Author's note: written based on a prompt by tumblr user Midshipmankennedy, who wanted Jehan+Feuilly hurt/comfort. Title is taken from Shakespeare's The Tempest.
Addendum: the date has been fixed, because now that it is not 2 in the morning I realize that 1820 is not, in fact, about three years before 1832. This is why I have chosen to go into writing and paleontology, not physics or engineering.
Disclaimer: Les Miserables belongs to the Estate of Victor Hugo. No money is being made from this work.
Paris, late spring 1829
There'd been a riot just on the edge of the Cour des miracles. Nothing big, barely even deserving the title riot, but enough to trample one elderly woman to death and inflict injuries on several others caught up in the fray. The police had only needed to put in an appearance to break it up, though they delivered a handful of beatings anyway, as a lesson to the rioters. As such things went, it was barely worth noting, a symptom of the times and nothing more.
For those directly involved, it mattered a great deal more.
Feuilly stumbled into the Musain twenty minutes after the meeting was scheduled to begin, eyes partially glazed as he clutched his left arm tightly. In an instant his friends were around him, sitting him down in a chair and pouring him glasses of wine to revitalize his spirits some. Combeferre and Joly gently rolled up his sleeves to get a look at the injury while Feuilly tried his best not to cry out in pain each time his arm was moved. Enjolras had one hand on his good shoulder, face lined with concern.
"It's broken," Combeferre declared after a few moments, stepping back. "It will need to be set and kept in a sling until it heals." Joly nodded his agreement.
Enjolras frowned, catching Combeferre's eye. His friend, guessing Enjolras' silent request even through the stress of the moment, murmured something to Joly and slipped away, Enjolras following. When they were a few steps out of earshot Enjolras asked quietly, "Can you set it?"
"I have seen it done," Combeferre said. "With Joly's help I should be able to manage. It would be better for him to go to a proper hospital."
"He would never allow one of us to cover the cost," Enjolras said with a sigh. "How soon will he be able to work?"
Combeferre frowned. "Two weeks at the very least, and he will not be able to use the arm for at least six." Enjolras' frown matched Combeferre's and they both glanced back to where Joly was urging Feuilly to drink his wine in order to dull the pain. Joly's face was nearly as pale as Feuilly's, but his hands were steady as he helped Feuilly hold the glass.
"The first thing is to set the bone," Enjolras said. "What will you need?"
"Water to wash the wound and cloth to wrap it and serve as a sling," Combeferre said.
"I will see that you get them quickly," Enjolras said, and turned to speak to Musichetta, who was hovering in the background, clearly concerned but wanting to give Feuilly his space. Combeferre returned to Feuilly's side and did his best to look reassuring.
"Once we have what we need I will set the bone," he said. Feuilly nodded jerkily, face pinched with pain and the desire to stay silent. Sweat beaded across his forehead and he had bitten his lip so hard it bled slightly. Combeferre poured him another glass of wine and helped him drink it as Joly, with gentle hands, brushed sweat-soaked hair from Feuilly's forehead.
Enjolras and Musichetta returned a few minutes later carrying a tub of water and an armful of clean linens. They set these down on the table next to Feuilly and Combeferre took a deep breath. He had seen this done before, had carefully observed his instructors and taken meticulous notes complete with detailed sketches of the needed angles. It all seemed painfully lacking when faced with a real injury. Next to him, Joly swallowed hard.
"I have done this once," he said, and Combeferre felt relief surge through him. "And the break looks clean."
"I will follow your lead," he said, and Joly nodded tightly. To Feuilly he added, "I am sorry my friend, but this will hurt."
"Do what you must," Feuilly said, voice a ghost of its usual self.
"It may help for you to have something to grip between your teeth," Joly suggested, even as Bossuet stepped forward to offer a strip of leather he'd found in one of his pockets. Joly shot him a look of deep gratitude to which Bossuet responded with a reassuring smile. His friend's support seemed to give Joly an injection of confidence and he took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. Courfeyrac sat down on Feuilly's other side and took his good hand.
