Merry Christmas, everybody! I hope you all have a fantastic Christmas, and enjoy the rest of your time off of school/work if you have it (hopefully, you all have some time off:))!

Once again, I apologize for the slow update, and thank you all so much for everything! I'll try to update "Between Love and Loss" soon too. (Also, sorry for give you such a depressing chapter right in the middle of the holiday season. XD) I hope you enjoy!

CHAPTER V

~DESTRUCTION OF FIRE~

Combeferre could not wait. He asked abruptly, "Enjolras?"

The doctor gave a grave nod. "He's alive."

Oh, thank God! Thank God! Thank you, Lord Jesus! Relief poured into Combeferre's soul as clean waterfalls rush into a dry crater in the earth, turning what was desolate and barren into a glittering pool of beauty and purity. He thanked God.

"As of now, he is alive," the surgeon added grimly, "but he is in very bad condition, and his life remains continuously at risk. He is being transported to the Critical Care Unit now."

Combeferre swallowed. It felt like his vocal cords had twisted themselves into a tight and painful knot, and it made it difficult to speak. He braced himself. Against his own will, he commanded and forced himself to ask, "How bad is he?"

Bad. Terrible. The doctor told him everything that had happened. He informed Combeferre of his friend's injuries, and Combeferre thought the list would never end. It kept getting worse... It was terrible. Terrible to the point that it was unthinkable. Yet, Combeferre had no choice but to think about it. He had no choice but to face it.

"God," he breathed, when the man finally finished. He stared numbly at the floor, and he tried to wrap his mind around what he had just heard. He tried to clear his head. He was starting to feel dizzy. He hoped he would not pass out. God. He looked up and looked into the doctor's eyes. "Is he awake?"

"No, he is under anesthetics. He had to undergo emergency surgery as soon as he got here, and he has not woken up yet, which is for the better. He is on heavy medications, but nonetheless he will be in terrible pain when he awakes."

Combeferre did not even want to think about that. He did not want to think about his friend in such agony. Cringing at the very suggestion, he asked through clenched jaws, "When can I see him?"

Enjolras's friends could see him now, but only one person at a time. (When Combeferre later relayed this information to the other students, mutually, without speaking even a word, they all agreed that this one person should be Combeferre; it should be Enjolras's brother by his side when he awoke.) The surgeon also warned him about the things that he would see when he entered the CCU, which many people found disturbing. The medics would have to continue monitoring and treating Enjolras's injuries, which could be upsetting for his friends to behold. He told Combeferre that Enjolras had been unconscious since he arrived at the hospital, so the doctors had been unable to speak to him thus far. However, the paramedics from the ambulance said he had been conscious or some time on the way to the hospital, he had been speaking to them, however he was having trouble remembering things. They did not know what metal state Enjolras would be in when he awoke. They did not know what—or who—he would remember.

When he followed the doctor down those stark white corridors, over tiles that glowed in such a way that it looked as if they had just been scrubbed clean, scored and bleached, as if blood had been scrubbed off of the white floor, through that labyrinth like an ancient prison, past closed doors and dark rooms, down empty yet ominous hallways, Combeferre felt as if he was a prisoner being led to his execution. He felt as if he was trespassing on the resting place of the dead. He, who was still alive, walked silently through a tomb, being watched by the even more silent dead. He could not see them, but he perceived that their eyes were upon him. Ghosts lurked about them, the ghosts of the departed. Perhaps, soon—Combeferre and dreaded more than anything else—Enjolras's spirit would be among them.

Combeferre was afraid. He was terrified. He did not want to be in this place. He did not want to be here. He did not want to see this. Yet, at the same time, he wanted nothing more than to be at the side of his friend. So, swallowing his fear like a soldier marching onto the field of battle, marching on even though he is terrified—that is what courage is—he kept going, walking forward, putting each foot before the other, following the white coats.

They brought him to the room where Enjolras was sleeping in a drug-induced oblivion. A total of five medics—two doctors and three nurses—were still in the room when they brought Combeferre in. All of them were crowded around the bed, hiding from view the person lying in it. Combeferre's stomach churched, and his throat tightened into a knot. He approached slowly. A nurse moved out of the way as he drew near. He saw the man lying in the bed.

…

Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...

It droned on. Mechanical. Surreal. Inhuman.

Beep... Beep... Beep...

Muffled. Weak. Broken. Dying. It was already dead, but it refused to admit itself so. It refused to believe that it was dead. However, nothing could change that now. It was too late now. Once the grave is met, it is too late. The stone cannot be rolled away. The dead cannot return to life.

Beep... Beep...

Slowly—weakly—deliriously—it went on. The voice of something buried under the earth, half-dead, dying. It cried out for help as it made a vain endeavor to dislodge itself from the mud. Its voice was heard only by the wind, which picked it up and carried it away so the perishing would not be found. He would perish.

