Les Hommes de la Miséricorde
(Men of Mercy)
A/N: Hello everyone! I am so very sorry for the delay in my usual updating schedule, I was out of town for a few days and life just generally got a bit hectic. But here you are, the next chapter! A quite a long one! Thank you again for all of your fabulous feedback, it is ever and always appreciated, and thank you to everyone reading. I've had a few questions about Javert, so just to let everyone know, I haven't forgotten him! We will be checking back in with our dear inspector.
A special thanks to ariadneslostthread, my wonderful beta reader and fandom spouse, because this chapter would not be what it is without her. Enjoy!
Chapter 25: On Time, Togetherness, and Terror
Courfeyrac awakes suddenly, heart racing in his chest. He sits up slowly, slightly dizzy, and pours himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table, steadying his hands. He breathes in deep so that his heart might calm. He'd had a dark, jumbled nightmare that he scarcely remembers even though he awoke just moments ago, but finds he'd rather not recall in any case.
Sunlight falls in sheaths across his floor, streaks of orange and pink spraying the sky outside his window. It's early still, but he'd slept for nearly fifteen hours after Combeferre sent him to bed, he realizes when he looks at the clock. He'd woken up several times in the night, drenched in anxious sweat and tempted to jolt up from bed and go check on Enjolras, to check he's breathing and alive and there. But he'd stayed, attempting sleep once more so that he wouldn't be dead on his feet when he awoke, so that he might be able to do whatever was necessary to help Enjolras, to help Combeferre to help himself, to help anyone, because all he wants right now is to do, to assist, to comfort, because if he sits here and thinks too much he fears he'll go mad.
It will be alright, he tells himself. It will be alright. We are together.
Bossuet's voice sounds in his mind, the familiar sound making his heart ache for missing him.
"Who can ever say I'm truly unlucky," Bossuet had said once during a late night at the Musain or the Corinth, Courfeyrac can't remember which, a night when they'd convinced even Enjolras and Combeferre to put down their work, all of them sitting together, cravats loosened and feet propped up on the tables, soaking in the mere joy of togetherness. "When I have friends such as the eight of you?"
Memories are a double-edged sword, Courfeyrac thinks, as he pulls on his dressing gown, hurting and healing in one fell swoop. His eyes fall on the unopened letter he notices someone slid under his door, from his parents no doubt. He pockets it, intending to read it once he's sat down to breakfast. He hasn't eaten for near twenty-four hours, he realizes, and thinks with a rush of worry that it must have been even longer since Enjolras ate, since he drank anything other than the half cup of tea upon his return yesterday or the bitter Laudanum forced down his throat.
Silence coats the house as he walks out of his bedroom, but it's a better type of quiet than the previous evening, when it very much felt as if anyone feared making a single sound. Now there's the peaceful calm of a sleeping household, but Courfeyrac feels an air of anxious worry slicing through nevertheless. The door to Enjolras' room is cracked open, so Courfeyrac enters noiselessly; Valjean sits in a chair by the bedside, and Courfeyrac's heart warms at seeing Combeferre sleeping next to Enjolras, hands intertwined as if Combeferre fears Javert will come once again and rip Enjolras from him in sleep.
"You convinced Combeferre to sleep, I see?" Courfeyrac whispers, standing next to Valjean's chair.
"Hmm," Valjean says, a small, close-mouthed smile on his lips. "He protested a bit, but he was falling asleep in this chair. Couldn't quite get him to his own bed, however."
"I'm not surprised," Courfeyrac says, contemplating the two men whose souls are so intertwined with his own that sometimes he feels as if they are three parts of a whole. "If Combeferre hadn't sent me to bed earlier I'd likely have piled in there with them. We aren't shy with each other, the lot of us."
"So I've gathered," Valjean says fondly, a yawn marring his words, though he tries suppressing the sound.
"You have to be tired," Courfeyrac says. "You haven't slept for nearly two days, almost."
"I have a knack for going without sleeping," Valjean admits. "But Feuilly is actually coming in to take over for me once he retrieves some breakfast from downstairs."
"Ah, good then," Courfeyrac answers. "Did Enjolras…did he wake at all during the night, or?"
"Not once," Valjean says, frowning slightly now. "At first I was concerned he didn't, but I realized just how much Laudanum Javert must have given him, and that is an incredibly potent substance, so it's not altogether surprising."
Almost as if on cue, Combeferre's eyes start fluttering open at Valjean's words. They open fully after a moment, landing first on Enjolras, still sleeping beside him, watching the shallow but steady in and out of Enjolras' breathing for a solid fifteen seconds before his eyes flit to Valjean, then to Courfeyrac.
"Good morning," he says, voice thick with sleep as he sits up as carefully as possible so he doesn't wake Enjolras, looking momentarily confused when he realizes he's still dressed in his clothes from the day before. "What time is it?"
"Just after eight in the morning," Valjean answers.
Combeferre nods, looking again at Enjolras chest rising and falling, breaths still shallow; there's a spot of color returned to his cheeks now, the bluish tinge gone from his lips, but drops of sweat still gather at his hairline, and Courfeyrac knows not whether that stems from the Laudanum overdose or from a fever.
"His breathing's still shallow, but it's improving," Combeferre remarks, and Courfeyrac knows he's entering fully into medical mode right now in order to keep focus, because his emotions threaten to overcome him completely. Something in Combeferre's eyes when he meets Courfeyrac's own tells him that he found out a piece of what happened to Enjolras in the jail, tells him that they'll speak later.
Courfeyrac moves over to other side of the bed where Combeferre sits, placing both hands on his friend's shoulders.
"Why don't you go change and freshen up?" he suggests. "Feuilly is coming to take over for Valjean here in a moment, and Feuilly's hands are ever capable. Go freshen up and allow me to bring you something to eat."
"Enjolras hasn't…" Combeferre protests.
"Eaten?" Courfeyrac finishes. "I know. But you cannot do your best by him if you don't take care of yourself, hmm?"
Combeferre almost chuckles at the familiar words, words that generally leave his own mouth rather than Courfeyrac's and obliges with a nod. Courfeyrac musses Combeferre's hair affectionately before returning to the other side of the bed, resting his hand delicately on Enjolras' cheek, feeling the warmth of the slight fever tangible beneath his fingers. Then he turns toward Valjean, who watches him with keen eyes.
