Enjolras was still wandering in a fever the following day and the day after that, in Combeferre's watchful care. He spoke often, usually nonsense about history and literature, and Combeferre soothed him, answering as best he could. However, his temperature was gradually getting lower, much to Combeferre and Joly's relief.

Joly, who had come by with the notes he had promised, practically had to drag Combeferre away from Enjolras's bedside to make him sleep and eat. The sensitive young doctor was frantic with worry, though that was understandable.

"He's doing alright, Etienne. The fever's breaking!" said Joly gently, laying his hand on Combeferre's shoulder at lunchtime (it was Sunday and there were no classes). "Come on, get some sleep. I'll sit with him for a couple of hours."

"I really shouldn't…" began Combeferre but Joly frowned.

"Get some sleep, mon ami, or I will hit you over the head with a textbook!" he said, a teasing frown on his face, but an edge of warning there. "Go on, I'll make sure he's all right."

Combeferre lay down on top of his bed and was asleep in minutes, thoroughly worn out by his worry. Joly took up his place at Enjolras's bedside, when the sleeping blond turned over suddenly and opened his eyes.

"Bonaparte?" he asked quietly. Still fevered then.

"No, no. It's just me, Julien. It's just Christophe," Joly soothed him hastily, gently stroking his hair. "It's all right, mon ami, ssssh. Go back to sleep."

"I think it's going to snow," said Enjolras dreamily, rolling over and closing his eyes again. Joly smiled and put a damp cloth on his head.

"If you say so, Julien," he said gently. "Rest now."

"I like snow!"

"I'm sure you do," Joly chuckled. "Now hush!"

Enjolras dropped back into a slumber and the afternoon passed quite peacefully. As soon as he woke up, Combeferre resumed his vigil, refusing to leave his friend again. Prouvaire and Courfeyrac came up in the evening and sat with the two medical students in companionable peace as they all worked through their coursework together.

"Anyone seen Claude today?" asked Combeferre suddenly. "He did say he was going to come up and see how Julien was doing but I haven't heard from him these last few days."

"Now that you mention it, I haven't seen him since Wednesday at the Musain," said Courfeyrac. "But mind you, we haven't had any more meetings this week since Julien's been ill, so I haven't really had the opportunity to see him anyway."

"I reckon he's taken on a night job again," said Joly dryly, raising his eyebrows. "He did that the last time he was short on money, remember? He drove himself to exhaustion because he was too proud to ask for help. He told Etienne and I on Tuesday that he was struggling to find his rent money, but he wouldn't borrow."

"Stubborn fool!" Prouvaire shook his head. "So do you think that's why he hasn't been round? Because he's taken an extra job?"

"I expect so. It's just like him and he did it before!" said Joly, sounding exasperated. "It was almost a month before we realised what he was doing. What a tiresome, stubborn bunch of friends I have! One too proud to admit he's short on money, another too proud to admit he's ill…"

"And a hypochondriac doctor who likes to 'big-brother' everyone!" grinned Courfeyrac, ducking as a book was hurled at him. "What are you going to do to Claude, scold him make him stand in the corner?"

"Be serious, Jerôme!" sighed Joly in exasperation. "I tell you one thing, he has got one day to show his face, or I am going round to his lodgings and he's going to accept my help whether he likes it or not!"

"The same goes for me," said Combeferre. "He really is going to have to swallow some of that pride and allow us to help him, until he has some better luck. Jerôme, you do realize that the task of doing an essay involves writing words, don't you?"

"I usually copy Julien's," confessed Courfeyrac, with no shame at all, looking down at the blank piece of paper in front of him. "Why did he have to get ill when we have a lot of coursework?"

"Poetic justice, mon ami?" suggested Prouvaire mischievously.

"You're supposed to be on my side, Jehan!" said the indignant Courfeyrac and the table erupted with laughter again.

Suddenly, there came the sound of loud coughing from the bedroom. Combeferre was on his feet in an instant and ran through the door to, pale with anxiety. However, anxiety turned to utter joy when he found two blue eyes fixed clearly on his face.

"Etienne?"

The fever had finally broken! Julien Enjolras was lying flushed and groggy in bed, but cleary wide awake and compos mentis.

It took extreme self control from Combeferre not to run to him and throw his arms around him, then wallop him round the head for attempting to hide his illness. "Julien, thank God you're all right!" he said weakly, sitting down on the bed and clutching his friends hand as he sat up in bed. "You had me so worried!"

"What happened? I don't remember much apart from talking about Bonaparte last night."

"Julien, that was Wednesday night. This is Sunday evening now. You've been delirious for days. You've had the influenza and a fever. You passed out in the Musain and Grantaire carried you back here."

"I did? What must they think of me?" groaned Enjolras in embarrassment.

"They thought the same as I did!" said Combeferre sternly. "How could the boy be so utterly stupid as to hide the severity of his illness from all those friends who think the world of him? No one thinks less of you Julien; everyone was terrified. I've never seen Luc and Jehan look so scared and as for Jerôme – he was dotting about the room like a mad hen until the doctor arrived! There's not one of them who hasn't been round to see how you were doing every day." He tactfully left LeClair out at the moment, not wanting to get his friend worked up on another rant on the injustice of Claude's situation.

"I was that bad?" asked Enjolras in surprise.

"You were that bad, Julien!" Combeferre confirmed frowning, growing even more stern. "And let me warn you; if you ever lie to me, or scare me like that again, I am going to make you one very, very sorry individual! Damn it, you're my best friend! I love you like a brother. It would have finished me if I'd lost you."

"I'm sorry Etienne," Enjolras said quietly. "You are like a brother to me too. You're the best friend I've ever had." He extended his arms, offering a hug, which Combeferre accepted, embracing his friend fiercely, letting his tears of relief flow unnoticed into the golden hair.