The wretched creature struggled uselessly to cling to his life. He refused to let go of the rope, even though there is no one to pull him up, and he was too weak to pull himself out from his grave. He was in that frightful state between life and death when one is doomed, should have been dead already, can do nothing now but die, yet he cannot die. He cannot die.

So he cries out. Again and again, he cries out for help, for death, for anything. Nothing comes. He waits, trapped between words, between life and death, between heaven and hell. Perhaps he is dead. Perhaps this is hell. Perhaps he will go on like this forevermore. In torment. Suffering. Torture.

The voice continued on.

Beep… Beep… Beep… Beep…

The low yet shrill moaning of an animal that has been pierced by an arrow, screaming as it fades. It lies miserable, wounded, bleeding, dying. Had someone with any heart at all, any lick of mercy, been there to hear or see the poor beast, he would have killed it just to end its suffering. Death would not permit such a thing.

Beep… Beep… Beep…

The noise continued.

Beep… Beep…

What was that!? It was relentless. Maddening.

He tried to move.

He couldn't.

Something held him down. Some invisible force—the weight of the earth above him; as he was dead now, and this was his grave—pressed down on him, suffocating him, crushing him. It was crushing his body, his bones, his organs, his lungs—he could not breathe!

He opened his eyes. The noise did not stop. It persisted on, that ceaseless beeping. He could still hear it, but he could not see it. He did not know where it was coming from. He did not know what it was. He could not see it. He could not see much.

His eyes were clouded. His vision was impaired by some thick, wet fog that invaded his eyes, hurting them and blinding them. The dim lights that he could see shining through the smog—blinking red dots, green lights, glowing screens, and a murky yellow glow coming from somewhere across the room (if he was indeed in a room)—hurt his eyes. He turned his head very slightly.

Pain. It hit him like a bullet in the skull. The lead ball smashed through his flesh and bones and ripped through his entire body, cutting through him like the blade of a sword, tearing his insides, shattering his bones, shredding and grinding his weak body. The pain hit him with such force and power that, at first, his breath was knocked out of his lungs, and he could not breathe. He gasped for air but was unable to receive it. It was like drowning. He could not breathe! Then, at last, life-saving oxygen rushed into his lungs, breathing life back into his dying form, bringing relief but also more pain. (As it would have been far easier and far less painful if he were simply to die.) His chest hurt. It hurt terribly, as if his lungs were scored and bleeding, as if there was a pair of deadly claws in his chest ripping them apart. Apart from being extremely thirsty—his lips were chapped and dry, in danger of bleeding; his mouth was so parched it felt like sandpapers scrapping together; his tongue was swollen and pasty, and it stuck to the insides of his cheeks and the roof of his mouth; his throat was so dry, so painfully inflamed that it felt like there was a large bulge knotted up in it, and Enjolras could barely swallow—his lungs and windpipes were sore and raw. They felt as if he had drunken acid or inhaled poison, as if they had been charred by fire.

He closed his eyes as his head spun in dizziness and pain. He felt like he was trapped in the midst of a treacherous maelstrom, being thrown about by a wrathful ocean. His head throbbed, pulsating like that infernal beeping which would not stop. (What was it!? Perhaps it was in his head, driving him mad if he had not gone mad already.) An incredible amount of pressure was trapped inside of his skull and pressing upon the insides of his head, trying to bust out of its imprisonment. He felt as if is skull would crack and spilt. His brain, it seemed, was like a ship toppling about and rolling over, wrecking and sinking, in the stormy sea. Yet, the pain in his head was far from the worst of it. He was in agony. There was so much pain coming at him, colliding with him, at once, he could not quite say where it was coming from. Everything hurt. His entire body hurt. It was like they—who? perhaps the demons; perhaps the devil— were torturing him, breaking his body piece by piece until he would, through screaming and sobbing, confess every sin he had ever committed. The pain was everywhere. Crushing him. Killing him. However, the worst of it, seemed to be coming form the lower half of his body. His lower torso, his belly, his legs…

Without meaning to, as if he had lost all control of his own body, his face contorted in agony, and he let out a weak moan. It was hoarse and broken, the feeble moan of the deer as it lies dying on the earth, the hunter's bullet still lodged in its side.

"Enjolras," a faint voice that swayed and quivered slightly said from somewhere around him, startling him a bit. Yet, he was too weak to flinch. He was too close to death to be afraid. With difficulty, he opened his eyes. A blurry image, which after a moment he recognized to be his best friend, Combeferre, moved over him.

Combeferre looked and sounded exhausted. He was. It was nearing eight o'clock in the morning, and Combeferre had been up all night. Fear for Enjolras's life would not have allowed him to sleep if he wanted to. His grief and misery, his restless worrying, ceaseless praying, pleading with God to spare the life of his brother, drained him of everything. Almost like Enjolras's face—although, Enjolras looked countless times worse—Combeferre's face was pale, his eyes tired and dark, and there were grey shadows beneath his eyes. Combeferre did not look well. Enjolras, however, looked positively terrible.

