A/N: After a long and tiring days' work at the fan making factory, all Feuilly needs is a shoulder to lean on.

A 'thank you' fic that's been in my head for quite some time for all the wonderful people who have taken their time to read, review, follow and favourite my work. You have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated and I love and thank each and every one of you for your time, support and dedication towards my writing!

Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris, how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for the family of Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me!

As Brothers We Will Stand

'As brothers we will stand and we'll hold your hand' – Timshel (Mumford and Sons)

'Feuilly? Feuilly!' The sensation of a rough, known hand tugging at his shoulder sends him spiralling up out of his memories and into consciousness like a quick, painful twist of the wrist. Dimly he can taste the cold stickiness of sleep induced drool dribbling from his mouth, his cheeks burning at the shame of letting his mind be completely overcome by Morpheus' invisible invitations into the dark nothingness of oblivion. He hadn't meant to fall asleep though. He had tried to stay awake, tried to stay as alert as possible, even when the persistent itch of exhaustion tugging forcefully at the back of his eyelids was becoming almost unbearable, he had tried to stay awake because he knew he had to. He knew he wanted to stay awake, knew that he wanted to understand as much as he could of what Enjolras and Courfeyrac were debating and yet he was just so tired and all his brain could truly focus on was the shimmering swirls of ebony ink that had danced across one of his better fans that morning….

'Are you all right Mon Ami?' The voice, the calm, soothing voice that is pricked through with urgency is one he realises that he does recognize. It's Combeferre; the philosophising medic with the wide, dark eyes shielded behind wire framed spectacles that are alive with compassionate concern as he blinks a bleary eye back into focus and shrugs.

'Long day?' The weight of a second body easing itself gently onto the bench beside him complete with a gentle, almost lyrical voice inquires, softly shoving the silently snoring Grantaire who had lost to Joly on a drinking contest and was sleeping on his sorrows out of the way, catches him unawares until he realises that it is only Jehan.

'You could say that', he murmurs; glancing down at his colour splattered hands, the lines and bends of his veins picked out in a rainbow of coloured inks and paints as they lie beside the thin, elegant, inky hands of the poet. He takes in the smudges of charcoal caressing his knuckles compared to Prouvaire's ebony splashes, the dirt that has been residing under his nails for far too long and that he cannot seem to get rid of with the meagre dribble of freezing water from his tenement tap, the faint, thin intersection of cuts from where his knife slipped…

In front of him the flame from the failing stub of a candle gutters suddenly as the door to the upstairs room bangs itself open onto the sudden blaze of noise, laughter, pipe smoke and drink from the room below.

'Gods be good, it's like the Arctic out there! All right Feuilly?' Bahorel's booming laugh echoes heartily off the fire shadowed walls, a laugh cracking through the stamps as he shakes the last of the snow from his boots, proceeds to remove his cloak and hat and Feuilly nods in response, forcing his lips into the tight smile that he knows the fighter expects from him in answer to this question.

There is snow clinging to the fighter's whiskers the artisan notices drowsily as the hulking shadow of the fighter tramps towards the fire and throws another log onto the guttering embers and he struggles to keep his eyes from drooping into the shadows cast by the flames; fighting the urge to drop his head back onto his arms again as he hears the scrape of a chair which he thinks belongs to Enjolras pull back across the wooden floorboards. The last thing he needs right now is to be pulled into a discussion on politics when all he really wants to do is sleep; sleep and be transported into a world where they didn't have to do this. A world where the gamin children he had seen dressed in little more than grey scrapped rags with their hollow cheeks and wide eyes over bright from malnutrition crouching in the gutter beside the Musain could gain an education and be welcomed into a society that cared, really cared and understood their plight.

'Are you sure you're all right Feuilly? You look exhausted', Prouvaire's voice cuts through his thoughts like a knife slipping through butter, his hand reaching up to grip the artisan's other shoulder, his honey coloured eyes sparked through a shrewdness and concern beyond his years. He nods silently, reaching up to rub viciously at his stinging eyes with the heel of his hand, silently berating the sudden sparks of salty silver he finds there, hoping that the exhausted tears that are threatening to spill out at any moment remain firmly behind their faulty barriers.

Prouvaire however, is not fooled. Gently reaching over to squeeze the artisan's hand and taking a moment to share a meaningful look with Combeferre, he slowly eases Feuilly to his feet; slinging one arm over his shoulder with a silent, whispered kiss.

The worker opens his mouth to protest, to say that though he is tired, he can't really lie about that, not even to himself, he will last until the end of the meeting and there really is no need, none at all for Prouvaire to go out of his way to see him home.

'Just so you know, I'm not going to be taking no for an answer,' the poet mutters quietly to him, as if he could read his thoughts. Knowing Jehan as he does, Feuilly concludes that if this were the case, he wouldn't be surprised as he allows the poet to carefully steer him through the gap separating the tables and towards the door.

As they brush past Enjolras and Courfeyrac who are debating Rousseau's 'On The Origin and Basis of Inequality Between Men', the chief stands suddenly, muttering an apology to the centre, his chair scraping eerily across the floorboards in his haste as he turns to face the pair. There is a silent question of the utmost concern dancing in the wide, glacial baths of cerulean blue beauty and Jehan nods, his grip tightening around the workingman's shoulder as he does so. Enjolras' gaze flicks towards Feuilly who nods silently, not trusting himself to speak.

'Take him home Jehan. He can come back in the morning, when he's rested', the chief prescribes after a moment of silent contemplation. His voice is gentle; the words considerate, his tone full of silent questions that Feuilly is sure can and will be answered later.

'The cause will always be here for you Mon Ami, but you cannot serve it if you cannot heed your own strength, you know that,' the chief's voice is deadly quiet, eyes flickering momentarily over in Combeferre's direction and back again. His voice is so low that only Feuilly can hear the passion locked within each whispered syllable, his head bent so that only he can see the faint smile that is tight with anxiety tugging at the corners of the blood red lips standing in stark contrast to the chief's pale, almost marble complexion. The glacial glass eyes that he knows so well are brimming over with conserved, compassionate concern as he reaches up to squeeze his shoulder; blond locks falling gracefully into his eyes.

Feuilly nods in silent gratitude, his voice choked up through with the sudden rush of thanks and appreciation he feels towards his chief as Enjolras gives Jehan a soundless nod of consent; ice blue eyes pooling with concern as the inky pupils watch them out. The artisan tries to give Enjolras some small sign that he is all right, that it is just exhaustion which will wear off come the morrow, but the crushing sense of sheer fatigue that seems to be tugging at his every breath, hounding his every step, prevents him from doing even that.

'You'll be all right Mon Ami,' Jehan murmurs gently as Feuilly leans closer into his side, eyes fixed on one of the many bridges that cut across the strip of black water serrating the city, desperately trying to stop his mind from wandering or his feet from stumbling on the rain washed cobbles. Silently, the poet pulls him upright as he wavers, one hand reaching to tuck a strand of stray hair back behind his ear, silently offering the older man a firmer grip on his shoulder on which to lean as together they slowly make their way into the darkness; the booming ghost of Bahorel's laughter competing with Joly and Bossuet's good natured arguing over their latest game of dominoes echoing in their ears.

Fin

Please feel free to read and review! This is my first time writing Feuilly as a main character so any questions, comments, constructive criticism etc will be like chocolate to my brain!

Much love and enjoy x