Author's Note: A very belated fic for Barricade Day 2013, written at the request of Good Luck Charms. This is set in the same universe as "To Follow" and "Forward, One Step at a Time" and takes place between those stories. In this universe Enjolras was badly injured at the barricades and Grantaire dragged him away, saving his life. I'm still working on my remaining Barricade Day prompts, and they'll be up as soon as possible.
Lingering Visions
Enjolras can't walk more than a half-dozen steps without falling yet, so Grantaire has to take care of most of their basic living requirements, fetching food, taking care of laundry, bringing newspapers and information back to Enjolras.
That's all right. Enjolras can deal with being trapped in the room by his still-healing body. He can deal with being dependent upon Grantaire's kindness. He can even deal with the exhaustion that still dogs him, keeping him asleep for easily three or four times his usual allotment.
What he doesn't deal with so well is being trapped inside his own head by pain.
He's always been an avid reader. He can't remember a time before he could read. He's been able to read easily in multiple languages for the last ten years, though never so many languages or quite so easily as Jehan or Combeferre could.
But he can't make the words, simple French words, stay still on the paper. He can't make the letters stop moving, stop blurring, and thus he can't make out the argument that's being made. Trying to, squinting and moving the paper away from and towards him, allows him to make out snatches, fragments, but it's an infuriatingly slow process.
Or perhaps it's simply the words that are infuriating.
Traitors.
Cowards.
Murderers.
Misguided.
Confused.
He doesn't know which words cut him more deeply, the ones that understand and condemn what they stood for or the ones that paint the Amis and the others who fought and died as foolish, lost sheep to be pitied.
Bahorel would simply laugh in the face of damnation.
Combeferre would correct anyone who thought him misguided within seconds, using a minimum of words to a maximum effect.
He misses them. He misses them so badly, all of them, but they are not here and he is, so he must be their voice.
Except his hand shakes, so badly, and the letters that he strives to write swim before his eyes just as the letters that he tries to read do, and with every moment that he pushes forward, forces his eyes to work despite their rebellion, the pain in his head grows.
He can handle pain, though. He has been living with pain for four weeks, and even if he spent three of those weeks sliding in and out of consciousness, in and out of life, it has given his nerves practice at being ignored.
The principles that those who fought stood for are simple. They
Blood pounds in his ears, loud, fierce, and a red haze crosses his vision. Drawing a deep breath, Enjolras closes his eyes tightly, counts to three, and opens them again. The world slides into focus, one reluctant object at a time, but as soon as he attempts to focus on the paper before him everything blurs again.
Squinting, pulling back from the paper, he manages to make out letters in a shaky, thick, spidery writing that looks nothing like his usual elegant script. Elegance doesn't matter right now, though. What matters is that he writes. What matters is that there are words out there to counter the official statements, words written by those who were there, by those who fought and will continue to fight. What matters—
The pain spikes again, a wash of black and blue across his vision and nausea in the back of his throat, and Enjolras' hand jerks without his permission. Ink splatters across the paper, obliterating half of the words that he had managed to write, and a soft cry of frustration and pain that he almost doesn't recognize as his own slides from his mouth.
He needs to start again. He needs to fetch another piece of paper, or perhaps simply turn the one that he has over, and start again.
He needs to make sure that the words are legible. He needs to be careful in his writing, mindful of how changed his script is.
He needs—
Another low cry works its way from his throat and stabs into his ears as a rainbow of colors spreads across his vision, obliterating all else. The pain in his head spikes and spreads, becoming all that he can feel, all that he can see, and he presses both hands to his face, to his eyes, expecting to feel blood sliding down from the wound in his skull.
There is no blood, though. There is only a scar, now, a thick, angry, terrible scar amidst his half-shorn hair, and the blood stays within his head, pools and eddies and turns his thoughts to incoherency and his world to pain and he is worth nothing like this.
He doesn't know if he intended to sweep the papers and pen and ink from the desk. His arm moves half without his volition, clearing him a place to bury his head, but there is a terrible fury in the movement, fury that tangles with the agony, feeds on it, each giving the other renewed strength even as coherent thought fades.
He can survive even if his body may never again be strong enough to fight.
He can survive even if he never walks properly again.
