Enjolras isn't quite sure exactly when he first notices it. The thought just seems to creeps up on him, it's slimy fingers prying at his neck until he's one hundred percent sure that there's something wrong with his friend. He hadn't picked up on it when he first walked in, loudly conversing with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, yet now, the only thought stirring its way through his brain is the fact that Feuilly looks positively miserable. A muffled cough and a suppressed sigh just confirms his concerns.
He's tempted to intervene right there and then as Feuilly rubs his nose desperately with the back of his hand, but it's not as if he's trying to hide his illness like he himself might; he just can't afford to be ill. He's not got a lot of money as it is, but any absences from work will leave him with even less. Just a couple of days off and he risks getting his wages cut, and any more than a week and his job is hanging in the balance. And then of course, there's Feuilly's unwavering resilience; no matter how sick he is, he tries his best to brave through it and not take it lying down. A little cold isn't going to kill him.
A glance around the room proves to Enjolras that his other friends are fully aware of their friend's comprimised health, they just seem to not be doing anything about it. Bahorel is the only one sitting by him, talking loudly about how spicy food may drive away Feuilly's cold. Courfeyrac- the very person who must have been responsible for it considering just a week ago he was coughing up a lung- nods in agreement, telling him he'll give up his beloved hot sauce if it might make him feel better.
"Seriously, Feuilly, it'll sweat that fever right of you and clear up your nose and your throat will be hurting because it's hot not because you have a sore throat," Courfeyrac places a all-too-enthusiastic hand on his shoulder. "Don't bother with that lemsip shit; that'll just make you nauseous as well. That stuff tastes like actual shit. A nice bowl of tomato soup with a good two tablespoonfuls of hot sauce and you'll be better in no time.
Feuilly barely even bats an eyelid; he just nods minimally, willing to try anything that may better his chances for being well ahead of a week of night shifts. He feels abysmal; as if every ounce of good health has been drained from his body, leaving just the horrible ailment tearing its way through his immune system. Every breath becomes harder to take, his chest wheezing as he tries his best to take in air.
Even if he was trying to hide it like Enjolras would have done, it would be easy to decipher the truth. The little dip on his forehead where the bridge of his nose begins to appear and his cheeks are scarlet red, matching what Bahorel has christened his 'Rudolph nose', and his lips are chapped to the point they're almost bleeding. And then of course, there's the red rimmed eyes brimming with water, which without fail trickles down his feverish cheeks every time he blinks. And the cough; that blood-curdling crackly cough that sets Combeferre and Joly's doctor modes off, to the point where they're practically reaching in their bags for their stethoscopes to check that it's just a cold and not pneumonia.
Bahorel rises from his chair, announcing that their next round of drinks are on him, giving Enjolras the chance to speak with the ill man.
"You should be at home," Enjolras sits down onto the chair Bahorel has just got up from.
"Don't have my car and can't afford a taxi" he sighs. "Have to wait."
"I'll give you a run home," he smiles gently. "And don't trust Courfeyrac with that hot sauce advice; he tried it that time I had sinusitis last year and it just made it worse."
"I'll be okay," he coughs heavily. "The minute I give into it I'll not be able to get up, and I've got a long shift tomorrow night."
"The minute they see you tomorrow they'll send you home; you're really sick, Feuilly. They're not going to force you to work when you can barely stand."
"They've done it before."
"Yeah, and after the time where you literally puked over everything I don't think they're going to risk it, my friend."
"I wouldn't want to be pulling you away from here whilst you're having a good time-"
"But I'm not; everyone's drunk -even Combeferre- and I'm worried about you. Combeferre mentioned-when he was sober, of course- that he didn't like the sound of your cough."
"C-can we go?" he finally gives in, practically bolting out the door without so much as a goodbye.
"Feuilly's not feeling well so I'm going to give him a lift up the road," Enjolras quickly whispers to Bahorel as he passes him with a tray of drinks, who waves his friend a concerned goodbye with his free hand.
Enjolras practically has to carry Feuilly to his car, his legs feeling shaky from fever. A heavy hacking cough almost makes him gag, but Enjolras barely even flinches, placing a gentle hand against his friend's back to steady him. Feuilly is as thin as a rake, so it's not as if he's heavy to support, but the car park is a good walk from the pub so he's eternally thankful when he finally lowers his friend into the passenger seat.
"How long have you been sick for?" Enjolras asks as he reverses the car out of the space.
"Since Friday?" he shrugs, placing a hand to his aching head. "It was just like a cold then and yesterday, but it feels more like a virus or something now."
"It probably is; you caught it from Courfeyrac, and that's what he had last week."
"It's always him that starts it, isn't it?" he lets out an exasperated sigh.
"I'll bet you a tenner it's Grantaire next," Enjolras tilts his mouth into a crooked smile. "Then Joly and Bahorel on the same day, then Combeferre, Jehan, Bossuet... And to top it all off, Marius last."
