In this room, the seven of them left there learn that it is possible to grieve for someone you hardly know. They learn, too, that grief makes you see things in new ways. They learn that silence has a weight and a shape (how else could it settle over them in the way that it does?) and they learn that the dead leave behind them an unexpected imprint. The place where Jehan Prouvaire lay, limbs twitching in his last futile attempts to draw breath into his body, now draws every eye in the room, inexorably. It is conspicuous in it's emptiness; in the fact that he is no longer there. That spot is not cold, not really, but the absence of his fevered heat makes it seem colder. A magnet, it attracts their gazes but repels their footsteps – they eschew it, retreating to the back of the room. Even Grantaire, sceptic that he seems to be, joins them. Without his veneer of nonchalance, he seems lost.
Marius sits on the edge of a bed. His hands twist together in his lap. He does not seem to know where to look; his eyes find Courfeyrac's, and then slide away again.
"It's my fault, isn't it?" quick and disjointed, the outburst startles the others, who all turn to look at him almost simultaneously. "That boy – Jehan – he died because of me."
Combeferre begins to shake his head, but before he can say anything, Grantaire, looking not at Marius but up at the blank ceiling, says:
"Well, yeah. It is your fault, sort of. But not as much as it's their fault."
Marius inhales sharply. No one says anything for a few moments, because none of them can deny the truth of this. The real blame lies with the officials, but had Jehan never seen Marius fleeing for his life, and had the officials not brought Marius to join their number when Jehan was at his most vulnerable, he would still be alive, now. Alive, and probably free.
It's Courfeyrac who, a little belatedly, comes to his friend's defence. "Don't be an idiot," he tells Grantaire, and there is something decidedly forced about the casual lightness of his tone, "Marius didn't do anything wrong." To Marius, he goes on, "You were just, I don't know, in the wrong place at the wrong time. That's all. Not your fault that you're really crap at running fast. That would've helped, but, you know. What can you do?" He tries to fill the room with his bright chatter, but the attempt falls flat, and he peters out, ground, for the first time, into submission.
Grantaire, wholly unperturbed by Courfeyrac's comment, asks of no one in particular: "So, how long d'you think Enjolras'll take to get out, if he manages it at all?" His unconcerned drawl is back, but it doesn't deceive Combeferre, who notices him sitting up straighter, hands crumpling the sheet beneath him and then releasing it as though he doesn't quite know what to do with them.
"I don't know," he says, giving Grantaire a shrewd look, "But if he's too much longer, I think we should – well, I think we should worry. In theory, it wouldn't take him too long to tell Bahorel what's going on, wait 'til they're left alone, and then get out of there. If he's gone more than a few hours, he's obviously been delayed for some reason, or -" he pauses, and the alternative hangs in the air even before he says it aloud, "- or they've got to him already."
"Maybe he overdid it with the whole 'telling us everything he knows in front of the officials' plan," Grantaire says quietly, without even a trace of his usual sarcasm. But Combeferre is no longer paying attention; his eyes have fallen on Feuilly, who alone still sits on the floor near the door. He hasn't moved since the official left, taking the limp figure that had once been Jehan with him.
"Feuilly," says Combeferre, standing up, "You alright? Feuilly?" Concern vibrates taut in his voice.
""Wh- oh, yeah," Feuilly startles, glancing over his shoulder at the others, "Yeah, I'm fine." He says it a second time, as though to reassure himself, "I'm fine."
Combeferre is unconvinced. Right now, it's too easy to imagine Feuilly ending up like Jehan, and, though Combeferre has only exchanged a few words with the other boy, he finds that somehow the thought terrifies him. He goes to Feuilly and sits down beside him. Unlike Jehan, who spent his final waking hours in a hyper-alert, fever induced state which teetered always on the brink of panic, Feuilly seems lethargic and unfocused. Where Jehan's face was flushed, his is very white.
"Do you feel ill?" Combeferre asks him, "Tired? Feverish? Does anything hurt?"
"What're you, the bloody doctor?" Grantaire sounds derisive enough, but his hands are balled up tight around fistfuls of crisp, white bedsheet.
"I'm alright," says Feuilly, and though his voice is quiet, it's steady. "I just can't – the way that official just -" what began as an excuse for his current symptoms (he could pass them off as manifestations of shock, couldn't he?) surges now into the same helpless, indignant anger that had exploded out of him in quick, anxious starts earlier that evening. "How do they do it, every day? He just flung him over his shoulder like a – like a piece of meat, or something. He really didn't care. At all. I can't understand how people like that exist, or how anyone genuinely believes they're making the world a better place. It's all just mindless death and war and – and -" he cuts himself off abruptly, forcing himself to breathe deeply. Combeferre, his mouth a tight, worried line, watches him.
"I know," he says simply, because what else is there to say?
Feuilly closes his eyes tight and then opens them again. Is he trying to banish some unwelcome image? To get rid of what they all wish was just a nightmare? Is he tired? Weaker than he's letting on? Combeferre can't help second-guessing every movement he makes, now, and he knows it's not altogether conducive, but he can't help it.
"They can't all be like that," Feuilly continues, more softly, now, "There must be some of them who are just doing their job; supporting their families. There must be some of them who don't really know – who really think they're doing the right thing."
Combeferre nods in what he hopes is a reassuring sort of way, but he's thinking of how Feuilly's eyes seem to have trouble focusing on his face. He has to take a moment to tell himself, this isn't Jehan. He'll be alright.
There are quiet, quick footsteps as Joly and Lesgles join them, the former sitting down beside Feuilly; the latter beside Combeferre. Now they form a loose semicircle.
"What's the matter?" asks Joly. Combeferre immediately wishes he hadn't.
