Les Hommes de la Miséricorde

(Men of Mercy)

A/N: Hello all! Thank you so much again for your wonderful feedback on the last chapter, it is ever appreciated! Thank you to everyone reading! This chapter ended up being extra long, so I hope you enjoy! Oh, and random side-note, but I've gotten some messages from people finding me on tumblr and not knowing I was the same person writing this story until they found me, since my screen names aren't the same, so if you're on tumblr, I'm KCrabb88 over there.

Chapter 26: Illuminating Conversations

Enjolras hates admitting it, but he feels dreadful.

Absolutely, utterly dreadful.

Every part of his body aches, he feels so incredibly weak, and his wounds send rushes of pain through him at random intervals. Concerned for his still shallow breathing, Combeferre journeyed into Avignon himself this morning, and through some sort of explanation to a local doctor, retrieved a prescription for an emetic from the chemist, hoping to cleanse the last of the excess Laudanum and other toxins from Enjolras' body.

Enjolras had never expected to vomit so much in his life, nevermind in front of his friend, but Combeferre stood by the entire time, a calming, reassuring hand on his back as Enjolras' body shook from the effort. Enjolras didn't think it possible, but he feels closer to Combeferre than ever before, given all the vulnerable situations he's found himself in lately.

Enjolras surveys Combeferre now from where he lies, lax and completely spent against a mound of pillows as Combeferre puts a salve of camphor on his leg wound in the hopes of preventing any infection from returning. It stings, but Enjolras hasn't the energy to even twitch. Combeferre had brightened at receiving a parcel from his parents today containing his medical bag and a few things from the rooms they'd left abandoned. His parents had business in Paris, and at receiving correspondence from the landlady after she'd realized Combeferre and Enjolras had vacated the apartment, went and cleaned out the apartment themselves. They'd sent some of Enjolras' things as well, and for that he is grateful to them. Combeferre's parents don't always understand their son, but they are an unceasingly kind pair, and they'd also taken great care to check every nook and cranny of the apartment for republican materials lest they accidentally remain when the landlady rents out the apartment to someone else. Combeferre is certainly on Parisian watch lists, and Enjolras is, well…he's meant to be dead.

You are dead, Enjolras. Do you hear me? Dead. As far as society knows, Rene Enjolras was shot and killed by my own hand in an escape attempt.

"There," Combeferre says, pulling the covers back up over Enjolras and pulling him from his remembrance, his warm, comforting voice washing away Javert's cold words. "That should do it." He looks up, eyes roving over Enjolras' face. "Do you feel dreadful?"

"I…" Enjolras begins, feeling the crushing depression that's become disturbingly familiar over the past few days sweep over him once more, his throat raw from regurgitating the little food and water he had in him.

"It's all right," Combeferre says, noting Enjolras' expression. "I think I already know the answer to that. But your breathing is returning to normal now, and your fever, though not vanished, is depleted, so I think the emetic, unpleasant as it was, did its job, though I am sorry to put you through it. I don't suppose you're hungry?"

"Not in the slightest, actually," Enjolras admits. "My stomach revolts at the mere mention of anything edible, at the moment. And I imagine it would rather hurt to swallow."

"That's not surprising, but we should get something in you tomorrow morning, you'll feel better then, I expect. Though we do need to keep you hydrated through the night, so do keep drinking that water on your bedside table," Combeferre says, sitting on the edge of the bed. "And I think enough time will have passed so that I can start giving you very controlled doses of Laudanum again, I know your shoulder and your leg must pain you a great deal."

"I don't think I'll be wanting the Laudanum," Enjolras says quickly, eyes leaving Combeferre's face and flitting to the coverlet, hands fisting into the soft material.

His legs giving out from under him, unstable as a baby deer's.

His conscious mind melting away under the power of the drugs, sending the world spinning.

Hazy.

Unfocused.

Javert's hands forcing his mouth open as he pins him down upon the cold, filthy cell floor.

The doctor pouring bitter Laudanum down his throat, choking him, burning him, stealing his control over his own body.

Javert repeating the action the next morning, his powerful hands feeling as if they might crush the bones of Enjolras' face.

Hurt.

Helpless.

Weak.

He's never felt so helpless, and he doesn't care to relive that particular sensation.

Combeferre bites his lip, conflicted. He doesn't like this idea, that much is clear, but anxiety surrounds Enjolras, real and palpable, and Combeferre doesn't want to push him.

"I cannot and will not force you to take it," Combeferre says, slow and deliberate with his words. "Unless you become delirious as you did the night your fever spiked so high, there is no medical reason for it. But there is little else for the pain other than simple alcohol, Enjolras, nor to help you sleep. And I will not lie: you are going to be in pain for a time. And you will be stuck in bed far more often without the relief."

"I know, Combeferre, but I cannot," Enjolras replies, looking back up again. "I…at least I cannot right now. I trust you, you have to know that, but if I must stay in bed, so be it. I'd rather that than feel…so helpless. To lose all control like that again, my mind and body betraying me all at once…I do not wish to feel like that."

"I know," Combeferre answers, tucking a strand of loose blonde hair back behind Enjolras' ear, fingers lingering on Enjolras' cheek for a moment as if Combeferre doesn't quite believe he's real. "We shall agree to revisit the subject, all right?"

Enjolras nods, squeezing Combeferre's hand in thanks.

"How's your hand?" Combeferre asks by way of changing the subject. "I put some of the salve on that cut just to be sure, though your shoulder doesn't seem to need it, it's actually healing well now."

"The cut smarts a bit, but my leg rather overwhelms everything else," Enjolras says, looking down at the fresh bandage on his hand, wrapped over the cut that will surely leave a scar, an ever present reminder. "How is Grantaire? Is he still sleeping?"