Taking great care not to touch him, or to touch the bed he was lying on, or the sheets, or the IV tubes going into his arms, or the patient-controlled analgesia connected to his IV, or the tubes going into his nose to feed oxygen to his burned lungs, being careful not to touch anything connected to, touching, or around Enjolras for fear it would hurt him even more, Combeferre leaned over Enjolras and reached across the hospital bed. He picked up the little PCA pump connected to Enjolras's morphine drip, and he pressed the button one, two, three times in a row.

Immediately, Enjolras sighed in relief as medication was released into his vein. He was still in terrible pain, but the flowing of this drug into his broken body—like water entering the roots of a dehydrated and withered flower to give it just a small bit of life—made it easier to bear. He felt as if there was a thousand pounds on top of him, pressing down on him, and crushing him, suffocating him. When Combeferre pressed that button, a bit of the weight was lifted off of him, and it became easier to breathe.

With difficultly, Combeferre raised his face and into the eyes of his friend. Enjolras's eyes were frightening to look into. It was like upon one who is being tortured in the eternal flames of hell. Combeferre could see agony—the torment—in those sunken, cold, dark, lifeless eyes. The strength, the passion, the fire that usually burned courageously in Enjolras eyes was gone now. The fire had burnt out. It seemed when the firemen extinguished the flames that engulfed Enjolras's car—and Enjolras, himself—they had extinguished the flame in Enjolras's heart, as well. Now, like his heart, which seemed to have turned into a rock in his chest, like his numb soul, his eyes were empty. They were dim, dark like the ring that hung beneath Enjolras's eyes and filled his shadowy eye sockets. The light in his eyes was waning, as if his soul was departing from his body… as if he was dying.

"It's morphine," Combeferre muttered. His voice was low and raspy, as if his grief weighed it down. "There is a small amount flowing into your vein constantly, but if you press this button here, it gives you more. They have it set so you can't overdoes, so press it as much as you need." He gently placed the pump on the bed beside Enjolras's hand—his hand, which an IV tube was going into and heavily taped onto—so he could easily grab it and press the button when he wanted to. Then Combeferre sigh and looked sadly at his friend.

He already knew that Enjolras felt miserable, that he was in agony, torture. So he spared them both the pain and trouble of asking and answering. Instead, he looked woefully at his friend, who was so close to dying, still barely clinging to his life, alive so long as the cardiac monitor continued to beep, so long as God forbid Death to take him, and he tried not to let Enjolras see the pain it caused him to see his best friend—strong, brave Enjolras—in such an awful state. "I'll get the doctor," he said softly, diverting his eyes from Enjolras. He went quickly across the small hospital room, opened the door, and without stepping foot outside the room, without leaving Enjolras for even a second, leaned out into the hallway.

Enjolras vaguely heard Combeferre's voice from the other side of the wall. "Hey, Courfeyrac. He's awake. Get the doctor," and Combeferre drew into the room again, closing the door softly behind him. Feeling sick to his stomach, feeling nauseous as if he was going to throw up, simply sick to see his friend like this—to think about the agony he knew Enjolras was going through, to think about telling him everything that had happened, to tell him the devastating truth, to think about the tragedies that could happen still made Combeferre sick—he went slowly across the room and sat down once more in the chair beside Enjolras's bed.

"You need to rest," he said at last in a drained, hollow voice. That was all he could think to say. He did not want to talk about what had happened; he did not want to tell Enjolras his never-ending list of injuries; he did not want to even think about what could happen next; and he did not want to tell Enjolras that everything would be alright, because he feared it would be a lie. He did not know what else to say. Perhaps there was nothing else. Enjolras needed to rest. The doctors would do what they could. His friends would stay with Enjolras and pray. And the rest was up to God. That was all they could do.

For the first time, as now it was clear that he was in the hospital and that—at least for the time—he was still alive, Enjolras looked down and through unclear vision observed his own condition. He was, as he had suspected, lying in a hospital bed, and he was surrounded by many machines and monitors, beeping and flashing at him, hurting his ears and his eyes. There were two IV tubes going into his right arm, one at the inside of his elbow and the other going into a vein on the top of his hand. There were tubes going into his nose also, up his nostrils and down his throat, one end of it attached to a ventilator—a machine that blew air into his lungs and forced them to continue breathing—and the other inserted into his windpipe. His arms from his biceps to his knuckles were enveloped in bandages, with only small gaps in the wrapping (at the bend of his arm and the top of his hand) so the IVs could go in. Electrodes were attached to his chest with sticky pads, and wires were coming out from under his clothing to connect him to the heart monitor. He was dressed only in a thin hospital gown in which he felt exposed and vulnerable, but a light sheet covered him from his hips down, providing him with a little more comfort. He could not see his wounds; as the doctors made sure to cover them. He could not see the damage that had befallen his languishing body. However, because of the amount of pain he was in, he knew it was bad. It was terrible.