"Thank you," Courfeyrac says, releasing a breath. "In the madness of our return, I don't think we thanked you properly; for saving Enjolras' life, for somehow convincing Javert to leave…for not being furious with us for following you when you bid us not to."
"It is…" Valjean starts.
"A favor that we have not an inkling of how to repay," Combeferre finishes. "When I saw the knife pressed up against Enjolras' throat, saw the mad look in J-that man's eyes, I thought…" Combeferre pauses, unable to say Javert's name and unwilling to articulate the horrific image Courfeyrac knows plagues all their minds, the image of Javert slicing the knife across Enjolras' artery, of crimson blood spurting forth and splashing on the dirt. Of Enjolras sliding from Javert's grasp and onto the ground, dead.
"I thought all might be lost," Combeferre finishes. "But you talked him down, and I'm still not altogether sure how. But we are grateful. So very grateful." Combeferre's eyes flit to the still sleeping Enjolras, hand instinctively touching their friend's arm.
"I know Javert," Valjean says simply. "And I also knew you might follow me there." He smiles slightly, an attempt at sternness in his tone. "And I'll admit, it did worry me when you showed up, but you read the situation, you listened to me, that's what's important."
Courfeyrac observes as Valjean tucks a stray blond stand behind Enjolras' ear, smiling at the gesture; he knows it can't be easy for the older man to let new people into his life like this, and it means more than Courfeyrac can quite express at the moment.
"Well, I'm off to find some breakfast for the both of us," he says, looking back at Combeferre. "You go do as said, all right? Enjolras will be well-tended with Feuilly for a little while. I'll bring the pastries to your room, shall I?"
Combeferre nods, clearly knowing that arguing with Courfeyrac would be rather fruitless.
"Get some rest monsieur," Courfeyrac adds, clasping Valjean's shoulder for a moment.
With that he turns to go, closing the door behind him lest the noise of the awakening household rouse Enjolras from his much needed sleep. He's so deep in thought that when he reaches the top of the stairs he nearly collides with Feuilly. He carries a small tray in his hands, and it's only Feuilly's well-trained reflexes that keep it from toppling to the carpet.
"Oh Feuilly," Courfeyrac says, hands darting out and steadying the tray. "I'm so sorry my friend, I wasn't paying the slightest attention."
"It's all right, Courf," Feuilly responds, an affectionate light in his weary dark brown eyes. "I think we're all a bit out of sorts."
Courfeyrac looks at Feuilly for a moment, truly looks at him, seeing the sprinkling of freckles spreading from his nose to his cheeks, tanned skin from his fondness for reading in the park when he had a spare moment, the ginger hair hanging in his eyes for lack of a haircut and not held back by his usual cap, the faded paint stains on his hands. Suddenly, he has the incurable desire to pull Feuilly forward and embrace him fully, telling him how much he means to him, how much he loves him, how much he appreciates him.
"Courfeyrac?" Feuilly presses. "Are you okay?"
"Yes, sorry," Courfeyrac replies. "I was simply admiring your rather handsome face in the morning light. Ladies like artists Feuilly, we shall have to go out on the town in Avignon."
"I'm sure you'll see to it," Feuilly says, chuckling.
"I certainly will," Courfeyrac says. "And if you go out for a night of frivolity with me, Enjolras might follow, despite his protests when I try convincing him myself, because 'if Feuilly goes well then we must all go. If Feuilly makes time for a night out then we must all make time' is usually what I hear, even if ten minutes previously he protested that he was far too busy for a nice supper and a theater engagement."
"Oh hush," Feuilly says, chuckling still even as he blushes.
Silence falls between them for a moment, the gravity of the situation returning amidst their moment of lightheartedness.
"I'm going to take over for Valjean," Feuilly says. "Have you been in this morning?"
"I have," Courfeyrac answers. "I'm just going down to retrieve some breakfast for Combeferre and myself. I had to convince him to go freshen himself up and eat. Do you mind sitting with Enjolras for a bit while I take that to him?"
"Not at all," Feuilly says. "Though I know both of you are loathe to leave him for even a moment. But it will do me good to sit with him for bit, convinces me he's actually here with us."
"Yes," Courfeyrac says, nodding. "Yes I know exactly what you mean. If he'll have me, there will likely soon be a Courfeyrac shaped indentation in his bed, I imagine."
Feuilly laughs again, and Courfeyrac revels in the sound. He wants to make Enjolras laugh like that, wants to hear the dignified, restrained chuckle turn into true laughter, sides shaking from mirth. It's never occurred to him how similar Enjolras and Feuilly's laughter is, but now he hears it, hears it so clearly it hurts when Bahorel's loud, booming laughter rings in his head and mixes with Feuilly's, melding memory and reality into one.
"Did you manage to speak with R?" Courfeyrac asks, forcing himself back into the present.
"I did," Feuilly says, even more worry darkening his eyes. "Took some doing, but I managed to talk to him, I do hope it was helpful…"
"I'm sure it was," Courfeyrac assures him, utterly sincere.
"He's absolutely broken up over seeing Enjolras this way," Feuilly replies. "I mean we all are of course, but you know Grantaire, sometimes it's almost as if all his belief in life is tied up in Enjolras, and I'll admit, I'm worried. The withdrawal is…worse than I initially thought; he's more fragile than normal, and in light of all that's happened…"
"We'll keep an eye on him," Courfeyrac says, frowning in concern, feeling more anxiety take up residence in his heart, flowing through him like a toxin and adding to the growing prickling sensation in his stomach. "I'm relieved he let you in, at least. That may prove important later if he tries shutting us out."
Feuilly nods again. "You go get those pastries for yourself and Combeferre," he says, shooing Courfeyrac away. "I'll take care of Enjolras for a bit."
With that he goes, allowing Courfeyrac to place a bisou on his cheek before pushing the door to Enjolras' room open with his foot.
Courfeyrac walks swiftly down the stairs with every intention of heading to the kitchen, where he suspects Madame Bellard and Toussaint are already up and setting out the breakfast pastries; the two women became fast friends, and are invigorated at having a whole household full of people to take care of, and Courfeyrac knows just how to smile at the two of them so they'll give him the pastries fresh from the oven. He walks past the small sitting room nestled to the right of the stairs, the one they often frequent because of the particularly comfortable chairs, stopping short when he spots Marius sitting within, staring at something that causes Courfeyrac's heart to contract painfully.
Enjolras' cane.