"He woke briefly when I checked on him an hour ago," Combeferre says, a tinge of worry edging into his voice. "The hallucinations seem to have stopped, thankfully. But he's anxious, he's ill, he's in pain. But he should be just fine, given time. Feuilly was sitting at Grantaire's bedside when I went in, reading yet another book from M. Gillenormand's extensive library, and I spied a note he'd written himself that reminded him to speak to you about something he'd read when you were feeling up to it."

Enjolras smiles at that: his admiration for Feuilly glows like the sun breaking through the thunderstorm in his heart, casting the skies a little less grey.

"I wasn't aware alcohol withdrawal could cause such violent hallucinations," Enjolras says after a pause, recalling Grantaire's terror, recalling how much he wanted to relieve the glimmering fear shining in his friend's eyes, fear so centered on him, on his well-being, his recovery.

In those frantic, fearful moments he realized with startling clarity just how much Grantaire reveres him. He's always known that Grantaire is utterly loyal to him, loves him, but this…he's not sure he ever fully comprehended it at this level before, and though he cannot yet express it, this terrifies him on Grantaire's behalf. Because he is a fallible man, a human being capable of error; and yet Grantaire knows this, has always been perfectly willing to challenge him, to point out his flaws, and yet Grantaire somehow still puts him on a pedestal that Grantaire himself thinks he can never reach. It's as if all the life in Grantaire is tied to Enjolras, to their friends, and not at all in himself, and Enjolras doesn't want that for his friend, wouldn't want that for anyone.

But as of yet, he's not sure how to mend this. A pang of grief steals his breath as he thinks of Joly and Bossuet, who were always the most talented with Grantaire when he seemed lowest, who simply possessed an innate sense of handling and helping him during his most severe bouts of melancholy and self-destruction. Enjolras wants to reach out his hand to Grantaire and pull him up, show him he believes them equals, man to man, but he is not certain Grantaire will accept the gesture. Enjolras understands how cynicism comes about, has seen enough world weariness in the people they fight for to fathom that. He does not profess an understanding of people not fighting back, but then he has not been in their situation, and if they cannot fight, he will fight for them. He struggles to contemplate a world in which he isn't fighting that battle, and wonders how Grantaire can stand the lack of purpose he surrounds himself with, wonders if it is key to the drinking. But Grantaire, Grantaire placed himself in the midst of a group of fervent idealists, warriors for a better world, and yet still claimed lack of belief while simultaneously proclaiming belief in friendship, ultimate belief in Enjolras himself, and it's a paradox Enjolras cannot yet comprehend, though he wishes to do so now more than ever.

"It does happen," Combeferre says. "Though I…I do think the situation was made worse by the traumas we have all experienced. And nearly losing you twice since the barricade itself, given the nature of his hallucinations…it has clearly affected Grantaire."

Enjolras looks away, feeling a wetness gather around his eyes despite himself, his heart pounding again, and he cannot swallow it as he usually does, cannot force it back, cannot fight it and he doesn't know why.

He feels Combeferre's hand gently take his chin, tilting it up toward his gaze, hazel eyes filled with deep pools of fluid empathy.

"You have showcased your strength these past weeks perhaps more than ever before, Enjolras," Combeferre says, voice feather-light and filled with warm comfort. "Do not even dare think otherwise. You are not yourself right now, and if you were, I'd be more concerned than I already am. None of us are our normal selves at the moment, because how on earth could we be? You are not to blame yourself for Grantaire's condition; certainly Grantaire is the last person who would blame you. And it will lead to a good thing, this terrible process. Letting him know how much this means to all of us, to you, would mean a great deal to him, I suspect."

Jehan came to me in a dream, Enjolras wants to say. He told me to let all of you put me back together.

But he cannot utter the words just yet, and instead takes both of Combeferre's hands in his own, pressing his lips to the permanently cool skin.

"Do you want me to sleep here tonight?" Combeferre offers.

Yes.

"You have slept in here with me for two nights in a row," Enjolras says. "You should sleep in your own bed for at least one night. You've been running yourself ragged between Grantaire and myself for two days, you deserve a bed all to yourself."

"I am a wretched cover thief," Combeferre says with a chuckle, but he still looks worried. "I could send for Courfeyrac? He went downstairs to speak with Marius and Cosette while I tended to you, but…"

"Don't bother him," Enjolras says. "He scarcely slept last night with the three of us piled in this bed; I think he was having another nightmare, so let him relax. I want him to relax."

"You may find him here after you've fallen asleep anyhow," Combeferre says, a smile alighting on his lips. "He's loathe to leave you alone. We all are."

It's quiet between them for a moment, but Enjolras feels Combeferre's intent gaze on him, and then as if Courfeyrac's soul temporarily possesses him, Combeferre leans forward and folds Enjolras into a fierce embrace, careful with his injuries, emotion radiating off him in waves.

Enjolras thinks he could stay in this embrace forever, safe, cocooned in his friend's arms like this.

But he knows he cannot.

Enjolras doesn't speak, allowing Combeferre the moment he needs as Combeferre has done so many times with him over the past few weeks, has always done.

"I was beside myself when… he dragged you out in manacles like that," Combeferre says, still refusing to say Javert's name, a rare edge of anger sharpening the sadness in his tone. "I could scarcely stand the thought that you wouldn't return, of losing you. I wanted to keep my promise to you and save you… if it hadn't been for Marius and Courfeyrac…then I saw the knife to your neck…"

Combeferre's usual steady, solid voice breaks off, and Enjolras pulls back, hands coming down to rest firmly on Combeferre's neck, his friend's watery gaze meeting his own.

