A/N: Wow. I didn't know you guys liked reading stuff about dystopian futures/Enjolras torture scenes so much! This is for all the wonderful people who have decided to read, review, follow and favourite this story- you have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated!
Disclaimer: As I not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive! Please don't sue me!
Chapter 2
A city at dusk. A city blanketed by a thick invisibility cloak of unspoken, choked up fear as the familiar whining click of the electricity blowing itself out shudders its' way through the already silent streets with an efficiency that only the top Official Engineers of the Capital can manage. You are a fool if you even think about going out at night after this time; everybody knows that. Best to stay in the cold, dark safety of your living room and huddle together for warmth as nights' thick, inky carpet slowly unravels itself over the rain soaked streets. Best not to think about the poor souls still struggling to get home through the ever oppressive, rain soaked darkness; numb fingers scrabbling for the cold safety of keys, darting into the shadows as the familiar tramp of the Officials' boots drums itself through the silence as the search for any rebellious spirits not inside at Curfew continues.
Deep within the bowels of a shadowy alleyway a faint, electronic click is heard. A hissing, flaring click that is followed by a muffled curse and a whispered yelp of pain as an elbow is shoved hard into the offending chest. A disembodied hand reaches out and pulls the first shadowy body close, desperate for the security of another's touch as the steady tramp of footsteps echoes itself back into silence and all is quiet once more.
'Message sending failed,' comes a hoarse, choked whisper from the shadowy safety of the wall as the phone is clicked open again and a faint, harsh beam of artificial light illuminates the pale, thin face of the speaker; his dark eyes wide with exhaustion as he checks the screen for a final time before shutting the phone down with a snap. 'Damn them. Damn all them all to hell,' he mutters furiously under his breath; glaring back up at the velvety blackness that is studded with silver stars for a moment that feels like an eternity but in reality is simply the length of a ragged breath before dropping his gaze and staring bleakly at the phone in his lap.
'What?' Another voice; more muffled this time but still taught with whispered urgency comes from the first speakers' right pipes up as the moon slips behind a heavy, violet cloud and is lost from view. 'Joly? What is it? What's happened?' This was Jean Prouvaire; self nicknamed Jehan; Romantic poet, activist, musician and long term resident at the JDMC amongst other numerous talents that were sorely wasted in the Capital's rigorous regime of complete compliance from all citizens. He pushes himself further up against the wall to gain a better look at his friend, wincing slightly as his bruised ribs made contact with the cold, wet stone and wraps his arms around his knees; resting his chin on his kneecaps as he watches his friend through wide, uncomprehending eyes.
'I need to get a message to 'Chetta, Gavroche and 'Ponine. Tell them what's happened… Tell them…' Joly's voice tails away into a badly suppressed sob at the sound of two feet landing heavily on the ground beside him followed by a grunt of pain as a torch beam flashes into life; illuminating their immediate surroundings for the first time since they had fallen in a jumble of broken limbs and bodies into the cool, dark safety of the alleyway; their hearts thumping painfully against their chests as at last their flight was ceased.
It is here that they hide. It is here that eight broken souls cling to each other like sailors to scraps of driftwood amid a storm tossed sea, hardly daring to breathe as the enormity of their situation finally catches up with them. Joly sits with his back pressed up painfully against the wall; clutching at an ancient, brick-like Nokia phone- a bashed up relic from the pre-War days before It All Went Wrong and all citizens were forced on pain of death or in some of the more extreme cases to suffer forced Alteration to hand in any form of personal technology that could grant access to the outside world into the Capital's Officials as if it is the only thing that is going to keep him from falling.
His eyes flicker momentarily towards Combeferre who is sitting huddled against Courfeyrac's solid bulk; his head rested on the centre's shoulder, the dark eyes shielded by wire-framed spectacles squeezed shut against the images, the memories, the crushing sense of guilt-ridden grief that has enveloped all of them like a second skin and refuses to let them go.
Enjolras standing proudly defiant on the podium, a gloriously furious revolutionary archangel bathed in the cold, grey light of dawn as a thin, stubbornly silent sun slowly bled its way over the jarringly symmetric buildings of the Capital. A cold red light that seemed to catch him, caress him, ignite him until his whole being burnt with the silent, passionate flame of liberty as he enthralled the crowd with his vision for a France in which all were equal, all men, women and children- Bourgeois and gamin alike were able to walk as one into the bright, white land of peaceful freedom.
