Author's Note: Tumblr user Chainsawpoet prompted me in honor of hitting milestone on tumblr! She asked for a continuation of the fic I wrote to go along with hamstr's illustration because she loves Enjolras and Courfeyrac- "because I really love the way you write them both." This girl clearly has something wrong in her head AND I LOVE IT.

Chapter Text

"What are you reading?"

Courefyrac closes the book. "Something of yours. Unbearably dry. I prefer Julie, or the New Heloise."

Enjolras purses his lips and pushes himself into an awkward half-sitting position on the bed. "Not Rousseau's best work."

"But his most inspired!" Courfeyrac says, lending his hand to Enjolras's shoulder and helping him upright. He slips a pillow behind Enjolras's thin shoulders to stabilize him. "How do you fare after your rest?"

"Well enough." Enjolras tugs on a strand of his hair. He does this, occasionally, when it falls in his eyes and he has been under strain.

Courfeyrac restrains himself from flicking it out of his friend's eyes; he knows from experience that Enjolras does not appreciate this assistance.

"Your color's improved," he offers instead. "Would you like a drink of water?"

"No," Enjolras mutters.

"Have one anyhow," Courfeyrac insists, pouring water from the pitcher Combeferre left.

Enjolras takes a sip without argument, a sign he is still not entirely himself. "Where is Combeferre?"

"Gone home, as you bade him," Courfeyrac says.

"Did I?" Enjolras sets his glass down on the floor beside the bed.

Courfeyrac shrugs. "You bade me to bid him, which is much the same."

Enjolras rubs at his forehead. "This damned illness robs me of my clarity. All of the past week has been but dreams of fog."

Courfeyrac captures Enjolras's hand with his own. "Easy," he shushes. "You'll regain your strength yet. Of mind and body both."

Enjolras sighs.

Courfeyrac smoothes the coverlet over his legs. "Combeferre shall return soon, probably toting nutritious victuals cooked up by his concierge to ensure your recovery."

Enjolras wrinkles his nose. "I do not need to be spoon fed broth. I am not an invalid."

"A convalescent, then," Courfeyrac agrees. "And a rather disagreeable one, hot with choler as well as fever. Have you been bled? Perhaps I shall suggest it."

Enjolras frowns. "I had rather to be weak with illness than weak with bloodletting. It is a rather unpleasant treatment, and altogether too extreme for my condition."

Courfeyrac smirks, reaching out a hand to stroke Enjolras's hair. "Then you'd do best to lie still and quiet as a good patient would, and not make such a fuss that the thought appeals. Perhaps Combeferre has left me laudanum to dose you with. What a fine rest that would provide for us both."

Enjolras makes no reply save to huff an exasperated breath. "You are entirely hopeless," he sighs, closing his eyes against Courfeyrac's soft fingers at his temple.

"No, I think you'll find that you are," Courfeyrac whispers as his fingers guide his ailing friend back to rest.