All Combeferre could think about was how small Feuilly looked in bed.
He should keep thinking about possible treatments. He should be considering the next steps needed to be taken in order to decrease the risk to Feuilly. In the hours that had passed until night fell, Combeferre had known what he had needed to do. Those hours had been spent mopping Feuilly's brow with the cool towels, cleaning out the chamber pot, checking Feuilly's pulse and breathing rate, and holding Feuilly as he emptied the contents of his stomach and soiled his clothing.
And now Feuilly finally slept.
Exhausted from the physical and emotional toll the day had taken, Combeferre sat on the little stool he had brought out from Feuilly's kitchen and placed beside Feuilly's bed. Enjolras sat on the floor against Feuilly's bed a few feet away; despite pleading from both Combeferre and Joly to leave, he'd refused to leave Feuilly's side, and had eventually fallen asleep.
Joly, too, had refused to leave, until Combeferre's frustration reached a point which made it impossible for him to remain. In Feuilly's small bedroom, there was hardly room enough for one person, let alone three. With Joly's unnecessary fussing over Enjolras getting sick, Combeferre had told him to get some rest; Joly had only finally consented with the intentions of trading places in an hour or two. However, Combeferre had found that as long as he had something to do, his fear and worry could be better kept in check.
Combeferre watched the unsteady rise and fall of Feuilly's chest, deep in thought. His lids grew heavy, and several times he caught himself dozing with his chin on his chest. Each time Combeferre jolted awake, he told himself he would fetch Joly in a minute. For now he would return his attention to Feuilly.
Even in sleep, Feuilly did not escape the pain and misery of the illness by which he'd been cruelly struck down; Feuilly's face contorting painfully in his sleep finally brought Combeferre around to check his watch. With a heavy sigh, Combeferre got to his feet and crept into the cramped kitchen, returning a minute later with a new glass of water.
"Feuilly," Combeferre said, patting Feuilly's cheek gently to wake him up. Feuilly stirred, but didn't open his eyes. "Feuilly," Combeferre repeated, louder this time, and stern, "It's time for you to rehydrate again. To get through this you need to drink a great deal of fluids."
Feuilly shook his head a fraction of an inch, his eyes still shut. "It hurts," he whispered almost inaudibly. Combeferre swallowed down his hesitation, ignoring the stinging at the back of his eyes.
"I know, mon ami, and you've done a wonderful job staying strong through this. Just a little more, please." When Feuilly did not respond, Combeferre continued with a little more urgency, "Feuilly, you must drink - you know very well that I will force you if needs be."
Feuilly finally opened his eyes a sliver and nodded. Combeferre helped him sit up, and though he knew he was being as gentle as possible, he didn't miss Feuilly's quiet hiss of pain.
Unable to hold the glass himself, Feuilly had to comply with Combeferre's orders of being helped to drink. As Feuilly drank, Combeferre discreetly observed the dilation of Feuilly's pupils, and pressed his hand both to comfort Feuilly and to feel his pulse and temperature. Feuilly was still warm - too warm.
Combeferre helped Feuilly lay back down, and when Feuilly's head rested on his pillow he murmured something inaudibly to Combeferre, already nearly asleep again.
"Feuilly, what is it?" Combeferre asked quietly, worry pricking at him.
"Need...to tell my work supervisor I'm -" Feuilly's face suddenly contorted into an expression of agony as he curled up into himself, clutching at his stomach.
Combeferre helped Feuilly straighten himself out, disregarding Feuilly's weak pleas to be left alone.
"I'll take care of it - stay a moment, Feuilly, alright? I'll fetch some tea and liniments to help soothe the pains." Combeferre turned around quickly and started for the kitchen to fetch his medical bag so Feuilly would not see his face. He would get the liniments, rub them to soothe Feuilly's aches, and then what? There was no cure, no real end to this except -
Combeferre closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temple. He had to get through this night. He had to get Feuilly through this night.
He nudged Enjolras awake from his position near Feuilly's bed, indicating for him to keep watch over Feuilly as Combeferre left the room. Enjolras immediately replaced Combeferre's position on the stool, taking Feuilly's hand
"You should have woken me hours ago."