Their golden leader now being forced to his knees; the wide, cerulean blue orbs barely visible through the slowly forming mask of rainbow bruising suddenly dark with fear as his hands were forced behind his back and the icy metallic beauty of a revolver was slotted against his temple…. The sudden, agonizing crack of a hobnailed boot stamping on frail ligaments that had rent the air like a gunshot combined with a sudden, sobbing, strangled cry of pain filled rage as the burnished halo of golden curls threw itself up only to be forced back as the stench of chloroform made him want to gag and he saw the body at last fall limp before being dragged towards the crushing darkness of the police truck… A sobbing, screaming roar ripped from two bodies as Bahorel and Feuilly launched themselves towards Grantaire and Combeferre; their combined weight barely holding them back as they forced their way towards the rapidly disappearing truck…
As his eyes grow more accustomed to the darkness, Joly can just about make out the centre's fingers raking themselves softly through his guides' hair; whispered words that he supposes speak of comfort falling unheeded as by the sliver of silver moonlight Joly sees a single tear squeeze itself out of the liqueur coloured eyes and slice the medical students' cheek in a final, heart breaking tribute to his fallen friend as he coughs back a choking sob and pushes his head further into the warm securities of the centres' jacket. Oh Combeferre… Oh Mon Ami… I am so sorry Mon Cher…
The feeling of sudden pressure on his shoulder. He glances up, blinking into the harsh, artificial glare of the torchlight to see Bahorel standing over him, his battered, broken face looking even more grotesque due to the distinct lack of light; a predicament made even worse by the fighters' hulking shadow. Joly can just about make out the beginnings of what promises to be a splendid black eye alongside the usual scrapes and bruises and a swollen, bleeding lip and feels the medical side of his brain begin to take furious, mental notes of all the injuries that will need attending to if and when they reach the safe house.
'We need to get out of here.' The statement is painfully simple as Bahorel flicks his gaze over to their other friends; towards Combeferre who Joly suspects with a sudden pang of fear is on the verge of both physical and mental collapse and Grantaire who has barely spoken a word since he witnessed Enjolras' arrest; and is now huddled up against an overflowing bin staring at nothing beside Feuilly and Bossuet who are both trying to get him to snap out of his trance and failing miserably; his whole body trembling with a mixture of suppressed emotion; and Joly hazards a guess; alcohol withdrawal. The medic feels his heart twist painfully in his chest as he nods and struggles to his feet; allowing a stray finger to trail itself lightly over Jehan's cheek before pocketing the phone; accepting Bahorel's hand to pull him upright.
'News?' The sound of his voice, even in a whisper sounds obstructively loud as the flickering beam of light from Bahorel's torch guides him to where Combeferre and Courfeyrac are still huddled together like frightened children. Bahorel shakes his head at the question and raises his eyebrows in a gesture that clearly says: 'not yet. But soon. We don't have much time before They'll start looking for us; so we need to get out. Now.' Joly nods again and allows himself to drop down beside the pair as Courfeyrac extracts an arm from around Combeferre and reaches out to him, suddenly desperate for the security of another's touch.
'Are we leaving? Now?' The centre's voice is little more than a choked whisper that sounds so different, so utterly unlike the usual bubbling vitality that inhabits every pore of Courfeyrac's body that Joly has to blink before nodding and squeezing in closer to feel for Combeferre's forehead; relishing in the comforting weight of the centre's fingers beneath his own.
The guide doesn't respond to his touch immediately; simply buries his head further into the security of Courfeyrac's chest, his shoulders' shaking from the weight of supressed emotion. Biting his lip so hard that he tastes blood blooming over his teeth, Joly tries again; desperately trying to restrain the sudden, painful swoop of anxiety from settling itself in the pit of his stomach as he caresses the hard, fine line of his fellow medical students' cheek; allowing his fingers to cup themselves around the cleft chin and force his friends' head out of Courfeyrac's jacket.