"I am here, Combeferre," Enjolras says with a whisper of his usual firmness. "I am here and I'm not going anywhere. And you, you did everything right, you protected them. I should not have asked you to let me go, should not have burdened you with that. I only knew I had to get Javert away from all of you, had to accept…I…I am not myself, and I apologize…"

"Don't you dare apologize, Enjolras," Combeferre reprimands, cutting him off, hands coming to rest on Enjolras' shoulders. "You…we will figure this out. All our lives, your life, all of it."

Enjolras rests his head against Combeferre's, but he doesn't tell him he fears his place in the world, fears that by flouting his capture and his punishment, flouting his death, he's done something terribly wrong. He doesn't want to die, certainly, he never has; he was willing to, and that is a significant difference, but he cannot help but wonder if he was meant to die…but he knows Combeferre would only reassure him, would only say that despite his warlike nature, there would always be a place in the new republic for someone who risked his life and limb to build the new world, because even if it didn't require barricades, there would always be battles to win, improvements to make. He would say that he needn't condemn himself now for surviving the barricade, for all of the acts committed within its confines; his severity is a strength which allows him to do what he must, but he is far more than that.

Combeferre's said the same many times in Enjolras' darkest moments, and Enjolras listened, treaded "the broad paths of progress" as Combeferre put it. He learned he could adjust to whatever happened, but now...as a fugitive who's meant to be dead, Enjolras has yet to figure out how to continue his work, for France, in memory of his friends, how to react to this situation, what to do, and he's always known how to proceed, it seems, as if he's walked down revolutionary paths before in some other life, as bizarre as the idea might sound voiced out loud.

"Your schooling," Enjolras says, suddenly desperate to talk with Combeferre about this. "You finished your externship at Necker, and you had but your final exam to complete to become fully certified, I want you to finish that. I know you cannot go back to Paris, but…"

"My parents said they spoke to the university," Combeferre says. "Told them I'd fallen ill, and the air in Paris had put me in bad humors, and it is possible I can get my records transferred from Paris to Aix-Marseille University and take my exam there, as they felt I was a model student. It will take some time, but…"

"You must do it," Enjolras says, feeling almost manic now. He might not be able to lead a normal life, a life where he is not constantly looking over his shoulder, inventing a name and a story and a life, but it need not be so for his friends. "You are an excellent doctor, you could find a practice here in Avignon, I'm sure any of them would be proud to have you. And Courfeyrac can find a law firm that takes on the cases of the poor like he's always wanted, and Marius can join him perhaps, after he settles with Cosette, and Feuilly and Grantaire they can…"

"Enjolras, Enjolras, it's all right," Combeferre replies, both his hands covering Enjolras'. "I will make certain to send for my records as soon as you are a bit better."

"You do not have to wait for that," Enjolras argues, passionate urgency filling him to the brim and bursting over the edge. "I am not…"

"Do not finish that statement," Combeferre says. "Right now, nothing is more important than all of us, than your health, than Grantaire's health."

"But the summer sessions are over at the end of July, and it is the end of June," Enjolras persists. "You would have to wait until the winter session, that is…"

"We will see how it progresses," Combeferre says, calm and resolute. "I can always write my director at Necker and see if he can pull any strings with the university in Marseille so that I can take the exam outside of term. If not, I can take it during the winter session and perhaps work at a practice in the meantime. When you are better, mind."

Enjolras nods, holding tight to Combeferre's hands, the feeling steadying his racing mind.

"If Joly could see me now, he'd probably say my humors were out of balance," Enjolras answers, feeling a melancholy smile stretch unnaturally across his lips. "Would you agree?"

"I think you have been through a great deal of trauma," Combeferre answers, even and sincere. "And that has an effect on anyone's emotional and mental health. It requires time. And Joly would agree with me."

"No bloodletting, then?" Enjolras asks apprehensively, fingering the just healed scar in the crook of his elbow.

"Hmmm, not unless your fever persists for several more days or goes up," Combeferre says, furrowing his brow. "Its efficacy is highly debated these days, but it is often used as a last resort. But hopefully we will not have to do it again."

A familiar rap on the door alerts them to someone's presence outside, and Courfeyrac enters, Gavroche just behind him.

"I found this one lingering outside your door, Enjolras," Courfeyrac says, oddly tentative and clearly searching for Enjolras' permission. "I thought he might like to say hello?"

"Of course," Enjolras says, gesturing at the two of them. "Come sit up here, if you like, Gavroche?"

The boy obliges, coming up to sit between Enjolras and Combeferre on the bed, while Courfeyrac takes the chair, observing them with a half-smile; it's small, but Enjolras is pleased to see even a sliver of the usual starlight grin.

"You have to stay in bed again?" Gavroche asks, peering first at Enjolras, then Combeferre as if suspicious that Combeferre is being overly worrisome. "And Grantaire, too?"

"For a few days at least," Enjolras replies, glancing over at Combeferre before looking back at Gavroche. "If you like, you can keep me company sometimes. And Grantaire must rest too; he's a bit under the weather."

"He's trying to quit the drink?"

"Yes," Enjolras says, ever amazed at Gavroche's perception, but knowing that he's certainly far more mature in some ways than a normal ten-year old could possibly be, has seen things he never should have, borne witness to all the evils of the society and the government they so desired to dismantle and start anew.

Gavroche nods, but looks unsure. "Dunno what I could do to entertain ya. Can't read to you like I see Feuilly and Cosette or Marius doin' all the time. Don't know as many puns as Courfeyrac to make you laugh..."