It's propped up against the chair their chief usually frequents; Gavroche picked the cane up from its place on the floor after Javert kicked it away from Enjolras, setting it up in the chair in the hope of Enjolras' return.
No one has touched it since.
"Marius?" Courfeyrac asks softly, leaning in the doorway.
Marius jumps, clearly so lost in thought he didn't hear Coufeyrac's approach.
"Oh, Courfeyrac," he says, looking up, his paler than usual face indicating that he hasn't slept a great deal. "I didn't hear you coming."
"Clearly," Courfeyrac replies, a half-smile quirking at his lips. He fully enters the room now, taking a seat on the ottoman of Marius' chair. "Are you all right, my friend?"
Marius continues his vigil staring at the chair, mahogany cane propped up against the arm.
"Marius?" Courfeyrac tries, worry swooping through his stomach at his friend's lack of response.
Marius jerks, eyes finally meeting Courfeyrac's.
"I apologize," Marius replies. "I was only…"
"Thinking of Enjolras," Courfeyrac finishes when Marius trails off.
"Yes," Marius answers, a lost glimmer in his eyes, mixed with a sadness so deep it adds to Courfeyrac's own.
"As are we all," Courfeyrac says, reaching for Marius' hand and holding it tightly in his own.
"How is he?" Marius asks, squeezing Courfeyrac's hand.
"Sleeping still," Courfeyrac says. "Feuilly just took over Valjean's shift. Combeferre awoke and went to freshen himself up; I told him I'd bring him up some breakfast in a bit."
"You should do that then," Marius says, gesturing toward the kitchen. "Don't worry over me."
"I shall worry over you if I so choose," Courfeyrac chides. "Combeferre won't mind, he might like a few minutes to himself while he cleans up. Talk to me."
Marius nods, eyes flitting from Courfeyrac to the chair then back to Courfeyrac.
"I only…" Marius begins. "I just…"
"Take your time," Courfeyrac says, taking Marius' other hand in his own.
"I know I haven't known Enjolras quite as long as the rest of you," Marius says, finally completing his thought. "And I know I'm younger, less experienced in all of this, but I look up to all of you, look up to him, and seeing him like that yesterday, I never expected it, I suppose. He's as human as the rest of us, I know, but sometimes it just…doesn't seem it."
"I don't think any of us ever envisioned this situation," Courfeyrac admits, turning around and gazing at the solitary cane.
"I'm sure I don't need a cane, Combeferre," Enjolras had said just a week ago. "I can manage the stairs on my own, I'm certain."
"And I'm certain you do need one," Combeferre argued amiably.
"Indulge us," Courfeyrac had said. "Allow us the role of worrisome old codgers. You should listen to your elders, Enjolras."
"My elders!" Enjolras exclaims. "Combeferre is seven months older than me and you scarcely two."
"See there? Elders."
Enjolras' lips had quirked up ever so slightly
"Worrisome old codgers indeed, my elders."
"I was just remembering something," Marius says, drawing Courfeyrac out of his thoughts. "It was when you graciously allowed me to lodge with you, it couldn't have been more than the third or fourth time I'd met the Amis, and I went with you to a rally. I remember watching Enjolras, listening to him speak to the crowd outside the Musain, remember the power in his voice, how enraptured the people were."
"I remember that day," Courfeyrac says. "As I recall it turned into an accidental riot when the police arrived. Seemed to think we were causing trouble."
"Yes," Marius nods. "And one of the officers went for Joly, I think because he mistook the cane for a weapon, and then Enjolras was there, sliding in between them and taking the hit from the truncheon himself. An altercation followed, and…"
"Enjolras spent a few nights in La Force," Courfeyrac says grimly. "That was the first time it ever happened, because we always did our best to show discretion so we could keep working, but sometimes it was unavoidable. Combeferre was worried sick."
"You were worried sick," Marius teases lightly. "Everyone was. But I just remember, Enjolras didn't even look afraid when the officer threw him in the fiacre. And even if he was, it didn't show in his expression. And everyone waited in your rooms the night Combeferre and Bahorel went to pick Enjolras up, and he was far more concerned about everyone else than he was himself, and he's the one who had been in prison. And then he got back to work, like nothing had happened, that same undying intensity in his eyes. He seemed so unbreakable then."
"Aside from his ribs," Courfeyrac says. "He got kicked in the cell and bruised a few of them rather badly, nearly drove Combeferre and Joly to distraction when they put him on bed rest."
Marius chuckles softly, but there's still a great deal of unrest in his eyes.
"He's…" Courfeyrac begins, but Marius has not quite finished his thought.
"I just, I rather despise the world for doing this to him," Marius continues, tears brimming forth in his tone. "It's exceedingly wrong somehow, I just…"
"I know," Courfeyrac says, squeezing Marius' hands with the utmost warmth. "I know exactly. But don't lose faith in the world just yet; things may be admittedly awful at the moment, but Enjolras wouldn't hear of you losing faith in the world, in people. Enjolras has been knocked down, that's for certain, he's bruised and beaten, but he will get back up. With our help and for every hope-filled bone in his body, he will get back up. It's just a matter of needing time. We all require some time, I think."
Courfeyrac looks Marius directly in the eyes when he speaks, feeling a certainty spread into his own heart as he watches it flood Marius' eyes.
Marius nods, releasing one of Courfeyrac's hands and running a hand through his mussed hair.
"You are right," he replies, and Courfeyrac feels his friend's rapid pulse through the thin skin of his wrist. "You are absolutely right. I just…it pains me, seeing him that way. On top of everything else that's happened, losing the others…"
Courfeyrac feels the familiar sock to the gut at the mention of their deceased friends, at the mention of the loss of the barricade, but instead of focusing on the swoop of an emotional pain so deep in manifests in a physical manner, he focuses on the friend in front of him, the friend who needs him right now.
"You are in fine company in these respects, my dear Marius," Courfeyrac says softly. He pauses. "Might you like to see Enjolras? Even if he's sleeping? It might do you some good. Perhaps we ought to find Gavroche as well."
"Oh, no, I doubt he's up to a flood of visitors in his room," Marius protests, but Courfeyrac hears the change in his voice at the mention of the idea. "It's alright."
"I'm sure he'll consent to a moment to put your mind at ease," Courfeyrac says, knowing it's true; Enjolras likely won't want a crowd of people around him right now, but Courfeyrac's certain he won't mind a few short hellos if it means his friends rest easier.