He can survive even if all those he led are dead and buried, lost to him forever.
But if he cannot even write, if he cannot even read, if he can be of no use to their names or their memories or their purpose, what is the point of his survival?
XXX
The fingers of Grantaire's right hand move restlessly over the package that sits atop his purchases from the day, fiddling with the wrapping, tracing over the travel stains that mark it. He has been waiting for this package for three weeks, ever since he met Combeferre's sister while attempting to remove incriminating documents (and all evidence of Enjolras, though the two were quite linked) from Combeferre's apartment. He's surprised to find that it arrived so quickly.
He's surprised to find that it arrived at all.
He shouldn't be, he supposes. Combeferre was a man of his word, so it isn't terribly surprising that the rest of his family is, as well.
Should he open the package now, though? Should he see what it is, and then present it to Enjolras once he's certain there is nothing in it that will unduly upset the man? Or should he simply give it to Enjolras and allow him the honor of discovering the contents?
He doesn't know.
He doesn't know so much, lately, including what is happening in Enjolras' mind. The man hasn't slid into a fever delirium for a week, now, though he sleeps often and deeply, his lips sometimes moving in his sleep as though he talks to those who are no longer present. When awake he has been quiet but driven, seeming unconcerned with the state that his body is in, requesting merely that Grantaire bring him news of the political climate, of their allies, of their enemies, requesting as many different newspapers and pamphlets and verbatim reports of overheard conversations as Grantaire can provide him with. He doesn't speak his thoughts to Grantaire, once Grantaire has given him the information, instead sitting quiet, his right hand massaging his right thigh gently, the fresh scar on his forehead standing out blood-red against his pale skin.
Today, though, Enjolras had asked for paper. Today he had asked for a pen.
What will he ask Grantaire to do when Grantaire returns? Will he want Grantaire to find a publisher? Will he want Grantaire to bring an ally to their apartment, to assist him in his writing?
Will he care at all for the package that Grantaire carries?
He will eat, at least, if Grantaire requests it of him, though Grantaire fears Enjolras may forget if left to his own devices. It has always seemed as though Enjolras lives a life that is only half based in the present, in the physical, and after the barricade… after the barricade, after their losses—their deaths, all dead, but he mustn't think on that for he hasn't seen Enjolras in six hours and he needs to make sure Enjolras is all right before allowing himself to fall apart even for a little bit—… after all that has happened it is as though Enjolras barely touches the physical world at all, as though he's flown somewhere far beyond the reach of pain and sorrow and Grantaire.
It doesn't matter, though. As long as Enjolras is still here, at least in part, Grantaire will do everything he can to help the man.
He still hasn't decided whether or not to open the package as he walks up the stairs to his apartment door, and decides that this, in itself, is a decision. The package is for Enjolras, after all, so he will let Enjolras open it and discover the contents for himself.
He knocks softly before opening the door, not expecting or receiving an answer. Perhaps Enjolras is sleeping again; perhaps he is frowning intently at one of the papers that Grantaire brought him, moving the newsprint back and forth, toward him and away, as though that could give the words a less horrifying and depressing meaning. Either way, he is unlikely to acknowledge Grantaire's presence until Grantaire physically touches him.
A gentle greeting dies in his throat as Grantaire's eyes scan the room and find Enjolras, not lying prone in bed or sitting pensively at the desk, but twisted up in the desk chair, his knees drawn up under him, his arms on the desk, his head pressed fiercely into his arms.
There is paper and ink everywhere. The news that Enjolras asked so calmly for is spread out around him, fluttering pieces that move as though alive as Grantaire walks slowly toward the other man. Ink is spattered along Enjolras' left sleeve, along the papers on his left-hand side, spreads across the surface of the desk like blood.
The package and dinner have fallen to the floor, forgotten by arms that want only to touch Enjolras, to hold him, to reassure themselves that he is still all right. Grantaire is afraid to, though, afraid of what he might find, afraid that the papers fluttering about were purposefully cast aside by Enjolras in a fit of despair, and so his feet stop, two steps behind the chair where Enjolras is curled.
"Enjolras?" Grantaire whispers the name, not trusting his voice to more. Even on that simple, oft-repeated name it threatens to crack, his whole world threatens to crack, because Enjolras is… Enjolras might be…
Enjolras needs him.
