Disclaimer: The Friends of the ABC and whatnot belong to Victor Hugo, while their relations belong to me.
Notes: There. I did it. I've written a Les Mis fic that more than a little short nothing. And it's not very good. I'm sure this has been done seven zillion times. x___x
No one was sure exactly when the battle turned. For the longest time, it seemed as they were losing, and all would die. Then, suddenly, they... weren't. Suddenly, the gunfire ceased and the captain of the National Guard could be heard bellowing from the other side of the barricade.
"Cease fire! Retreat!"
There was the stomping of feet as they marched away, getting quieter and quieter as they headed away from the barricade. All was silent on the barricade, as though no one could even comprehend what had just happened. Then, Courfeyrac raised the arm that Combeferre wasn't trying to remove three bullets from into the air triumphantly. He took the handkerchief Combeferre had given him to bite if it got too painful from his mouth and let out a cheer.
"Hush," Combeferre scolded, but he was drowned out by the sudden eruption of cheering from the barricade. Even stern Enjolras's cheeks were flushed with what one might dare to call pleasure. The silence before the cheering had managed to wake Grantaire, who stumbled out of the Corinth and into the street.
"What has happened?" he asked, leaning against the doorway for support.
"We have won!" Feuilly replied, having to shout to be heard. Yes, the people, the underdogs, the group of students and workers armed with cast-off weapons, had won. But at what price? Inside on a table, an old man who had nothing left to live for lay dead. Beside him, a little boy who had his whole life ahead of him was dead as well. Outside, on the other side of the barricade, dead guards were splayed out, their guns and ammunition stolen. Among them, a blond boy who couldn't be older than seventeen was slumped against the wall, shot through the chest.
Inside the barricade, dead were scattered over the floors and the side of the barricade. A man, older than the other students, laid half on and half off of the barricade. A girl with her shirt torn open and a hole through her chest and hand smiled peacefully into eternity. A student farther from the barricade had been shot through the neck and stomach with his handkerchief still clutched in his fist. A man was dead in a doorway. Boys at the very peak of their youth lay sprawled on the sidewalk. A little gamin lay dead outside the barricade, on the street. Some had written identification and letters to lovers that would serve as their final farewell. They had won. But at what price?
The cheering gradually died away as people began to recognize the dead around them, and to fully realize that they were gone, as they had been unable to do in the midst of fighting. The tall, pale, thin, fan maker Feuilly put a gentle hand on a crouching student whose bald head made him look older than he was.
"Bossuet, are you... crying?"
The bald student, Bossuet, looked away from Feuilly and at the ground. He tried to speak, but his voice broke, so he just pointed.
"Joly," Feuilly said flatly, taking a moment to realize that the student, dead with his handkerchief in hand, was their friend. "Joly!" Feuilly turned to Bossuet. "Do you know how-?"
"I tried to save him, I really did," Bossuet said, unashamed by his tears. "I tried to block him..."
It was then Feuilly noticed the blood staining the side of Bossuet's waistcoat. He, like others, had long since lost or discarded his overcoat. Feuilly fumbled with his pockets until he finally produced a handkerchief, which he quickly pressed against the wound.
"Combeferre-"
"Do not trouble him. It is not deep," Bossuet said. He laughed weakly and wiped his cheeks with his fist. "I am as bad as Prouvaire, crying this way. Where is Jehan, anyway? I haven't seen him..."
"I do not know," Feuilly said, having, like Bossuet, not heard that Jean Prouvaire had been executed. "We could ask Combeferre... and while there, he could look at that wound of yours."
"Very well," Bossuet said, and took Feuilly's extended hand to pull himself to his feet. The pair had to pick their way through the dead and wounded lying on the ground, and after passing a man who had been shot through the head, Bossuet noted that Feuilly's face had taken on a distinct green tint.
Combeferre was easy to find, due to the shouts of pain coming from his general vicinity. Combeferre was crouching next to Courfeyrac, who was leaning as far away from the bespectacled student as he could as long as Combeferre had a fast hold on his arm. He had the handkerchief clenched between his teeth, and there was a mostly-empty brandy bottle on the ground, but he still cried out in pain.
"Ah! You are going to kill me before these bullets do! Leave them there and get away from me, you monster! Joly! I want Joly! Surely he will be gentler than you!"
