A/N: This was going to be submitted to AO3 for the Same Prompt Fic Challenge (many months ago) but it didn't meet the requirements. Here 'tis anyway. :)
Prompt: "I didn't know you could do that."
Night, silence, warmth. Work tomorrow. He didn't want to think about it.
Feuilly leaned his head against one elbow, watching the fire lick at its evening meal and listening with one ear to the murmurs of conversation that were going on around him. The Amis had gathered at the Musain to discuss certain things, but the certain things had been discussed and now the room was fairly quiet. Even Grantaire had fallen asleep, and Bahorel was absently flicking his fingernails against an empty bottle with low pings . Prouvaire's pen scratched on paper at intervals. Joly might have been studying, or perhaps only trying to find an interesting fact he'd copied into his notes to share with Bossuet or Combeferre.
The wind was cold outside and whirled audibly, and nobody really wanted to go home yet or be the first to get up. The lights were dim and the outside world was dark.
A scrap of paper poked into Feuilly's arm and he turned his head slightly. Jehan whispered, "Could you please burn this for me?" Feuilly took it.
"May I read it?"
"Go ahead." Feuilly read it. It consisted of a few scribbled verses, most of the words struck out with ink. Feuilly knew better than to tell Jehan that the bits he could make out were actually very well written.
Feuilly's fingertips brushed against the paper. He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them again to find his fingers folding.
He was used to having paper in his hands, used to folding, but rarely were his hands allowed to do what they wanted with it.
Crimping, bending, twisting. Symétrie.
And Jehan's failed poem grew wings.
"I didn't know you could do that." The voice had a tone of surprise. Feuilly turned around. Jehan leaned over and reached for the tiny bird. "It's beautiful. Where did you learn this?"
Feuilly scratched the back of his neck and muttered, "Bored moments at work."
Jehan smiled. "We're alike, somewhat— calling life from feuilles de papier ."
"Do you still want it burned?" Feuilly teased, watching the flickering firelight dance on the wings of the delicate paper creature, shadowing the poetry.
Jehan shook his head. "I shall be less embarrassed over my mistakes if you convert them into these."
"Rather useless." Feuilly poked the bird's wing.
"It isn't." Jehan looked as if he wanted to snatch Feuilly's creation and shelter it. "You know half the fans you make working are only decorative accessories."
"I'm paid for those."
"And you could be paid for these."
"Jehan, nobody would—"
"I would." Feuilly bit his tongue before saying Jehan would be the only customer. Instead, he smiled.
"You can have this one for nothing."