Enjolras's phone pings again but he ignores it, choosing instead to curl up tighter on the couch and attempt to block out the confusing haze of emotions surrounding him. It's not a very normal thing for him to be emotional at all- he's been called sociopathic, even.

Yet Jean Prouvaire's death is weighing heavy on his heart. It couldn't have come at a worse time. How does one lead a rebellion in the middle of a depressed few weeks of hell, when one planned and instigated the revolution during mania? When now your name is being spoken on encrypted servers, then the conversations deleted, when your secret organization is becoming a conspiracy that everyone knows but everyone pretends not to? And now it's caught up with him.

Jehan was shot.

Combeferre once described depression like an island and an ocean. Your island is high if you're less neurotic, and it takes a bigger event to sink you into depression, and a smaller event will sink someone with more neuroticism into the ocean.

Well, that was a big event and it's not something you go to a psychiatrist for. "Yes, my friend, who is a terrorist traitor- just like me- is dead. I'm also bipolar, except I don't take meds because I hate them."

Damn it. He tugs at his sleeve again. Combeferre has been watching him do that. Why does he have to be so observant? And why is Enjolras never allowed to crack? He's supposed to be the man of marble who never runs out of ways to screw with the government's surveillance programs. (this is set in America because we need slight cause for civil unrest, sorry folks. Also torture and spying on people.) His emails end with the Fourth Amendment and BOMB AIRPLANE PENTAGON CAPITOL BUILDING ALLAH DIE AMERICA OVERTHROW THE GOVERNMENT NOW REVOLUTION. So everyone expects him not to be the suicidal depressed one.

(chapterbreak)

Two weeks later; After a secret memorial, some serious contemplation of suicide, and a worried email from Grantaire of all people.

Ding! Ding! "ENJOLRAS!" Diiiiiiing! "Enjolras, answer the door!"

He's officially even more of a mess than before. Hasn't eaten in days, half-asleep, and there's a pretty bad cut on his arm that stained his Hetalia T-shirt. Combeferre doesn't exactly know this piece of information and Enjolras will be damned if he's going to let him. So after five minutes, Enjolras opens the door to his tiny flat looking relatively normal. Mildly dramatic overcoat, neat button up shirt, and plain jeans. Socks, gold brown hair brushed in characteristic sweep of bangs across his forehead.

Only Combeferre sees the absolute desolate exhaustion in his eyes and the twitch in his hands, the tired shoulders and cuffs pulled up too far.

"Hello, why're you here?"

"Grantaire has been talking to me." Combeferre lets himself in, Enjolras sort of getting slightly nervous.

"And I'm sure he had something intelligent to say, because if it was his usual you wouldn't be here."

"Yes, well, he's convinced you're depressed. And Marius is worried because he hasn't exactly gotten any of the odd I'm-building-a-bomb-at-midnight-while-playing-a-piano-with-a-stick texts he usually does."

"Oh."

"You also haven't been coming to university with Courf, Joly and I in the mornings."

"Took the bus." Enjolras shrugs off his coat (obviously, Combeferre doesn't. He's Combeferre.) "Nothing to worry about."

Combeferre gives his a five second long look that they both know means "I don't believe you."

"Been eating much?"

Enjolras smiles half-heartedly. "Three meals a day."

"Right, what?"

"Food?"

"Cheerios?"

"Some." That's when Combeferre starts opening the few cupboards Enjolras has to find an unopened box of Cheerios. "I did the shopping! Today! Around 14! Combeferre, stop. I'm fine."

"And we all know what that means. Marius and Grantaire gave me a full dissertation on that."

"That" refers to an incident of their childhood that is often spoken of when trying to convince Enjolras that he isn't okay. Even emailed jokes- like when Grantaire was sick for all of fall semester with pneumonia, he sent a lot of "I'm fine!" messages that pinged in someone's chemistry class and got them in trouble. (BAHOREL) Enjolras sighs and tries to pull his sleeve down using the table. This does not escape the watchful eyes of Combeferre, who tactfully does not say anything but adds it to the List Of Suspicious Things in his mind. He checks the bin. No trash save for one shirt tag.

"So, um, I need a flatmate. And I was wondering if you'd, er, want to move in."

The tension in the room immediately grows so thick you could cut it with a knife. Jehan was Combeferre's flatmate. Enjolras, in a bid to not annoy anyone too much (and escape people who made him eat and sleep), didn't flatshare. Yet, Jehan was dead. Combeferre was now alone and, well, who does that to their best friend?

"Sure."

*lesmis*

So two days later, Enjolras is living with Combeferre. He sort of feels "watched". Because he is. Combeferre is so clearly keeping an eye on his friend for any kind of suspicious or different actions. Enjolras sleeps at least four hours each night to pacify the medical student and eats some kind of food every day. He's still depressed and kind of miserable.

And that's when Combeferre calls him into the kitchen "I have something to ask you."

So Enjolras comes, pulling on a sweater with tight cuffs over his long-sleeved shirt, just for insurance.

"Yes?"

Now Psychiatrist Combeferre is here, little smile on his face and glasses tilted a bit. "How are you?"