Setting the bone took several minutes. They went slowly not wanting to make a mistake and hurt their friend further. Feuilly bit down hard on the leather and gripped Courfeyrac's hand so hard it must have hurt them both but managed to contain his verbal expressions of pain to only a few whimpers. Combeferre felt his heart swell with pride and admiration at his friend's bravery; he had witnessed men three times Feuilly's age make far more of a fuss for lesser injuries.
At last the arm was set and bound and held against his chest with a crudely made sling. Combeferre and Joly stepped back, tension draining slightly from both of them as they surveyed their handiwork. Bossuet stepped up to embrace Joly from behind, allowing his friend to slump into him. Enjolras placed a hand on Combeferre's shoulder.
"Don't use it for at least six weeks," Combeferre told Feuilly, whose eyes flew open in alarm. Combeferre forced himself to continue. "Either Joly or I will have to check it every few days and retie the bandages. If you can get it, ice will help with the pain, and if it becomes too unbearable we can get you some laudanum."
"Thank you, but that will not be necessary," Feuilly said, and spat out the piece of leather. It was soaked with spittle and contained deep toothmarks. He winced. "I am sorry."
"It's not a problem," Bossuet assured him, smile muted by the stress of the occasion but still heartening. Feuilly took a shaky breath and attempted to smile back. It came out more as a grimace but no one commented.
"I think we will postpone today's meeting," Enjolras said. "Citizen Feuilly, your strength of spirit is extremely commendable and I am humbled by the courage you have shown today." Feuilly ducked his head, embarrassed.
"You should go home with one of us," Joly said, voice strong despite his drained expression. "It may not be safe yet to return to your rooms, and I would rather be close in case something goes badly." Hurriedly, he added, "Not that anything should go wrong, but one never knows in these cases and bones are delicate injuries to heal. It could develop an infection or be jarred out of place or..." Bossuet tightened his hold slightly, causing Joly to pause and take a breath. "I would like to be nearby just in case," he repeated.
"I don't want to be any trouble," Feuilly said hesitantly.
Combeferre opened his mouth to say that it would be no trouble at all but Prouvaire beat him to it. "Actually," the slim young man said, blushing slightly as all eyes turned towards him. "I would be grateful to have company."
"Are you certain?" Feuilly asked.
Prouvaire nodded, looking down at the ground. "I would appreciate it very much if you were to spend a few days with me," he said. "Being alone is difficult at the moment."
Combeferre and Enjolras exchanged glances. Prouvaire was prone to bouts of intense melancholy that worried them all, though the poet usually dismissed their concerns. To hear him nearly admitting it so openly seemed like a bad sign indeed. On the other hand, he could merely be using his periodic indispositions as a way to keep Feuilly from feeling as though he were accepting charity. Combeferre made a mental note to inquire subtly into the matter once Feuilly was more stabilized.
Feuilly hesitated, indecision playing out clearly on his expressive features. At last he nodded slightly. "I would be happy to spend a few days in your company," he said. Prouvaire's answering smile seemed to bring light to the entire area.
"You should eat and then rest," Joly said. As though waiting for her queue Musichetta appeared carrying a plate with bread and meat. This she set down next to Feuilly and picked up the tub of water. She paused to exchange a few words with Joly then vanished back into the kitchens.
Feuilly took a small bite of the bread, chewing carefully. The others pulled up chairs around him and poured their own glasses of wine. Grantaire and Bahorel opted for absinthe instead. Musichetta had provided bread enough for all of them and even Joly partook in it, this last gently encouraged by Bossuet. When they had finished Prouvaire rose.
