in; he had simply wanted to talk to his friends. And so what if they had other priorities? Joly had every right to spend the evening with his mistress, and Combeferre most certainly had the right to attend to family matters. 

Why did it bother him so much if they sometimes chose that over their cause— over him?

His heart twisted at the thought; his nose began to burn, his throat tightening, and to his complete and utter dismay he found himself fighting not to cry.

He stood up again, the chair scraping against the ground from the momentum. "I— I have to go."

Enjolras searched his face, concerned. "Are you… sure? The meeting hasn't started yet."

Feuilly swallowed thickly and nodded, no longer trusting his voice. Tucking his papers under his arm, he quickly retreated through the back door, down to the Rue des Grès, and into the cool, night air. But despite his best efforts he couldn't stop a muffled sob from escaping, nor the tears from slipping down his cheeks.

Maybe he was too different from his friends after all. It was an old fear, one that had largely gone dormant over the years but never disappeared entirely, one that had been easy enough to dismiss when the others had never seemed to have a problem with it before; but then again, he couldn't even talk with them about such a simple topic without getting inordinately upset and making a scene. What must the others think of him now? What was wrong with—

"Feuilly?"

He froze at the sound of Prouvaire's voice, belatedly bringing a hand up to rub at his face even though he knew it wouldn't make much of a difference.

"I'm sorry for asking to stay after they'd told you to leave the conversation," Prouvaire continued, voice wet and wobbly and making Feuilly's heart ache. "I'm sorry they wouldn't let up on the teasing, and that I did nothing to stop them. I'm sorry I didn't step in, I…."

His voice cracked, and Feuilly finally turned around as his friend came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, trying to hold back tears of his own. At the sight of Feuilly's doubtlessly tear-stained expression they broke free, and Prouvaire quickly hid his face in his hands.

"I— I'm sorry, I—"

Feuilly quickly closed the distance and pulled him into a hug. "Thank you."

Prouvaire sniffled miserably, slowly sinking into the embrace. "I feel terrible, truly, I— is there anything I can do to make amends?"

"This is enough," Feuilly told him.

"I apologize again for not doing more, I—"

"It's okay, Jehan. I promise."

"Okay," he whispered.

"I'm sorry, too. It wasn't right what they said about you."

"It's… alright. They meant no harm," Prouvaire said, and Feuilly squeezed him a little tighter.

When they eventually parted the older boy moved to tug out his handkerchief and, despite sniffling hard himself, offered it to Feuilly, who gladly accepted it to blow his nose.

"Were you headed home?"

"Eventually," Feuilly answered. He paused to take a steadying breath—through his mouth, since his nose was still too congested from crying—and was relieved when he felt a bit less heavy. "I was planning on going for a walk first, to clear my mind."

Prouvaire hesitated for a long moment, before tentatively asking, "Could I accompany you?"

Feuilly smiled. "I would love that."

They began to walk together, elbow-to-elbow, each taking comfort from the other's presence; but the silence didn't last long before Prouvaire was excitedly pointing up at the horizon.

"Cygne!"

Feuilly followed his friend's gaze, squinting at the sky in an effort to find the indicated constellation. "That's … the swan, yes?"

"That's right! Legends say that Zeus himself took the form of a swan in order to win the heart of Queen Leda of Sparta. She was married, and wished to remain faithful to her husband of course, but Zeus…." Prouvaire trailed off, faltering for a moment at Feuilly's lack of enthusiasm in the story, before continuing, "Well, of course, some say that the constellation was inspired instead by the story of Cygnus of Liguria, who spent days diving into the river Eridanus in order to collect the bones of his dear friend, Phaethon, and give him a proper burial."

Feuilly blinked at that, a small smile pulling at his lips. "Is that so?"

Prouvaire nodded excitedly. "The gods were touched by Cygnus' loyal devolution to his friend, so they turned him into a swan and placed him among the stars."

"Why a swan?"

"Because of the way he dived into the water, of course!"

"I can't argue with that," Feuilly laughed.