"That depends. Is a dead man gentler than a living one?" Combeferre asked, an almost vicious edge to his voice. "Now be still or I will leave these in and let you die slowly and painfully as your blood is turned to poison."
"Joly's dead?" Courfeyrac asked quietly. Combeferre didn't answer. Courfeyrac's brow furrowed slightly, then he let out a yelp as Combeferre began again his job of trying to extract the bullets from Courfeyrac's arm.
"Goodness, Combeferre, what are you doing to make him wail so?" Bossuet asked as he approached. Feuilly, who looked as though he was about to be ill, stumbled behind him.
"You are bleeding," Combeferre said, straightening and looking at Bossuet. Courfeyrac was hugging his arm to his chest, looking as though he wasn't about to let Combeferre near it any time soon.
"It is nothing serious," Bossuet said hastily. "Surely there are others who..."
"If another needs me more, I will go to them. But right now, none call me save you. You are just frightened."
"And with good reason, you butcher," Courfeyrac grumbled. A slight smile flickered across Combeferre's lips.
"I haven't any more bandages," Combeferre said. "You will have to find something else. And when you do, bring it here, alright?"
"Very well," Courfeyrac said, getting to his feet. "My, Feuilly, you aren't looking well. Too much blood for you?"
"A bit," Feuilly agreed weakly, then seemed to remember the other reason they had gone for Combeferre. "Combeferre, we are looking for Prouvaire. Have you seen him?"
Combeferre's face remained neutral, but both Courfeyrac and Feuilly could tell he was uncomfortable. He smoothed back his brown hair, then adjusted his spectacles, both things he was known to do when nervous.
Feuilly had a bad feeling about the situation. He'd always felt a special friendship with the little blond boy, though Feuilly was much older than Prouvaire and they came from vastly different backgrounds. Even in appearance they had been opposites, Feuilly was tall, dark-haired, and thin of face, while Prouvaire was tiny with blond curls and a round, boyish face. But both were artists, and both tried their best to see the world as a beautiful place, though Feuilly often suspected that Prouvaire did a much better job at it than he. Feuilly looked at Combeferre.
"Prouvaire-?"
"Is dead," Combeferre said flatly. He bent over Bossuet, not wanting to see Feuilly's stricken expression. "He was captured and executed by the guard. We tried to trade the spy for him, but we were too late. He died bravely, I'm sure." There was a brisk, blunt edge to Combeferre's voice that alarmed Bossuet. Feuilly blinked, then took a step back, looking dazed.
"A-ah. I am glad you told me, Combeferre," he looked around, then spied Enjolras standing near the barricade itself. "I will go, now. When you are finished, Bossuet, and perhaps we can... return home together."
Combeferre and Bossuet watched him go, neither trying to stop him.
"He seems quite upset," Bossuet commented. Combeferre glanced up at where Feuilly had gone, then at the ground again.
"He and Prouvaire were good friends. On that note, how are you doing?"
"I am fine. The wound is not so bad."
"You know that is not what I mean," Combeferre said, his level brown eyes meeting Bossuet's.
"I have always had bad luck. I am used to bad things happening," his voice cracked. "But I am equally accustomed to having Joly there to help me through them."
"You knew when you came here that people were going to die," Combeferre said. Bossuet looked at him with pained eyes.
"I was told. Over and over again I was told. But I never thought it would happen. I never thought it would be us. Never thought it would be him."
"All or nothing," Combeferre said softly. "We thought our luck would hold as it had in past rebellions, and we would make it out alive. Or we thought we would all be killed. We never thought some of us would be left behind to cope with the loss."
"And you were the one who wanted a peaceful rebellion in the first place."
"I know now there is no such thing."
Feuilly had wandered dazedly over to where Enjolras stood. Seeing him, Feuilly couldn't help but wonder how their golden-haired leader could stand so proud and unruffled, despite the death all around him. Perhaps it came from having led a successful rebellion. Feuilly hadn't realized that Enjolras had seen him until he spoke.
"This is it. The beginning of a change," Enjolras turned and looked at Feuilly. As it always did, the intensity and ferocity of those blue eyes startled the fan maker.
"How do you know?" he asked. Feuilly had never talked back to Enjolras before, but now that it was all over, he felt it no longer mattered if he made the beautiful, golden demi-God angry. "How do you know anything is going to change? How do you know that Joly and Bahorel and Prouvaire are not dead for no reason at all?"