'Combeferre… 'Ferre look at me… Please?' The guide's face is smudged with a sorry makeup of tears and dirt as the wide, dark eyes finally blink themselves back into focus and allows Joly to place his palm against his forehead; watching the medic visibly relax as after a moment or two he exhales a breath and removes his hand. 'No fever,' he mutters and Combeferre nods in understanding as he allows Courfeyrac to haul him to his feet and removes his spectacles, rubbing them furiously on a corner of his jacket before turning to Bahorel who nods and gestures through the darkness to the others that the coast is for the moment, clear.
They come slowly, cautiously, Jehan almost curling himself up into the safety of Courfeyrac's chest; the solid comfort of Bossuet's fingers gripping his shoulder sending a wave of relief through Joly as he leans into his best friends' touch, Feuilly supporting a silent, wide-eyed Grantaire whose legs look like they are about to fold with every step he takes as they stagger towards the group.
Pulling himself out from Courfeyrac's embrace to avoid suffocating the poet; Combeferre performs a whispered roll call; his voice ragged with supressed emotion, the action so painfully reminiscent of Enjolras after a rally or before a meeting in the shadowy safety of the Café Musain or the Corinth, both of which are now utterly out of bounds, that Joly cannot help but feel unwanted pricks of salty pain stabbing at his eyelids which he furiously blinks back; refusing to give into the soft, dark well of comforting emotion that is tugging at the corners of his brain.
'We need…' Combeferre is cut painfully short by the sudden, ominous tramp of a patrol of Officials stamping their way over the rain soaked pavement above them combined with a inaudible commanding bark as Bahorel shoves the torch into his pocket and pushes Combeferre none-to-gently against the safety of the alley wall again; gesturing frantically to the others to follow as he peers up at the steady, swaying line of retreating backs fading into the darkness. Joly feels the warm, calloused pressure of a shaking hand slipping into his and squeezing as Bossuet pushes himself against his side; watching Bahorel's hand slowly rise with wide eyes as he strains his senses for any hint of other officials before turning to give a short, sharp nod to his fellows.
'Go!' They don't need telling twice as the command is roared into the darkness; coinciding most conveniently with the rising wail of the Police signals that explode through the air like gunfire; lighting up the once blissfully blank sky like a firework display of bright, painfully luminescent blue. Joly feels himself being swept along with Feuilly, Courfeyrac and Jehan down the impossibly cramped space that is suddenly ablaze with colour and noise; unable to register in time where and why he has lost Bossuet but unable to ask questions because there is no time and they need to get out of this alley before the Council work out who is missing from the electronic registers that have been set up in every Citizens' flat, they need to get out of the City before the Officials are sent out to assist the Police in their search parties, they need…
Joly can't think of anything else. He doesn't want to think about anything else. His whole being is set on the act of running, of dodging, of climbing, scrambling, leaping through the darkness; desperately trying to ignore the silent screams of his lungs for oxygen as they burn against his ribcage; desperately trying to focus on the solidness of Feuilly's hand in his palm as he feels himself being dragged along, on the plaited length of hair dancing in front of his eyes which he thinks is Jehan's auburn braid tied with a scrap of purple ribbon, on the flashing stripes of white that are Bahorel's shoes appearing out of nowhere and streaking off into the darkness with Combeferre, Grantaire and Bossuet behind him, on the look of pained, desperate agony branded through every strand of bright, cerulean blue brilliance as in his mind Enjolras is once again being forced to his knees and the stench of chloroform threatens to overwhelm him as the broken, beautiful beacon of hope and life slumps against the vice like grip of the Official….
He can feel tears in his eyes as he runs; blinding pricks of fiery emotion that he can't wipe away mixed with a sudden, throbbing ache in his side that signals a stitch as somehow they manage to cross the Capital Bridge and tumble as one multi-limbed organism down the rain soaked steps into the crushing darkness of the twisting labyrinth that is the Slums which lead out onto the suburbs and the security of the safe house… Safe security where Muschietta, Eponine, Gavroche and Marius if he got the message will join them. Safety where Bahorel, Combeferre and Courfeyrac will be able to relay news to François and Bertrand; the leaders of the two closest fellow resistance groups and try to work out a plan to save Enjolras from the unbearable, unspeakable fate that no doubt awaits him at the hands of the Capital. Safety where they will be able to rest and sleep and tend to their injuries; sweeping off the weary counters from the constantly changing Game of Life and start afresh with clear heads…
He is so caught up in his desperate, mental mantra that he doesn't realise that the body in front of his is slowing down and only just manages to stop himself from toppling into Feuilly as together they stumble down the shadowy, slippery steps into a shadowy, leafy side street where he can faintly hear a lone, plaintive note of a nightingale from somewhere high above him. Beside him, he can almost taste Jehan's energy as the younger boy jiggles from one foot to the other; desperately craning his neck to see if they are able to go inside and get warm. 'Hush Mon Ami,' he hears himself say; but doesn't understand why he says it as he feels himself place his free hand on the poets' shoulder which Jehan shrugs off irritably.