He drew in a deep breath. It felt strange, the air rushing into his lungs and forcing them to expand, this machine that was breathing for him. He could hear the air moving loudly through the tubes in his nose, being expelled from the machine and rushing into his body. It was extremely uncomfortable and also painful—even though they had him on heavy drugs to dull the pain as much has possible—to have that plastic tube going up his nasal cavity and down his throat, and even with the machine to help him, breathing hurt his chest—his lungs and his ribs. He grunted softly and winced as he exhaled. Then he opened his eyes again and looked at Combeferre.

"Combeferre?" Enjolras whispered. (Because the doctors needed to talk to him, they had made sure the ventilator tubes would not impair his vocal cords.) Combeferre sighed in relief. Enjolras remembered his name. He knew who he was. That, at least, was better than it could have been. But Enjolras's voice was faint, and it trembled. It was weak and scared. For a moment, Combeferre thought Enjolras was going to cry. He did not, however. Even now, he would not allow himself to shed a tear. …At least, not in front of Combeferre.

"What, Enjolras?" Combeferre answered at once, anxious to grant his friend's any wish—knowing, trying but unable to pretend otherwise, that this wish might be his last.

Enjolras closed his eyes, struggling to cope with the pain, struggling not to moan, or faint, or scream, or cry, and with terrible effort he managed to mutter, "Can you call my mother?" His voice broke like frail glass hitting stone pavement when he spoke that last word.

"Of course, I can," Combeferre answered quietly, his own voice shaking slightly—but the thought of calling this woman and telling her that her son had been in a car accident and that he was now in danger of dying made Combeferre's insides twist into knots. "We were going to call her already, but no body knew her phone number."

"The number is programed in my phone," said Enjolras. His voice was so faint, so weak. It was painful simply to hear him speak. Combeferre tried not to cringe. It was as if he, himself, could feel his brother's agony.

Very quietly and grudgingly, he answered, "You're phone was destroyed in the fire, Enjolras."

"Oh." He should have realized that. Of course, the fire destroyed his phone. The fire destroyed everything. It destroyed his phone, his car, his body, him… perhaps it had even destroyed his seemingly unconquerable spirit.

Slowly and reluctantly, Combeferre began, "If you can remember her phone-number…"

"It's…" Enjolras began confidently, but he fell silent abruptly. He tried to think. He tried to remember. He strained his throbbing mind, which made his pulsating head hurt even more. Unable to hide his pain, he cringed.

"If you can't remember," Combeferre started to say, but, in haste, Enjolras interrupted and began rambling out numbers that Combeferre knew were incorrect. What Enjolras gave him was not even the right number of digits, and the area code Enjolras produced (33-1) belonged to Paris, not Uzès. Yet, Combeferre knew Enjolras would not be able to rest—he would not let give up—until he thought of the number. He was stubborn, and even now he would not admit defeat. So, when he finished dealing out numbers (Combeferre recognized pieces of the students' as well as his own phone-number mixed in with the lot of them), Combeferre nodded and said he would call Enjolras's mother as soon as he got a chance. Then he could see doubt in Enjolras's eyes as he wondered if he had given Combeferre the wrong number.

"That might not be right," Enjolras said slowly after a moment.

"I will try to call her," Combeferre said at once, trying to save Enjolras from straining his mind and hurting himself anymore, "and if it is not the right number I will tell you."

Like a scared, innocent, and helpless child, Enjolras asked, "Can you call her now?"

Combeferre did not know what to say. He knew already that this was not Enjolras's mother's phone-number. However, he did not want Enjolras to know this, because his dying friend would exhaust himself trying to think of the correct number, and in doing so he might drain himself of whatever little life he had left. So Combeferre did not know what to do. He was spared however, perhaps by the grace of God. The door opened, and two doctors followed by two nurses entered room.

Immediately, they swarmed upon and surrounded Enjolras, and Combeferre back away from the bed to give them room. The doctors briefly told Enjolras who they were, that he was in the hospital, and that they were here to help him, and they immediately began to ask him questions: how did he feel, how bad was the pain, on a scale of 1 to 10 how bad did it hurt (Enjolras hardly hesitated before he answered 10; despite his pride, this was by far the worst pain he had ever experienced and there was no sense to pretend otherwise), where was the pain the worst, could he describe the pain in his body, could he describe the pain in his head, did he know where he was, could he remember what had happened, what was the last thing he could remember, could he remember the date, could he remember this, could he remember that… Enjolras could not remember many of the things the asked him to recall, but he had no trouble remembering all of his friends. Even if the crash had killed him, even if he was dead, he would not have forgotten them.

At last, almost a half-hour later, they finished questioning him. Enjolras sighed softly in relief, because every time he had to answer, every time he tried to speak, it hurt his throat terribly. Silence fell over the room. The nurses' hands flew as they recorded all of this on their clipboards. The doctors turned to one another and spoke in hushed undertones. Combeferre watched and waited in anxiety. Enjolras closed his eyes and hoped the drugs would pull him under again soon. He did not know how much more of this he could bear.

