A/N: Warnings for blood, surgery, wounds, and discussion of death.

It is easier to not think of them as men. Easier to imagine them as wax models laid out, opened beneath the knife. It does not matter what happens to a wax model, however lifelike. The model cannot feel it. The model cannot whimper and cling to her sleeve. The model has no cognizance of anything, not even of itself.

The model does not have a pulse. And that is where any denial ends.

It is a definite pulse fluttering beneath her fingers. A weak pulse, a sometimes-thready pulse that makes her press deeper to find it, but a pulse nonetheless. A hundred and twenty, hundred and thirty beats a minute, and Marguerite keeps her eyes focused on the watch in her hand, does not look at his face. Too fast, much too fast. The morphine should have suppressed it, or the gas. But it is still fluttering rapidly. They gave him blood, did they not? Sophie was doing the agglutination tests, and there should have been several pints in storage with no reaction. No time to tap an orderly and take it fresh. He must have gotten blood.

His pulse was only eighty when they started. He definitely got blood.

"Pulse?" Carrière's voice is sharp, and she wonders what it is he sees, poking through the man's intestines, to put that edge into his voice.

"One two five." It rolls off her tongue without thought.

"Respirations?"

"Thirty-two a minute." Too fast, too high.

Carrière curses under his voice. "Too much bleeding. More suction." A beat, and then Marguerite hears the gurgling suck that follows his words, and swallows. Still too much bleeding, and at the thought she feels his pulse falter, a flicker of nothingness before it starts again, threadier than before.

"Pulse faltering." And she pulls her eyes away from the watch to check the patient's face, finds his skin faintly grey. At her nod, the orderly holding the gas mask in place lifts it slightly, enough that she can see the faint blue tinge to the patient's lips. "Cyanosis setting in."

And now Carrière curses aloud. "Switch to oxygen, pure oxygen!" It is not Marguerite's duty to deal with the bottles, and out of the side of her eye she sees hands making the exchange, pulling out the gas bottle and replacing it with one of oxygen.

His pulse is still too weak, his breaths still too fast. But a very slight bit of colour does return to his cheeks, and Marguerite says, "Colour improving. Pulse and respirations still rapid."

Carrière does not acknowledge, and she glances up at his face, sees the frown between his eyes, the blood that reaches up above his elbows, and wishes she had not looked at him at all.

And part of her wonders, a small hidden part of her wonders, what they are even fighting for with this man. The bullet tore through his abdomen and shattered his spine on the way out. She has seen enough of such wounds to know that he is not going to last. Maybe a few hours, a day, or two, with morphine pumping through his veins, not knowing where he is, and then he will slip away. He is doomed whatever they do now.

She regards his face again, his pallid face with its soft features, the rounded nose, and wonders if he has a sister in a province somewhere who does not know that he is lying here dying, and may not know until he is already gone. A wife? A sweetheart? A little daughter who only wants Papa to come home?

(Marguerite doubts if he has a daughter. He looks far too young.)

Tears prickle her eyes, her throat tightening, and she glances away from his face, back to the watch. It is only the watch that matters.

"Pulse?"

"One thirty."

Though nobody comes near them, Antoine can hear the rush outside. The grinding of wheels on gravel, shouted voices, flurry of feet running down the hall, rattling hums of engines. Each time he drifts awake he can hear them, all through the night.

A push. There must have been a push.

He cannot think on any push, his eyes constantly rolling towards Konstin in the other bed, closer to the door. It is the moving of Konstin more than the moving outside which troubles Antoine even in his hazy state. Konstin keeps shifting in the bed, Antoine knows it by the soft rustle of his sheets, the way they stir. He was quiet, in the early part of the night, Antoine thinks but does not quite remember, but as dawn comes the moving starts, is there each time Antoine wakes but he is so tired, too tired to think about it, and as the darkness pulls him back down beneath its still waters, the only thought that lingers in his mind is, the morphine must not be working.