"Well, if Enjolras allows it and Combeferre thinks it all right," Marius concedes. "And I think Gavroche is out in the garden, I saw him dash out earlier, and he said he wanted to be alone for a little while."
Concern for the resilient, street-smart little boy washes over Courfeyrac, but he also knows that if Gavroche wants some solitary time, then he will respect that.
"We should allow him some time to process," Coufeyrac says. "But if you could catch him when he comes in, and wait for me? I'm going to speak with Combeferre and then see if Enjolras is awake and up to a hello. I think it might do all of you some good."
"Thank you, Courfeyrac," Marius says softly, quiet earnestness in every word, the unassuming intelligence Courfeyrac has always admired clear behind his eyes. "For everything."
Courfeyrac smiles: he's taken aback when Marius launches his gangly arms around his neck, but hugs him back tightly in return after a moment. Always a little awkward, always a little unsure, Marius isn't nearly as tactile as Courfeyrac because of his generally nervous disposition, so when Marius shows physical affection, Courfeyrac knows it's a sign of an outpouring of emotion. He's noticed however, that Cosette's entrance into Marius' life has made quite a difference in this regard, and he smiles wider at the thought of their happiness. And then nearly laughs at the idea that Marius once referred to her as Ursula before he even knew her name.
"You are most welcome Marius," Courfeyrac replies, words muffled slightly into his friend's shirt, a thought presenting itself in his mind. "Did you still have your plans to propose to Cosette soon?"
Marius pulls back, looking confused.
"Well…yes, of course," he answers, stretching out the words. "I was planning on taking a journey into Avignon in three days, actually, taking her to this restaurant I know she'll love, but I with everything going on, with Enjolras…"
"The best thing you can do for Enjolras is to keep with your plans," Courfeyrac says, firm but kind. "He wouldn't want you interrupting such important plans on his behalf, and I'm sure it would make him happy to see the joy on yours and Cosette's faces."
"It is a bad moment to pronounce the word love. No matter I do pronounce it. And I glorify it," Marius whispers, repeating Enjolras' words from the barricade.
"Exactly," Courfeyrac says, patting Marius' cheek. "I'll be back in bit."
Marius nods, opening the book of Lamartine poetry he'd just begun upon finishing a volume of English Romantic poetry. Courfeyrac walks past, hesitating for a moment before seizing the cane and tucking it under his arm. It wouldn't bite him, certainly, and Enjolras would need it once he was up and about again. He bids good morning to Toussaint and Madame Bellard, both of whom ask after Enjolras, and pile more pastries than either he or Combeferre could possibly eat onto his tray, along with a pot of tea, and send him back upstairs. He walks carefully up the stairs this time, knocking when he reaches Combeferre's door.
"Are you decent in there?" he teases.
"Quite," Combeferre responds dryly. "Come in."
Courfeyrac does, placing the tray down on the large dresser and turning toward Combeferre, who's dressed in a fresh shirt and trousers, though he's still devoid of a waistcoat or a cravat; if they're just spending time in the house they usually go without jackets, especially given the growing summer temperatures outside. He might have slept for near fourteen hours, but worry and weariness writes a different story in the shadows under Combeferre's eyes, in the creased lines of his forehead.
"Feel better for freshening up a bit?" Courfeyrac prods, hoping for a bit more than just an answer to the actual question he's posing.
"A bit," Combeferre affirms, gesturing for Courfeyrac to sit, taking one of the pastries and nibbling at the edge. "I didn't know, but Valjean had the letter dispatched to Flora last evening, as soon as he could. So she should get the news in two days or so, three at most, if the post is slow."
"You sound concerned about that," Courfeyrac says, sensing an edge in Combeferre's tone.
"Only that Aubry will inevitably hear the news as well," Combeferre mutters, referring to Enjolras' father. "He's not a bad man, certainly, he means well, from what I can tell. And he's no monarchist, how could he be, really, what with his wife's American lineage, but he does not understand Enjolras, not in the slightest."
"Thinks his son is wasting his life," Courfeyrac chimes in, feeling for the letter in his dressing gown pocket and pulling it out, thumb running over the paper. He'd read the letter while he waited for the tea to brew. It was a request from his father for his return home, and a plea from his mother. Courfeyrac still speaks to his father, as their fights have not yet reached that level, but he knows exactly how Enjolras feels in this respect. Combeferre's eyes catch on the letter, but he lets the matter rest at seeing the expression on Courfeyrac's face. Both of them know Courfeyrac won't be returning home, at least not for more than a few days' visit, and it won't be at present, but he will need to write his family. Courfeyrac envies Combeferre a bit in this moment; Combeferre's parents are merchants who own a successful business in Arras, and though they worry for their son's activism, surely have asked him not to risk his life, they support him. They'd hoped he would take over the business, and while slightly baffled at Combeferre's medical ambitions, they agreed to pay for his schooling. Combeferre's the black sheep of his family, but he's a more accepted black sheep.
"And their last meeting was unpleasant, to say the least" Courfeyrac continues. "I'll never forget how quietly furious Enjolras was when he returned from that visit."
"He's seen Flora, seen his grandmother plenty of times," Combeferre says. "But he hasn't seen Aubry since that day, since that massive argument, that literal and metaphorical slap in the face, that day he told Enjolras he was wasting his life, that he was a monumental disappointment." Combeferre sighs. "He wanted Enjolras to sit for the bar, join a firm, get married to a noble woman, and eventually inherit the estate and move back to Marseille and live a quiet life. Doesn't seem to understand that the politics, the republicanism, the revolution, is not just some youthful passing fancy. All of that is Enjolras."
"Well," Courfeyrac says, taking a sip of the tea Combeferre pours him. "He did pass the bar, flying colors and all, at the same time as me. And he would have joined a firm if he did not become a fugitive shortly after, but I doubt it would have been the sort of firm his father would choose. And if Aubry thinks Enjolras is the sort to marry a woman and move to the countryside and settle down with children to live some sort of quiet life, then…"
"He doesn't know Enjolras," Combeferre finishes.
"No," Courfeyrac replies. "But let us not worry about that right now, all right my friend? Let us focus on what's in front of us. How are you?"
"I'm fine," Combeferre says, far too quickly.
"Combeferre," Courfeyrac says, uncharacteristically stern. "You are a most frightful liar. If you do not at least admit your own distress right now, you won't be able to help Enjolras through this. And he needs us."