Enjolras feels his stomach sink at Gavroche's words, but it's a thought confirmed. He looks closely at Gavroche, seeing the shadows shading his light blue eyes, his downcast expression that's stained with an odd sort of anger, a frustration, an embarrassment he doesn't like admitting. Enjolras longs for the sarcastic, mischievous smile with just a dash of a smirk he knows so well. He recalls the barricade, recalls Gavroche's argument for a rifle, heartily offended when it was decided he would be given if there were enough for all the men, annoyed that all of them kept trying to send him away from the barricade.

"Gamin!"

"Smooth-face!"

"Your company is enough, Master Gavroche," Enjolras says, teasing lightly, hoping to win a smile.

He does, albeit a tiny one, but it's enough for the moment.

"I'm sure one of us could teach you to read and write Gavroche," Combeferre says, practically reading Enjolras' mind. "Once things settle down. Would you like that?"

"Really?" Gavroche asks, smile widening now. He looks from Combeferre to Courfeyrac to Enjolras. "Would you teach me, Enjolras? I've always wanted to learn so I can be more independent, ya know. Eponine knew how to read and write, but I didn't see 'er enough to learn from her, and I dunno if she knew how to teach it besides, but she was pretty good at it. Bahorel was gonna teach me, he said, but…"

He trails off, smile faltering, memories of Bahorel playing across his eyes in vivid, sharpened color. The child had looked up to Bahorel, respected and admired his irreverence and his love of a good brawl. Gavroche had seen Bahorel bayoneted in the chest, they'd all seen it; life-loving, laughing, defiant Bahorel, who lived every single minute of his life to its fullest extent suddenly dead on the ground.

"I will teach you, Gavroche," Enjolras agrees. "Once…once I am well enough."

Gavroche smiles fully now, a light returning to his eyes.

Courfeyrac, noticing that Enjolras tires, tugs on Gavroche's sleeve.

"All right Gav, let's allow Enjolras some sleep, shall we? I think I saw a few of the dessert pastries left out from earlier, if you'd like to help me sneak some from the kitchen."

Gavroche nearly topples over in his enthusiasm, but smiles one last time at Enjolras before dashing out the door in front of Courfeyrac, who pauses at Enjolras' side.

"If you need me in the night," he says, serious now. "Do not hesitate. I'm just on the other side of the wall, do feel free to knock on it with your cane if you find you cannot get up and need company, all right?"

"Yes," Enjolras says, that familiar feeling of security overcoming him as Courfeyrac kisses the top of his head. "I will."

Courfeyrac grasps Combeferre's arm before exiting, following in Gavroche's wake.

"I suppose I should let you rest," Combeferre says after a moment. "Are you certain you'll be okay on your own?"

"Yes," Enjolras repeats, even if he is not certain it's the truth. "Get some proper rest."

"You as well," Combeferre insists. "And try and finish that glass of water first; it might make you feel nauseated, but it will pass."

He squeezes Enjolras' hand one last time before going, lingering in the doorway for longer than necessary before closing the it behind him.

Enjolras cannot sleep.

It's been a solid two hours since Combeferre and Courfeyrac left him to sleep, and though he closes his eyes, though he sinks deep down into the goose-feather pillows, the covers snug around body, blissful repose does not come.

He'd fallen into sweat-soaked, wretched slumber for an entire twenty minutes, his abstract, smoky nightmares filled with snatches of Grantaire writhing on the floor in utter agony, Enjolras' name a cry escaping his lips, filled with darkness seeping into Enjolras' body and pulling out balls of glowing light, swallowing them up into the black, Grantaire's screams echoing in his ears without pause, mixed with Combeferre's shouts of despair, Courfeyrac's unrestrained sobs, Feuilly's cries of anger, Marius' calls for help against some unseen, vicious enemy as he reaches for Cosette, who cannot get to him. Jehan, Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet surrounded them all, reached out for them, but were blocked by a wall of shadowy clouds, all the light obscured behind them.

He sits up, knowing that no matter how often he closes his eyes he'll only be greeted with persistent wakefulness or with nightmares thieving away any decent rest. He's lost his hair tie somewhere among the pillows, so he runs a hand through his loose, damp hair, sweeping the sweaty tendrils from his face.

He needs to see Grantaire, needs to see him to make sure he's still breathing, still fighting. He knows it's not rational, he knows Combeferre told him Grantaire was improving, would recover, but he needs to see him nevertheless. He reaches for the cane resting in-between his bed and the nightstand, gripping it tightly as he pushes himself up; Combeferre taught him to use the cane on the opposite side of his injured leg so his good one might bear most of the weight, but in turn this sends a punch of pain through his shoulder and his cut hand, but he grits his teeth against it, successfully getting up from the bed.

Grantaire's room is two doors down diagonally across the hall across from own, not far at all, but to Enjolras it might as well be the six-hundred mile distance from Avignon to Paris. Before the prison debacle his strength had slowly begun to return, though he was only able to walk short distances with the cane. Now, weak once more and without the numbing of Laudanum he trembles with fatigue before he even reaches his own door.

You can do it, he tells himself. One foot in front of the other.

He leans on various pieces of furniture as he exits the room, letting the solid wood take his weight, but once he enters the hall it's just the cane, and he feels knives stab him repeatedly in the leg as he walks. Sweat beads at his forehead as he goes, and by the time he reaches the door to Grantaire's room it runs down his face in salty rivulets and he's all but dragging his leg behind him, half-hopping on his good foot.

The door to Grantaire's room stands cracked open, so he pushes it forward quietly as he can before collapsing into the vacated chair by the bed, instantly stretching his leg out and resting it on the sideboard, pain pulsing through him in shocks of heated anguish. He leans over, head resting against his knee, hands clenching at his bad leg and drawing shallow, gulping breaths. He closes his eyes for a moment, hearing a cough, hearing the bedcovers rustle.