"Many more left out there?" Carrière asks, not looking up from the leg that he is working on. It was a bad break, the shin bone piercing right through the skin, and Marguerite does not know why they did not amputate it at the dressing station. Normally they would have with a break like that, and spare Carrière the trouble of doing it now.

They must have overlooked it somehow, in the middle of the push.

"The last one is on his way in." Lefevre's voice comes from near the door, where he is scrubbing the blood off his arms from the last patient he dealt with. Relief flickers deep in Marguerite's stomach, but she does not loosen her grip on the watch, her fingers still pressed into the carotid of the man Carrière is working on. She cannot relax now, not so close to the end. Rest will come soon enough.

"Good." The relief lingers beneath the surface of Carrière's voice. "Pulse?"

Marguerite is expecting him to ask at any moment, and so the question does not catch her off guard. "Eighty-one. Strong."

"Good. Bone saw."

The telegram comes early in the morning, before breakfast. And though Christine already knows what to expect, already knows that Konstin is wounded, there is something about seeing it in those formal words that makes it crystallise, makes it feel all the more real.

"…regret to inform you…Commandant Erik Konstantin Daaé…confirmed wounded in action…"

She could not read it, could only hold it with trembling hands, looking at his name printed there and those words, wounded in action. It should not make any difference to see the words like it. The words do not make him less or more wounded, but the way it hits it feels like she's been winded and she sucks in a breath, the world tilting.

Raoul's arms wrap warm around her waist, steady her so that she does not feel as if she is falling, and he eases her down to the couch, still holding her tight. She does not cry, does not scream though she feels the scream building and twisting inside of her, begging to be let out, but she can't scream, she can't. If she does it will not be dignified, will bring dishonour on Konstin, and she swallows the aching in her throat, clenches her hands into fists and crumples the telegram.

Just breathe, Christine. Just breathe.

Her own voice, whispering to her from the depths of her mind, and Raoul's voice gentle in her ear. Just breathe, darling, just breathe. It's all right. He'll be all right. And she gasps a breath, gasps, each gasp easing the constriction of her chest, and still the tears do not come though they prickle her eyes, the scream strangling itself in her throat.

She leans back into Raoul, his fingers smoothing her hair, and sighs, her heart still pounding but it is easier to breathe now. Easier to breathe, and she lets the crumpled telegram fall to the floor. It cannot tell her anything that she does not already know. And it cannot tell her anything that she wants to know. And so it does not matter. It is simply making things official, those words written on that paper.

Just making things official.

Raoul curls his hand aroundhers, and settles his chin on her shoulder. He does not speak, but he does not need to, and she closes her eyes, and listens to the sound of hisbreathing, as if it will keep the world from spinning more out of control.

The river ripples silver beneath the sun, little flashes of it, as if there are millions of pieces of jewellery floating on the water, drifting in the tiny waves. The thunder of hooves shatters the illusion of peace, and Antoine raises his eyes from the river to find Konstin galloping towards him along the waters' edge, long hair flowing black in the wind, horse's mane blowing back. His pale skin is tanned faintly golden by the sun, and Antoine's heart catches in his throat to see that he has cast aside his shirt, the muscles of his stomach contracting as he leans forward, urging the horse on.

He is like some hero of legend, be it Roman or Greek or even Persian. Like some young demi-god set down here, the sand getting kicked up beneath his horse's hooves. Or a prince, escaped from his palace and his duties for a time to run free.

As he gets closer, he slows the horse down, from a gallop to a canter, and just as he draws level with Antoine he pulls up tight, the reins twisting around his hand, knuckles white. The horse's nostrils flare as Konstin grins down at Antoine, his eyes sparkling, and he disentangles his hand from the reins, pats the horse on his neck and swings his leg over the saddle. He is like some sort of American cowboy from one of those slim paperback novels, all dashing and rakish as he slides down off the horse, and Antoine's heart flutters.

"Did you miss me?" Konstin asks, one eyebrow arched, and Antoine feigns unconcern.