He grabs control of his faltering emotions, his flailing thoughts, and corrals them into submission with that simple truth. Enjolras still cannot walk further than across the room without assistance. Enjolras needs him, and he cannot fail.
Not again.
Reaching out tentatively, Grantaire settles his hand on Enjolras' left shoulder, the side of Enjolras' body that was less damaged. There is a faint trembling running through Enjolras' entire frame. "Enjolras, what's wrong?"
"Rainbows." Enjolras' voice is faint, his movements just slightly disjointed as he raises his head and squints hard at Grantaire. "Rainbows but no light. No vision."
Grantaire's stomach clenches, tight, and he forces himself to draw a deep breath through his nose, once and then again and then again until it doesn't feel like he's going to lose his mind or his lunch. Enjolras' face is flushed, his blue eyes unfocused, the pupils expanding and contracting in a dizzying fashion. Grantaire's left hand rises, brushes across Enjolras' forehead, but though there is sweat there Enjolras isn't fever-hot, not like Grantaire has felt far too often in the last few weeks.
"What do you mean by rainbows?" Grantaire keeps his voice gentle, though his hand stays firmly locked on Enjolras' shoulder.
"Rainbows. All I see." Enjolras' eyes close, and a whimper of pure agony slides from his mouth. "Hurts. My head. Hurts."
"All right. It's all right. Come, stand for just a moment, let's get you into bed." He needs to get Enjolras lying down, calm him, dim the light in the room, perhaps try to get Enjolras to take a drink if he can. If the pain doesn't fade, he will need to fetch the doctor, though he's fearful of what the man might request. Bleeding Enjolras last time had left Enjolras shivering and weak, even more disoriented and confused, though he had eventually recovered. The doctor had insisted the recovery was the result of the blood-letting, the abating of Enjolras' rambling discussions with the absent Amis the result of enough blood being pulled away from his brain to decrease the pressure there.
Grantaire, who sat huddled and sweltering for over twenty-four hours beside a fire while Enjolras' body somehow managed to burn and freeze at the same time, isn't quite so sure of the benefits of blood-letting.
Enjolras doesn't fight moving. His eyes remain closed, the muscles of his face tight with pain, and he limps badly on his right leg, almost collapsing despite Grantaire's efforts. Eventually they have him stretched out on the bed, though, Enjolras' breath coming in sharp, panting heaves, his face pale.
"Shall I fetch the doctor?" Grantaire asks the question as quietly as he can, mindful of how painful his head can feel the day after drinking, not sure if this pain of Enjolras' is similar or worse or entirely different.
A shiver runs the length of Enjolras' body, and he shakes his head before curling up, pressing both hands hard to his eyes. His lips move, the barest whisper of sound, and Grantaire leans closer only to hear a litany of colors, green of the new-grown bush, brown as the earth that's tilled, blue as the sky so free, red as blood, sanguine as blood, red red—
He stands abruptly, forcing himself to stop listening, and hurriedly reaches over Enjolras to pull the curtains tightly closed, blocking out as much of the light as he's able to. After a moment's thought he grabs a painting, roughly the right size, and sets it in the window, behind the curtains, creating an even heavier shadow that covers Enjolras' face and seems to give him a little bit of respite from the pain.
Enjolras' arms relax, slowly falling down to rest on either side of his head. His lips stop moving, and a little bit of color returns to his face.
"That's it. Rest, my phoenix. You'll return to the light soon enough." The words escape Grantaire's lips without stopping to ask permission from his mind, words such as he hasn't spoken since Enjolras properly awakened, but Enjolras makes no move, gives no sign of being offended or annoyed by them.
Enjolras may already be asleep, driven back down into the darkness by human frailties despite his soul's best attempts to fly free, to remain true to himself. His breathing is easy and regular, though, and a brush of Grantaire's fingers across Enjolras' forehead confirms that he still, truly has no fever.
Deciding not to fetch the doctor, at least not yet, Grantaire instead fetches a damp cloth. Tenderly brushing the thread-fine locks of Enjolras' unevenly-cut hair away from his forehead, Grantaire arranges the cloth on Enjolras' skin, avoiding touching anywhere near the terrible thick scar that cuts right to left across the center of Enjolras' forehead and continues up into his hair. That injury is the reason for the sloppy haircut, the doctor having needed to trim away large swaths from the center of Enjolras' hair in order to properly see and stitch the injury.
