A/N: Another chapter of this little, emotional canon thing is here! Contrary to my original plan I have decided to make this into a four-shot, so this is not the end- yet. Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this so far- you have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated and I love and thank each and every one of you for your support!
Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me!
Dark Moments
It's on the third day when Combeferre can no longer keep fluids down that Joly calls for a doctor. Deep down in his heart of hearts, he knows that this should have been done earlier; much earlier, but in his ignorance had not considered just how bad the fever would really be. 'It's just a summer fever', he had heard the guide muttering when the worst of the delirium had passed the first time round; curling up and away from the ice-cold cloth which was pressed continuously to his skin in an attempt to cool the heat that was slowly conquering his entire body. 'It's nothing'.
'I won't be long', he tells the room at large as he grabs his cane and dons his hat; dark eyes pooling with compassionate concern as they sweep over the bed and land on the guide's sleeping form curled up in a foetal position against the thin linen sheets.
Beside the bed, his chair pulled up as close as he dares; Enjolras nods; barely looking at the medic; his azure eyes fixed on the taut, flushed face before him. Joly's heart almost breaks at the sight as he takes in the clasped hands resting on the bedspread, the guide's feverish fingers clenched tightly within those of his chief's, the way Enjolras holds a breath with every ragged inhalation of Combeferre's lungs and forces it out with every exhale, the unshed shards of salty silver clinging to his fellow doctor's eyelashes. His eyes land on the porcelain bowl that is filled with vomit resting between Enjolras' knees; watching it reflect the shards of harsh midday sun which filters through the window, the throw of the light making the figurines seem alive as they continue to tramp out the steps to their stationary blue painted dance.
'Go Joly', comes Courfeyrac's voice from the window; the words sounding quietly determined and yet tight with exhausted anxiety as the centre's gaze flicks to the sleeping figure on the bed and back again. Courfeyrac, out of the three of them, looks the worst for wear; Joly thinks; or maybe it's because the centre is usually so impeccably dressed with not a wisp of clothing out of place, does the exhausted, bedraggled figure before him look so strange.
From the bed Combeferre gives a low, whimpering moan is response, silent streaks of salty silver leaking from his eyes; the hand not clutched within Enjolras' marble grasp scrabbling desperately at the coarse, hard mattress which has been stripped of its' sheets in a desperate attempt to keep any source of heat away from the epicentre of the fever.
Joly can't bear it. He doesn't know what demons are plaguing his friend, tells himself over and over again that he doesn't really want to know as he hurries down the back stairs, his shoes sparking up silent dust fountains as he goes; and the vision of Combeferre; strong, dependable Combeferre; the rock of the society, of their upcoming revolution, the pillar of wisdom and revolutionary values look so desperately broken, so fragile is more than his heart can cope with.
The streets of St Michel are strangely quiet as the tall, dark, young man with the silver topped cane, crumpled dark blue velvet waistcoat and a white shirt makes his way up to the Necker Infirmary. The thick, summer air itself seems to hum with the stink of the river; the heat rising up from the water in spiralling waves of evaporated moisture that makes him plunge a hand into his coat pocket and dig out a handkerchief in a desperate attempt to quell the stench.
A few ragged gamins with pale, pinched faces and eyes huge with hunger; their claw like hands clogged with clay from scrabbling in the dirt for trinkets to sell follow him for a while; their bare feet silencing their steps as they clamour for coins he does not have, for pity he cannot give as they merge into one rolling pack of scrap like humanity behind him. Joly doesn't have the heart to send them away but his mind is elsewhere; still sat in the second floor drawing room beside the bed and the boy, the man, his fellow medic's body; wishing, hoping, praying for something to change, for the fever to break, for his dearest companion, their best beloved guide to be back with them once again, his body whole and healthy in the summer heat.
He passes the Musain without comment, barely hearing Bahorel's good-natured boom of pleasure echoing from the upstairs room or the new sheath of mortality bills slapped and screaming in cold black ink against the wall. 'Joly! Hey Joly! Come and join me for a drink!'
I would if I could Bahorel, I really would but I…
Instead he presses his hat further onto his head and continues walking, trying not to think, trying to stop his brain from constantly returning to the drawing room and the fever flushed body of the tall, thin, bespectacled boy; a boy, a student, a man whom he was so, so lucky to call one of his closest friends fighting for his life amid a tangle of sweat soaked linen.
