A/N. So this should have been a Courfeyrac chapter but turned into an expansion of the last chapter. Please enjoy!

Chapter 3: It's Not Bloody TB

Once Joly and the still sniffly Bossuet had set up camp in their living room, Jehan obviously felt the precendent had been set to visit, and once there, didn't seem to leave. From there it was only a short step before Feuilly and Bahorel felt left out and braced their immune systems against the infestation in order to visit the rest of their friends. When a week rolled around and their usual meeting was cancelled as none of unholy trinity of Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac were able to leave the apartment, Grantaire came visiting the house of sick and felt perfectly at home settling between Feuilly and Joly and diving right into part way through The Two Towers as if he'd been there the entire time.

Thankfully, everyone seemed to be past the contagious stage of whatever 'mutant hell virus' (as Courfeyrac had taken to calling it) had taken down nearly half of Les Ami del'ABC by the time a small refugee camp of sleeping bags, spare duvets, blankets and pillows had been established in the living room, and no one else came down with it.

The sight of his living room entirely colonised by amis and bedding was something of a surprise to Enjolras, making him feel his own forehead and wonder if the fever was making him hallucinate. Apparently, he'd slept through the relocation of all of his friends, knocked out by illness, exhaustion and the drugs Combeferre forced on him, and no one had seen fit to tell him during the short intermissions he'd been lucid and trying not to cough up his own lungs. He didn't mind. The sight of all his friends sprawled across sofas, armchairs and the floor was touching and he felt a warm ball of affection take up residence in his belly. Picking his way across the room to the kitchen counter was something of a challenge, trying as he was not to wake anyone (nor cough, lest the noise wake someone and bring down a scolding for being out of bed on his head). He'd woken relatively clear headed to find Courfeyrac had reclaimed the centre of the bed, spooning around Enjolras as Combeferre was curled around him. It was early; Enjolras had never been particularly good at sleeping through the night and after sleeping for almost 36 hours straight he was restless so taking the opportunity to stretch his legs he'd crept out of bed in search of water, and if he was quiet and lucky, a shower; he felt sweaty and quite disgusting.

He managed the water and made it to the bathroom without waking anyone before the coughing returned, forcing him to grip the sink, white knuckled and blinking away the blackness encroaching on his vision. A glance in the mirror confirmed he looked as hideous as he felt. The shower felt wonderful, easing the ache in his muscles and joints, the steam calming the ever-present need to cough. He is weak and shaking by the end, from the exertion of standing and the heat doing nothing to improve his fever but he feels better for it.

When he opens the door which leads to Combeferre's room, dimly aware Joly and Bossuet have decamped in his, he finds Combeferre sitting on the edge of his bed looking distinctly unimpressed.

Enjolras starts and presses a hand to his chest. "'Ferre..." he breathes, leaning against the door frame for support.

"You shouldn't have locked the door. What if you'd fallen, or passed out?"

He hadn't thought of that. "I...er..."

"Here." Combeferre holds out the clean pajamas he is holding. "I thought that might be where you'd gone."

It dawns on Enjolras that he's worried him, disappearing from his sick bed when yesterday he was probably unable to walk at all without help. He steps towards the bed, wobbly, to take the pajamas and is glad when Combeferre comes to meet him, to steady him, disapproving look melting from his features. "Sorry." Enjolras mumbles, pulling on the bottoms as Combeferre turns his back.

Combeferre sighs as he settles Enjolras on the bed and helps him button the shirt. He smiles at Enjolras, some measure of fond exasperation in his expression. "Why can't you just be like a normal person when you're ill, instead of being obsessed with being clean and intent on escaping and worrying me."

"I'm sorry." Enjolras repeats, he is guilty and he knows it. "For worrying you. Although I hardly think one shower in what...two days, can be classed as obsession."

Combeferre only raises an eyebrow as he tucks him in, so Enjolras considers himself chastised and meekly accepts the thermometer Combeferre is sliding under his tongue. He takes a seat next to Enjolras and pushes the still-wet, determinedly curling tendrils of hair back from his face. Enjolras feels a lecture looming.

"You've pushed your temperature back up." Combeferre says finally, as he inspects the thermometer. He hands Enjolras two tablets, acetaminophen, he realises when astringent, bitterness hits the back of his tongue. He takes them without complaint, to appease Combeferre, but pulls a face at the taste and wonders if giving him the variety without sugar coating is some sort of bizarre Combeferrian punishment. Enjolras hates taking medication, of any sort, but has to admit he appreciates the relief they bring from his aching joints.

"How are you feeling?" Combeferre asks him, fishing a stethoscope from the drawers beside his bed and warming the bell between his hands. "Honesty, please." He adds before Enjolras has time to speak.

True enough, Enjolras had been about to lie, but Combeferre is giving him that strict look over the top of his glasses which is usually reserved for Courfeyrac at his most rambunctious.

"Awful." He says finally with a sigh.

"Good boy. Was that so hard?" Combeferre teases as he presses the stethoscope to Enjolras' chest.

Enjolras' responding glare loses most of its power to the coughing fit which results from the exam.

Beside him, Courfeyrac doesn't stir.

"He's still quite poorly, isn't he?" Enjolras asks, looking at him, the ever-present worry for his friends twinging a little.

"He was rather worried about you. He's getting there; low grade fever and still snotty beyond all reason, which I can sympathise with..." Combeferre says, blowing his own nose. "Your chest, however, is pretty congested."