A half-smile tugs at Combeferre's lips, but it's wrenched with melancholy, and suddenly it seems as if Combeferre fights for his composure. Courfeyrac moves from his chair, hastily squatting in front of Combeferre, who pushes the heels of his hands against his eyes. Observant as he is, Courfeyrac knows when both of his best friends are battling tears; Enjolras presses his thumb and forefingers against his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. Combeferre does this. Coufeyrac takes Combeferre's face in his hands, forcing Combeferre's gaze to him.
"I'm just so damned angry," Combeferre says, voice gravely. "I want to find Javert and I…I want to…"
"Make him hurt the way he's hurt Enjolras?"
"I…yes," Combeferre admits. "But that's…it's horrible. I shouldn't even think that, but he made this so much worse."
"It's only natural to feel that way," Courfeyrac says, resting his head against Combeferre's own. "I feel that way. What happened in that jail, Combeferre?"
"A prostitute was wounded," Combeferre explains. "And Enjolras tried helping her, tried everything but they wouldn't call for a doctor until it was too late. She died in his arms. And then he said he completely lost his temper on Javert, said he'd never lost control in such a way, and that led to an altercation with Javert, hence why they started drugging him."
"How many doses?"
"Three and half in less than eight hours," Combeferre answers, grim. Combeferre closes his eyes as Courfeyrac slides the spectacles on the top of his head, massaging his temples for a moment.
"Christ," Coufeyrac mutters, continuing his ministrations, and Combeferre leans into the touch. "It's no damn wonder he was covered in blood and completely out of sorts."
Silence falls; there are so many things to say, and yet they cannot all be said in one moment.
"We'd best get back to him, I think," Combeferre says, running a hand through Courfeyrac's bed-head curls. "Thank you."
"As ever," Courfeyrac says. "Lead the way."
They enter, Combeferre still shoeless and Courfeyrac still in his dressing gown, and find Feuilly whispering softly to a just awakening Enjolras, his finger marking the place in a volume on Polish politics buried deep within the rather expansive library contained within the Gillenormand home. Enjolras' hand grasps Feuilly's free one securely and there's a wan smile on his face, but Courfeyrac' sees his friend's rapid breathing, the darting eyes: there's every sign of panic on Enjolras' features, and that's not something to which Courfeyrac is accustomed. He's seen fleeting panic rush across Enjolras' face, seen him swallow it, seen him bury it deep beneath his eyes, mostly in the midst of both of the barricades they fought upon. But it was always gone as quick as it came, action taken, crisis handled, so seeing this unbridled, barely controlled panic in Enjolras' demeanor unsettles him.
"Ah, you're back," Feuilly says, turning toward the door, and Enjolras' eyes follow him, landing on first on Courfeyrac, then Combeferre.
His breathing slows just a fraction.
"We have returned from our gallant quest to find nourishment in the far off land that is the kitchen," Courfeyrac says, setting the tray down with a dramatic flourish in the barest hope of drawing just the whisper of a laugh from Enjolras.
Enjolras looks up at him; a near silent, nervous chuckle escapes him, mixed with the smallest hint of genuine amusement trapped within the confines of his haunted eyes.
"Enjolras was just mentioning his hunger," Feuilly says, squeezing Enjolras' hand. "So you've returned just in time."
Courfeyrac sees Enjolras' free hand trembling, eyes boring into Combeferre's, watching the latter seat himself wordlessly on the opposite side of the bed and take Enjolras' hand in his own without even breaking the conversation.
"When was the last time you ate? I thought to ask when I checked you over but you were so exhausted I couldn't bear to force you awake any longer than necessary."
"I…" Enjolras thinks for a moment. "Before…before I was arrested."
Forty-eight hours, Courfeyrac thinks with a swoop of anger. Forty-eight hours. They hadn't even given him a crust of bread while he'd been in jail. Nothing.
"Well let's start off with the tea, shall we?" Combeferre says. "And see how that sits. Then we can try a croissant. Does that sound fine?"
Enjolras nods his assent.
"Well, I'm going to go and see if I can rouse Grantaire," Feuilly says. "Now that I know you are in capable hands, Enjolras."
"Thank you, Feuilly," Enjolras says, a true smile lighting up his face now, a smile sending the tiniest rush of relief through Courfeyrac's veins.
"Any time," Feuilly says, and Courfeyrac hears the tremor in his voice, sees the way his eyes linger on Enjolras' face before he ducks his head and exits, leaving them.
Enjolras' pulse and breathing slow visibly under Combeferre's touch, slow even further once Courfeyrac sits down on the bed beside him, but as the door closes Enjolras presses a hand to his heart and breathes out slowly a few times, exhaling huffs of air in ragged gasps.
"What is wrong with me, Combeferre?" Enjolras asks, voice shaky with nerves. "I can't quite…I don't…you weren't here and I just…panicked."
"Stress, and trauma," Combeferre explains calmly, beginning his usual checks which calms Enjolras more in their familiarity. "And probably the fact that I slept in this bed with you all night, and you suddenly found I wasn't here. It's no shock you're having problems with anxiety given all that's happened, but it will all pass I assure you. You do sound better this morning, damn Laudanum finally wearing off, I think."
"How long have I been asleep?"
"You slept for about five hours before I woke you yesterday afternoon to check you over, then another fourteen or so, I believe. Are you feeling better for it? "
Enjolras nods distractedly, eyes on his hands, examining them, looking lost.
Combeferre's hand covers Enjolras' again, warm and familiar and safe, and Courfeyrac follows his lead, reaching for Enjolras' other hand.
"Do you remember coming home?" Combeferre asks, and Courfeyrac hears the trepidation, the worry, the love running through his tone.
Another nod and Courfeyrac hopes this isn't a return to the silence of yesterday before Enjolras speaks quietly. "Yes. I..." he pauses, the memories playing out against the thin skin of his eyelids. "Thank you," he says, opening them again.
"You are most welcome," Combeferre replies, voice almost a whisper, as if he doesn't trust its ability to remain stable. He clears his throat, running his thumb up and down the skin of Enjolras' hand in a motion of reassurance when he speaks again.
"You're still feverish but not alarmingly so, and your breathing is still a bit shallow for my liking," Combeferre admits. "And I know you must be in pain, but I want to avoid any more Laudanum for another twenty-four hours at least, just to be careful, and then we can start giving you doses again as needed. But I'd like to put you on bed rest for a few days. You've been through an ordeal on both a physical and emotional level."