"You were hardly gone long enough for the heart to grow fond." But his lips twitch, and it is enough that Konstin closes the short space between them, his hair falling down into his eyes, and wraps his arms around Antoine's waist, drawing him close.

"Perhaps," he murmurs, his voice low, "the heart will grow fond now." And Antoine leans into him, closes his eyes, and a moment later feels the press of Konstin's lips against his.

"Oh yes." Antoine murmurs into his mouth, still able to detect the faint taste of strawberry on his lips from their lunch, "very fond indeed."

The stables are still, silent but for Marguerite's own breathing. Her footsteps echo dully as she walks, every fibre of her too heavy, begging for sleep, but she could not in all good conscience sleep, not yet. Not without seeing the dead.

There are so many dead, and if she were more awake it might strike at her heart. But she was there when many of these men came in, she searched for pulses in their throats and in their wrists and listened for breath and found only silence, and she does not have it in her to be truly surprised at how many of them there are. Lines and lines of bodies laid out in the corridor, several lying stiff and cold in each stall, and there are so many stalls.

Later the funerals will start. Graves barely opened with bodies placed inside of them and covered over again, all names recorded, etched into wooden crosses to stand and mark the spot where each body lies. And the train will come, and take more of them away to bury them somewhere else. New graveyards sprouting like flowers in the springtime.

Like the poppies that will cover them all soon enough. They seem to blanket every grave in France now, their colour so rich thanks to the rivers of blood soaking the soil.

Marguerite cannot feel anything, can only stand hollow and numb looking at the bodies laid out. Some of them are only boys, cannot be of legal age. They must have lied about how old they were so they could join up, to serve the glory of France.

But there is no glory in this.

Some of these men died under her hands. Two of them, somewhere in the rows, she felt it as their lives flickered out, their pulses fading under her fingertips even as Carrière tried to coax them to breathe, and forced adrenaline into their collapsing veins. One of them it was a chest wound, and with the man's chest already opened Carrière tried to massage his heart back into beating in one last-ditch effort. All for nothing. All for this.

Are there women somewhere, women like her, waiting in some village or town somewhere, or even in Paris, aching for news and hoping for a letter to arrive? Women who do not know that their love is already lying dead, and all their hopes already in vain as they go about their normal day, unaware of the telegram that will soon arrive with their name on it? To have lived a day or two unknowing, unaware, only filled with silent hope. What kind of torment must that be when the news does come?

None of these men, when they awoke yesterday, knew that they would be lying stretched here today. Perhaps they thought it would be someone else. It always had been before.

But there is just nothing now for them. Nothing.

A tear trickles hot down Marguerite's cheek, but she cannot even raise her hand to wipe it away.

Christine aches for Nadir. If he were here, he would sit her down, and take her hand, and tell her all of the reasons that she need not worry. And coming from him, with his gentle eyes and his warm, soft hand, she would be able to believe it. He was always so good at setting her fears to rest, about Konstin, and every little thing that ever worried her about him, every childhood illness, every nightmare, every separation, and when he decided to set off for Persia with Antoine at his side, and about Raoul, too, when the time came that he wished to start courting her again, and later when he proposed marriage, if you feel you are ready. Nadir would keep his voice low, and assure her that everything would be all right. And coming from him such words did not seem so strange.

But Nadir has been gone for thirteen years. Thirteen long years, and sometimes it seems like only yesterday when he sat in his chair, Konstin all of two years old nestled asleep in his lap, and told her that perhaps it was time she returned to the Garnier. He could see that she missed it, missed standing on the stage and singing, missed becoming wholly someone else for a few hours. Fear clawed inside of her at his suggestion. It was so long since she had sung for a crowd. And how could she do it without Erik? Without him sitting up in his box smiling to himself in that soft way he had in those last months, the smile he only wore when he thought she could not see him. And he would file away all of her missteps, every note that she did not sing just perfectly, to tell her about later in that critical way she hated, but afterwards would have given anything to hear, just once more. Just to hear his voice.