Enjolras nods distractedly, caught up in another coughing fit. Combeferre produces a bottle of thick, viscous liquid from somewhere. As the coughing subsides Enjolras groans. "Do I have to? It makes me so drowsy."

"Yes. If you're good and take your medicine, I might let you out of bed this afternoon. Relocate to the sofa."

He lets Combeferre spoon medicine into his mouth without further complaint. "Speaking of the sofa, did you know the rest of our friends seem to have moved into the living room?"

Combeferre smiles, amused. "Ah. Yes. Joly seemed to think bringing Bossuet here and looking after all of us would be easier. He's also fairly convinced you have pneumonia so be prepared for the fussing. After that, the others just sort of ...appeared. I think they missed us. They're worried about you..."

Enjolras ducks his head, blushing. "I'm alright."

"You're not. But you will be. Sooner if you behave and rest."

"Yes sir." He gives Combeferre a cheeky, if sloppy salute, and is rewarded with a kiss to the top of his head as Combeferre stands. "Are you hungry?"

Enjolras isn't really, but nods and dutifully eats the porridge Combeferre brings for both of them. They eat in companionable silence, in the grey early morning light, two habitually early risers enjoying the peace before the apartment is filled with the companionable noise and warmth their late sleeping friends will bring when they wake.

As promised, Combeferre does let him relocate to the sofa that afternoon to join the latest film marathon they've embarked on. He's endlessly grateful when instead of mothering him to death they have simply left a space on the sofa for him next to Courfeyrac. No one feels his forehead, bar Combeferre and Joly, no one tuts or winces when he coughs, no one comments about forgetting to sleep and eat and says it's hardly surprising he was taken ill. That said, whenever he does cough there is always a hand offering him a glass of water and an unending supply of cold clothes for his forehead. It is a quiet, reserved sort of concern and love which entirely suits Enjolras so he is happy to share the sofa and pile of blankets with Courfeyrac, their legs tangled together like some sort of two headed, phlegm-ridden blanket monster, coughing and sniffling to his heart's content without feeling self-conscious.

Despite feeling like death he is even in good enough a mood to let Cosette and Eponine tut and coo over him when they arrive that evening, Marius in tow. Marius looks a little baffled at the pile of boy which entirely takes up the floor space between the sofa and the TV. He is even more perturbed by the notion that Enjolras, fearless and god-like leader, burning beacon of fury and social justice warrior that he is, can do something quite so mortal, so human, so normal as be ill and sniffly wrapped up on the sofa with Courfeyrac. He is appeased easily enough when Jehan springs up and pulls him into the midst of the floor pile and asking him what film they should put on next. He redeems his initial awkwardness by choosing The Italian Job, the original, and earning himself unending respect in all of their eyes.

So Enjolras lies there piled high with pillows and blankets, his friends arranged about him, coughing and feverish, like some sort of 'nineteenth-century consumptive'. These words from Grantaire, who is closest of all of them, sitting with his back to the sofa and not minding the least bit when Enjolras' fingers wind into his hair, nor when they tug it in response to his cheeky comment.

Enjolras soon discovers Combeferre wasn't exaggerating about Joly's concern over his junky chest and sits through his poking, prodding and repeated sessions with the thermometer as patiently as he can.

Joly had done a marvellous job of restraining his hypochondria, which seemed to apply to his friends as much as to himself, fretting over ailments they might have as well as his own health, until Grantaire, quite off-hand, made this mention of tuberculosis and sent Joly into a spiral of renewed worry over Enjolras. Enjolras, wishing for Combeferre's patience or Courfeyrac's love of attention, admirably tolerated, with as much good grace as he could manage, the repeated exams and questions about night sweats, vaccinations and had he been near anyone who'd been coughing?

At this Enjolras looked in incredulity at him. "Coughing? Joly, of course I have...I've been nursing Combeferre and Courfeyrac for the past week. It's not TB Joly, it was the flu, and now it's a chest infection. You said so yourself. I'm not going to die. Please relax."

They all repeated this to him in variations to little avail. Enjolras remained feverish, coughing pitifully much to his own annoyance, and Joly remained stressed and anxious. Even Bossuet's calming influence was unable to restore Joly's usual, perpetual cheer. Eventually, Combeferre, who was entirely back to his old self now, convinced Enjolras to let them take him to a doctor. How, no one was ever sure, if there was one thing Enjolras hated more than medication, it was doctors. Whether it was more for Enjolras' benefit, or Joly's, was also questioned but nevertheless Enjolras returned to his sofa-cum-sickbed, leaning on Combeferre, looking severely displeased.

Courfeyrac, much less snotty but still wrapped in a blanket from his usual position at the opposite end of the sofa to Enjolras, held out his arms to Enjolras as he threw a questioning look at Combeferre.

Pulling away from Combeferre, shaky on his own, Enjolras went to him, hiding as much as he could in Courfeyrac's embrace.

Combeferre sighed and explained. "They put him on antibiotics for the chest infection. It's not pneumonia. It's not bloody TB." He adds with a sideways glance at Joly who had accompanied them.

No one else had entertained the notion that it had been and Joly had the good grace to blush.

Combeferre took pity on him, patted his shoulder and said "It's alright. I know you were just worried. But you can figure out how you are going to get him to take the drugs..."

END

Please, please review! I love reading what you've enjoyed/not as the case maybe and what you would like to see.

Courfeyrac does star in the next one - but he's not happy about it.