"Etienne?" Enjolras suddenly pulled back. "I was…you're crying!"

"Of course I'm crying, you dunce!" Combeferre laughed through his tears. "You scared me out of my wits, you stubborn hothead, and I thought you were going to die!"

"I…I am sorry. Truly I am," Enjolras hugged his friend again, touched deeply by Combeferre's tears.

"What were you going to say?" asked Combeferre when they parted again.

"I…I didn't say anything stupid while I was delirious, did I?" asked Julien nervously; there were family grievances and painful childhood memories that he'd rather keep hidden.

"No. Though you were crying for Nicolas," Combeferre told him. "I think you were remembering that time when we decided to play treasure hunt in the woods at the edge of your estate. I had to calm you down because you were getting so frantic."

"Oh God!" Julien blushed vividly then coughed again. "Was anyone else here?"

"Only Jehan," said Combeferre. "And he understood. Julien, no one is going to think you're weak because you miss your brother. It's all right to miss him."

Combeferre didn't fail to notice the tears welling up in his friend's eyes. He patted his shoulder comfortingly. He missed Nicolas too, and he had only been his friend not his brother, so he understood what Enjolras was going through.

Before he could talk however, their other three friends burst into the room, having heard Enjolras's calm voice. They were all overjoyed to see Enjolras at least partway back to normal – the cough and sore throat would take a few more days to be banished. Courfeyrac almost hugged his head off; he was squeezing so tightly, while Joly clapped him on the back over and over again and Prouvaire simply beamed at everyone.

They laughed and joked for a while, all tension and anxiety gone for the present, but the three visitors headed off soon after, for Enjolras was exhausted. They all promised to come back the next day and keep the still slightly weak young law student company, and to fill him in on what he'd missed.

So it was that a similarly happy sight met his eyes when Christophe Joly walked into Enjolras's bedroom the following morning, finding Prouvaire already there. Courfeyrac had gone to inform the rest of the group that Enjolras had recovered

Enjolras was smiling reminiscently, the unnatural flush on his face dulled to just a pink tint, Prouvaire was sitting by his bed, his eyes shining with amusement as Combeferre was animatedly telling an anecdote. From what Joly, could pick up as he entered, it seemed to be about some childhood mischief that he and Enjolras had gotten into, which had gone dreadfully wrong.

"…well, you can imagine the horror on our faces, Jehan, when we realised we hadn't dumped the water all over Julien's brother Antoine, but over both our fathers instead!"

Prouvaire burst into peals of infectious laughter – the one thing Joly didn't mind being infected by – and wiped his eyes. "Oh Etienne, I wish I could have been there! What did you do?"

"There was nothing to do but admit what we had been planning to do to Antoine, and that it had gone wrong." chuckled Enjolras. "With both out fathers glaring at us, there was no other option."

"I will wager you both slept on your stomachs that night, my friends!" grinned Joly, as he crossed to join them. "I imagine your fathers were less than pleased by your misbehaviour."

"Morning, Christophe!" said Combeferre brightly. "No, our fathers were not at all pleased. I was lucky though; my parents have never been quite as strict as Julien's parents are. I got off with a good scolding from Papa and being sent to bed as soon as we got home. It was poor Julien who got the thrashing."

"Mmmh. My father never did have much of a sense of humour!" said Enjolras wryly, and the others were glad to see his fever had not robbed him of his wittiness. "It was worth the thrashing though, to see his face when that water poured over his head!"

Enjolras began to laugh again, which gave way to some more coughing, though nothing near as violent as it had been before. Combeferre looked at him anxiously, but Enjolras reassured him with a smile. Before he could say another word, the door opened again and the remainder of the Amis (minus only LeClair) came into the bedroom, all clapping on him on the shoulder and saying how pleased they were to see him awake. Even Grantaire, who, surprisingly enough, was sober, summoned the courage to clap him on the back and say how glad he was to see him on the road to recovery. He expected to be shot down in flames.

But, Combeferre had revealed the depth of Grantaire's intense loyalty to Enjolras, who had been moved to find that the young skeptic believed in him so devotedly. So, instead of glowering at him, Enjolras flashed Grantaire a happy smile and said:

"Thank you Luc. It is nice to be back." And Grantaire found that the warmth of friendship in Enjolras's eyes was more comforting than any alcohol.

"You know," said Courfeyrac, flopping idly down onto Combeferre's bed, pushing Feuilly out of the way and being subsequently hit with a pillow. "I went round to LeClair's rooms, and there was no sign of life. The windows are too dirty to see into and, because his landlady wasn't home, I've no idea where he went."

"We'll see him tomorrow," said Joly, furrowing his brow. "He has a class with Etienne and I first thing. He won't miss that!"

Claude LeClair was not a stupid man. He was a medical student, and he knew what all the blood he had coughed up since Friday meant. He knew what was coming.

He had not been able to get out of bed since Thursday night. He'd lain in the dimness while the room spun around him, then become a blur, then come sharply back into focus as the atmosphere had become hot, then cold, then hot again. He knew there was no hope. He knew what was wrong with him.

He didn't feel sorry for himself though. He had got this far on his own; he'd carry on on his own. He reached for an envelope and slid the money from his pawned jewellery inside it.

Lying back, he began to think of his friends; of the eloquent Enjolras, the kindly Combeferre, the thoughtful Joly…all of them. The greatest friends any man on earth could ever hope to be blessed with. The thought of them brought tears to his eyes, and, deciding he could not simply part from them, he reached for paper and a pen.

Swallowing another mouthful of blood that rose with a cough, Claude LeClair sat up in bed and began to write.

My dear, dear friends…