"Yes," Enjolras says, gazing rather longingly at the tea and the croissant on the silver tray. "Whatever you think is best. Whatever you wish."
Combeferre's eyes flit up and meet Courfeyrac's for the briefest moment; Enjolras would give into Combeferre or Joly's medical suggestions, or when it came to it, orders when bothered enough, but never this easily, not once.
Courfeyrac hands over the cup of tea and Enjolras takes it, but his hands still tremble badly enough that the tea splashes over the edge.
"Dammit," Enjolras breathes, but allows Courfeyrac to hold it for him, hungrily gulping down the tea.
"Marius and Gavroche were asking after you," Coufeyrac begins once Enjolras drains the cup. "And I was wondering if you might be up to letting them briefly say hello, and it's perfectly fine if you're not, Enjolras, I want to be clear on that."
"I might only be able to manage a few minutes," Enjolras answers. "But if seeing me would make them rest easier, I'm glad to do that. Is that all right with you, Combeferre?"
"Perfectly," Combeferre says, busying himself with buttering half the croissant. "Only please let us know when you tire? Whether that's physically or emotionally."
Enjolras nods again, and Courfeyrac presses a kiss to his forehead before darting downstairs once more. But he's only just returned with Marius and Gavroche in tow when Feuilly darts back into the room, clearly distressed, several pieces of sketching paper twisted in his hands.
"I'm so sorry," he says, breathless and apologetic. "But…Combeferre, Grantaire, he's…" his eyes rove toward Enjolras, and it's obvious he doesn't want to burden his friend further.
"What is it Feuilly?" Enjolras asks, seeing the expression, but clearly wanting Feuilly to know it's all right to speak in front of him. "What's wrong?"
"He's asking for you, Enjolras, begging… and he's burning up," Feuilly says, looking at Enjolras before turning to Combeferre. "He's…he's hallucinating, but he can't or won't say what he sees but…Combeferre, look at this…" Feuilly pushes the handful of drawings he's clutching into Combeferre's hands.
"What?" Courfeyrac says, speaking first. "Hallucinating? Why?"
"The alcohol withdrawal," Combeferre says, eyes roving over the pictures with a furrowed brow as he instantly rises. "That mixed with the trauma of the past few days, it isn't surprising…I should have… take me to him Feuilly, please."
"I'm coming," Enjolras says, direct and without mincing words, and despite the situation, the familiarity of it calms Courfeyrac.
"Enjolras," Combeferre chides half-heartedly. "I don't know…"
"Please, Combeferre, if Grantaire's asking for me I should go to him," Enjolras replies, sounding more confident than he has all morning, more like himself the moment he realizes one of their friends needs help, because it's a purpose, it's action, and it allows Enjolras an escape from his mind, a chance to help someone who means a great deal to them all. "I will do exactly as you instruct, I will stay out of the way if you tell me to do so, and if you ask me to leave, if my presence exacerbates Grantaire's hallucinations, I will go the moment you say the word."
Courfeyrac watches the two of them, watches them survey each other, but both men know that Enjolras' presence will likely do more good than harm, and Courfeyrac sees Combeferre relenting. Combeferre nods after a moment, and Gavroche, spotting the cane where Courfeyrac posted it by the door, runs over and retrieves it, handing it to Enjolras.
"Thank you very much Gavroche," Enjolras says, offering the little boy a smile, and Courfeyrac moves to his other side, taking the weight, because he knows how much even a simple trek down the hallway hurts Enjolras at this moment, hurts the man who mere weeks ago could probably hold his own against Bahorel in a brawl. "Would you mind waiting here with Marius until I get back?"
Gavroche shakes his head, hugging Enjolras' waist briefly before letting go and stepping back toward Marius. And with that they're limping off down the hallway to something Courfeyrac dreads, Combeferre leading the way.
Paralysis pinches every nerve in Grantaire's body.
He cannot move. His eyes are fixed, wide and staring at a point on the floor before him as blood seeps into the carpet, over its edge and a pool of it creeps closer and closer to him. It is Apollo's blood, red and vibrant and vicious in every way the corpse it exits isn't.
"I've killed him Grantaire," the voice of the beast hisses, the mythical Python of Delphi he scarcely remembers drawing in his manic, sleepless state after eating with Feuilly, Marius, and Gavroche, but somehow now his drawings have come to life, all of them, and six separate monsters stare down at him, surrounding the person they've murdered.
"No," Grantaire insists, closing his eyes, but that only shuts out the visual terrors, because he cannot shut his ears. "No, Apollo defeated you. You were the first monster he ever defeated. You are darkness and hopelessness and he is light and belief and, you…"
"He is dead!" it hisses again. "He is dead and it is for the better, because he was broken, bound to turn dark and bitter and cynical. Just like you."
"No!" Grantaire shouts. "No. That would never happen, not in a thousand years, not for anything. He will pick up the pieces, we will help him pick them up. And I am not…I am not all of those things…cynical yes, self-sabotaging, but not dark, no, not bitter…I try, I am trying, I am giving up the excessive drink, I want to believe, I believe in him…I do…"
Grantaire stops, eyes finally falling on the victim of these creatures. His heart stills in his chest, breath held tight. He cannot. He cannot be living if Apollo is dead. He cannot exist without Apollo and Apollo must be alive and burning and glorious. The corpse is not. It is Apollo, without doubt, mortal flesh in wicked mimicry of a god brought to earth. A mortal shell cracked along with the shield bearing his insignia. His hair is loose, splayed around his head like a halo, blood rapidly soaking through the blonde locks as it oozes from a wound on his forehead. His lips are white and still, another trickle of blood from their corner, stark and vivid against the paleness of his skin.
His throat is exposed, smooth and elegant save the bloody gash which gapes just above the hollow – now filled with blood. His shirt is open, fang marks deep and sick into the skin of chest, yet more bloody his shirt in ever growing roses of deepest scarlet. His shoulder, just visible beneath the gape of his collar is a mass of burnt flesh and bone from the creature's fire. Though his trousers are black, they are dark and wet with blood, ripped and ruined with holes every few inches, the blood making them stick to his skin. He is broken.
Dead.
No no no no, not broken not dead.
Grantaire gets on his knees, ignoring the creatures whispering hateful thoughts in his ear, and shakes Apollo's body.