(White bone amidst the maroon clots and carmine muscle fibers and crimson blood, Enjolras lying still, so still, trusting to Grantaire's word that these men are friends, Grantaire's fingers clenched tightly on Enjolras', and Grantaire knows he should look away but there's a terrible fascination in seeing that cracked bone—)
He cannot think on that. He cannot dwell on the memories. He cannot allow himself to break, not yet, not until he is certain that Enjolras is either healed or lost.
And he cannot be the cause of Enjolras being lost. He is already damned enough, has enough of his friends' blood on his hands. Being any part in the destruction of Enjolras is unthinkable, unbearable, the pain almost physical.
Heaving a deep sigh, Grantaire tries once more to wrench his thoughts from dark paths. He must be useful to Enjolras, and the most useful thing that he can do at the moment is attempt to collect and reorganize the papers and pamphlets that have scattered even further across the floor in his efforts to help Enjolras.
XXX
The colors fade, slowly replaced by darkness, and with the darkness comes an ebbing of the pain and the possibility that his head will not, in fact, explode into a thousand pieces. "Is it possible, Combeferre…"
He is glad that the words were a mere whisper, the barest phantasm at his lips, as the realization that it is not Combeferre who is caring for him but Grantaire strikes him hard.
Not that he is dissatisfied with all the work that Grantaire has been doing. He's been surprised, pleasantly and honestly surprised and impressed, by how much effort Grantaire has put into seeing that the two of them survived and escaped incarceration. But he also doesn't know quite how to react with Grantaire, has the impression that Grantaire is balanced precariously on the very edge of some dangerous abyss and is using Enjolras as a counter-weight, and Enjolras doesn't know what every shift in their relationship will mean.
Something is sitting across his forehead, something cool and damp, and he reaches up and gently shifts it away from his eyes. Opening his eyes, he doesn't force them to focus, instead allowing the world to gradually take shape around him. It does, the pain staying at bay, and he slowly levers himself into a sitting position, being careful not to jar his still-aching ribs or ask his pathetically weak right leg to do much.
Grantaire is kneeling on the floor amidst a minor snowfall of newsclippings and pamphlets, sorting them slowly into two piles.
"Grantaire." Enjolras speaks quietly, not wanting to make the residual pain in his head flare or startle Grantaire.
Grantaire doesn't look up from his work. "I'm taking care of this, Enjolras. You just rest."
Moving slowly, testing his body at each step to ensure that it's not going to betray him again, Enjolras maneuvers himself off the bed and into a sitting position on the floor opposite Grantaire. He begins collecting scraps of paper, not allowing his eyes to try to focus on the words, not allowing it to matter that he probably couldn't read them right now even if he wanted to.
After a minute or so Grantaire relaxes, the tension leaving his shoulders, his eyes ceasing to dart to Enjolras as though Enjolras may collapse again at any moment.
Enjolras carefully sets his stack of papers on top of the stack that Grantaire had collected. "I'm sorry if I frightened you."
Grantaire looks away, his shoulders hunching again, and then slowly brings his gaze back to Enjolras. "It's all right. You've a right to be angry… to be frustrated."
"Perhaps." Enjolras muses on the moments before conscious thought faded out, on the terrible agony and bottomless grief that had gripped him. "But to indulge those feelings when it's not helpful, when it brings nothing that will help their memory, is not something I wish to do."
"Is that the only reason you're doing this? Is that the only reason you're pushing yourself so hard? For them?" Grantaire's hand slides across Enjolras', hot and grasping. "Because this isn't what they'd want. They wouldn't want you to do something just for them. They wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."
"No, they wouldn't want to see me in pain." Enjolras allows his eyes to drift closed again, the darkness comforting, somehow, in a way it rarely has been before. "I do wish to continue my work in their memory. In their name. But not just for them. It is a part of me, too, and I feel… less myself, without it. There is so much to be done still, and I… I will do all that I can. I offer myself, and I offer their memories. Does that distress you?"