They continued their stroll in silence for some time. Then the breeze picked up, carrying the distant scent of rain; a forewarning. Sure enough, it started to drizzle a few minutes later, washing away the almost everpresent smell of cigarette smoke on this particular street as Feuilly hurriedly tucked his papers into his coat, his mood souring again.

Once again left to the mercy of the elements.

He turned to Prouvaire and paused, the complaint he had been about to say dying on his lips when he saw the way his friend's eyes were closed, an expression of almost perfect peace on his face as he tilted his head up towards the heavens. A moment later his eyes fluttered open, and he met Feuilly's gaze with a quizzical look.

"I think it's time we start heading home," Feuilly said instead.

Prouvaire's expression fell at that, a hand coming up to press against his own still-splotchy cheek.

"It's okay," Feuilly tried to reassure him. "It's dark; no one will be able to tell you've been crying."

Prouvaire smiled weakly at that. "Oh yes, that's true…."

"Is… something the matter?"

Prouvaire withdrew his gaze, lips belatedly attempting to turn his smile into a more genuine one and not quite managing to do so. "I don't want my parents to worry. But— it's alright! Perhaps they've already gone to bed."

"Why don't you stay with me tonight?" Feuilly offered. "I'd love the company."

Prouvaire opened his mouth, looking for a moment as if he might refuse the offer. Then, almost sheepishly, he said, "Sure."

Feuilly squeezed his arm with a smile of his own, and together they directed their steps towards his apartment. When they arrived he shed his outer layers and set his thankfully only slightly damp papers onto the desk with a sigh before climbing into bed. Prouvaire followed after him, squishing in next to the younger boy, and Feuilly shifted to accommodate him before slinging an arm around his friend.

He sighed again, more than a little worn out; but the day's events felt far away now in the quiet darkness of his room, with only the rhythm of their soft breaths and of the rain pattering against his window filling the silence. 

And then; Prouvaire's voice, soft but earnest—

"Feuilly?"

"Yes?"

"Do you really feel that way? That is, have you really never felt any interest in romance? None at all?"

"Not really, no." Then, almost hesitantly, Feuilly added, "Is that strange?"

"No. It's just you, and that's okay."

Tears pricked at his eyes. This time he let them fall as he found Prouvaire's hand and squeezed it, hoping the simple action was enough to convey all the feelings he did not know how to put into words.

He thought again about the story of Cygnus going to such great lengths to give his friend a proper burial. That was love.

He thought of Prouvaire and the way he'd come after him, leaving the meeting early with no resentment in his heart, only concern, even when he'd wanted to stay. That was love, too.

The hour was growing late, but for once Feuilly was not worried about the time. They had done all they could to prepare for the funeral to-morrow—with weapons and ammunition safely stored away, contact reaffirmed between their allies, and the plans for the construction of their barricade as finalized as they could possibly be without knowing exactly where they would end up or what they would have to work with when the time came—but even so, the conversation continued in low tones, an almost electric feeling permeating Courfeyrac’s rooms as the sun began to dip below the horizon, and Feuilly could not tell if the restlessness he felt itching under his skin was from excitement or dread for what was to come.

He looked over at his friends, all crammed in together on the settee in the other room. At some point Courfeyrac had moved so that he was laying down across both Enjolras and Combeferre like a cat that wanted attention, one of Enjolras’ hands clasped in his own, and Combeferre had taken to idly running a hand through the younger man’s hair as he frowned down at the papers he had been working on for the better part of the evening, at some intervals pausing as he fell deep in thought, at others his pen moving almost frantically.

Finished with double-checking the boxes of cartridges hidden in the bedroom, Feuilly moved to join them and squeezed in at Enjolras’ side. Enjolras, underneath their friend’s weight as he was, shifted the best he could so that Feuilly could sit comfortably as well, and once they were both settled Courfeyrac didn’t hesitate to stretch out and place his feet onto the younger man’s lap with an impish sort of grin.

Feuilly rolled his eyes fondly. Then, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he asked, “What are you writing, Combeferre?”

At his question the other man finally looked up from the bundle of papers in his hand, taking a moment to set them down onto the nearby console table before giving Feuilly his full attention. “I’m writing a letter to my younger brother. I cannot help but worry… so I thought it best to ensure he would be prepared, no matter what happens.”