Combeferre looked up to see Joly standing in the doorway. Despite the previous comment, Joly appeared to have spent an uncomfortable time "resting" at Feuilly's table. His eyes were ringed with darkening shadows, and he nearly tripped over his bare feet in exhaustion as he moved aside for Combeferre.
Combeferre shook his head, gesturing for Joly to move to the kitchen. Combeferre's shoulders were weary and ached with bending over Feuilly these past few hours; he rolled them back a few times as Joly watched him expectantly. Somehow, the delay only made it harder for Combeferre to meet Joly's eyes.
"Well?"
Joly's voice was hardly more than a whisper, and yet Combeferre could still detect all the hope and fear that that one, small word contained. He forced himself to get a start on the tea, and ordered Joly to fetch his medicine bag from the table. Having bought himself a few seconds to collect his thoughts, Combeferre inhaled deeply to steady himself, making sure that when he spoke, his voice would be even and neutral, and would not betray any other part of himself.
"Do you think you can ask Bossuet to go to Feuilly's workplace?" Combeferre asked, despite the knowledge that skirting the topic at hand would only give Joly further cause for anxiety. "Let him know Feuilly will not be coming in for work for a while. I believe he was even trying to rise just now to go tell his supervisor himself."
Joly nodded distractedly, his eyes fixed on Combeferre. "Yes, but what of his condition?" His voice rose in pitch and volume as Combeferre still fought to answer. "Combeferre?"
"His fever has gone down, but barely. He was having a harder time of it -" Combeferre checked his watch - "two hours ago. He's been sleeping." At this, Joly's shoulders slumped with relief, making it all the more tempting for Combeferre to leave it at that.
Joly, however, appeared to understand immediately that all was not well. "Combeferre," he said softly, "what is it?"
Combeferre was silent. He knew what Joly would say to challenge him and counter his doubts - it was a large part of why they got on so well. Worse, however, was the worry that Joly might agree with him.
"I am afraid we might be holding out on false hope, Joly. It will be a miracle if he lasts the hour, let alone the night."
Joly froze and was silent. He stared at Combeferre with an accusing look of betrayal that sent a sharp pain through Combeferre's own chest. "You have no faith in Feuilly."
"Of course I do," Combeferre said sharply, "But he's still in pain, Joly, nearly delirious with it, only now he's simply too tired to even be sick in the pot. Look at the signs. You forget, I have had to witness this again and again with dozens of cholera patients - he's progressed too far in this. We should tell the others before it is too late. There is no cure, Joly, how can we possibly -"
"How can you say that?" Joly asked, "how can you forsake our friend with these words? We are his doctors now. It is up to you to do everything in your power to save him, whether you have faith in your abilities or not."
Combeferre's head ached with the weight of the obligations that always, always fell to him. It was one thing to tend to ill strangers in the hospital, knowing there was nothing he could do to help - the grief was painful then, overwhelming, even - but there was always someone else to save.
On the other hand, having to force himself to maintain false hope for Feuilly, his friend? To feel that terrible squeezing pressure in his chest as he treated Feuilly with vain hopes? Would it not be better to prepare himself now, rather than being struck blindsided should Feuilly die?
Combeferre looked up at Joly. "You know what our supervisors would say."
Joly let out a short laugh which only sounded choked. "To ease his pain rather than continue trying to save him. But, Combeferre," Joly said quietly, "Feuilly is our family. If it came to it, he would not give up on you."
And with that, Combeferre knew he was right. He felt his senses return to him slowly at first, then all at once till it was too much to bear. "My God," he whispered, sitting down on a nearby chair exhaustedly and holding his head in his hands. "How could I give up on him so soon?"
Joly sighed, and it sounded to be one of immense relief and put a hand on Combeferre's shoulder. When Combeferre raised his head, Joly smiled a little in comfort. "I do not think you were giving up on Feuilly. Rather, I believe you were beginning to give up on yourself."
Combeferre let out a small dry laugh. "Either way I was only harming Feuilly." In the silence that passed, Combeferre's jaw tightened with resolve.
Whether or not Combeferre believed Feuilly could survive the horrific disease that had mercilessly wiped out thousands, he would not give up. And, Combeferre thought as he poured Feuilly's tea out into a mug, perhaps Feuilly would prove to be the exception. God only knew in many ways, he already had.
It was then that they heard Enjolras yell for help.