I was feeling nostalgic about my Courfeyrac/Feuilly fic
Lying Low, so here's a little ficlet featuring the pair of them!
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“Emily attempted to go, but Dorothee stood fixed and gazing upon the bed; and, at length, said —‘It is only the wind, that waves it, ma’amselle; we have left all the doors open: see how the air waves the lamp, too. — It is only the wind-’”
Confronted with Courfeyrac’s dramatic reading, Feuilly shook where he lay, though with suppressed mirth rather than the fear The Mysteries of Udolpho usually inspired. Ill, fatigued, and heavy-limbed though he was, he felt inclined to laugh at everything, though whether this was the effect of the laudanum or whether Courfeyrac’s countenance was truly comical, he could not have said. His friend was perched on the bed beside him, quite literally at the edge of his seat, white-knuckled hands trembling as he clutched the book.
Though Feuilly’s illness was not serious, it had made him long for a day of rest, and once he had gotten his wish Courfeyrac had insisted on playing the nursemaid. Feuilly had no need of nursing, but he could not deny that he felt much better with Courfeyrac’s cheer filling his drab little room. He therefore did not protest when Courfeyrac pressed him to rest and eat to keep up his strength — though Feuilly doubted macarons, beignets, and tarte tatin were fare typically advised for illness.
And now, Courfeyrac was determined to read to him. Feuilly wondered if he realized he was performing each character’s voice with different intonations, quite high for Emily and slightly lower for Dorothee, or that he was hunched over, his nose inching closer and closer to the pages as the tension of the story mounted. Perhaps Courfeyrac had forgotten Feuilly was even present at all, so engrossed was he in his novel.
“She had scarcely uttered these words, when the pall was more violently agitated than before; but Emily, somewhat ashamed of her terrors, stepped back to the bed, willing to be convinced that the wind only had occasioned her alarm; when, as she gazed within the curtains, the pall moved again, and- and-” Courfeyrac gulped audibly, and Feuilly had to bite his lip hard to prevent any noise from escaping him. “And in the next moment, the apparition of a human countenance rose above it!”
It could not be helped. Feuilly burst out laughing, and Courfeyrac jumped so violently that the book went flying from his hands and slid across the floor.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Feuilly wheezed, as Courfeyrac made a dejected face and stooped to retrieve the book.
“I suppose not everyone appreciates the charms of Madame Radcliffe,” said Courfeyrac, in tones of mock offense. He marked his page and set the book aside — no doubt to pick up where he left off later, and scare himself silly again, thought Feuilly.
“It’s not that,” Feuilly said, smiling a little and propping himself more upright on his pillows. “You were just so- so intent-”
“Ah, so you are laughing at me, then? Is that it?” Courfeyrac attempted a straight face, and failed. “The things I must suffer to ensure the recovery of a friend!”
“I did say I was sorry,” said Feuilly. “Come- you know I would not laugh at just anyone like that.”
“And now you are trying to persuade me to take it as a compliment. How dare you, Monsieur?” Courfeyrac stood to smooth the bedcovers, tucking them more snugly around Feuilly’s shoulders, and then, with the barest trace of hesitation, reached to feel Feuilly’s forehead. “Are you feeling any better?”
“Worlds better.” He meant to attempt a quip back at his friend, but Courfeyrac’s fingers lingered a little at his temple, and the only thing Feuilly could add was, “I can’t thank you enough.”
“I’m glad for that.” Courfeyrac beamed, and the laudanum must have been affected Feuilly after all, for he felt suddenly light-headed. “That you are feeling better, that is. You see, all this food and bedrest does a world of good.”
“Oh, yes,” said Feuilly. His face felt a little more feverish. “Those do, as well.”
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