“Prepared for what?”

“For the responsibility of being the man of the house.”

Feuilly admittedly wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Of course, if something should happen to Combeferre, that would leave his brother as the sole provider for their family; and they all knew intimately well the risk they were taking. It only made sense he would want to do what he could to ease the transition, so to speak. But even so, his brother would understand… wouldn’t he?

“I wrote one to my parents earlier,” Courfeyrac added, easily filling the silence when it lasted just a little too long. “And… my brother as well, in case he does not come after all tomorrow.”

“Do you really think he might change his mind?” Combeferre asked.

Courfeyrac shrugged in response, an almost uncharacteristic frown pulling at his lips. “I haven’t the faintest idea, to be honest.”

“And what of Marius?”

“I’ve yet to get a straight answer out of him, either.” He brought an arm up to drape across his forehead with an exasperated-sounding sigh. “The poor fellow has been especially distracted lately, it’s hard enough just trying to hold a conversation with him. And he still refuses to tell me a thing!”

“He always has been of a more reticent disposition,” Combeferre affirmed sadly. “But I’m afraid there isn’t much that can be done when someone simply doesn’t want any help.”

Courfeyrac sighed again, and Feuilly patted his leg in sympathy. “I know.”

“Are you going to write a letter as well, Enjolras?” Feuilly questioned, filling the following silence in turn, and turning to address the only one who hadn’t spoken up in the conversation so far.

Enjolras looked a little confused, and he quickly shook his head. “I do not believe any letter of mine would be well received. Besides, there are more important things to attend to right now.”

“Oh.”

‘That’s a shame,’ Feuilly couldn’t help but think. He knew Enjolras didn’t have much of a relationship with his parents, but he still had a hard time imagining anyone not treasuring the other man’s words. Any letter he wrote would surely be an inspiration to whomever read it, family or not.

Enjolras tilted his head then, considering the younger man. “Do you wish to write a letter, Feuilly?”

“Oh,” he said again, taken aback by the question. “I don’t really have anyone to write….”

He trailed off as the realization hit him: he may not have had any relatives to bid farewell to, but Feuilly found he still had something he wanted—no, needed—to write down.

“Actually— yes, I’d love to.”

Combeferre picked up his papers again to thumb through them and, finding one he hadn’t written anything on yet, passed it and his pen over with a, “Here.”

Feuilly accepted them, already mulling over where to start. “Thank you, Combeferre.”

“What are you going to write about?” Enjolras asked curiously. He leaned closer, his shoulder pressing into Feuilly’s own.

“The partition of Poland?” Courfeyrac added in a teasing lilt.

“Oh, you—” Feuilly swatted at Courfeyrac’s feet. “You shall just have to wait and see.”

“Can’t you at least give us a hint?” he pressed.

“You shall have to wait and see,” Feuilly repeated.

“Perhaps this will be a good exercise in learning some much needed patience,” Combeferre added mildly.

Courfeyrac met the other man’s eye at that. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Then I would be more than happy to expound upon what I meant, if it would help you to understand. There should be time enough yet before we ought to think about turning in for the night.”

“You say as if such a topic is dense enough for an entire conversation!”

“Well….”

“I cannot believe this! You—”

“Feuilly is trying to write,” Enjolras said pointedly, and Feuilly laughed.

“It’s alright, I’m only thinking right now.”

“All the more imperative for us to remain quiet, then,” Combeferre returned.

“Perhaps. But I truly do not mind.”

“You are too kind, my dear fellow, letting us prattle on and on when you have important business to attend to,” Courfeyrac exclaimed, his gesturing hands accidentally smacking Combeferre’s chest in his enthusiasm. “Business so important you cannot even give us the slightest hint as to what you're planning to write. I can only assume that you are intending to compose a novel of a letter that rivals Combeferre’s all about ‘72 and its impact on the great nations of Europe, and you are only too embarrassed to tell us so for fear that we would never stop teasing you!”

“Of course there will be a passing mention to it,” Feuilly admitted, unable to resist a smile at Courfeyrac’s antics any longer. “But that’s all I’ll say on the matter.”