"Hmm I don't know. Joly next. Bahorel, then Grantaire. Combeferre won't get sick, Bossuet won't get sick and Marius will catch something completely unrelated and blame us all."
"I'm thinking mine, Courfeyrac's and Combeferre's house instead? We have central heating, and we won't have to stop off to pick up any supplies because Combeferre always keeps a stash."
Feuilly nods gratefully, although even the tiniest movement sends pain searing into his head. He tries his best to sleep on the way home, but his mind is filled with thoughts about what will happen if he's too ill to work the next day. Maybe it's the fever, but he can't quite shake the image of his boss screaming in his ear about how he's a 'lazy layabout who doesn't deserve a job here' as the thought stirs.
"I'm phoning in sick for you tomorrow, Feuilly," Enjolras insists as Feuilly chokes again.
"Need to take in a line," he mumbles quietly.
"You thought you were getting out of a doctor's appointment? No chance. I'll phone the doctor and we'll get you a line, and I'll hand it in before you're due to be at work."
It's a good hour before Courfeyrac and Combeferre return, thankfully seeming more sober than they were when Enjolras and Feuilly had left. The alcohol practically drains out of Combeferre's system when the sight of Feuilly's pale white face hits him. He fetches a thermometer and his spare stethoscope, quickly finding his way to the sofa to give him a check over.
"Lift your shirt," he states, first placing the thermometer in his mouth. "If there's even so much as a tiny crackle you're going to A and E, my friend."
"Understood," he whispers hoarsely, the thermometer rattling in his mouth as he talks.
He takes a minute to check, not giving anything away on his face. He checks twice. Three times. A fourth for good measure.
"It's not pneumonia," he finally smiles, accepting the thermometer from his mouth. "High fever though. Even a degree higher and it's the hospital, alright?"
"Yes, doc," he sighs heavily, sinking down into the sofa.
The doctor's appointment the next morning proves Feuilly's prediction; it's a viral chest infection, and a bad one at that. He'd prepared himself for it; he walks away with his doctor's line, and as he expected no antibiotics, considering they'll do absolutely nothing if it's a virus. He tries to tell Enjolras that he'll be alright and head back to his own home, but Enjolras is having none of it. He knows Feuilly is only saying this because he doesn't want to be a burden, but that's far from what he'd ever be. Enjolras harbours a great respect for Feuilly; he has barely anything to his name, yet he works with such a resilient effort, not resting until he's completed the task and to a high standard. Even now, poorly and exhausted, he's insisting that he's able to carry on.
"No," Enjolras smiles gently. "You're not well, and I'm worried about you. You aren't going to be a burden, Feuilly."
"The doctor really didn't have to give me a two week line-"
"Feuilly, you are the only person apart from me who would be unhappy that they're going to be off work for two weeks."
"I need money-"
"They're not going to cut your wages if you've got a line; it's like a legal requirement."
He sighs, feeling miserable as he hacks away, feeling the catarrh dislodge uncomfortably in his throat. Enjolras' heart bleeds for him as he watches his friends eyes streaming. He almost has the impulse to hug him as he wipes his runny nose into the sleeve of his hoodie because he doesn't have a tissue, but instead, he hands him the pack they've just purchased from the pharmacy and smiles sympathetically. He'd usually be thankful that it wasn't him, but it's such a rare occurrence that Feuilly isn't in full health that there's something all too unnerving about it. There's something all the more innervating about the crackle of Feuilly's cough; the great noise of his sniffles; the heaviness of his exhausted sighs.
Enjolras leaves quickly after for the factory Feuilly works in. He's almost nervous, but the fact that he has the doctor's line clutched between his fingertips makes him a little bit calmer about the prospective reaction from his friend's boss. He soon discovers that Feuilly's current boss is not the moody tyrant it used to be; it's a smiling woman who raises her eyebrow at the sight of the blond man.
"Let me guess, you're one of Feuilly's friends?"she calls him into the office with a smile. "He's not going to be in today, is he?"
"He's sick," Enjolras nods genuinely. "Really bad chest infection that must be going round."
"Don't look so nervous; he looked awful on Friday but he said he had something important to finish."
"I've got a doctor's line here; Feuilly said you'd need one?"
"Thank you."
He breathes a sigh of relief as he returns back home. The rest of his day-and his week more or less- is spent being Feuilly's caretaker. He keeps himself busy; heating up tins of soup which is basically the only thing he can cook without burning the whole house down; keeping on top of Feuilly's medication; keeping track of his temperature. Towards the end of the week where Feuilly is a little more coherent, they speak about politics and world events. Enjolras never really gets a chance to talk so deeply with Feuilly, so for that he is thankful.
As Feuilly returns back to his own home-admittedly still poorly with a hoarse throat and low grade fever- he can't help but feel strangely thankful for the fact that his friend had been ill. Alright, it had been awful to see him so miserable, yet something good had come out of it; they walked away as closer friends. Both harboured mutual respect for each other prior to the week; yet now however, that respect had turned into a deep admiration.