But beneath his hands Apollo turns into Combeferre, into Coufeyrac, Feuilly, Marius, Gavroche, Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel, Jehan, Cosette, Valjean, Adrienne, his brother, and then back to Apollo.
"No!" he screams, jumping back. "They are not all dead, I know that. They are not. You cannot convince me, no."
Stumbling backwards again he presses his back against the wall, a sob wrenching from his throat.
"Oh," one of the Pythons says, slithering close. "I think I can."
Combeferre takes the lead.
He pushes open the door, and they are greeted by a floor scattered with sketches, some half-done, some complete, but they're all the same figure. It resembles a half dragon, half python, a drakon, triggering a memory in the back of Enjolras' mind from the Classics lessons he'd received as an adolescent in boarding school.
"I don't permit you to die, Apollo," Grantaire says as he rocks back and forth, eyes fixed on what appears a complete drawing, still of the same mythical creature Enjolras can't yet place, but also featuring the form of a blond-haired man, Apollo's insignia etched on his shield and the sun shining radiantly behind him in spatters of yellow oil paint. Blood and bite marks body cover his body, and it's clear he's dead. "You have not killed him, you foul monstrosity! I wouldn't have allowed it, you can't…"
Grantaire pauses, clearly hearing some sort of reply.
"No! You can't…Apollo is stronger than you…than me…he…" Grantaire's chokes out words in a flood of incoherent syllables, and Enjolras feels his heart pounding in his chest, feels his face heat from an oncoming wave of panic he refuses to let drown him.
"Hello, Grantaire," Combeferre says, gentle, striding over to Grantaire, who sits on the floor surrounded by the battering of frightful sketches. Grantaire whips around, clearly having not heard them enter. His eyes are wide, bloodshot, terror flashing like lightning within them. He looks up at Combeferre, all the horrors of his imagination written clearly across his terrified face. "I'm just going to take a little look at you."
Grantaire jumps back, but Combeferre doesn't even flinch, doesn't jerk away and an outpouring of admiration for his friend nearly overcomes Enjolras. Grantaire's eyes track Combeferre's hands as they feel his forehead and check his pulse, but they dart back to the drawings on the floor every few seconds. Enjolras hears Combeferre muttering to himself, but the dark voices in Grantaire's head overcome the sound of Combeferre's words, so he doesn't notice.
"Diaphoretic. Fever. Tremors. Hallucinations. Hypertensive. Fear. Palpitations…"
"Grantaire," Combeferre says, his voice soft as the most welcoming feather pillow. "Grantaire, can you tell me what you see?"
"What do I see?" Grantaire asks, biting out a sardonic laugh. "Combeferre you are the most intelligent man in the room, but your vision must be growing worse if you cannot see this beast talking to me." He points down at the drawing and Enjolras' eyes follow, seeing the bared teeth of the creature, the blood gushing from nearly every crevice of Apollo's body.
"Who is speaking to you, Grantaire?" Combeferre asks, kneeling down next to their friend, voice still gentle.
"The Python of Delphi, of course!" Grantaire exclaims. "Don't you know your mythology, dear guide?" he asks, jumping back suddenly as if he sees the creature hissing at him, sees it blowing fire. He grabs Combeferre's shoulders. "He's come to kill Apollo don't you see, Combeferre? Don't you see? You have Athena's intellect, but I don't know if even you can save him from this darkness. I'm sure Feuilly had no way of knowing that lending me a sketchpad would result in a monster coming to life! Dubious creature would have found a way regardless: it uses other people's kindness to its advantage."
And then Enjolras remembers.
The Python of Delphi was the very first monster Apollo defeated, and it was the time Grantaire mentioned this story that he first called Enjolras by that name. Bahorel had brought Grantaire along to one of his boxing lessons with Enjolras, and upon witnessing Enjolras hold up well against Bahorel's strategy, despite their significant differences in size, he'd said the words that now sock Enjolras straight in the gut.
Well Apollo, it certainly appears as if you could hold your own against the Python of Delphi, with that anger I sense in you. There's some talent, too, so perhaps you can even slay the beast, I daresay, if you keep taking lessons from this rogue.
Grantaire reaches for the drawing and rips it to shreds, jumping back again, a scream erupting forth from his lips as he kicks the other sketches away, paper flying through the air.
"Grantaire," Combeferre says, steadying him, desperately trying to calm him. "Nothing's going to happen, I promise you. You are ill, my friend, from the alcohol withdrawal. It's called Delirium Tremens, and it can cause hallucinations. There's no beast, I swear to you. And Enjolras is right here, do you see?" He uses his actual name, Enjolras supposes, in an attempt to draw Grantaire back into the realm of reality, if possible.
Grantaire wrenches his eyes away from the drawings, squinting in Enjolras' direction, his breathing just barely evening out. At seeing Grantaire's expression Enjolras takes hold of the bed-post, knuckles popping white as they grasp the cane.
"Enjolras don't…" Courfeyrac protests as Enjolras lowers himself awkwardly to the floor, very obviously in physical discomfort.
"Help me, Courfeyrac." A sliver of the authority and power Enjolras usually commands implores Courfeyrac to assist, and he does so, taking Enjolras' weight and hoping to spare him from most of the pain. Enjolras bites his lip against the brief wave of sharp agony, focusing back on Grantaire.
"It's alright, Grantaire," Enjolras says, at the panicked look on Grantaire's face. "I just need a moment."
Combeferre, seeing Enjolras' tactic, turns Grantaire toward Enjolras, though it takes a moment, as every few seconds Grantaire covers his ears, eyes darting back toward the pile of drawings. Combeferre squats beside Grantaire, surveying him intently. Feuilly, seeing Enjolras' shoulders trembling from the effort of walking, places two warm hands upon them, and Enjolras feels his friend's determination rush through his own veins.
"It's going to kill you Enjolras," Grantaire whispers, razor-cuts of pain indenting each syllable. "Don't let it kill you, don't. You're not real, you can't be real, it's killed you, I saw it, and now it's sent your ghost here to haunt me."
"Permit me?" Enjolras asks, reaching out his hands for Grantaire's own even as he feels his own personal monster of panic roaring to life in his chest. He's never felt this way, has never fallen victim like this to what he's heard medical professionals refer to as hysteria. He's felt monumental fear before of course, but he's confronted it, swallowed it until the crisis was handled, but even then it was not like this…this feels like the horror he experiences in his nightmares, unabated and intensified a thousand times, irrational, prickling, and raw.