"Nothing," he says hurriedly, and Feuilly gives him a grateful look.
Joly, though, doesn't seem to think that's an acceptable answer. "Feuilly, what day is it?"
Pause. "Wednesday?"
Lesgles stares at Joly, eyebrows crinkling in a 'why are you asking him stupid questions?' expression.
"How old are you?"
Pause. "Sixteen. Only just."
"What's two plus three?"
Pause.
"Five."
Joly gives Combeferre a glance that can only be described as frantic. "You're hesitating more than you should," he tells Feuilly, "That means your responses are slower than they should be."
"Come on," this is Grantaire again, "Can we not pretend to be in some sort of shitty medical drama? You're overreacting."
Courfeyrac stifles a laugh, but Marius is watching the little group by the door with a new wariness.
"Look," Feuilly gets to his feet, and he doesn't stumble, but it's definitely not just in Combeferre's imagination that he moves very slowly; gingerly, the way you'd move after falling down a flight of stairs and finding yourself covered with aches and pains. "I told you I'm fine. So you can stop worrying. Worry about how we're going to get out of here if Enjolras doesn't show up." He makes his way to a nearby bed and sits down, drawing his legs up onto it and leaning back against the wall.
Combeferre resists the urge to look at him sidelong. Then he, too, stands, suddenly feeling the absence of Jehan more than ever. Since their arrival here; since they'd been locked up in this room, he realises he'd rarely left Jehan's side. Where does that leave him now?
Time passes in great clumps, crawling with a sluggish, viscous quality. Courfeyrac tries to keep up an intermittent stream of empty chatter, and occasionally Joly or Lesgles will chime in, but for the most part, no one says anything much. When the key turns in the lock, they all (save for Marius and Feuilly, who are both asleep) look up sharply, hoping for Enjolras but expecting more officials.
It is their expectations, and not their hopes, which are matched. A lone official steps just inside the door.
"Checks," he tells them in a monotone. Combeferre, unable to help himself, seizes the opportunity.
"Subject Feuilly needs medical attention," he says, and the official raises his eyebrows at his audacity.
"Subject Feuilly looks sound asleep to me," he replies, and Combeferre shakes his head, trying to form adequate words to convey the urgency he feels.
"You people don't really learn from your mistakes, do you?" Grantaire leans forward to look at the official more directly. "You already screwed up with Prouvaire. Are you seriously going to do it again? You're like dogs; people higher up than you, like Enjolras' father, can train you; make you do interesting tricks, but mostly you just eat, sleep, shit and make the same stupid mistakes over and over."
The official's eyes bulge, but he seems at least to recognise the veracity of Grantaire's statement, because he says tersely: "I'll send for a medic," and then disappears again, locking the door behind him.
The moment he's gone, Courfeyrac turns to Grantaire with an expression of mingled astonishment and excitement that hovers perilously close to awe. "What the heck was that? He could've taken you off to be Altered right there and then?"
Grantaire only shrugs. "It's going to happen eventually," he says. And he really does believe it, Combeferre realises. He's resigned, and trying to use that resignation to combat his fear. It's the only weapon he's got.
-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-
Jean Valjean enters the room for a third time to find the boys even further depleted in number. The tall blond boy and another with hair of a pale reddish-gold colour are both missing, but there is a new addition to their number, too; a smallish, round-faced youth who somehow manages to look even more lost and out of place than the others.
He has barely gone two paces into the room when Courfeyrac, abandoning all pretence, rushes to him.
"They've taken Enjolras!" he bursts out, "He was supposed to escape with the keys Feuilly stole, and bring Bahorel with him, but it's been hours and he hasn't come back and now we're all really worried and-"
"What're you doing?" Joly cuts across him in a panic, "You're going to get us all into trouble, and we'll never-"
But he, too, is interrupted, this time by Valjean himself.
"It's alright," says the medic, "I am here to help you in whatever way I can. Courfeyrac knows that, but I told him not to tell you. For him to disregard my request," he gives Courfeyrac an unreadable look, "Things must be very serious. You can tell me everything while I attend to the boy who is ill."
And so they do. Valjean – for that is how he later introduces himself to them – shines little lights into Feuilly's eyes and checks his heart-rate and asks him quiet questions while the others take it in turns to relate the events of the past day or so. When he learns of Jehan's fate, Valjean's expression becomes graver still and he turns his gaze upward for a moment, as though looking at something beyond the ceiling of the room.
"Could you have helped him?" Lesgles asks, and Valjean hesitates just a moment, before answering:
"Perhaps. I don't know. I wish I'd had the chance to try. But wishing cannot help him, God rest his soul, and perhaps I can help you, Feuilly, at least." Then, to Combeferre, "You were very wise to insist that someone see him." Feuilly's eyes widen at this, and Valjean casts him a brief, reassuring glance before pressing on. "This is what we will do. Feuilly will come with me; the rest of you will wait here. As soon as I can, I will go to Enjolras and tell the men overseeing his procedure to hold off on account of anomalies in his initial test results. These things are delicate. I'll tell them I made a mistake and need to re-administer the tests; they'll have no choice but to let me. Once Enjolras is safely away, we'll decide how best to proceed."
"What about Subject Bahorel?" Grantaire wants to know, "Forget about him, did you?"
The sadness in Valjean's age-faded brown eyes tells them all they need to know.
"Come on," he says heavily to Feuilly, "Can you stand? That's it. Slowly. There, you're alright; it's alright." To the others; "Try to get some rest. Tomorrow will not be easy."
And yet there is a strange sort of hope in his words, and Combeferre, watching him guide a disorientated Feuilly out of the room, feels, for the first time since their arrival, a little reassured.