It's cold. So very, very cold. Too cold. The chill seems to consume him, to numb him, softly pulling his aching body further and further into its' icy caress as he struggles to stay conscious. In desperation he tries to find something to focus on; something, anything that will distract him from the unexplained Arctic chill that seems to have seeped into his very core and refuses to let him go.
The weight of a hand clutched in his. A cold hand that shakes slightly as it continues to clutch at his feverish fingers, silently willing him to stay with them, willing him to stay present. 'We need you 'Ferre. I…I need you … Hold on…. Please. Please just hold on… Joly's gone for a doctor… He'll be back soon. It'll be all right, I promise.' The sense of a forced, tear stained smile sparking behind those words as he continues to cling to the voice; willing for it to banish the pain, to evaporate the heat, the knots in the pit in his stomach, the vilely acidic stench of bile caught in his throat.
Sudden, unwanted tears burning though his cheeks; scalding shards of salty silver pooling through his eyes, catching on his lashes that he does not have the strength to brush away. He feels the hand that had been holding his; the fine, marble hands with dexterous digits now shivering with supressed emotion reaching up to brush them away as he struggles to exhale; his stomach lurching horribly as he does so.
Where did the voice go? He needs that voice; needs it like a drowning man needs a scrap of driftwood to keep him afloat amid a storm tossed sea as the now familiar sensation of the water glass is pressed against his lips and a hand cups itself against the back of his head to encourage him to drink. The water slips down his throat slowly as the glass is slowly removed and replaced by a sweeping, salty kiss and the sensation of shivering fingers lacing themselves tightly within his own.
'Don't give up on us 'Ferre, please? We need you. I need you. Please don't go Mon Ami.' He tries to squeeze back; really tries, but the darkness that has been tugging at the corners of his brain for far too long is too enticing and he is tired of having to fight it; so very, very tired of having to ignore it…
'Stay with me Combeferre… Please… I… I need you... We need you… Joly… Joly's going to be back soon… Just hold on… It's going to be all right… Please don't leave us…' A trembling finger reaches up to trace his cheek as he struggles for air; his throat blocked by mucus as he gasps and chokes for the preciously sweet tang of oxygen; every breath feeling like a knife to his chest that is being twisted through his lungs with steadily decreasing speed as without warning his stomach lurches and all he can see is a flash of blinding light, light that is mixed with a desperate, pleading voice begging him to do something, he isn't sure what, in words he cannot understand. But still the words continue to flow and from somewhere he hears a door slam shut combined with the sound of an unknown voice caught with urgency cutting through the abyss of never ending pain…
'My God...' He loses the rest of the sentence in yet another coughing fit; his body lurching and bucking against the bed as the hands that he thinks belong to Enjolras slowly ease him back up into a sitting position; the weight of his best friends' nose nestled within his hair slowly bringing him back into a semblance of reality as he feels the weight of Joly's hands lightly taking his own and squeezing in a silent act of reassurance.
'Henri, it's me. It's Michel. I've brought the doctor,' Joly's voice falters for a moment as Combeferre struggles to open his eyes; struggles to focus, struggles to be present as the world slowly returns in a film of hazy greyness. Sick and stupid from the pain he finds himself nodding slowly in assent, desperately trying to focus on the exhausted pallor of Joly's face face as it swims in and out of focus, focus on the weight of Enjolras' arms holding him upright, on anything and everything but the throbbing ache that seems to have invaded every square inch of his body. From the corner of the room he thinks he can hear the sound of running water, the glint of the mid morning sun dancing off the jug which makes the blue painted frieze seem to come alive; the nymphs twirling in a dizzying array of ink across their porcelain background, the reedy, raspy notes of the double pipes sounding far too loud to his tender ears as a shot of silver flashes across his vision…
Something is in his mouth now. A hard, wet something that stinks of salty saliva and something else, something bitter that he can't quite place as unknown hands clamp his jaws down onto whatever it is and hold them there. He coughs and almost chokes; desperately trying to spit whatever it is out, but the grip on his mouth is too strong, the fingers working themselves into his bulging cheeks, a steady stream of unintelligible sounds making no sense whatsoever.