Grantaire nods, closing his eyes against the specters jumping in and out of his line of vision, and holds out his hands. Enjolras takes them, placing one on his healing shoulder, and the other gingerly against the wound on his thigh, which still throbs with the effort of just walking down the hallway, even with the cane and Courfeyrac's assistance.
"Do you feel that?" Enjolras asks. "I'm no ghost, I'm just as alive and human as you are. I'm here with you Grantaire, I'm…" The world whole almost escapes his lips, but it tastes virulently like a lie, because he does not currently feel whole, and he will not lie to Grantaire. "I'm here. I'm getting better. We're here with you, all alive."
"Not all," Grantaire protests. "Not all. Joly is dead. Bossuet is dead. Bahorel is dead. Jehan is dead."
It is undeniably true, and each of their friends' names stabs Enjolras deep in the gut and twists, but he nods nevertheless because he wants to help Grantaire, wants to calm him and soothe him if he can. Enjolras remembers his own hallucinations when his fever was so high it nearly killed him just weeks ago, remembers the terrifying visions from his dreams, a downpour of empathy raining down upon him.
"They are. But I am not. Courfeyrac lives. Combeferre lives. Feuilly lives. Marius and Gavroche live."
Grantaire opens his eyes again, blinking rapidly several times, hands lingering on Enjolras' wounds before moving to his chest, staying there for a moment while he feels Enjolras' heartbeat, then moves them both to his face, carefully taking hold as if Enjolras is a piece of fragile china.
"I won't break if you touch me," Enjolras says, mirroring Combeferre's tone. "No glass, just flesh and bone."
Grantaire holds his face a little firmer, thumbs running across his cheeks before moving to his forehead and picking up the little beads of sweat gathering there, feeling the heat beneath Enjolras' skin.
Grantaire freezes.
"Fever! Infection…it's back, it's…"
"R," Enjolras says, his uncommon use of the nickname drawing Grantaire's attention. "It's not infection. Yes, I have a small fever, but it is not like before, I swear to you. Combeferre says it is…stress and…trauma. My body has been through…a lot," Enjolras says haltingly, still struggling to admit even this weakness. "Do you not trust Combeferre's word? I know I do."
Grantaire's eyes widen again, gaze flitting frantically between Enjolras and Combeferre and back again.
"Grantaire," Combeferre interjects carefully. "It's…"
"You're on fire!" Grantaire shouts. "The drakon's set you on fire from the inside out. I knew it, I knew, they're clever beasts, they know better than mortals and gods alike. You cannot kill the fire with an arrow, Apollo, you cannot…"
He bolts up, making for the water pitcher on his nightstand, but Feuilly stops him in his tracks, taking hold of his arms and Combeferre moves to help. Enjolras' breath hitches in his chest and he cannot get air, he cannot think properly, the hot knot of anxiety in his stomach finally exploding and sending an uncontrollable flood of burning nerves through his system like volcanic lava. He swallows, breathing in and out sharply through his nose, focusing on Grantaire, focusing on everything occurring in front of him.
"We have to put it out!" Grantaire screams. "It's going to kill him!"
"Feuilly, if you would, please, there's a bottle of Laudanum sitting on my dresser fresh from the chemist," Combeferre says, carefully holding Grantaire's arms down as he and Feuilly place him on the bed. "The alcohol content in it should be enough to abate the symptoms."
"Enjolras please let Courfeyrac help you back to bed, all right? I need you to let him get you calm, and then get some food in you, no matter how small the amount." Comberre requests, a worried, torn expression gleaming in his eyes; he wants to help them both at once, but Grantaire's need is currently far more pressing, but Enjolras knows Combeferre sees the growing flush in his cheeks, the copious amount of sweat, the trembling of his hands, the barely suppressed alarm, and for Combeferre's sake, Enjolras holds it all back as best he can, heeding him as promised. "I'll check back in as soon as I get Grantaire settled and sleeping."
"Don't take him away!" Grantaire shouts. "Don't…please!"
"He's just going down the hall so I can help you," Combeferre says, taking the handkerchief from his pocket and wiping away the sweat running down Grantaire's face with the utmost care. "No one's taking him away, he just needs rest like you, I promise."
It takes every ounce of strength Enjolras possesses to walk out of the room and away from Grantaire, takes every ounce of trust he has in Combeferre, because he knows his friend is right, knows it as sure as he hears the thunk of the cane on the hardwood as he leaves, Courfeyrac bearing even more of his weight.
Courfeyrac whispers something into Marius' ear as they pass, and Marius pulls Gavroche carefully by the hand and away from Enjolras' room, immensely concerned looks marring both their faces.
Guilt seizes Enjolras in its vice grip, but he knows they should not see him this way, knows it best that the youngest of their group return a bit later when he's recovered from this, when he's calmer, when he can reassure them.
He cannot get Grantaire's terrified screams out of his head.
The barricade changed Grantaire, changed all of them, and Grantaire is trying to quit this because of those changes, because of that strength Enjolras always knew was somewhere within him, and this…Enjolras doesn't want this holding Grantaire back, not when he's tried so hard already, not now.
"Sit on the side of the bed there," Courfeyrac says lowering him gently onto the mattress. "And put your head between your knees and try and breathe deeply and slowly, okay? Joly taught me this once, and we can't go wrong with Joly's advice, right?"
Enjolras obeys, feeling Courfeyrac's wonderfully familiar hands on his back, Courfeyrac's forehead against his, willing his heart to slow, his breathing to even out, the shaking to cease.
"That's right," Courfeyrac says. "Just breathe with me, Enjolras. Just breathe. It will be okay, we will get Grantaire through this, we have lost much but we are together, and we will strive forward with our friends' memories forever in our hearts, every day. You will be yourself again, I promise you."
The words etch themselves across Enjolras' heart, his mind, his soul, in glowing, golden lettering, permanent in Courfeyrac's perfect script. He hears his own sure voice in his head:
All will be harmony, concord, light, joy, and life…
And then he hears Jehan's voice from his dream, hears it clear as he hears his own ragged breathing:
Nothing can break you, not even this, not any of it…You are cracked, you are splintered, you feel as though you'll never in your life get put back together again. But you will, because your hope burns so deep inside you, Enjolras, so deep, that no matter how damaged, how hurt, how broken and shattered you feel, you will always find yourself again… You have to let our friends put you back together.
He holds tighter to Courfeyrac until finally, they breathe as one.