"Because we have made the people aware," Enjolras said calmly. "Aware of the problems around them. I never knew you were so passionate, Feuilly."
"The death of your closest friends tends to make one such," Feuilly replied bitterly.
"Those dead sacrificed their lives bravely for our cause and I am sure they have no regrets."
"How do you know? How do you know they would not rather be alive! How do you know they weren't supporting families and have now left them behind!?"
"Have you a family to support, Feuilly?" Enjolras asked. Feuilly started. No one had asked about his family before... the Friends of the ABC didn't generally ask about the families of their fellow Friends.
"Yes."
Soon, people started to move slowly away from the barricade. Some carried dead friends or brothers on their backs, other dead were left to be robbed by the beggars and gamin that were starting to move in just for that purpose. Bossuet couldn't bear to touch Joly, but he did take everything of value on him to bring back to Musichetta. Then, both being bewildered and a bit upset, Bossuet and Feuilly walked home together, though neither knew where the other lived. They went to Joly's, where Bossuet was staying, first, simply because it was closer.
The apartment was in one of the nicer parts of town, and before Bossuet could even open the door it was flung open by a plump girl with glossy chestnut curls who promptly embraced Bossuet.
"I heard about the insurrection, and, God, Olivier! You had me so worried!" the girl buried her face in Bossuet's shirt and wept, her arms still wrapped tightly about him. Bossuet gently patted her curls, staring straight forward rather than at her.
"Shh, Musichetta. It is alright," he said. The girl, Musichetta, took a step backwards, wiping a tear off of her cheek with one pale hand. She looked up at Bossuet, then past him, to Feuilly.
"Where-?" she broke off abruptly, seeing no one else behind him. "Oh, God. Oh, God, no!"
Her hands flew to her mouth, then her eyelashes fluttered and she fell back in a dead faint. Bossuet rushed forward to catch her.
"Who-?" Feuilly stepped inside to help Bossuet carry the fainted girl to the bed.
"Musichetta," Bossuet responded. "She is... was... Joly's mistress. And, like everything else, I shared."
"She is one of many left alone by the barricades," Feuilly said somberly, looking at the round-cheeked girl. Bossuet glanced up at Feuilly, then stepped back from Musichetta.
"Let me bring you home," he said. "I think that... I think Musichetta would prefer to be alone when I... explain."
"I understand."
So Bossuet left Musichetta on the bed and stepped with Feuilly out into the street. Because he didn't know the way, Bossuet didn't do a very good job of leading Feuilly home, but he had wanted to buy himself a bit more time before having to explain how Joly had been killed and how he had obtained his own injury.
Bossuet had known, somehow, that Feuilly was an orphan, but he'd never really thought about it before. So he was surprised when Feuilly led him to one of the seedier parts of town, with more crime, more illness, dirtier streets, more dilapidated buildings, and cheaper rent. Bossuet sighed inwardly with relief whenever he and Feuilly passed a particularly awful building without stopping. The one they finally stopped at was one of the better ones in the area, but still enough to make Bossuet wince.
Feuilly led Bossuet to one of the apartments on the third floor, one of the few that didn't have anything carved into the door. Feuilly knocked gently on the door.
"I did not bring my key because I did not expect to come back," Feuilly explained. "Hopefully my brother is not the only one home..."
"Why would he be home at all?" Bossuet asked. "Surely he works?"
"No," Feuilly said flatly, and Bossuet left it at that.
Feuilly knocked at the door again, a little louder, and this time it was flung open as four young girls, the oldest no more than twelve, spilled out, each tugging Feuilly's clothes and begging to know where he had been. Feuilly managed to shake them off and step inside, where he was promptly greeted by a girl of about fifteen.
"We heard about the fighting," she said by way of greeting, her voice as soft and gentle as Feuilly's usually was. "I was afraid that you were..."
Her eye fell on Bossuet.
"Is this one of your friends from the café?" she asked, then gave a polite curtsey to Bossuet. "I am Valerie."
"L'aigle, called Bossuet," he said, offering a nod in return. Feuilly laid a hand on the head of one of the smaller girls.
"These are my other sisters. Germaine," he nodded to the oldest, "Etoile," he patted the head of the girl nearest him, the next oldest, "and the two little ones are Mardi and Coralie."