"Enjolras?" Grantaire's scratchy, sleep drenched voice asks. "Is that…what are you doing in here?"

Enjolras breathes out through clenched teeth, unable to verbalize just yet; he'd hoped he wouldn't wake Grantaire, and if he did he'd hoped to be a reassuring presence, but the pain has other plans, it seems.

"Here," Grantaire says, sitting up. Enjolras sees his hands still tremble and twitch, and he's a great deal paler than normal. "Let me help you up here with me so you can stretch out."

"No," Enjolras argues. "You are ill, you shouldn't."

"Yes," Grantaire says dryly, wrapping a strong arm around Enjolras's waist and helping him from the chair. "But I am also mobile. Don't be stubborn; it is not a virtue in this case."

Between Enjolras' injuries and Grantaire's shaking hands it's awkwardly done, but soon enough both of them are stretched out on the roomy bed.

"Why are you…" Grantaire stops, a wince of pain marring his bewildered words. "Why are you here?"

"I couldn't sleep," Enjolras says, looking over at him, swallowing anything in him that will prevent him from being completely honest and open in this moment as is continually the problem between the two of them aside from a few notable instances. They've made such progress, and he will not harm that now. "I just…I just wanted to see you for myself. To make sure with my own eyes that you were all right. Of course, I know 'all right' isn't the word to describe you right now, but just to make…"

"Enjolras," Grantaire says, putting up a hand to silence him. "I understand the meaning. But you could have hurt yourself."

"I am in one piece," Enjolras replies. "No harm done, just pain."

"Pain is harm," Grantaire says with emphasis, losing his feigned calm with disconcerting speed. "You are hurt enough, you cannot take anymore. You almost died twice already, you cannot…your body cannot…"

Enjolras hears the rapid-fire sound of Grantaire's words, hears Grantaire's breath hitching in his chest, sees his pulse beat frantically against the skin of his neck at the mere idea that Enjolras injured himself further.

"Shhh," Enjolras says, placing a hesitant hand on Grantaire's cheek, which is as sweaty as his own. "Quiet now. Go back to sleep, Grantaire. Just sleep. Rest will help you win this battle, you're doing so well."

Grantaire gapes at him with wide eyes as if he doesn't quite believe Enjolras is actually there, as if he thinks he doesn't deserve such words, and there's an emotional vulnerability shining in those dark green eyes Enjolras has never witnessed before. There are no defenses in the form of a sarcastic comment, no verbal, defiant challenge spoken in nearly the same breath as a raw, unchecked emotion. There are no lengthy discourses littered with the classic and literary references of a well-read man, his true thoughts and feelings buried somewhere among the sea of names and quotes stringing them together. The irritating sensation of Grantaire metaphorically pulling him in and then pushing him back with the same hand, in the same moment, isn't present.

Perhaps Grantaire is vulnerable because he is ill, because he does not have the bottle to hide behind, but it matters not, in the moment, why Grantaire is vulnerable or why Enjolras is vulnerable. Rather it only matters that it's happening at the same time.

"Apollo," Grantaire whispers.

"No," Enjolras says, stern but still kind. "Just Enjolras. I'm no god, only a mortal as human as you are."

Grantaire doesn't respond, but instead turns on his side, burying his face in Enjolras' shoulder. Enjolras knows that in his normal state of mind Grantaire would never do this, but he accepts the touch, taking one hand and entwining it within Grantaire's forest of wild black curls, thumb moving back and forth across his scalp in hopes of easing the headache Combeferre says will plague Grantaire for several days. He'd come across Joly doing the same to Grantaire on the morning of a particularly nasty hangover, and for some reason the sight imprinted on his mind: Joly's agile doctor's hands massaging through Grantaire's untamed locks while Bossuet placed food in front of his nose, Bahorel's mumbling that none of his friends ever tried massaging his hangover headaches away, and Joly's good-natured reply that Bahorel would likely punch anyone who tried, aside perhaps, from Prouvaire, who could tease Bahorel to his heart's content without getting smacked in the arm, for some reason.

Enjolras and Grantaire have never been so tactile with each other, but somehow now it seems only natural.

"Why are you here?" Grantaire asks, hoarse voice muffled against Enjolras' shirt. "Do not be like me, Enjolras, do not. Is that why you're here? To tell me that you have given up? That the darkness I saw in the horrific recesses of my mind has really overcome you?"

"No," Enjolras answers. "The recesses of your mind, those hallucinations, they are not reality. You have spent many an hour at my bedside while I have been ill, and I wish to return the favor. You are my friend, Grantaire, a friend undergoing a hardship I have long wished to see you overcome. It reassures and comforts me to be by your side, and I'd hoped to bolster your efforts."

Grantaire does not respond, is perhaps afraid to do so; he takes Enjolras' injured hand in his own, entwining their fingers and folding their hands out to rest together over Enjolras' heart. His worries eased ever so slightly by seeing that Grantaire, while still ill, improves, Enjolras feels his eyes flutter closed with emotional and physical exhaustion, sleep finally claiming him for its own.

Two open doors catch Valjean's eye on one of his none too rare nightly walks around this sprawling house, driven by his occasional bouts of insomnia.

Reaching Enjolras' door he peers around it, fearing he's taken a turn in the night and Combeferre or perhaps Courfeyrac are tending to him. What he sees stills his heart briefly: the room is empty. The covers of the bed are thrown back, tussled, indicating a night of tossing, and his cane is gone.

Valjean is not one for panic, and crosses the hallway immediately to check Grantaire has not similarly disappeared in the night. He has not: he is sprawled, as expected in bed, and Valjean breathes a sigh of relief because there next to him, fast asleep, blond hair fanned across both pillows, is Enjolras. Their hands are clasped together across Enjolras' chest, both pale and flushed with fevers, but while Grantaire looks content and more at rest than he has for days, Enjolras' face is mask of apprehension and turmoil even in sleep.