"If you do not object I will call us a cab and we can retire," he said. Feuilly nodded mutely and Prouvaire slipped outside. A few moments later he was back to help Feuilly up. The taller man seemed unwilling to accept the help, but the combination of pain and wine made him less than steady on his feet and after only a few steps he allowed Prouvaire to provide support. The lithe poet seemed too small to properly hold up Feuilly's larger frame, but Prouvaire had already proven himself to be wiry and stronger than he would seem, and he did not buckle.
Feuilly nodded off on the ride back to Prouvaire's rooms. The latter forced himself to keep still, eyes fixed on his friend rather than the passing traffic. He sat on his hands, teeth worrying at his lower lip. He did not possess Joly's nervous temperament, but his plea for companionship had not been entirely for Feuilly's benefit and his nerves were not at their best.
Feuilly accepted his help up the stairs without protest and all but collapsed onto the flower-patterned couch in Prouvaire's rooms. Prouvaire locked the door and sat down beside him, uncertain of whether or not he should speak. Feuilly solved his problem by saying, "Thank you for your generosity. I hope I am not imposing too much."
"Not at all," Prouvaire assured him. "Joly is right; it would be best if you stayed nearer to him until you are out of immediate danger of infection." He hesitated, then added, "I truly am glad for your company. It is helpful."
Feuilly did not respond. For a moment they were silent. Then Prouvaire, remembering his manners as a host, asked, "Would you like anything? More wine for the pain?"
Feuilly shook his head. "I... it is manageable at the moment," he said.
"Tell me if it gets worse," Prouvaire instructed, though even as he spoke he knew Feuilly would refrain from saying anything until his pain became unbearable and maybe not even then. He admired Feuilly's courage as much as Enjolras, but he knew enough of injuries from several months' friendship with Bahorel to know that stoicism in the face of pain did not always help matters. Still, Feuilly had his pride and it was not Prouvaire's place to deny him its expression. He did not press the issue.
Feuilly fell asleep again shortly after, brow furrowed slightly even in slumber. His breath came unevenly, sometimes in half gasps as he shifted slightly in his sleep. Prouvaire watched him with a worried frown. He knew this was normal, but that did not help when faced with a friend in pain. He resolved to find ice in the morning no matter how difficult it would be in this season.
He rose only once, and that to fetch a candle and a book. He had been working through the tragedies of the British playwright Shakespeare at the recommendation of an acquaintance. Tragic Ophelia in particular appealed to him, and it was to that volume that he turned now, settling down again next to his friend and opening the volume to begin it for the third time.
Feuilly woke again a few hours after nightfall, breath hissing through teeth clenched in pain. Prouvaire set down his book immediately. "Are you all right?"
"Yes," Feuilly managed.
"I will fetch you wine to dull the pain," Prouvaire said, and without waiting for an answer jumped to his feet to do as promised. He returned a few minutes later with a bottle and two glasses, as well as a new candle for good measure. In the flickering light Feuilly's face was more tightly drawn than ever, sweat once more evident on his forehead. He accepted the wine with trembling fingers. As he swallowed he seemed to relax slightly. Prouvaire poured himself a glass and downed it slowly.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"I will manage," Feuilly said.
Prouvaire smiled. "Of that I have no doubt," he said.
"What were you reading?" Feuilly asked after a moment, setting the now empty glass down carefully.
Prouvaire perked up despite the circumstances. "It's so beautiful," he said, nearly spilling his own wine with his enthusiastic gesture. Eagerly he recounted the story of tormented Hamlet and his tortured lover, emphasizing all the most dramatic moments of the tale as required. His cheeks were flushed with excitement by the time he reached the tragic conclusion, persistent melancholy nearly forgotten.
"I wish I could read that," Feuilly said wistfully when Prouvaire finished.
"I can translate!" Prouvaire said immediately. "It would be a grand project, a true test of the poetic beauty of the French language." Abruptly he remembered Feuilly's injury and cut himself off.
"If it's not too much trouble I would be glad to read your translations," Feuilly said.
Prouvaire beamed but consciously refrained from enthusing further. It would not do to tire his guest too much, not hurt as he was.