“Aha, I knew it!”

“It is not a hard guess to make,” Enjolras pointed out, his lips quirking up into a smile of his own. “And I would expect nothing less from our discerning cosmopolitan.”

Feuilly beamed at the epithet. “A topic as pressing as this one bears repeating, over and over again if I must. You know I will never tire of it.”

“And you have certainly proven as much,” Courfeyrac agreed.

He opened his mouth to reply, only to pause when his eyes landed on the fan he had painted years ago—and that Courfeyrac had inexplicably decided to keep for himself—displayed on the wall just as the ones from the atelier were, and what came out instead was a surprised, “I still cannot believe you kept that.”

The others followed his gaze and Courfeyrac, realizing just what Feuilly was referring to, waved a dismissive hand. “How could I not? You were so proud. And every time I look at it, I am reminded of that moment.”

Feuilly found himself flushing at the other man's words, once again at a loss on what to say.

“Yes, I remember that,” Combeferre mused. “To think, how few in numbers we were then, with nothing more than hope to guide our steps. And now here we stand on the precipice of battle once again, for what I pray is the final time.”

“We will fight as often as we need to,” Enjolras protested.

Combeferre inclined his head at that. “I agree. It is a necessary evil, one that I wish we could do without; but wishing alone will not make any meaningful improvement to the lives of the people of France.”

“Or to the peoples of all the earth,” Feuilly was quick to add.

“But perhaps it will be necessary no longer once our Republic finally dawns.” Courfeyrac reached up to clasp Combeferre’s arm, giving him a warm smile. “And the good can at last be innocent.”

“Yes,” Combeferre said softly, and Enjolras pressed his hand as the other man’s gaze fell back to his letter. “Yes, may it be so.”

“I believe it will,” Feuilly declared. “Someday, perhaps one day very soon, even if we do not live to see it. Our efforts will not be in vain!”

Enjolras turned to regard Feuilly again for a long moment, something both somber and exceedingly fond in his expression. When he spoke, his quiet voice rang with finality. “You are right.”

This time the silence lingered, heavier than before. The night continued to deepen outside, and it wasn’t long before Courfeyrac was compelled to get up, taking a moment to tousle Feuilly’s hair as he walked past and into the other room in search of a candle so they could continue their work. Feuilly smiled again and tapped the pen to his chin, his thoughts turning back to the task at hand; and as he began to write his letter in earnest a sense of calm certainty kindled within his chest.

Whatever happened to-morrow he knew that, for better or for worse, the fight would not end with him and his friends. —

To Félicien Courfeyrac

Félicien picked the letter up, unsure how to feel about the fact that his brother had dropped the particle from his own name; he knew he must have done it to tease him, and some amalgamation of annoyed, fondly exasperated, and completely and utterly devastated threatened to overwhelm him.

He shoved it into his pocket, next to the one he’d found addressed to their parents, neither willing nor able to read whatever Marc had written right now.

“I don’t know why we have to do this by ourselves,” Charles grumbled from where he was busy pulling books off of the bookcase and stacking them onto the floor— an eclectic mix of law-books and romance novels so well-worn the spines were starting to fall apart and, more than a little surprisingly, a couple of dictionaries in English and German.

When had Marc taken up an interest in learning other languages?

Félicien quickly shook his head. “You know father is very… busy.”

“As am I! I ought to be reading over my notes for class tomorrow. And you— do you not have a wife at home, and a newborn baby, that need you? And yet that fool goes off and gets himself killed trying to commit treason, and we’re left to clean up the mess!”

Félicien said nothing to that. He was angry, too; he’d tried to convince Marc to recognize the battle was a losing one and come home, but his brother had stubbornly refused to see any sense. And regardless of what he’d said Félicien did sympathize with their cause, he just hadn't been willing to die for it and, selfishly, he hadn’t wanted Marc to die for it either. He was sick of all the fighting. And now, just when things had finally been okay again between them, his brother was simply… gone.