But at least he's sleeping.

Valjean smiles, making to close the door when he sees Enjolras' stormy blue eyes pop open as though he senses someone's presence. Enjolras looks over at Grantaire then back at Valjean, who comes over as quietly as possible to the side of the bed.

"I did not expect to find you out of your own bed," Valjean whispers. "I didn't expect you'd be able to leave your own bed unassisted, actually."

"I couldn't sleep," Enjolras replies with a wan smile, voice just as soft for fear of waking Grantaire. "And I…I was worried about Grantaire. I just…needed to see him for myself, and I suppose I fell asleep here. Though I don't think I could fall asleep again at the moment, and I don't know if possess the energy to make my way back to my own room."

"Here," Valjean says, offering his arm. "Let me help you. Do you want to go back to you room?"

"I…" Enjolras says, looking from Valjean to Grantaire and back again. "No, not really."

"We'll go to the room I've claimed for my study, if that sounds all right," Valjean says, gaging the boy's reaction. He looks as if he needs to talk, and Valjean is anxious to help him, anxious to clear away the dark cobwebs of doubt spinning themselves across Enjolras' eyes in intricate patterns.

"Yes," Enjolras replies. "Yes, that sounds fine." Enjolras smiles faintly. "You always seem to be my rescuer, sir." He says as he uses both hands to shift his injured leg and set both feet on the floor.

Valjean watches Enjolras' eyes flit back to Grantaire once more, an uncertainty building in his eyes that Valjean's never seen there before. From what he's gathered, Enjolras has a firm, direct, sure nature, and seeing him hesitate, seeing him tussle with his own mind like this sits like stone in the center of Valjean's stomach.

"Grantaire will recover," Valjean says, putting a reassuring hand on Enjolras' shoulder. "He's already far improved from just two nights ago, and he has friends like all of you, has an excellent medic in Combeferre."

Enjolras nods, placing a feather-light kiss on Grantaire's forehead before turning back toward Valjean, who wraps an arm around the younger man's waist as Enjolras takes his cane. With Valjean bearing a great deal of his weight, the trek down the hall, though still painful, is easier this time. Once they reach the study Valjean deposits Enjolras carefully into the leather armchair, helping him prop his leg up on the ottoman before sitting down in the chair next to him.

"I could probably scrounge up some tea if you like," Valjean says, noting Enjolras' drawn complexion. "Touissant knows my habits well enough to leave a pot out for me to heat up at night."

Enjolras places a hand over his stomach, shaking his head. "Combeferre gave me an emetic earlier, and I'm not sure I can tolerate much at the moment, though if there's any water I'd be glad to take that. He told me to stay hydrated."

"So he told me," Valjean says, turning and reaching for the pitcher and the glass Madame Bellard has taken to leaving permanently on the desk and filling it up for Enjolras. "How are you feeling?"

Enjolras accepts the glass, taking a healthy sip while pondering his answer.

"Honestly, I rather feel like I've been run over by a carriage," he says, looking back up at Valjean. "Twice." He stops, surveying Valjean again, and even though Enjolras is weary, ill, and not entirely himself, Valjean feels the intensity of the young man's gaze filling him with the sensation of bright flames filling him up to the brim. In fact, it is a rather pleasant feeling; Enjolras does not scorch the world with his fire, but instead gives light, a light brightening and shooting through the darkness, a light so bright, so blinding, that some people are unfortunately not yet prepared to look upon it.

"I cannot…" Enjolras continued. "I have not really had the opportunity to thank you properly for everything you've done these past few weeks. And you…you risked your very life, your freedom coming to get me back from Javert. Had it not been for you, I'd be nearly to Paris now, likely…likely facing my death."

Enjolras' eyes leave Valjean's face and fall to the floor, searching for answers among the lush carpet, memories clearing barraging his mind, guilt casting shadows on his face that looks as if it is the painting of an archangel coming to life: a warring archangel who has been through battle, an archangel with a bruise on his face, fever-red cheeks, and paler than usual skin, but an archangel nonetheless. Enjolras winces noticeably again.

"You are not taking the Laudanum?" Valjean guesses.

"Combeferre told you?" Enjolras replies though there is no accusation in his voice.

"A guess."

"No. I…it robs me of…my senses, my control and I…I cannot…"

"I understand that, but if dosed properly," Valjeans replies, concerned by the stutter and what it implies.

"I have never liked it." Enjolras says, shifting as pain radiates up to his hip and sits there, aching. "I have never liked the sensation it gives. It is why I drink alcohol only sparingly, usually just wine…" He stops abruptly, pressing his hand to his mouth, gathering himself.

"Control?" Valjean questions, detecting a desperate doubt coursing through Enjolras desperate his attempts to reign in his emotion.

Enjolras looks up sharply, eyes flicking back and forth, reading Valjean's face, his meaning, his intent. Even now, as hurt and unsure as Enjolras is, his gaze is intense, illuminating, and Valjean feels as though his soul is laid bare for the reading beneath it.

Something akin to resolution crosses Enjolras face, along with the ever present pain and Valjean senses this is about more than just Laudanum.

"I have always had a temper, been passionate," Enjolras begins, one hand playing about his mouth, the other pressed to his leg. "I struggled as a child to control it, boarding school…well…" he makes a gesture with his hand, possibly wrenching himself from a memory. "I had thought, in later years I had learned some measure of control, to…channel my energy into the cause, to bridle my passion and intensity and feeling into a…"

"Force to be reckoned with?" Valjean supplies, a sudden image of Enjolras atop the barricade, bellowing orders, sharply contrasted against the soft dismissal of those with families.

