A/N: I'm right out here for you, just let me in….
A short, very depressing one shot in which Enjolras and Combeferre are the only two Amis (excluding Marius) to survive the Barricade. Based on 'Do You Want to Build A Snowman' from the wonderful new Disney film 'Frozen'.
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 slight obsession with the wonderful brotherly affection presented through the friendship between Enjolras and Combeferre into something cohesive- please don't sue me!
I'm right out here for you
'Enjolras, please; I know you're in there,' Combeferre squeezes his eyes shut as he leans his head against the cold wood of his best friends' bedroom door and sighs; feeling a sudden, unwanted sob catch through his throat as he does so. 'Enjolras, it's me; please? Please just let me in?' Silence. A thick, choking silence that is broken only by a sudden, desperate sob coming from behind the door. ''Jol… Please… Please Mon Petit… It's all right…It's over… I'm here… I want…'
He stops before his voice threatens to break again and swallows before trying to carry on. What does he want? What does Enjolras want?
'I want to help you… I…' His voice breaks suddenly as his hand slips over the polished doorknob; frozen fingers frantically trying to gain a firmer grip.
'It's not…' The voice behind the door is little more than a choked, tear stained whisper; the words thick with pain and grief as Combeferre feels rather than sees the usually indestructible marble mask slice itself in two in a jagged, gaping wound that almost makes him gasp at the ferocity of the pain. Enjolras… 'Jolras… Please… Please don't do this… Not to me… Not now…
'It's not all right! They're dead 'Ferre! They're dead; they're never coming back and it's… It's all my… All my fault…' The venom that laces those choked out words feel like a physical blow to the already fragile guide; cleaving through a weeping, broken heart that is punctured with the dark necklace of bullet wounds; exact replicas of the ones which had adorned Courfeyrac's chest; the living, laughing ball of vitality extinguished with as much ease as a hand cupping itself over a candle; the centre's unruly mop of ebony curls stiff with blood which seeped through his inky blue cravat in a final scarlet sacrifice to Enjolras' beloved Patria, to freedom, to Lady Liberty herself; a last laugh tugging at frozen lips.
Oh Courfeyrac… 'Feyrac I need you… All of you… Bahorel… Bossuet… Courfeyrac… Feuilly… Grantaire… Gavroche… Jehan… Joly… All of you… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry Mes Amis…
'Enjolras, please; please just let me in,' his grip on the doorknob falters for a minute as he hears the sound of tear stained shuffling and the creaking groan of the small ottoman being pushed with painful slowness across the carpet.
Combeferre feels himself bury his head in his hands as without warning his shoulders begin to shake and before he has fully grasped the extent of the situation he is on his knees; the blinding fire from the tears a welcome source of physical pain as he feels his body curl up beside the door; one hand reaching under the crack as his fingers desperately search for some form of life to hold.
To hold it as they had held the fiery ball of palpable, inextinguishable energy as Enjolras had fought through the fever caused by the carbines of the National Guard, had held them when they made their first tentative ventures back into Parisian society; the weight of the chief's fingers beneath his own feeling like a steadying rock as they had picked their way to the ruins of their beloved Café Musain and the Corinth; gazing up at the remnants of their fragile home, the epicentre of their revolution; the blood stains of the brave, passionate, foolhardy martyrs, their best friends, their brothers in all but blood looking as fresh and as agonizingly painful as they had when Combeferre had all but fallen down the rickety stairs clutching the body of the man, the boy on whose shoulders the weight of the revolution lay.
'We only have each other now Mon Cher', his voice is little more than a choked, halting whisper when he finally is able to speak coherently once more. Another muffled, shuddering sob. 'They're all gone now; all of them, I know; all gone except for Marius and I… I can't… I can't lose you too Mon Ami… Please don't make me… I need you…'
'No you don't', comes the thick, tearstained voice of his oldest, closest friend again; that silver thread of light and life that is guttering, failing, flickering feebly before his eyes. 'You… You don't need me 'Ferre… If I hadn't… If hadn't led you all onto those Barricades then… Then…'
'We would have followed you anywhere Mon Petit, you know that', Combeferre's voice is little more than a tear stained whisper as he pushes himself up from where he has been sprawled on the carpet, feeling his calves and then his knees begin to scream silent cries of unheard agony as they are forced to contract; the thin fabric soaked through with tears as he gropes once more for the doorknob. 'You know we would have. We knew what we were fighting for. We knew what might happen and…' He stops. Had they known though? Had any of them actually understood what could happen to them back into those wine soaked, candlelit days back in the warm, candlelit safety of the Musain or the Corinth stinking of fraternal companionship and brotherhood? Enjolras words' from the Musain on the evening before General Lemarque's funeral seem to dance before his eyes in sharp and painful clarity. 'Our little lives don't count at all!'
'They died on my orders though,' Enjolras sobs through the door; the words thick with tears and barely audible through the wooden panelling. 'They died fighting for Patria, for a country already on its' knees and I... I killed that Artillery sergeant and… And Le Cabuc… I might as well have killed them... I condemned them…. They had so much more to live for 'Ferre! So much! Jehan… Jehan's poetry… Feuilly's craft… Joly's science… Courfeyrac's wit.. Bahorel's verve… Bossuet's luck… Grantaire's sarcasm, I'd never thought I'd say it but… Gavroche… Gavroche's life... And I... I murdered them… All of them…'
Combeferre sighs. Le Cabuc had been different to the Artillery sergeant though and he knows Enjolras knows that too; that bright, eager, passionate, intrepid mind whom had been fighting for what he believed was right and just, not trying to twist his way into the blood-soaked slaughter of unsuspecting innocents. Le Cabuc had snuck inside their walls and slowly worked his twisted ways into their conscious in sly, silent greed; only raising his head when he had shot at an innocent bystander. Fleetingly, Combeferre remembers Enjolras' words ringing out from a silver tongue that shone with the fires of progress and change as he stood over the murderer whose grey-green eyes sparkled with deepest loathing as he had glared up at the deadly, defiant revolutionary archangel with his mess of golden curls and pale, blood splattered face now bathed in the glorious sparks of a stubborn dawn that slowly crept its' way up and over the buildings of Rue St Denis. 'You have one minute. Pray or ponder'.
The command had cracked like a horsewhip across the sudden, deathly silence that had encloaked the barricade like a fog. Remembers the look of pained, desperate anguish leaping high within the blazing azure orbs he knows so well as the carbine had shivered between numb fingers and their glorious, golden leader had turned away, fighting to remain composed as he had kicked over the prone figure of the murderer in a desperate attempt to hide his grief.
'As for myself, constrained as I am to do what I have done, and yet abhorring it, I have judged myself also, and you shall soon see to what I have condemned myself. Citizens, in defeat no more than victory, we shall be making a revolution'. The words echo eerily through Combeferre's head as he tries once again to reach for his friend, to find the man, the boy, the friend he had loved and feared he'd lost as without warning he feels the cold, shivering grip of marble fingers beneath his own and squeezes back in a desperate attempt at reassurance. 'I'm right out here for you 'Jolras; if you need me,' the words come slowly, haltingly, uncertain of acceptance as the quivering marble digits seem to squeeze harder and despite everything Combeferre feels a small, watery smile begin to tug at the corners of his lips.
Yes, they were broken. Yes, they were battered and beaten and their bodies ached and wept tears of blood from the agony of their broken hearts and memories of their fallen friends and comrades; but they were alive. They were alive and somehow they would be able to fix themselves into something whole and pure and beautiful once again.
Fin
A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain! Much love and enjoy and have a wonderful New Year! x