Noël's face, grey in the soft light of pre-dawn.

He came to consciousness almost suddenly, a slow surfacing as if from beneath the stillest of seas, the water breaking over his head as his eyes snapped open. He gasped involuntarily, and groaned when that jarred something deep inside him. The softest shushing sound, and a finger pressed to his lips.

He swallowed hard, the iron taste of blood foul on his tongue, and rolled his head, and that was when he saw Noël.

Noël's finger, pressed to his lips, that gentle order not to speak.

"You had a haemorrhage," his words low and soft. "We managed to collapse the lung and stop the bleeding, but if it starts again it will need surgery. You've had two transfusions, and morphine for the pain. Best to lie still and not try to speak."

His head was too fuzzy to piece the words together. A haemorrhage. A haemorrhage meant bleeding, bleeding in his lung. That was what he could taste. Blood, old blood.

If there had been bleeding, why was he lying at an angle? Something under his right shoulder, keeping it up, and he shifted against it, trying to get more comfortable, but Noël's hand pressed his shoulder gently to be still.

"Need to keep your right side higher than your left," and the faint crease of what might have been a smile. "Keep any blood from flowing into your right lung."

It seemed like that was important, somehow, but why he could not grasp.

His eyes flickered closed again, too heavy to keep open, and he felt Noël's fingers pressing into his wrist.

Something prickled at the back of his mind, but he couldn't think what. Something, something about someone. Jack? Where was Jack? He must be…must be worrying.

His eyes flickered back open, and he rolled his head to the right, against the pillows keeping him propped, but instead of seeing Jack, smiling sleepily at him from the other bed, all he saw were curtains, shielding the bed from view.

And Sorelli.

Sorelli, asleep, her head on the pillow beside his, and when his fingers twitched, too heavy to lift to brush the hair from her face, he felt her hand, warm and soft, lying on top of his.

Sorelli.

Tears prickled his eyes, but he could not say why.

Noël's voice, even softer than before. "She came as soon as she heard." And he murmured something else, indistinct through the haze in Raoul's ears, dim when all Raoul could feel was her hand, and he carefully turned his hand over, to feel her palm against his.

Sorelli.

Of course she came. Of course.

And yet the tears prickled his eyes, tears of no reason, and blurred his vision so that he closed his eyes rather than not be able to see, and distantly he felt the blankets being tucked around him, felt a hand brush his forehead.

God, but he was so tired.

The dabbing of a cloth against his cheeks, drying the tears, and a soft, whispered, "I suggest you follow her lead."

"…you were the most important person to him in the world. I always knew it and I was never jealous. How could I be?"

Dimly he saw her wipe the tears from her eyes, but he was too tired to let her know he was awake. Maybe she wanted him to hear, wanted him to know these things. And as she faded from view he felt a hand rest light in his hair.

"God but he'd hate this."

It was as if he was floating beneath the surface. Half aware of people, of voices. Of touches and whispers. Of hot and cold. Dim images and shadows and half-distinct faces. Sorelli, mostly. Philippe, in the corner of his eye. Noël, in and out, always quiet, always careful. Christine, once. Collections of pieces and he was too tired to stay awake, cold down to his bones but warm too, and always, somewhere in the back of his mind, a soft voice reminded him not to speak.

(Pneumonia, they told him, when he was well again. Pneumonia brought on by the haemorrhage, by the blood he had not been able to cough up.)

(He still carries the slim scar, from the incision Noël cut in his side, to push a tube into his lung and drain the fluid that was suffocating him.)

(Mostly he remembers not being able to breathe, and the sharp shooting pain.)

Soft scrape of a blade against his skin, gentle touch of fingers to his chin. "…doesn't like not being shaved…" A voice he always knew as well as his own, adamant and certain. His cheeks cool and damp, and the smoothing of a towel. Her face swam before him, eyes rimmed red, and he tried to breathe her name, tried to muster the strength, but she shushed him and pressed her finger to his lips.

"It's alright, Raoul, I'm here." A kiss, pressed gentle, to the the back of his hand as she dimmed from view. "Just sleep."

The waves crashing against the rocks. Splinters of timber and bone and water red with blood.

The ridges of stitches impressions on his fingertips.

The room rolled and pitched around him and he gasped and coughed at the pain lancing through his side. An arm beneath his neck, raising him up and the air he sucked in was cool and clear but the room was still tilting, rocked by the wind, and beneath his head was a shoulder, an arm wrapped around him to keep him from slipping back beneath the waves.

"I swear I'm not going anywhere." Faintly green eyes shining with concern. "I'll read you every terrible poem I can find, if you want."

His head spun if he lifted it, the headache pounding fresh if he tried to lift a book to read it, but Jack would keep him right, keep him from going insane.

"So long as they're not too awful."

"Please. Give me some credit for taste."

"You should have told us."

"It wouldn't have made a difference."

"I don't care whether it would have made a difference or not! If we'd known we would have been ready. He mightn't have gotten this bad."

"Sorelli—"

"No. No I don't care right now. I can't listen to your logic. Look at him, Christine! How can you tell me this is right? How can you tell me he had to go through this?"

A long silence.

"You can't. You can't tell me." A ragged breath, and a whispered, "he doesn't deserve this. He doesn't."

"No, he doesn't."

"Then why—" and her voice cracked, "why does he have to go through it?"

(It would be years before anyone told him, but there was a night his blood pressure dipped so low his pulse was barely perceptible, and Sorelli kept her fingers pressed to it all night, until her fingers were too numb to feel it. And when his breathing faltered, Noël was there to be sure it didn't stop.)

Music from somewhere far away. The flash of a smile and shining blue eyes, faintly green. And a hand, slipping between his own.

"It's a crime that you don't dance more often."

Dimly, through a haze, Sorelli leaning into Christine, their faces washed out and pale. "He'll live," Christine's voice soft and low. "I promise you he'll live."

The tears shone bright on Sorelli's cheeks.

He might have told them he was awake, that he could hear them, but he could not find his voice.

The darkness swam back in, and washed them away.

Singing, soft and sweet in his ear, and a kiss, pressed light to his forehead.

"But at my back I always hear, time's wingéd chariot, hurrying near…"

"…fever broken…"

"…x-ray clearer…"

"…wake when he's ready…"

"…all the rest he…"

It was a Sunday, when he came back to himself. A Sunday, he learned afterwards, and when he opened his eyes, everything was quiet.

There were the softest breaths against his cheek, and a hand warm on top of his, and he was too tired to move, too tired and too heavy, but something deep inside of him whispered that he needed to see who those breaths belonged to, so he swallowed against the aching of his throat, and turned his head, slowly, carefully, and found Sorelli, Sorelli's head sharing his pillow, her eyes closed.

And he was so tired, but he kissed her forehead, and her eyelids flickered, and he breathed her name, his throat sore and voice hoarse from his illness, from disuse.

Deep brown eyes looked into his, bleary with tiredness, with days of worry, and he felt a hand cup his cheek, gentle and careful.

"Don't try to speak," she whispered, so soft, so low. "You need to be careful with yourself."

He nodded, and swallowed, and tears welled in her eyes.

"You had me so frightened," she whispered, and something that ached like guilt took root in his chest, as one tear slipped over the bridge of her nose.

With a trembling finger, he brushed it away.