''Chetta! It's us! Let us in, will you?' The sound of Bahorel's voice booming through the darkness sends an involuntary shudder coursing through him as he glances over Jehan's head and desperately tries to search for the round, solid baldness of Bossuet in the darkness; furiously biting back the sudden swoop of panicked fear that threatens to settle itself once again in the pit of his stomach as he hears the creaking slice of locks being slid out of place and a thin, shadowy sliver of lamp light protruding from the crack as at long last the door finally creaks open. 'He'll be fine.' He tells himself firmly, trying not to think about all the dangers that could have come into his best friends path on their desperate escape from the alleyway. 'He's got Combeferre and Grantaire. He'll be fine. He'll…'
'Bahorel?' A pale, oval face with wide, almond shaped eyes the colour of honey peers around the door as a voice which sounds sweeter to him than all the nectar on Mount Olympus breaks through his mental mantra; wide, exhausted eyes darting over to scan the shadowy bushes and back again as the door creaks open another inch to reveal Muschietta clutching at the door knob; her face set and white with worry as she scans their faces; checking, reassuring herself that they at least are safe.
'I'm here 'Chetta. I've got Feuilly, Jehan, Joly and Courfeyrac. We're uninjured. The others… The others are on their way…' Bahorel pauses to catch his breath; suddenly bent double with his hands on his knees and Muschietta is finally able to catch his gaze and gasps; inexplicable tears of what he thinks is happiness pooling through each finely worked strand of amber coloured brilliance as she slips through the door and runs at him, her hair falling in a loose waterfall of dark brilliance behind her back as she pulls him into a tight embrace; the heart achingly familiar scent of rosewater and flour threatening to overwhelm him as her hands fly over his face; her lips planting soft, sweet kisses on every scrap of skin she can find; never wanting to let him go.
'Oh Joly,' she whispers as he pulls her close and plants a quick kiss on her nose; relishing in the warm security of her thin frame rising through his arms. 'I… when Gavroche…' Her voice is barely a whisper but Feuilly catches it and throws a searching glance at Courfeyrac whose eyes are wide as he reaches out for Jehan who returns the gesture gladly, eyes shining in the darkness.
'Gavroche?' The fighter's voice is harsh with incomprehension as he pulls himself upright and Muschietta nods silently; an action that clearly says that there will be more information inside; where it is safe to talk and make plans and where they will at last be able to rest.
Just then there is a crash from behind them, a muffled shout and Bossuet appears with Grantaire and Combeferre close behind. All three are thankfully uninjured; save for Bossuet's black eye and Joly lets out a ragged, tearstained breath that he didn't realise he was holding as he untangles himself from Muschietta's arms and trips blindly over to the trio; suddenly desperate to make sure that they are here; that they are not some fragment of his imagination.
'We're here. We're safe.' Combeferre tells him quietly; his voice rough with the exertion of running across half the Capital and threatening to break under the weight of suppressed emotion as he glances over at Grantaire who is being pulled into a giant bear hug by Bahorel and back again. Joly nods and all at once, the two medical students find themselves in each other's arms again; relishing in the tear stained warmth and comfort of togetherness as Combeferre buries his head in Joly's chest and desperately tries to stem the bitter onslaught of memories that are threatening to overwhelm him as Joly pulls him closer; one hand reaching up to card itself gently through the broken guides' hair in a silent act of reassurance.
'We will find him Mon Ami.' He hears himself whispering into the mess of dark strands as Combeferre chokes back another sob; willing himself to believe it. 'We'll bring him back wherever he is. We'll bring him back; I promise.'
A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Questions, comments, suggestions, constructive criticism etc are like chocolate to my brain and will help me through all the essays I have to write for University- who thought it a good idea to have all the deadlines on the same day?
Much love and enjoy x