'It's all right Combeferre. It's going to be all right.' Was that Enjolras? And how could it be all right? How could it possibly be all right? Oh Enjolras… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry Mon Petit…
Desperately he tries to rise towards the voice but the hands holding him simply force his body back as another searing pain slices through his wrist as the voice returns. 'The doctor's trying bloodletting to lower the fever…' Something must be showing in his face at that point as the voice pauses before continuing, 'I know… I know you don't like it and I know it hurts but…' The words are lost as another shot of sudden, excruciating agony crashes through his arm and he barely has time to stifle the sudden, desperate scream as it falls against the wedge of leather blocking his mouth, his eyes burning with unshed tears as he desperately tries to twist away from the lancet digging deeper and deeper into the tender flesh of his wrist. Just let it end, he finds himself thinking at that moment, the words boring themselves in a repetitive, broken mantra deep within his brain; clinging to the thought as tightly as he clings to the fingers clenched in his shaking palm. Please. Please let it be over. Let it end. Please. Please. He has read countless essays on the subject of bloodletting, has argued with many professors and surgeons at Necker about the pros and cons of the technique, listened to so many lectures and yet never, ever in his wildest dreams thought that it could be him on the table; sweating sick and feverishly hot as he waited for the icy bite of the knife to stop, willing with all his heart for the pain to be over soon.
'It'll all be over soon Mon Ami, I… I promise,' the disjointed, desperate voice that lurks somewhere beyond the oblivion concedes; each word choked with badly suppressed emotion as the fingers in his palm continue to squeeze his own; silently willing him to stay with them; even though every inch of him is begging him to let go, to end it on his own terms even though deep down, he knows he can't. Knows he has to hold on, to keep living, keep breathing, keep fighting until he can finally be allowed out of this unknown hell of his own making…
'Just hold on Combeferre. Please. The doctor…. You're doing so well… The doctor's almost finished… It's almost over Cher.' Another voice. Another voice floating through the bloody darkness that is slashed with serrated strips of sun soaked light; a voice that he clings to as a final searing burst of pain sears itself against his wrist; a voice that he vaguely recognizes as the grip in his palm tightens and his fingers continue to fight; wanting nothing more than for this all to be over…
At some point during the proceedings he must have lost consciousness because the next thing he is truly aware of is the weight of a head buried in his chest and the sudden, sickening sensation of vertigo making him want to vomit as his body is pressed further and further into a fierce, unknown embrace. He welcomes it. Welcomes the warmth and security of the arms which he think belong to Enjolras encircling him as a forehead is pressed against his own and trembling fingers card themselves in desperation through his hair as he exhales the breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. His whole body aches; a distant, throbbing ache that rises from the very core of his being, building up somewhere on his left wrist in a crescendo of dull agony as he allows himself to melt into the warmth and security of the embrace; never wanting to let his oldest, closest friend go.
'Never… Never do that again 'Ferre…' Enjolras' voice is little more than a choked, desperate whisper landing somewhere in his hair as they continue to cling to one another, never wanting to let the other go, even for an instant. Combeferre wishes he could say something to reassure Enjolras that he won't; say something that could tell his friend that he would never, ever leave them willingly; but the words don't come. Instead, he allows himself to be lost within the warmth and security of Enjolras' embrace, feeling the weights of two more heads and many other pairs of hands resting themselves against his frame.
'You… You did well Mon Ami. We… We thought we'd lost you at one point', comes a voice which he thinks belongs to Joly as he finally finds the strength to lift his head and think about opening his eyes. The medic's face is pale; his eyes tight and smudged with red swims as they swim disjointedly in front of the guide's blind brown orbs, his voice thick with exhaustion and Combeferre's heart aches for him. 'Oh Joly… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… I didn't mean for this to happen… Any of it… I thought… I didn't…. I didn't know… Can you forgive me Mon Ami?'
On Joly's other side Combeferre can just make out Courfeyrac's hazy outline; hazel eyes swimming with silent, unabashed tears and tries to force a smile to the centre as without warning the mattress groans and he finds himself being smothered into a sudden, multi-limbed embrace. Weakly he tries to fend them off, but the hands are too strong and the hug too inviting as Enjolras pulls him closer and with a broken, tear stained sigh he finally allows himself to be lost within the warmth and love of their friendship.
A/N: Please feel free to read and review! I'm going to be away for the whole of next week on a cooking course (and missing Barricade Day again- damn) so may not be able to reply to reviews but I'll try! In the mean time, comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms on my knowledge of 19th century surgical practices will be most welcome!
Much love and enjoy x