"Fine, why do you ask?" NO BAD QUESTION OH DAMN IT.

"Because you're depressed."

"I am not."

"Right then. Then how do you explain how you've been acting for the past few weeks? Closing in on a month now, what is going on then?"

Enjolras shrugs. "I am the same. Nothing is going on, 'Ferre. I mean, besides grief and all and feeling upset due to the fact that Jehan is dead and-" Okay, he's rambling now. Enjolras cuts himself off and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

"You're a political genius. I haven't seen anyone orchestrate a movement like this."

"Lenin."

"Oh come on, you know what I was talking about. Internet. Traitor, traitor." Traitor, traitor, freedom hater, country's going to get you later...

Combeferre wanders into the living room and sits down on the sofa with his legs tucked under him. Enjolras stays in the kitchen and tortures a lemon peel. To distance his mind, he thinks about what his friends are doing. Courfeyrac is probably reblogging posts on Tumblr, Grantaire and Eponine are drinking, Bahorel and Joly are laughing at stupid things on the Internet and Marius is watching Danisnotonfire. Gavroche is trying to bum a drink off Eponine and she's not letting him. Cosette probably sitting in a tree with her phone and a book to hide the phone from cranky supermarket job boss people.

So he doesn't hear Combeferre's next words until his friend repeats them, louder. "Have you ever seen a psychiatrist?"

"My mum made me go to the school counselor once because I was getting bullied for yelling at the older kids."

"I mean an actual psychiatrist. Professional."

"Then no." Enjolras flops down on the countertop from his perch on the stool. "I said I was fine."

"Enjolras-fine or actual-fine?"

"I am fine!"

*lesmissimsel*

Blasted heat wave.

Enjolras has resorted to sleeping on top of the covers but still wearing long sleeves all of the time. Combeferre smiles at him a little too much and says supposedly uplifting things that he thinks Enjolras doesn't know he's using to try to make the revolutionary feel better.

It's not really working. He brushes off the wet blanket of depression with more coffee and maybe another hour of sleep each night until he's almost sleeping like a normal person. That scares Combeferre, because that is definitely not the Enjolras he knows. The Enjolras he knows doesn't sleep for three days on end and gets high on coffee to write fiery essays denouncing the government.

And then comes a night after a day of not speaking to anyone that Enjolras falls asleep at eight o'clock and Combeferre finds him curled up with one arm outstretched across his pillow.

"Bloody hell, Enjolras." The medical students sits down heavily and brushes the revolutionary's bangs out of his eyes. "What happened?"

Suddenly Combeferre glances over to his friend's arm and reaches out, unrolling the loose sleeve up to his elbow. "Damn it."

There are neat scars running all alone his left arm, some dark or bright red and some faded. One is still bleeding a tiny bit, and none of it looks good. And it all makes Combeferre want to cry- this is a physical mark of the dozens of times Enjolras needed him, or someone, and he wasn't there.

"I'm here now, my friend, and I am never going away." Combeferre runs a finger over the vicious marks and then goes to the bathroom to get the first aid kit. He cleans it all twice and bandages his best friend's arms (for the other one is in almost as bad shape), still close to tears.

How did this happen?

How did he let this happen? How did he not see this coming?

****lesmis****

Enjolras wakes up to find bandages on his arms and Combeferre sitting next to him calmly waiting, holding his wrists tight. Yet he still tries to go, get out. Oh god, he found out and I'm doing so badly and he's going to desert me, oh god, he's got to be so mad...

"No." Enjolras stares at the bedsheet, not daring to meet his best friend's eyes. "Absolutely not. I'm shocked that you didn't get some kind of infection from that. Well, now it's wrapped up and now I know. Jesus Christ, Enjy. I asked if you were okay."

"I am okay." He's just digging himself into a hole.

"NO YOU'RE NOT!" Combeferre is surprised at how powerful his voice is when he wants it to be. "You are absolutely not okay. And we are absolutely going to talk about this right now."

"I don't have a choice."

"No."

Enjolras mumbles something and curls up tight, flipping away from his friend and burying his face in his pillow. Combeferre nods, determined. "Tea?"

"Fine."

"I'm not leaving you alone in here."

"I'll let you search me for sharp objects."

"Not funny. Up. Couch. Jesus Christ, I am never leaving you alone again." Somehow Enjolras finds it in himself to make his way to the couch and burrow deep into the armrest and the ugly throw blankets that they really do throw around. Combeferre clatters around the kitchen making tea, the peppermint kind they both like.

Enjolras discovers that he cannot pull his sleeves down over the thick bandages. It makes him feel exposed and awkward, his past and his struggles written out for the rest of the world to see.

Combeferre comes back with the tea and bangs it down with a bit of excessive force on the coffee table. "Right then. Yes, okay, we're far past the obvious part and now I think I would like you to listen to me." He pauses. Enjolras resurfaces. "I was thinking last night. And Enjolras, it's bloody clear to me and probably to you exactly what is going on-"

"I know."

"Enjolras, you have bipolar disorder and I can tell."

Cliffhanger of death! Love you. Leave a review to encourage me.