And Nadir pushed her, pushed her into returning. And she never regretted it.

Dear old Nadir. When he died (peacefully, in his sleep, and she remembers half-wondering if Erik had been with him at the end, or if he had seen the Rookheeya he always spoke of with tender sadness, or his poor lost boy Reza), when he died it devastated Konstin. He had never lost someone close to him before, and for days he was like some sort of automaton, wandering like a ghost through the house until she found him one night by the fire, curled up weeping, and she took him in her arms and held him, just held him, as he cried himself out, her own tears leaking into his hair.

It is a knock on the door that wakes her from the memory, and she jolts, finds Raoul already disentangling his arms from around her. She misses the warmth of them immediately. "I'll get it," he murmurs. "It's probably only Guillaume come to say hello." Christine nods, pulling herself back together from her scattered thoughts and smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt. It would not do to look anything less than composed.

The smell of fresh bread permeates the room. She had not noticed before, so wrapped up was she in her own head. It must be Anja, in the kitchen. She always takes to baking when things…when things are difficult. In those early days after the war broke out, she must have baked enough to feed most of the poor in Paris.

Christine ought to remind her to go easy with the flour…

Émile is probably still hiding up with his books. Konstin was home on leave last year just before his birthday. And the day before he had to return to the Front, two days before Émile's birthday, he gave him several old books that had once been Erik's, ones Erik had put together himself on herbs and medicine. Christine's heart lurched to see that handwriting when she was not expecting it, and tears bubbled up inside of her but she held them in. And there were tears in Émile's eyes as he hugged Konstin and whispered, "Thank you, brother."

It is likely those books that he is looking at now.

(Did some part of Konstin know? When he decided to give those books away? When he pressed Erik's pocket watch back into Christine's hand? Or was it all merely chance? Christine's heart twists and she pushes the thoughts away.)

She hears voices in the hall, and though she does not pick out the words she does catch the cadence of Raoul speaking. The other voice is a man's, too. One that she recognises, but she is not certain why, or from where.

Then in the next moment she does not need to be certain. Raoul walks through the doorway, and a tall young man follows him in uniform, with his hat in his hand, red hair neatly combed back.

Capitaine De Courcy. She has not thought of him since the night of the gala, what feels like a century ago, and he danced with Anja all night.

What brings him, of all people? Is it something to do with Anja?

Christine stands, and Raoul comes to stand beside her, the Capitaine looking pale and tired. And she remembers, looking at him, that it is not so very long since he, too, was gravely wounded.

"Good afternoon, Madame De Chagny," he says, his voice soft, and Christine nods.

"Good afternoon, Capitaine." She gestures for him to sit, but he shakes his head.

"I am afraid I cannot stay long, Madame. I only stopped in because—because I heard about what happened to your son. And I want to say I—" he swallows, "I hope he will be well."

Not I hope it is not too serious. Or, word is that they're planning on transferring him back here soon. Nothing that could give her any scrap of hope only, I hope he will be well.

And it is those words more than anything that make tears sting her eyes.

"Thank you," she murmurs, and feels Raoul wrap his hand tightly around hers. "I hope so too."

"I will keep him in my thoughts. He has always—always been very courteous to me, and kind, any time that we have crossed paths." For a moment, he seems as if he wants to say something more about Konstin, but he shakes his head almost imperceptibly, before saying, a slightly high note in his voice, "You will give my regards to your daughter?"

And in spite of everything, in spite of the tears in her eyes, and the nausea twisting in her stomach, Christine's lips twitch slightly, as if they would smile. "Of course."

Golden eyes shine through the darkness, regard him clinically, almost coldly. Cool fingers softly brush his cheek, find their way to his throat and press in, not painful but firm, and he swallows beneath that touch. The eyes do not frown, but there is a flicker of…of something he cannot place in them, some unnamed sentiment. The fingers leave his neck, the press of them faint over his collarbone before they come to rest on his shoulder, the pressure gentle.