The doctors decided not to tell Enjolras of his injuries yet. It was best they gave him more time to recover first. Right now it might be too overwhelming. There was no need to cause him any greater distress. Not now. So they increased the flow of sedatives going into his IV, and within the minute Enjolras slipped into unconsciousness once more.

Combeferre could not bring himself to watch so he stared at the floor as they lifted Enjolras gown and removed his bandages, displaying his gruesome injuries, as they checked all of the wires and tubes going into him, the monitors connected to him, as they checked his vitals signs, as they checked and attended to his wounds. When they finished, they put clean bandages on his wounds, covered him with the sheet, and left the room. Combeferre was left alone again, waiting for his friend to rise from the dead.

…

He was sitting in his chair, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands folded, his head bowed, and his eyes closed, as if in prayer. He had been praying. He did not realize that he was beginning to fall asleep until his phone buzzed, and, with a start, he jolted suddenly awake. It was still dark in the room, as there were no windows and the only lights were the dim ones blinking on the monitors around Enjolras's bed. However, it was past twelve o'clock noon.

Before he so much as glanced at the phone in his pocket, his eyes bolted to look upon the man lying in bed before him. Because the heart monitor was still beeping steadily—a maddeningly annoying sound that had become music to Combeferre's ears—he knew Enjolras was still alive. His heart was still beating. He could still hear the robotic breath of the ventilator, so he knew Enjolras was still breathing. He looked up, and saw him still sleep, having not moved from the last time he saw him. Combeferre sighed in relief. Reassured that his best friend was still alive, he reached into his pocket and turned his attention to his phone.

He did not recognize the number lighting up on his screen. It was a 33-4 number, an area code which Combeferre was not familiar with. Dread flooded him, his stomach turned sour, and his heart turned to stone as he realized who this might be calling him. Yet, he knew he had to answer the phone, even though he did not want to. So he did. Raising it to his ear, he spoke softly, "Hello?"

"Combeferre?" the pretty and gentle but also anxious and scared voice replied from the other time.

That confirmed Combeferre's fears. He rose immediately from his seat and went to the other side of the room, putting as much distance between him and Enjolras was a he could, not walking Enjolras to wake up by the sound of his voice, and if he did awake not wanting him to hear this conversation. "Yes," he answered grudgingly, keeping his voice as soft as he could.

"This is Madame Angèle," the woman hastily went on to tell him, "Enjolras's mother."

Combeferre knew her. He had only met her a couple of times. At the beginning of each semester when the students were settling in their rooms, she was always there to help Enjolras move into his flat. She had visited Enjolras a couple of times as well. She met Combeferre, who had been Enjolras's best friend for a long time now. Madame Enjolras was a wonderful woman. Always kind, always good, always putting others before herself. She was much like her son, but without his fiery temper, without his reckless anger, without his brutal judgment, and without his refusal to forgive. While Enjolras was the ally of justice, his mother was the friend of mercy.

Combeferre did not know what to say. He hesitated for less than a second, and Madame Angèle was speaking again. "Do you know where Enjolras is? He was supposed to come home last night, and he never did. I keep calling him on his cell phone, but it's not even ringing. I guess that means his phone is turned off? I am getting very worried. Do you know where he is? Is he still at his flat?"

"I, uh…" Combeferre began slowly. It was only too clear by his voice that something was wrong, that something was very wrong. He was sure she realized that. His mind was racing but unable to find an answer. He did not know what to say. He did not know how to tell her. "Actually I'm glad you called," he finally muttered. He glanced across the room at Enjolras, who was still asleep. "I tried to call you, but no body knew you phone number."

"Why?" she cried, suddenly panicked, "What happened? What's wrong?"

Combeferre closed his eyes and covered his face with one hand. In the darkness, with great difficulty, he forced himself to answer, "There was an accident…"

"Oh, my God…" he heard her whisper, to herself or to God, and to Combeferre she asked frantically, "Where is Enjolras? Is he alright? Is he hurt? Where is he?"

Telling her was even worse than telling his friends. This was worse by far. Combeferre would have rather been anywhere doing anything than standing in this hospital room and talking to Enjolras's mother. He would have rather been the one unconscious and dying in that bed. But, of course, he would have. If it were at all possible, he would have taken Enjolras's place in a heartbeat.

He gritted his teeth. "He's in the hospital. The Intensive Care ward. I'm with him now."

"Good Lord Jesus." She let out a soft whimper sound that might have been a stifled sob. Combeferre could only imagine her now, holding the phone to her ear with one hand, covering her mouth with the other, or grasping for forehead, pacing the room in terror and panic, praying to God and cursing fate at the same time, cursing herself, because somehow parents always found a way to blame it on themselves, panicking, crying, despairing. "Is he awake!?" she cried as soon as she had regained the ability to sleep. "Can I talk to him? How bad is he hurt?"