"No." Grantaire smiles, briefly, his eye dropping to where their hands are touching. "It's very… you. I thought… I thought perhaps you wanted to give up, or wanted to hurt yourself, or… foolish things. Foolish thoughts. That's not the type of man you are. So… what happened? Why all this?"
"I was trying to read." Enjolras allows his eyes to drop to the papers, to the letters that twist and turn as soon as he attempts to focus on them. "I was trying to write. It seems… difficult to do either, now."
"But…" Grantaire frowns. "All you've been doing when you're awake and not asking me questions is reading."
"Trying to read. If I force my eyes to focus, I can make it happen, but it takes a great deal of effort and eventually it starts to hurt." Enjolras closes his eyes again, resisting the urge to scan the letters, to force them into alignment, to force them into sentences that make sense. He cannot afford to incapacitate himself again so quickly. "I tried to work through the pain. It grew, and then… I couldn't see properly anymore. There were simply colors, smearing across my vision, and a pain in my head that drowned out everything else… and then I woke up in bed."
"You should have…" Grantaire pauses, his hand tightening around Enjolras'. "Please don't hurt yourself like that. Even if it means that it takes you longer, or… just… Please."
"It wasn't my intention to work myself into a fit in the first place. But I will endeavor to keep it from happening again." He cannot bear the thought of sitting and doing nothing, though, contributing nothing when there is so much to be done. He allows his gaze to travel up, from where Grantaire's hand rests atop his, following the man's arm, up to his face, the expression there so lost, even in Enjolras' unfocused vision. "When I first woke, you said that you wished to help me. To stand with me. Is that still true?"
"Yes." There is no hesitancy in Grantaire's voice. "Anything I can do, tell me, and I will do it."
"I will continue to work on reading and writing. I want to be able to do it on my own again. But for now…" Enjolras hesitates. "You are already my eyes and ears outside these walls right now. Will you be my eyes within them, as well? Will you read to me, and write what I dictate?"
"It's still not safe." Grantaire's words are slow, thoughtful, none of the drunken slur to them that Enjolras is used to hearing. There has been very little hint of drink in Grantaire's voice since Enjolras woke. "You can't run. If you start writing, if we start publishing, and they track us down here... we could still be tried. You could still die."
Enjolras nods. "If I stay silent, if I stifle my beliefs, if I allow their sacrifice to be forgotten or diminished, I am already dead."
"And that is the last thing that I could ever accept." Grantaire heaves a sigh, a sound that seems to be ripped from the depths of his soul, and smiles sadly. "Whatever I can be for you, be it your eyes or your ears or your crutch or ought else, name it and I will be it."
It isn't the first time Grantaire has promised him something. It isn't the first time there has been earnest certainty in Grantaire's voice and face when he made the promise. But there is something… else there, now, something both harder and more fragile than there had been in Grantaire prior to the barricade.
Something that Enjolras trusts, though he knows that trust could be so easily betrayed, not even out of malice but simply out of grief or despair.
"Thank you." Enjolras' voice is gruff, raw, all the horrors of the last month compressed into it. "Thank you for saving me, and for all that you've done since, all that you just agreed to do."
"Don't thank me." Grantaire shakes his head. "Not me, Enjolras. Out of all of them, I was the least worthy to survive or stand by you, but I am glad I can be of some small service."
"There is no ranking of worth. We are alive. We carry on the name of the Amis." Enjolras reaches up and very gently squeezes Grantaire's shoulder. "Recriminations and doubts about the past have no place between us, not any more."
"Perhaps." Grantaire's voice is a hoarse whisper, and he doesn't meet Enjolras' eyes.
Before Enjolras can say more Grantaire stands, in a motion too swift and too certain, too able-bodied for Enjolras to hope to match, and heads for the door.
XXX
Grantaire cannot handle the issues that Enjolras approaches so calmly, with a flicker of pain on his face but certainty and resolution in his soul.
He cannot handle the guilt.
He cannot bear the thought of being forgiven.
And so he moves on, ignoring it for just a little bit longer, distracting himself and Enjolras with something that may not actually be that much less painful.
Pacing to where he dropped the packages near the door, Grantaire grabs the one that he needs. Coming back to Enjolras, he kneels down and offers the package stiffly. "Here. For you."
"For me?" Enjolras turns the small package over. "From who?"