Enjolras smiles sardonically, "Something like that. The Laudanum…I have never…"

"Take your time," Valjean says, ever patient.

"Thank you," Enjolras says, and stares into the water glass for a long moment. "I lost control." He whispers at last. "In the jail. I was so…angry. There was a woman, she'd been stabbed and…the blood…I couldn't…I couldn't do anything, and he, Javert, wouldn't send for a doctor." He puts the glass down and takes a steadying breath before meeting Valjean's eyes. "She died in my arms, I could do nothing for this poor woman who had already experienced much hardship." A shadow of the fury wells up, displacing the pain momentarily. "I lost control," he says again. "I couldn't stop it, I didn't want to stop it. I wanted to hurt him, to make him feel even an ounce of what Isabelle…" his voice goes faint, cracks, and he stops again.

"That was why he drugged me." Enjolras says coldly. "He was afraid. Of me, what I would do, could do. I was afraid of myself. I knew I was capable of feeling such fury, but I did not know I was incapable of controlling it. I did not know I was capable of doing…the things I did. I knew the course my actions would lead to, the revolution, the barricade, all of it. I knew hard decisions would be asked of me…that I would have to do things of which I do not approve. I was prepared for that. I made those decisions. But now…I question it. All of it. My right to choose for every man behind that barricade. The decisions I chose to make. And I cannot…absolve myself of those crimes. I do not question the need for violent revolutions, I abhor the fact that they must exist, but in the current world, it is the only way. I only question my decisions, my leadership."

"Enjolras," Valjean says after a moment. "I see the guilt in your face. You have done nothing wrong by evading capture, evading death. It is as I said just the other day; I would see you live to keep fighting."

"I am guilty." Enjolras replies, eyes harsh, voice freezing over with self-judgment. "I killed LeCabuc, I killed the artillery sargeant and countless more men in the heat of battle. I might as well have signed my friends' death warrants, and that of every man who stood and fell beside me. I just..." Enjolras tries, trying to control a voice that shakes with bare emotion. "Some of my closest friends are dead, countless comrades are dead, great numbers of my brothers in arms who fought across Paris are dead, other leaders like myself are dead, in prison, or sentenced to die, and here I am still living. Here I am still living after I dealt out justice within the confines of the barricade to keep order. I…"

"I was there, Enjolras," Valjean says evenly. "You gave the men the choice to leave. They made their own choice. Your friends made their own choices, and you know that in your heart. They and all the men who followed you chose you as their leader for a reason. Your comrades, your brothers in arms, and especially your friends," Valjean says, putting a finger under Enjolras' chin and tipping his face up. "They would want you to live. I have seen your leadership, Enjolras. I have seen you make sacrifices, make decisions that pain you, but that you know you must make. I saw you send men away from the barricade so their families might not be without them. Yes you are willing to offer the protest of corpses when necessary, you are willing to kill to keep order in the barricade, to save it, when there is no other way, but you are also very adamant that people must live to continue the cause. Do you not think that includes you?"

"I want it to," Enjolras admits, holding Valjean's gaze now. "I have no wish to die, though I was willing to, I only fear I was not meant to live, I…I do not know how to live as a fugitive and still fight for this cause, but that is everything I desire. I do not know how to cope with this trauma and this anxiety and this gaping hole in my heart while still remaining myself, being strong for my friends, I don't…And if Grantaire is right? If things never change, if humanity is incapable of change? I spun them a web of a beautiful future in pretty, poetic words that will never come to pass and they followed me blindly, I don't want them to have died in vain…I can't…"

At seeing Enjolras' distress, at seeing him war with his emotions to remain strong, a rush of affection overcomes Valjean's heart, and he gets up, kneeling in front of Enjolras, resting a hand on his good knee, the other on his good shoulder.

"You don't believe that," Valjean says firmly "Whatever doubts you are having, they are the result of trauma, and drugs, illness and injury. You could no more believe in Grantaire's cynical view of humanity than you could have taken your friends' lives yourself. Most of the time I do not think Grantaire believes in that view himself, if his friendship with you is any indication, he only fears the hurt believing sometimes causes. This hurt you're feeling right now. Do not discredit their sacrifice by putting stock into these momentary flights of doubt. They are normal, and they are natural, if foreign to you, the optimist I know you are."

Enjolras looks at him, eyes red from holding back his tears, and then drops his head into his hands.

"It is a different circumstance, but I was once in your place," Valjean tells him, memories swirling through his mind in varying shades of clarity. You might not believe it now. But you will. You committed crimes, yes. As have I."

What spirit comes to move my life? Is there another way to go? I am reaching, but I fall, and the night is closing in…

Petit Gervais.

Stealing the silver, the hatred whirling in his heart, broken through by Bishop Myriel.

"It is hardly the same, monsieur." Enjolras says bitterly. "You…you stole because your family was starving, and then all subsequent occurrences of crime occurred because you were angry at the injustice of your prison sentence, a place where you were hardly treated as a human, but you changed Valjean, changed at the kindness of one man."

"Ah," Valjean says, holding up a finger. "And was the barricade you built, the barricades built all over Paris, your revolution, your cause, your work, your friends' work, was that not all in effort to make a better world for people that grew up in my situation? So that all might have food and shelter and a fair justice system? That everyone might have a voice?"

Enjolras nods, pressing his lips tightly together to hide the trembling of his jaw.

"You dealt out justice on the barricade and you say you cannot justify it? It seems untenable, here in this peaceful and luxurious house to allow yourself that reprieve?"

Another nod.

"And did you have any other choice?"