"He's…" Once again, Combeferre did not even know where to start. He did not know which would be more difficult, trying to tell Enjolras or trying to tell his mother. He glanced at Enjolras again to make sure he was sill asleep. He was. Sighing heavily and burdensomely, silently asking God to help him get through this, he closed his eyes and spoke with a heavy heart, "Bad." His voice was no more than a strained whisper, weak and broken, when he added, "He was hurt very badly."

"Oh, my God. How badly!?"

There was an entire list of injuries that Combeferre would have to report, but he did not know where to begin. He did not even know where to start. At last, after hesitating and stuttering, he decided to start at the beginning. He told Madame Angèle to sit down. She obeyed. He told her.

He began at the beginning. He told her how it had gotten so late but Enjolras wanted to drive home anyway, how Combeferre tried to convince him to stay, but he refused. He told her that Enjolras had been hit by a drunk driver (he did not mention Grantaire's name, or the fact that the drunk driver was their friend), that the car caught on fire, that Enjolras was trapped inside the vehicle for long time before the ambulance got there. Everything else he told her was what the doctors told him.

Enjolras's heart stopped when they were in the ambulance, and the paramedics managed to revive him with CRP. It came close to stopping a second time when they got to the hospital, but they were able to correct his heartbeat with the defibrillator. As soon as they got to the hospital, Enjolras was taken into the ER for emergency surgery. He had to be given a blood transfusion and put on life-support. As of now, he was still alive.

The entire lower half of his body, from his stomach to his feet, had been attacked and devoured by the fire. There were bad burns on his arms as well, but only his forearms required skin-grafting. Most of his skin from his hips down had been burt off completely, and the muscles, especially his quadriceps, had been badly damaged. The doctors had already performed an emergency allograft, using the skin of a cadaver to clothe the raw flesh that still slung to Enjolras's bones. More surgery, more procedures, and multiple stages of grafts would be performed in the future as Enjolras's real skin began to heal and grow back.

Both of Enjolras's legs had been badly damaged; they had been crushed by the smashed vehicle, and a broken piece of metal had cut deep into his thighs like the blade of a sword. This required surgery as well. The femur bone in both of his legs had been fractured. The wounds were closed now, but the muscles were still badly damaged (the doctors had done what they could to repair them). Enjolras would be unable to walk for a long time. …There was a chance that he might not ever be able to walk on his own.

He also hit his head, suffered a severe concussion, and it seemed to be affecting his memory. Whether in the car crash or whether it was when they were giving him CPR (it was difficult to say which), two ribs on the left side of his chest and one rib on the right side had been fractured. His broken ribs, however, were one of his lesser injuries. His lungs were much worse. The inhalation of so much smoke and fire had burned his throat and airways and lungs dreadfully, and now he needed the ventilator to breathe. His heart was beating at a mostly regular pattern now, which was a good sign… at least, it was a reason to hold onto the hope that Enjolras would survive.

When Combeferre finally finished telling Madame Enjolras of her son's injuries, he thought hard to make sure that he had not forgotten anything. "I think that is everything," he said at last.

Silence came from the other end of the phone.

Combeferre waited.

Still silence. He began to wonder if she had hung up the phone. Hesitantly, he opened his lips—he glanced at Enjolras again—and said her name softly, "Madame Angèle?"

Nobody answered. Combeferre was about to sigh and hang up, thinking that she was gone, when a quivering voice whispered, "Are you with him now?"

"Yes," Combeferre answered softly.

Madame Angèle drew in a trembling breath, and Combeferre knew she was crying. Trying not to sob, she whimpered, "Can I talk to him?"

"He's asleep. But when he wakes up I will call you back."

In desperation and helplessness, she asked, "Have you talked to him at all?"

"Yes, he was awake a few hours ago."

"Was he talking to you?"

"Yes. He was talking."

Every time she spoke, her voice quivered and cracked and shattered, like her heart, and Combeferre could almost see the tears running down her cheeks. "What did he say?"

"He asked me to call you, but he couldn't remember your phone-number."

"He couldn't remember? Has he forgotten a lot?"

"Not a lot," quickly said Combeferre, which was more or less true. "Only things that do not matter, like dates and things. He could remember all of us. It might just be the drugs going to his head; they have him on heavy medication."

Madame Angèle let out a quiet whimpering noise as she tried to stifle her weeping. "Is he in a lot of pain?"

Combeferre did not answer. He opened his mouth, but stopped before any sound left his lips. What was he supposed to say to that? Was he to lie to her? Would it be a greater sin to tell her the truth? He could not tell this woman the truth; the truth was too painful. The truth was too lethal. He swallowed the knot in his throat and tried to sound honest. "They have him on a lot of pain medications, so he can't feel that much."

Combeferre heard her sigh in relief. At the same time he felt a pang of guilt and a sigh of relief in his own heart.

"What hospital are you at?" Madame Angèle finally asked in that same broken voice.

Combeferre answered flatly, "Pitié-Salpêtrière," which was one of the largest hospitals in Europe.

