All ye readers beware: I have written a virtually angst-less piece. That being said, I go even further: I have written (gasp!) FLUFF! Yes, you heard right, the mistress of angst has written FLUFF!

Probably a combination of a couple of things: post-term paper exhilaration (I finished them! Huzzah!) and the fact that the ground is covered in SNOW and it's darn COLD outside. Which means I had to write about spring. Go figure.

Anyway, for those of you who didn't read the summary, this is slash. As in, male/male relationship. If this offends you, please click the back button, as I am not responsible for any emotional scarring that the reading of this perfectly innocent fic may produce. That being said…enjoy.

Disclaimer: Definitely not mine. Although I wish it were…

Spring Fever

"Combeferre!" Feuilly burst through the door of the Musain, startling the philosopher and making him produce a very unsightly smear of ink on his paper. "Sorry," Feuilly apologized as he noted the ink stain.

"It's fine," Combeferre replied evenly. "But why are you in such a hurry?"

"Have you seen Courfeyrac?" Feuilly asked.

"Not for a couple of hours. Why?"

"Well, he's not at his place, he's not at Corinth, he's not here…" Feuilly listed the places off on his fingers as he went.

"Yes; yes, alright. But why do you need to find him?" Combeferre pressed, trying and failing to make his paper legible again, eventually sighing and taking out a new sheet.

"Because he stole my paints!" Feuilly exclaimed, rather making Combeferre irreversibly smudge his paper again. "Oh…sorry. Again."

"Don't worry about it," Combeferre stared forlornly at the paper through his glasses before crumpling it up and taking another sheet, wisely choosing not to begin writing, this time. "Why did he steal your paints?"

"Darned if I know," Feuilly replied, crossing his arms. "That's why I need to find him, because I can hardly make fans without my paints, and I can hardly eat if I don't sell any fans!"

"Well, I'm sure he'll turn up. He's never absent for long," Combeferre gave a shrug. "Besides, he's not as heartless as all that. He wouldn't leave you without your source of income."

" 'Ferre, may I remind you that this is Courfeyrac we are speaking of? The man who possesses the least tact of any man in Paris…perhaps any man in France? No doubt it's some undoubtedly witty joke of his and he's never even considered that going through with it would leave me penniless and starving!" Feuilly waved his arms somewhat dramatically.

"Look, Feuilly, if you can't find him, I'll make sure you don't starve," Combeferre promised. "I'd check the Garden if I were you. He tends to go there sometimes, if only to spy on Marius while he's spying on that girl of his."

"Oh. Alright, then. Thank you," Feuilly tipped his cap politely before going out the door. Combeferre had just begun to write again when the door slammed open, startling him and making him smear his paper for the third time. Muttering a string of highly unpleasant words that he no doubt picked up from Courfeyrac, he angrily crunched the paper into a ball which he tossed rather forcefully to the ground.

Enjolras stopped in the doorway, took one look at his friend, and asked, "Having a bad day, are we?"

Combeferre looked up, blushed slightly, and replied, "You have no idea."

000

Sure enough, Courfeyrac was in the garden, concealed behind a tree and spying on Marius who was spying on some girl and some old man on a park bench a little further down the trail.

"Courfeyrac!" Feuilly hissed, making the man in question turn and motion for the fan-maker to come over. Feuilly rolled his eyes but did so, and Courfeyrac smiled winningly at him.

"Feuilly, darling, fancy seeing you here!"

"Give them back."

"I honestly have no idea what you're talking about," Courfeyrac blinked innocently. "Give what back?"

"Don't play with me," Feuilly said in a low voice.

"Wouldn't dream of it, my dear; and I assure you, if I had anything of yours to give back I assuredly would. But look! behold that jeune rêveur over there. He pines incessantly for that girl, but of course her father presents an interesting dilemma," Courfeyrac motioned.

"You're shameless."

"And I know it."

"What if Marius sees you? What's he going to think?"

"Frankly, my little orphan, somebody could fire a cannon past M'sieur Pontmercy's ear and he would not notice it when his eyes are on her," Courfeyrac responded truthfully. Feuilly really wanted to get this over with and get back home, but he sighed and waited for Courfeyrac to move. Which, thankfully, didn't take long, as the man and his daughter got up and walked down the path, and a few seconds later Marius headed off in the opposite direction from them.

"Now, what were you asking me? You think I took something of yours?"

"Yes," Feuilly glared at him. "My paints, namely."

"Whyever would you accuse me? It's hardly my fault you can't afford a lock for your door; any vagrant in Paris could have wandered off with them," Courfeyrac pointed out, looking slightly offended.

"I know because you left me a signed note!" Feuilly exclaimed in exasperation.

"Oh," Courfeyrac shrugged and stood up, starting to walk and forcing Feuilly to catch up with him. "Just making sure. I meant to, you know, but sometimes I get sidetracked." He hummed snatches of a jaunty tune as he walked through the gardens.

"And just why are you so chipper today?" Feuilly glowered.

"Why not, my good man? It's spring, the season of life and love! And it's a tradition for me, you see, on the first day of spring, to find a new love. After all, the birds are singing, the sun is shining, the flowers are blooming, nobody has invaded Poland for a few years…"

"Stop trying to sound like Prouvaire. And stop talking about Poland!"

"All in all, my dear, what reason have I not to be happy?" Courfeyrac slung an arm over the fan-maker's shoulders. "But I digress. You are unhappy, as you have a quarrel with me. Accompany to my home and all shall be revealed."