Grantaire hesitates, then plows on, his words quick and clipped. "From Combeferre's sister. We met at Combeferre's place, and she said that she would send a few small tokens. For us."
"Ah." Enjolras' fingers still. "Mementos of his?"
"I believe so. I haven't opened it." Grantaire swallows. "If you want me to, or if you don't want it now, I can—"
"No. I would have whatever memories of him I can gather." Slowly, almost tenderly, Enjolras unwraps the package.
The first item to fall out of the package is a set of glasses. They aren't the ones that Combeferre wore on the barricade, but they are similar, a simple and elegant frame, and Enjolras smiles as he opens them.
Grantaire begins to smile, too, and then takes a closer look. The right lens is cracked, spider-web fault-lines that spread across the glass like frost across a window. "Ah, Enjolras, I'm sorry. I hope it wasn't my dropping them that broke them. If you want—"
"I want them like this. Just like this." Enjolras sets the glasses gently down beside him and reaches into the package again.
The next item that he pulls forth is a handkerchief, plain, clean, with initials embroidered in one corner. Enjolras fingers the soft fabric, a smile on his face, and then reaches into the package again. A well-worn book, the binding lovingly repaired several times, is the next item to emerge, and Enjolras smiles at it. "He's had this since he was six years old. He read it to me, several times. I don't think he even needed the book. I think he had it memorized."
Grantaire leans closer, trying to read the title of the book, but the cover is so faded it's difficult to make out. "What's it about?"
"Mm. Astronomy. It has something about most of the constellations, the history of their discovery, their placement, a bit about the myths that gave them their names. He seemed most fascinated by the history and the science, I think, but I found both the astronomy and the myths fascinating." Enjolras hesitates, then holds out both the book and the handkerchief to Grantaire. "Would you like these?"
"I…" He would like something from each of their lost friends, yes, but he also knows that Enjolras and Combeferre were quite close. "Only if you don't want them."
"Take them." Enjolras smiles. "I can't read right now, anyway. I may request you read something from the book to me, though. As for myself, I will keep the glasses and the watch."
"Watch?" Pocketing the handkerchief, holding the book carefully, Grantaire peers down at the package.
"Watch." The smile on Enjolras' face is both beautiful and sad as he pulls a gorgeous silver pocket-watch from the package. "His watch. Time and sight. Time and vision. All that we shared, all that he can give me."
Grantaire watches as Enjolras turns the watch over and over in his hands, his fingers tracing the delicate engravings on the surface. "Then… you're glad I did this?"
"Yes." Enjolras meets his eyes evenly, expression grave but… peaceful, perhaps, for the first time in a while. "There aren't words to express what this means to me."
"I'm glad." Glad isn't the proper word, but Grantaire can't think of one that fits, one that will summarize the hope and terror and joy, the relief that the gift has been something helpful and not something that will simply add more pain to their lives, pain that they do not need because they already have it in spades.
Levering himself up using the bed as a crutch, Enjolras limps to the desk and carefully, gently, arranges both watch and glasses on the surface. Then he limps back to the bed, settling down and stretching his right leg out in front of him.
Gesturing toward the desk chair, Enjolras raises pale eyebrows at Grantaire. "Are you willing to start now?"
"Yes. Certainly." Grabbing a fresh sheet of paper, Grantaire prepares to take down dictation from Enjolras.
"I think I'll dictate to you for an hour, then try reading on my own for five or ten minutes, see how bad the pain is, and if it's bad I'll return to dictation. All right?"
Grantaire doesn't trust his voice, so he simply nods.
Enjolras doesn't last the hour. His words come less and less quickly, his eyes drift closed more and more frequently, and before the hour is up he is asleep, draped awkwardly across the bed.
Grantaire doesn't move him, simply ensures that he's breathing well, that none of his injuries appear to be suffering undue strain from his position, and then goes to arrange their evening meal.
Enjolras will wake, and Grantaire will ensure that they are both fed.
Then Enjolras will dictate to him, and together they will continue the work that the Amis fought and died for.
It is a way for Grantaire to hold to both Enjolras and his friends, and though he doesn't think he'll be able to do it forever, doesn't trust himself to do it forever, for now, at least, he can try to prove himself worthy of them all.