"I'm coming to see him," she said. "It's almost seven hours to Paris from here, so I will not get there until tonight."

"I will let Enjolras know when he wakes up."

"Thank you, Combeferre," she said softly. A moment later, she added even softer, in a voice that told Combeferre she was breaking down again, "When he wakes, Combeferre… will you tell him that I love him? …Just in case." Just in case I do not get there in time. Just in case I am too late to tell him myself. Just incase I never see him again.

Combeferre's heart throbbed. "Of course, I will," he tried to answer evenly, but his voice cracked, and he was suddenly in danger of crying himself. He could feel tears rushing into his eyes and fighting recklessly against them, yearning to spill out onto his cheeks. He forced them back with all of the strength and will he had left. He would not let himself cry while he was on the phone with Enjolras's mother; he would not be that weak. He had to be strong. For her. And for Enjolras. He cleared his throat quietly, and he forced his voice to be strong and confident when he spoke next: "I will call you also and let you talk to him."

"Oh, thank you, Combeferre! Can you call on our cell phone? Because I'll be in the car?"

"Of course, what is your number." Combeferre wrote it down as she told him. "I will call you as soon as he wakes up."

"Thank you," she whispered again, and she could say no more.

Combeferre could hear her crying, despite her efforts to smother her sobs. "Alright then," he said, knowing it was time to end this call. Everything that could be said was said. "I will see you tonight then. I will let you know if there is any news."

"Thank you, Combeferre."

"Of course. See you tonight then. Drive careful. Bye."

"Bye," she whispered.

Combeferre hung up. He programed her number into his phone and then their cell number as well.

The nurses returned several times to check on Enjolras and his injuries within the next hour in a half, and Enjolras remained unconscious. Combeferre got a text from Courfeyrac asking for updates. Combeferre texted back, and said Enjolras was still asleep, they still hadn't told him yet, and his mother was going to the hospital. Courfeyrac relayed the news to the others, and everyone was relieved. If Enjolras was not going to make it, at least he would be able to see his mother first.

Not fifteen minutes later, Enjolras began to stir. Combeferre scooted his chair closer to Enjolras's bed and watched him anxiously. He watched Enjolras very weakly open his eyes. "Hi, Enjolras," Combeferre said softly and gently, hoping it would comfort Enjolras to know that he was still by his side. Combeferre clicked the button on the PCA pump again, and more morphine entered Enjolras's blood stream. Enjolras sighed softly as they drug brought him a bit of relief. Then, with dark, red, and wet eyes, he met Combeferre's gaze.

Combeferre forced a weak smile. It was difficult, since every reflex wanted to cringe instead. "I talked to your mother," he told Enjolras quietly.

For the first time, a light—faint but doubtlessly present—came into Enjolras's cold eyes. Just slightly, his spirit lifted. It seemed a bit of life returned to his dying soul. "Really?" he croaked hoarsely, but nonetheless Combeferre could hear the gladness, the relief in his voice. His mother was coming. Enjolras was surprised, as he was worried that he had given Combeferre the wrong phone-number. Anxiously, he asked, "What did she say?"

"She's coming here to see you," Combeferre answered. "I talked to her a couple hours ago. She's on her way now."

Enjolras nodded. He was very glad his mother was coming. Knowing that brought him relief and comfort. Even though he hated for her to see him like this—it would break her heart to see her only son in such a state—he knew it was for the best. If he was going to die, he wanted to at least see her first.

"She also told me to tell you that she loves you."

Even as badly as his body hurt, pain relief even stronger than morphine flowed into his heart. A small smile appeared on his lips, and joy, dimmed by pain, gleamed in his sickly eyes. "Thank you, Combeferre," Enjolras whispered.

Combeferre nodded and dropped his gaze. It did not seem right that they kept thanking him. He had not done anything. He was helpless. His friend was dying, and he could do nothing to save him. He could do nothing to help.

"You mother asked me to call her when you woke up," he said, meeting Enjolras's eyes once more. "She wants to talk to you on the phone. I told her I would call, but if you do want to talk, I can text her for you instead."

Very slightly, Enjolras shook his head. That slight movement hurt. He tried not to let Combeferre see him wince. "She doesn't know how to text," he muttered with difficulty—it was difficult to talk, especially with that piece of plastic in his throat, choking him every time he opened his mouth. "I'll talk to her."

"Are you sure, Enjolras? You don't have to. She doesn't need to know that you woke up."

"She deserves to know," Enjolras replied, confident even though he was so weak. "Besides, I want to talk to her. I might not get another chance, at least for a long time."

Combeferre's heart plummeted into his stomach when his friend said this. Even if Enjolras was trying to be discrete in his meaning, Combeferre saw it clearly. He might not get another chance to talk to his mother, because Enjolras feared he was going to die before she got to the hospital. It would be a long time before he got to talk to her again, because this would be when both of them were dead.

Without a word, Combeferre took out his phone and called the number he had programed into his contacts. He called Enjolras's mother and raised his phone to his ear. It only rang once, and she answered. "Combeferre?" her fearful voice ask urgently and immediately.