As it turned out, 'accompany' meant 'follow me as I frolic down the street.' Feuilly rolled his eyes at the other man's antics but followed none-the-less. After all, he needed his paints back.

When they had arrived at Courfeyrac's, Feuilly immediately set to looking for his paints, which he spied soon enough in a glass cabinet. Which was locked.

"So first you won't admit you took them, and now you have them held hostage?" Feuilly asked angrily.

"Hostage? My, what strong words. No, I'm keeping them safe. Wouldn't want somebody to steal them, now, would we?" Courfeyrac winked.

"Steal? Steal?! And what are you planning to do with them?" Feuilly rounded on him. "I'll have you know that I have no money, unlike yourself, and so without my paints I cannot paint my fans, which means I cannot sell my fans, which means I cannot make money off of my fans, which means….C-Courfeyrac?"

"Yes?"

"Did you just…kiss…me?" Feuilly put a hand to his lips tentatively, as if not quite sure what had occurred. "You did! And what is this all about? What, you lured me here to seduce me? Can't find a proper grisette to practice your long-standing tradition on, so you're turning to men? Can't…C-Courfeyrac?"

"Yes?"

"Did you just kiss me…again?"

"Indeed. Since it seems to be the only way to shut you up," Courfeyrac grinned. "Now, stop yelling loud enough to bring the neighbours, and come sit down," Courfeyrac led him to the bed. "And I'll tell you that you have it right. Alas," he dramatically flung himself onto the bed. "I have stolen your paints and made you face starvation only because all of the available women in the city are either taken or have already had the pleasure of knowing me. Therefore, with nobody left, I hatched an elaborate scheme to get you into my apartment and, consequently, into my bed. Happy?"

"No; rather the opposite," Feuilly crossed his arms. "Now…hey, give that back!" Feuilly reached for his hat, which Courfeyrac had decided to pilfer and was now wearing on his own head at a rakish angle. "You infuriate me sometimes. You truly do."

"I take pride in it," Courfeyrac assured him. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes: your paints. Look, I'll tell you what: come for dinner with me tonight, and I'll give them back to you. Okay?"

As if he didn't know perfectly well how much Feuilly hated charity! But, at this point, there seemed to be no other choice. "Okay," Feuilly sighed. "You promise, though."

"On my honor."

"You have none."

"You wound me with your unfeeling words, dearest," Courfeyrac placed a hand over his heart. "If anything, I would be flattered that somebody as experienced and sought after as myself would choose to spend the first day of spring with me." He reached out and took Feuilly's hand. "And really, love of mine, it's too hot to wear gloves." And so he proceeded to remove the offending objects. "Can't you afford ones without holes?"

"The holes are supposed to be there," Feuilly informed him, batting his hand away. "They keep my hands warm while still allowing me to pick up things."

"You're so smart," Courfeyrac sighed. "But come! the day is far too nice for us to spend it indoors. And take your scarf off, too."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to remove it yourself?" Feuilly asked sarcastically. "You seem intent on taking off everything else."

"Again with the accusations of seduction!" Courfeyrac did his best to look astonished. "Can't you just accept…even for one day…that maybe I do care for you?"

"You?" Feuilly snorted. "You, who would like nothing more than to have a different woman in your bed every night. You care for me?"

"Quite a lot, actually," Courfeyrac took his hand again. "Always have. There's something about you…whenever you smile at me, I feel like nothing could ever be wrong with the world."

"I told you to stop spouting poetry."

"It's the truth. Those women mean nothing to me; that should be evident. But you…after all, I could hardly shove you away after a night. We see each other all the time. It would be horribly rude, non?" Courfeyrac asked, smiling.

"You're serious."

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

"You'll get your wish on the last one if you're not telling the truth," Feuilly warned.

"So smile for me, Feuilly. You haven't all day; you've glowered at me as if I were a thundercloud in an otherwise clear sky. And let's enjoy the first day of spring, mon cher, because it only comes once a year," Courfeyrac gave the fan-maker his most dazzling smile, and Feuilly eventually smiled back and let out a resigned sigh, allowing Courfeyrac to lace their fingers together.

"You make it horribly hard to stay mad at you for long, mon ami," Feuilly admitted.

"Ami? More than that, I would hope," Courfeyrac looked offended before leaning over to kiss Feuilly again, and this time the other man was hardly shocked.

"You know, I think I may love you a little, too," he finally admitted.

"Everyone loves me," Courfeyrac replied. "And besides, if I didn't think you felt the same way, I never would have stolen your paints. Speaking of which, I've decided I'm taking you to lunch, too. After all, I can't let you starve now, can I?" He stood up and offered a hand to Feuilly, who took it after a moment and allowed Courfeyrac to pull him up.

"But you still promise to give my paints back tonight," Feuilly pressed.

"Oh, love, that all depends on if you go home tonight," Courfeyrac gave Feuilly a devilish smirk before all but tugging him out the door. Feuilly laughed at the other man's antics as he was pulled along before replying:

"After all, we can't break tradition now, can we?"

Courfeyrac did not respond; merely started to frolic along the street again. And this time, Feuilly did not hesitate to join him.

Fin

So? Reviews, please? I'd love to know what you think. And, if you've gotten this far, flames will feed my fireplace. Which is run by gas, so I really don't need anything else. So no flaming, if you please!

And this was my real first attempt at a non-serious Miz fic, which I found surprisingly fun and easy to write, so maybe I'll do more with different pairings…if I think of any or get any feedback.

Also my first CourFeuilly, but they work so well together, I couldn't not do it.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed. Adieu, mes amis!