"Combeferre did not stop me from killing LeCabuc, knew we could not have someone believing it was all right to simply shoot citizens who did not assist us, but he pleaded with me not to shoot the artillery sergeant. He asked me to yield…"

"Combeferre is a gentle soul and not a warrior; he turned himself inside out to fight at that barricade because he knew there was no other way, knew you were right in that, but it is not his natural state, fighting, so that was his sacrifice. But you cannot hand the world to progress without first fighting, not yet, and he knows that, so he fought willingly with you. You revere him as much you do all of your friends, but he could not have done what you did, though he supports you always, even if he disagrees. That is why, I suspect, you are the chief, and he is your guide. But answer me this, do you think you had any other choice, would Feuilly have thought any other choice?"

"He'd have found another…" Enjolras begins.

"Would he?" Valjean presses, his fingers digging into Enjolras' knee.

Enjolras shakes his head, a miniscule movement.

"I'd be almost to Paris by now, if you hadn't…rescued me."

"You think I shouldn't have done?"

Enjolras shakes his head again. "I don't know." He murmurs, almost inaudible. "I cannot help but believe that I should be on that coach, to face the justice I so readily dealt and believe in."

"The justice of our corrupt government? Enjolras, that is not what you believe in. The barricade failed. There is work to be done yet. If you were meant to face trial, and likely execution, now my rescue, as you say, would have failed. True justice and damnation is reserved for the Lord. Your place is to continue this fight. There is no need to damn yourself, my boy, the world needs you and more young men like your friends. Your friends need you."

Enjolras closes his eyes, pained by the thought of their failed revolution.

"Of all the possibilities I imagined following the barricades, this wasn't one. I was foolish, I planned and thought everything through but this...And now I'm a fugitive."

"You are not foolish and you can still fight. There will be a way, I know it. And I know, I know you feel trapped in darkness right now, I know you do: I understand the place you're in, but you have an advantage over me in this instance. When the bishop first helped me, I saw the light, but was unsure if I could reach it," Valjean continues. "You have already been in the light, believed in it, you already know who you were before. It is merely a matter of remembering that man, of holding on to him and adapting him to this new life, to this new circumstance. Allowing him to grieve for what he has lost, and allowing that memory to drive him forward. You are most certainly a fighter, Enjolras, you will always find a battle, but you do not fight simply to make a war, you do so to forge a better world."

To Valjean's delight, Enjolras smiles. It is a smile drenched with melancholy, but it is a smile nonetheless.

"Our friend Prouvaire would have loved that," Enjolras says, and Valjean recalls the young man with the reddish blonde hair, the smiling light brown eyes, words of poetry written across them, the young man who fell as they escaped, that light still in his eyes even in death.

"You boys are some of the most impressive young men I've yet come across," Valjean says, removing his hands from Enjolras' shoulder and folding them back into his lap. "To learn so much, to band together and fight for a cause such as the freedom of an entire nation. It is admirable, and it is utterly selfless."

"People always ask me the exact moment this cause became the flame that lit my heart," Enjolras muses. "And though all of us can recall moments from our childhood, from our adolescence when it dawned on us that there are some very serious cracks in the foundation of our society, it is such a part of me that it almost seems it was always there. I shall never forget when my grandmother handed me Paine's Common Sense when I was twelve or so-she was rather a fan of his-and I read the line 'the state of a king shuts him off from the world, yet the business of a king requires him to know it thoroughly' it just made so much sense to me. If I were to choose a single moment, it might be that one."

"You have read a great deal?"

"As much as I could get my hands on, and with my grandmother's American heritage and my mother's not so secret republican sympathies I found it easy to get my hands on things, despite the fact that my father was concerned over my growing political interests," Enjolras replies. "First she gave me Paine, all the writings of the American founding fathers. Then she gave me Rousseau and some Robespierre, Danton, Mirabeau. Combeferre illuminated me on Desmoulins, and I have read everything I could locate that Saint-Just wrote. I saw people suffering, starving, dying, and was given no reason other than 'that is their place in the world.' It never sat right with me."

"As well it should not," Valjean says, remembering his own childhood, his family, working to the bone and still being consistently on the brink of starvation.

He does not believe that it is God's decree at all, but the decree of men too selfish and power-hungry and stuck in the ruts of society to change. God, he believes, is entirely merciful. His mind strays to Cosette as it tends to; if it had been up to society, her lot in life would have simply been 'the way things were' and she would have been trapped and left in a life she'd done nothing to deserve. The thought of her, the juxtaposition of her dirtied, unsmiling face upon their first meeting against her beautiful, sunny smile of the present lifts his heart.

He looks back at Enjolras again, his mind clearly churning with thoughts, but at the very least he looks as if some of his burden has been lifted, and his eyes start falling heavily.

"Bed, I think," Valjean says with a fatherly air, unable to stop himself from brushing a finger against Enjolras' cheek; the boy is strong, he will set the world spinning with his ideas and his passion, he is fierce in battle, Valjean has seen it, but in this moment, he looks so like a tired young boy. "Let me help you get back. Your mother should be getting my letter, tomorrow, I expect, so we shall have to be on the lookout for her reply."

Enjolras nods, allowing Valjean to help him up and resume the same stance they had on the way from Grantaire's room.

"I apologize, monsieur, if my father comes with my mother," Enjolras says, voice saturated with exhaustion, wincing as he takes a bad step on his leg. "I do not know if he will come, but I suspect he might, and he…he will not be pleased with me. I have not seen him in…three years at least."

"We shall face that when it comes," Valjean says, lifting Enjolras up onto the bed, and Enjolras does not fight the gesture. "Sleep, Enjolras."

Enjolras nods again with a mere tilt of his head, and Valjean watches him fall into slumber, pulling the covers up around him, tender with his injuries.

Like the son I might have known…