"Uh, hi, yeah, it's me."

"Enjolras?" she demanded before he could say anything else. "Is he alright? Is he awake?"

"Yes, he just woke up."

"He did!" she exclaimed. Her voice was a distressed muddle of joy and fear. "Can I talk to him!?"

"Yes, he wants to talk to you. I'll get him…" Combeferre rose to his feet, stepped closer to the bed, and raised the phone to Enjolras's ear. He held it there for him, and Enjolras did not protest. He did not even try to hold the phone himself. His arms did not move from where they lied resting in the bed bedside him.

Enjolras made an honorable attempt to make his voice sound strong and calm and painless when he spoke, but he failed. A weak, shaky, feeble, rasping whisper fell through his lips, and his mother heard her son's dying voice. "Hello?"

"Enjolras! Oh, my baby!"

Enjolras knew immediately that she had started to cry. Trying again to make his voice stronger (and failing again), he answered quietly, "Hi, Mama."

Madame Enjolras cringed at the sound of her son's voice. She could hear the ventilator pumping air into his lungs. She could hear the pain in his weak voice; she could practically feel it, herself. It hurt her. It hurt her heart. There is nothing that hurts a mother more than to see her child in pain. "Sweetheart, I'm on my way," she promised him urgently. "I'll be there as soon as I can, it will probably be a few more hours, but I will be there soon, I promise."

"Alright," he answered flatly. He did not know what else to say.

"Oh, baby," his mother cried woefully. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I'm so sorry this happened to you. I'm so sorry…"

"Don't be foolish," Enjolras replied. He close his eyes as he spoke. "This is not your fault."

As if she had not heard him say this, she hastily went on to ask, "Are you in a lot of pain, sweetheart?"

Enjolras did not hesitate for even a fraction of a second. He he answered at once, as if it was the truth, "No, not a lot. They have me on morphine, so it isn't that bad." That was a lie. Combeferre had never heard Enjolras lie so blatantly or so easily. However, for the sake of his mother, Enjolras lied without regret.

"Really?" his mother replied in surprise, and Enjolras could hear a bit of relief in her sorrowful voice. "Combeferre said that too, but I was afraid he was wrong."

Again, Enjolras lied. "Combeferre was right."

They talked for at least fifteen minutes, before the nurses came into the room, and Enjolras's heart fell, because he knew he would have to hang up. Combeferre asked for five more minutes. They agreed and went out, closing the door behind them, so Enjolras could say goodbye.

"I love you, baby," his mother told him softly. Her voice trembled, and he knew she was crying. Despite her efforts to hide it, he could hear her breathing heavily and stifling sobs. She told her only son, "When you were born, I held you in my arms, and I looked at your little face, and I knew that you were a gift from God. You are my little angel. The best thing that has ever happened to me. And now—" She had to pause to swallow down her sods and get a hold of herself. "Now you have become a great young man. I am so proud of you, my son. I love you so much. I love you more than you could ever know."

Enjolras opened his dry lips, and when he spoke, his voice broke. His heart broke at the same time. All at once, everything crashed down over him, and he was too weak to fight against it. "I love you, Mama," he whispered. His voice was that of a child. Tears came into his eyes, and for the first time in his life, Combeferre saw Enjolras cry. He pretended that he did not notice, but he saw. He saw Enjolras's eyes and nose and cheeks turn red, and his usually-fearless blue eyes fill with tears. He saw a tear fall from his eye and glisten like diamond on his cheek. Enjolras wanted to say more, but he could not. He knew if he tried to speak now, she would know that he was crying, and he could not let that happen. He could not hurt her like that. So he did not say anything.

"I will be there soon," his mother promised another time.

Enjolras swallowed the knot in his throat and was silent for several seconds, choking down his emotions. At last, in a very weak voice, he answered, "Alright."

"I love you, son."

"I love you, Mama."

"Hold on, baby. I will be there soon."

"Okay."

"I love you," she said a third time. "Bye."

"Bye."

Combeferre slowly drew the phone away from Enjolras's ear and hung up. He sat down in the chair and pretended to be checking something on his phone, so Enjolras could let another tear fall and dry his eyes. It hurt to move his arm, but he did so anyway. He raised his left arm (because there were no wires or tubes going into it), wiped the tears off of his face with his bandaged hand, and forced back the tears fighting to come forth in his eyes. He drew in and let out a heavy breath. It trembled like a leaf in the wind. He had perhaps two minutes to get a hold of himself, and the nurses came back into the room.

Combeferre backed away from the bed so the nurses could talk to Enjolras, check his vital signs, check the equipment around him, and make sure everything was running as it was supposed to be—the machines and Enjolras's body. Combeferre watched from a distance, and he prayed silently to God.

Lord, have mercy. If You must take him… please, wait until his mother gets here. Let her see him first. For the sake of Your son and hers… do not take him. Not yet.