Feuilly, however, seemed to have different ideas. "This poet," he said. "Has he written more?"
"Oh, he has," Prouvaire assured him. A thought occurred to him and he said, "Actually, I believe I have a copy of one of his plays already translated. Shall I fetch that for you?"
"I... that would be kind," Feuilly said. Prouvaire hopped to his feet again and darted over to the bookshelf, running a hand along the spines of the books until he found the one he wanted. A sudden wave of inexplicable melancholy hit him and he forced it back, returning quickly to sit back down. Being close to Feuilly helped keep the distress at bay, and he settled back down slightly closer to his friend than before.
"Shall I read it to you?" Prouvaire asked. Before Feuilly could take offense at the possible implication that his own literacy was not enough for Shakespeare's text, Prouvaire added, "I know when I am ill I always like being read to."
Feuilly hesitated, then nodded, lips twitching in what might have been a slight smile. "That would be very kind," he repeated, and Prouvaire smiled back. He carefully opened the book and began to read, lilting voice narrating the beginning of Prospero's tale. Next to him Feuilly too bent over the book, following along silently.
Partway through the first act Feuilly drifted off again, head nodding forward against his chest. Prouvaire paused in his reading and gently rearranged his friend's position so that he would not wake with neck cramps. Feuilly stayed in this new posture for a few moments then his head lolled again, this time sideways onto Prouvaire's shoulder. The smaller man felt himself relax abruptly at the physical contact. He reached to take Feuilly's good hand, leaning into his friend slightly so that their thighs touched, and went back to his reading, absorbing the story silently so as not to wake the other.
Feuilly woke first in the morning, Prouvaire having fallen asleep sometime around midnight. Prouvaire was pressed against Feuilly, though Feuilly's head had remained on the other's shoulder for most of the nig
ht. Feuilly stayed as still as possible, not wanting to disturb his friend. His arm throbbed, most of the wine having passed through his body during the night. His head felt clearer now, and with a clear head came a proper appreciation of his circumstances. With his injury he could not work, and without work he would rapidly run out of food and be unable to pay his landlord. He had seen what happened to those who could not work, even for a short period of time; the thought filled him with a dual sense of terror and anger. It was not right that an accident should spell doom for so many people.
His breath hitched slightly and he fought to keep down the rising tears. He had to be strong, could not let this defeat him. He forced back a sob, shoulders shaking slightly. The movement woke Prouvaire, whose face assumed an expression of concern immediately upon seeing him. Hesitantly Prouvaire put an arm around Feuilly's shoulders, being careful to avoid jarring his bad arm. This simple expression of concern proved to be the last straw and Feuilly could keep his fear back no longer. He cried, shaking with anger and fear and pain. Prouvaire held him, murmuring incomprehensible words as Feuilly sobbed. When Feuilly regained control somewhat Prouvaire asked gently, "Would you like to talk?"
Feuilly meant to refuse, unwilling to burden his friend further when Prouvaire had his own troubles, but the other's eyes were wide and earnest and Feuilly found himself spilling out all his fears, telling Prouvaire about the Widow Mailleu who had dislocated a shoulder and been forced to beg on the streets and about his fellow worker Botin who had taken a few days off work due to illness and returned to find himself out of a job. He told Prouvaire about the people in his neighborhood with no homes and no food and about the bodies he found on his way to work every morning. He let out his rage at the system that allowed such things and his bone deep terror that he would join their ranks. Through it all Prouvair listened, still holding him, saying nothing despite the distress evident on his face.
When Feuilly had exhausted his words as well as his tears Prouvaire squeezed his shoulder. "We will not let that happen to you," he said firmly. "You have too many friends who will not allow you to freeze in the streets."
"And the others?" Feuilly wanted to know. "What about those who are not so fortunate?"
Prouvaire's eyes were distressed but his voice did not tremble. "For them we fight," he said firmly, and despite himself Feuilly smiled.