written first on tumblr both for Les Mis Across History and for a prompt.
The title comes from a line in Siegfried Sassoon's poem Aftermath.
warning for graphic description of war injuries and implied minor character death.
The nurses and medics are always busy, it seems; Courfeyrac definitely isn't. He is almost bored, even, which is certainly an improvement over the hell of the trenches. But oh, he hurts, though - his head is pounding and the weak medicine he is allowed makes him sick more than once. The numerous scratches on his neck, hands and face all itch terribly, despite the ointment Nurse Fauchelevant rubs into the wounds twice a day. Worse, though, is his right leg: it feels heavy and hot, burning, and the pain keeps him up at night even when the nightmares don't, sweating and half-delirious as he stares at the heavily-bandaged stump and curses the injustice that a missing limb can still hurt so.
Sometimes Marius writes to him; Courfeyrac got a short missive from him three days ago, but he isn't expecting any more for a while. So for the most part Courfeyrac lies, bored out of his mind, on the thin hospital mattress, and waits. He hates waiting; it makes him think. About what happened, about what will happen. He would like to avoid that, if he can.
The soldier - no, the boy, barely of age, with porcelain skin and cherry-pink lips stained with blood - in the bed on his right used to scream. He used to scream at the other wounded, at the nurses and the medics who dared to go near him. He doesn't scream anymore, now, but somehow the harsh whimpers and quiet sobs are worse and Courfeyrac is certain he might go mad if he has to listen for much longer, so he tries to busy himself by other means, turning his head the other way.
Perhaps he could read to the other soldier half-sitting, sullen and quiet, on the bed to his left: Courfeyrac has been watching the letters pile up at the other his bedside for the past week. Though young as well, he is so different form the tantrum of a boy on Courfeyrac's other side. A pale smile flutters on his lips when the nurse tells him of a new arrival, and he thanks her quietly, politely. Courfeyrac thinks the smile is probably forced (just like his own must look now, because Courfeyrac hasn't felt like smiling in a long time) but it's hard to tell; half of the other's face is hidden by the linen bandages covering his gaz-burned eyes. Otherwise, he doesn't say much. Sometimes, when no nurse or medic is present, he reaches blindly towards the bedside table to takes one of the letters; he holds it under his nose, as if he could still breath in the scent of the person who had sent it, before putting it back and lying back down.
Their beds are close enough that Courfeyrac could touch the other boy's hand if he tried. It feels almost like spying, though, to watch him when the other has no way of knowing that he is watching him.
So, when he figures himself sufficiently strong, Courfeyrac turns, sits slowly, painfully, careful to avoid looking at the stump of his right leg, forces some cheer in his voice, and introduces himself.
The other boy looks startled for a moment, colour rising to his cheeks underneath the bandages.
"I'm Feuilly," he says, his voice made rough by disuse and the damage to his lungs.
They don't talk much at first; neither of them have much to say. They cannot talk about the war, or their injuries, and it's all their lives have been for the past two years. So Courfeyrac tells Feuilly about his family, his older brother who will marry next summer, the sweetheart at him that didn't wait for him. Feuilly doesn't mention his family, but he recalls the job he left in the city - in a workshop, the only job he could get without formal education, and though he admits it was never a passion for him, he chokes on his words, self-conscious, when he tells Courfeyrac, "I used to paint."
They are interrupted when Combeferre, a tall medic with tanned skin and wiry hair, announces it is time to change Feuilly's bandages. Courfeyrac doesn't look away, but neither he nor Feuilly say anything more after that.
—-
There's a new letter on Feuilly's bedside a few days later; he gives Nurse Fauchelevant his barely-a-smile expression again and lets her put it on the top of the pile.
"Would you like me to read it for you?" Courfeyrac offers this time, and Feuilly looks surprised again. The fresh bandages are thinner - Combeferre even said that soon they can come off entirely - and Courfeyrac can see his eyebrow arch.
"If you want to," Feuilly replies, cautious.
Courfeyrac sits again, and notes with a certain level of pride that it is becoming easier each day to balance his posture despite his missing leg. He takes the most recent letter, noting the light, delicate handwriting. It is dated from last week; the signature, flowy and dramatic, simply reads Jehan.
"Who's Jehan?" he asks, and Feuilly sighs.
"He's… my brother."
"Brother?" Feuilly had not mentioned any family, but surely his parents would have written to their injured son? Yet all of the unopened the letters are written in the same hand.
"Not by blood," Feuilly says, but does not offer more details. Courfeyrac clears his throat, and begins to read:
My dear Antoine…
—-
Eventually, the ugly whimpers on the right side of Courfeyrac's bed stop completely; the blood-stained sheets are changed and the body replaced by another; a blond boy, deathly pale, silent and still, his chest barely rising and falling at all. Courfeyrac immediately wonders how long this one will last before he is taken away to be buried; horrified by his own thoughts, Courfeyrac cannot bear to look at him again.
—-
Over the next few days Feuilly surprised Courfeyrac by asking him to read him the rest of Jehan's letters; and that is how Courfeyrac learns that Jehan is a friend, a very good friend, younger by a few years, spared the horrors of the trenches because of his age. With every sentence Courfeyrac reads aloud Feuilly seems to relax a little. Jehan is a good writer - his prose sometimes betray his youth, but he describes the brightness of spring's first flowers with such vivacity that Courfeyrac can almost remember what flowers actually look like.
It also soon becomes evident that although he cares very much for him, Feuilly hasn't attempted to write Jehan since his arrival.
"I don't - I won't be a burden to him," he explains tiredly, running a hand through his hair.
"He misses you," Courfeyrac tries.
Feuilly laughs, then, dry and humourless.
"What about you?" he asks, "What will you do when you leave?"
"Go back to school, probably," Courfeyrac answers thoughtlessly, and hates himself for it when Feuilly turns away.
—-
There have been some cases of gaz blindness wearing off; after a while, but by the time the last of his bandages comes off, it has become clear that Antoine Feuilly will not be one of them. This hospital can do nothing more for him, the medic, Combeferre, tells him, his expression sympathetic. What a useless attention, Courfeyrac thinks, but the truth remains: it is only a matter of adjusting to his condition.
Once the bandages are off, Feuilly blinks slowly, once, twice. His eyes refuse to focus and he bends his head, shrinking on himself.
"I don't know what I'll do now," he whispers, and Courfeyrac is taken by the idea of seeing the smile reach his eyes, no matter how scarred they are. He reaches for the crutches by the bed, pulls himself up, and moves to sit next to Feuilly. The other attempts to put a hand on Courfeyrac's knee and looks stricken when his hand drops directly on the thin sheets.
"I - I'm sorry, I didn't know," he whispers, and Courfeyrac reaches down to take his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze, to say there is nothing to forgive.
He considers asking Feuilly if he wants to write Jehan back now, just to break the silence, but decides against it.
"Let's go take a walk together," he says instead, and Feuilly looks up in surprise, clouded grey eyes widening slightly.
He can walk well enough with crutches, so they're both as good as they'll ever get, now, Courfeyrac supposes. And it's almost summer now.
Perhaps they'll be able to feel the sun again.