“The whole world has turned upside down,” Charles continued crossly. “To see my fellow students break down the gates of the school just to join that rabble! You should have seen it— what a terrible sight! The distinguished name of the Polytechnique defiled, our family name disgraced; it’s sickening, I tell you! I don't know what’s gotten into everyone. It’s as if the cholera has driven them all mad! Did you know several of my classmates have been in contact with these republicans? with Marc himself, even?”

“Have they?” Félicien asked in surprise.

“They have, indeed! This was a premeditated affair, I tell you! Our brother has been stirring up trouble for months now! Although I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, he always was rather… deviant.” Charles’ face scrunched up in disdain. “And that Enjolras boy only ever made it worse.”

“Yes, he always did have the most terrible influence on Marc.”

‘More than we ever realized,’ he thought bitterly.

“Father should have acted more firmly while there was still a chance to set him straight. If only….” Charles trailed off as he picked up a folded paper from the desk and, opening it, squinted at it in confusion.

Félicien walked over to his side, his interest piqued. “What do you have there, Charles?”

“It’s a letter addressed to no one,” Charles answered, bewildered.

“Addressed to no one? Let me see that.” When he reached for it the younger boy didn't hesitate to hand it over and, furrowing his brow, he read, “To whomever is reading this.”

“It’s not from Marc,” Charles pointed out.

He skipped down to the valediction at the end to confirm that his brother had indeed spoken true. “No, it must be from one of his friends.”

Charles scoffed at that. He turned his attention back to sorting through their brother’s things, tossing a fan that had been mounted to the wall to the growing pile of sentimental objects their mother would probably want to keep.

Félicien folded the letter back up and moved to help him but, unexpectedly, he found his throat tightening as all of the grief he hadn't allowed himself to feel since the morning he’d realized their cause was truly doomed came crashing down on him with sudden force.

His brother was really dead.

He had seen the body, of course, but it was almost impossible to reconcile that ghastly sight with the living, breathing person he had known for so long. He trembled at the memory, of how pale and stiff and cold he had been, of the hole in his chest too big for any bullet or bayonet to have made—Marc, what did they do to you? What happened after I left?—and, almost desperately, he tried to imagine him here in the room instead, standing there with them and telling some stupid joke that would have Charles rolling his eyes… only to realize he couldn’t quite recall the sound of his brother’s voice anymore.

“Félicien?”

Félicien looked up to see Charles frowning at him, one of Thérèse’s dolls in hand. He could still remember when she’d insisted Marc take it along with him the last time he’d come to visit, claiming the doll would look out for him while he was gone since she couldn’t, and demanding he promise to bring it back soon, given that it was her favorite one.

When he failed to respond Charles grabbed the older man’s shoulder and shook it, snapping his attention back to the present moment. “Félicien, what are you doing?”

With an almost absurd amount of effort Félicien shoved all of those feelings aside to deal with later, slipping his hands into his pockets to hide the way that they were still shaking and forcing a smile onto his face he hoped was reassuring. “Nothing. Now come along, there’s much work to be done.”

“I know,” Charles huffed. With an uncertain glance at his brother he stepped back and turned to set the doll into the pile as well. “If you asked me, it’d be easier to simply throw all of this stuff away.”

Félicien’s jaw clenched at that. “Easier, perhaps. But who said the easier thing was ever worth doing?”

Charles paused, squinting at the older man. “Now you’re starting to sound like him.”

‘Perhaps that is not such a bad thing after all.’

“Come along,” Félicien repeated. “I do believe we should be finished by tomorrow if we do not dawdle.”

But Charles still didn't move. “You’ve been awfully quiet lately.”

“Is that so?”

“There’s something bothering you, I can tell.”

“Our brother is dead, Charles,” he snapped.

Charles flinched at his words, staring at Félicen as if the older man had physically struck him, and Félicien felt his breath hitch. He averted his gaze as the younger boy stepped closer and, after a brief moment of hesitation, grabbed his shoulder again. 

“I know,” Charles whispered, his earlier anger all but extinguished. “But I feel there is something… more.”

Félicien shrugged, displacing the boy’s hand. He couldn’t tell him. He knew that Charles wouldn’t understand, that he would never think of his brother the same way again if he knew what’d really happened all those days ago, and he couldn’t bear the thought. He’d had enough of the petty contention that’d long plagued their family; he’d already lost one brother to it, he couldn’t lose another, too.