Feuilly's dark eyes flicked to the corner of the room. Bossuet followed his gaze to a chair, and in it, someone he hadn't noticed before. It was a boy, or more of a man, who looked to be just a couple years older than Feuilly. He was pale, like Feuilly, but the whiteness of his skin make him look sickly, while it added a bit of elegance to Feuilly's face.
"That is my brother, Augustin."
"A friend of yours, Pascal?" Augustin asked, a faint smile gracing his pale features. He looked past Bossuet with sightless, milky-white eyes and beckoned him over. Bossuet went, and knelt when Augustin reached up to him. He stiffened, but managed not to shy away as Augustin brought his hands, delicate and slender as Feuilly's, up to Bossuet's face and gently felt his features.
"He smells of blood," Augustin said disapprovingly. "And gunpowder. You do, as well, Pascal."
"Now how would you know what gunpowder smells like?" Valerie teased, her voice light but her eyes worried. Augustin took his hands from Bossuet's face, and Bossuet quickly moved away.
"I really... I really should be going, Feuilly," Bossuet said. "Musichetta..."
"I understand," Feuilly said. Bossuet nodded and quietly left.
The evening with Musichetta was far from cheerful, and both spent most of it crying. As Bossuet lay in the dark alone, Musichetta having gone tearfully home, he couldn't help but think how odd it was to have the bed. Whenever he stayed over, Joly would drag out the extra blankets and make him sleep on the floor. Joly always had extra blankets, for one had to sweat out a fever.
It took Bossuet a long time to fall asleep, but when he finally did, it was far from peaceful. He was plagued by nightmares... not the sort where one can wake up and shake away the fear by saying it was only a dream, but the sort of nightmare that is real. He saw again and again himself lunging to try and push Joly out of the way, only to miss and fall to the ground. He heard Joly's sneeze suddenly turn into a gasp of pain, and he saw the look of shock and horror in his eyes as the bullet cut into his chest, then saw his best friend die instantly as another bullet entered his throat. He woke up sweating, his hands clapped over his mouth to suppress a scream.
Combeferre didn't return home until late that night. He was exhausted, but he want purposefully over to his desk and took out a piece of paper, a bottle of ink, and a pen. Uncorking the ink and dipping the pen in, he began to write.
Dearest Mother, Louis, and Henrique,
As you may or may not have heard already, there has been an insurrection of sorts here in Paris. Before you ask, I was involved, and before you worry, I am unhurt. I suppose I shall be facing the consequences of my actions soon enough, and I am well aware of that fact. I wish you to know that I did what I did believing in it wholeheartedly. I was forced by no one, and I will not try to escape whatever may come of what I've done. Many died in the insurrection, and you know as well as I that I may soon join them. Please, Mother, do not try and use your money, our family's money, to turn the police from my trail. It would give me no greater honor than to die for this Cause.
Louis- Do not let this event turn you from following your dreams to Paris. It is a wonderful city, though perhaps you will find it as hard as I to turn a blind eye to the suffering around you. I wish for you to come here, so you might get an idea of what I fought for, and what I have risked myself for.
Henrique- Continue your studies, and worry not about the fate of your eldest brother. Do not grieve; just continue with your life. I beg you not to forget, either. I hope someday you too journey here, to Paris. Nothing would give me greater joy than to see my younger brothers continuing to fight for the Cause I began to fight for. I hope only you will find or become as great leaders as my Enjolras was. I hope you can be as dedicated as he at whatever you end up doing. But whatever that may be, remember I am beside you, whether I truly am, or whether I am in jail, or whether I am executed for my part in this insurrection.
Your Loving Brother,
Romaine Combeferre
Combeferre signed his name with an uncharacteristic flourish, then carefully folded the letter, placed it in an envelope, and wrote out the address. Then he put it in the pocket of his coat. He would mail it later.
Getting to his feet, he went over to the bed and flopped down on it. He lied on his back, staring up at the long crack in the ceiling. He had left his home that day fully expecting to never return. Yet here he was, looking again on that crack that had always bothered him so. Yes, he lay here in bed once more. But so many didn't. Combeferre closed his eyes. He didn't want to think about that. He shouldn't feel guilty that be had happened to get lucky and live... but he did. He took off his spectacles and buried his face in his pillow. Surely he could deal with the guilt in the morning? But as he slipped into sleep he soon found that memories of those dead on the barricade could haunt his dreams, too.