He tugged Charles into his arms then, struck with the sudden need to hold his little brother close, and Charles stiffened in surprise before hesitantly returning the hug.

“I just… miss him,” Félicien finally said, which was true.

He may not have been especially close to Marc, or even seen much of him for the past decade, but he still felt his absence like a physical wound— the image again flashed in his mind of the sight of his brother’s body and he quickly focused on the solid warmth in front of him instead, trying in vain to banish the thought.

“I do too,” Charles said, his quiet voice cracking, once again drawing Félicien back to the present moment. “I… I wish I knew why he did it. What could have driven him to such extremes? …was it me?”

“No,” Félicien answered without hesitation. “No, it wasn’t you.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“He loved you, Charles. He loved our family. He just….”

He trailed off, unsure what to even say. That their brother loved the ideas in his head more? That he had chosen to condemn himself to that cause knowing full well that it would cost him his life when he’d had a chance to back out? when Félicien had nearly begged him to?

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “I wish I did, but… I don’t.”

Eventually Charles had to return to the Polytechnique, reluctantly leaving Félicien alone to finish what they’d started. There was still much to do, Marc had more stuff than he’d realized, and all of their efforts had left the apartment looking like a tornado had torn through it. Yet despite the cluttered mess, the rooms still felt… empty.

Félicien looked around, debating on what to do next—and trying to ignore the complicated mess of feelings still festering below the surface—when his eyes caught on the dictionaries from before.

Had Marc taken up an interest in learning other languages? He’d never mentioned anything of the sort about it to Félicien, but then again he truly had no idea what his brother had been up to in the years since he’d left home, he would still be utterly clueless if he hadn't stumbled back into the younger man’s life through pure chance, and even then he’d known there was a great deal that Marc wasn't telling him. In many ways he had become an almost perfect stranger— for all of his downright impetuous temperament at times, Félicien never would have thought his kind-hearted brother capable of the sort of violence endemic to the barricades if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes.

Had he ever really known Marc at all?

He sat down at the desk with a heavy sigh and pulled the letters out of his pocket, needing a distraction, and was briefly surprised to find three of them. He hadn't meant to keep the one that wasn’t addressed to anyone specifically.

His curiosity getting the better of him, he set the other two aside—still unable to read the one Marc had left for him—and opened that strange letter again.

To whomever is reading this,

I know you do not know me, nor I you, but I have a few words I’d like to tell you regardless.

By the time you’re reading this I may very well be dead. That is just as well— I do not fear death. Perhaps you do; but even so, this is too important to shy away from. The future of our Republic, of our great country, and of the entire world is now in your hands. It is a heavy burden to bear, I know, but you need not bear it alone. Do not forget how powerful we are when we stand together— you need only look back to the July Revolution to see that power firsthand.

Of course, it will not always be so obvious, but this doesn't mean your efforts will be in vain. Progress is often slow but sure, like the rising of the sun. It cannot be killed, nor does it end when one man dies. It is a race— and every step, no matter how small, towards that grand finish line called the Future carries us all ever closer to a brighter dawn. It is this accumulation of individual choices over time that truly changes societies, for good or for ill, and as such it is imperative that the momentum is maintained. This is where you come in.

I again confess that I do not know you, and I regret I did not have a chance to tell you this face to face, but I do know one very important thing: if you’ve read this far, I know that you care, and that is no small thing. It is a lack of caring that was responsible for allowing the great evil of ‘72 to succeed, and from thence has every modern evil sprung. See the depravity of the Congress of Vienna, see the debauchery of the Ottoman Empire on Thessaly; but I digress.

No one of us alone can change the world, but each of us can have an influence in the world. My friend—for I do not think it improper to consider you a friend—I implore you not to remain passive. You must do what you can to deliver yourself from the bondage of ignorance and reject the moral dereliction of indifference, and you must continue our fight.

Take courage, my friend— the path you’ll tread is one well worn; by all those who have come before, and by all who will follow after you.

Your fellow citizen,