"…condition very serious, my son…"

My son. "Papa," Konstin breathes, his voice faint. "Papa, I—" What can he say? I don't want you to leave. Don't let me be alone. Every time I think—you disappear and I just want you to stay. His lips struggle to form the words, too numb, and he tries to raise his hand, tries to take the black sleeve that he can dimly see, but his fingers only twitch, too stiff to obey him.

The eyes blink, and faintly he feels another hand rest on top of his. "Now do not try to say a word. You need to save your strength, my boy. It is a long fight…"

Words fade away, the eyes lost to darkness, but though he cannot see, cannot hear, he knows he is not alone.

Part of Marguerite wants to head straight to bed, and sleep as long as Matron will permit her. But she knows that she will not be able to sleep unless she looks on Antoine and Konstin first. And Dupuis too.

It is Dupuis that she goes to first, and she finds him sleeping peacefully. He does not stir as she checks his pulse. It is not particularly fast (eighty-seven beats per minute) but it is a little weaker than she would like, and she consults his chart as she chews the inside of her lip. It has been at that level all day, and was slightly higher during the night whenever someone had time to take it, and she finds herself troubled by it. She reads that he has had more fluids, and stimulants, and it is that fact more than anything that niggles at the back of her mind.

If he has had everything already (several times, in fact), and it has not made a difference, then what could be wrong?

Probably she is foolish to be worrying. She is merely hyper-aware of him, that is all. He had surgery for internal bleeding. And with the strain of his first surgery, the amputation and work on his spine, his pulse is bound to be a little weak. He has been through a lot. It does not necessarily mean that there is something wrong. If it were anyone else would it trouble her so?

She takes a breath to soothe the pounding of her heart, and sets his chart back down. If his pulse has not settled tonight, then she will worry. There is no use in worrying now when it might very well be normal.

It is now, only now that the ambulances have stopped coming in so fast and the emergency surgeries from the push have finished, that she realises how very much her legs are aching. They weigh like lead, and the very thought of walking all the way back to the room she shares with Amélie and Minette is exhausting.

No harm in sitting with Dupuis for a few minutes. The three other wounded men in the room are resting peacefully too, and she suspects it is not long since they all got doses of morphine.

She settles into the chair beside the bed, the one that she left here what feels like weeks ago but was only yesterday morning, before Amélie called her out to tell her about the coming ambulances, and having to move the convalescents. So much has happened since, so very much.

Gently she reaches out, and curls her fingers around Dupuis'. His eyelids flutter for a moment, only slightly, but do not open, and she rubs slow circles into the back of his hand with her thumb. That has helped to settle him before.

His hand is only slightly colder than it should be, and in spite of his weak pulse, a small flame of relief flickers in her heart. If his hand has warmed a bit, then he cannot be too badly off.

Carefully, infinitely carefully so as not to wake him, she raises his hand and presses it, softly, to her lips. It is not a kiss, not quite, but she holds his hand there, to her mouth, and sighs, and part of her, a very, very tiny part of her, buried deep inside, hopes that he knows.

It was shortly after Capitaine De Courcy left when the letter arrived from Marguerite, bearing the news of what happened to Konstin. Though hours have passed, hours in which Raoul went for a long walk after hearing the contents of the letter, and Anja has gone to her shift at the hospital, Christine is unable to set it down. Her eyes keep tracing the words, trying to make sense of them even though she knows what they mean. She knows what they mean individually, what they are supposed to mean when put together, but about Konstin? How could they ever begin to make sense when they are about Konstin?

Her mind picks out phrases, turns them over.

"…same ambulance as Antoine…"

"…a Capitaine Dupuis who was there came in the day before Konstin…said that there was a shell and he lost sight of him in the fog…"

"…may have been out there all night…explain why it took so long for him to come in…"

"…both legs, some broken ribs, shrapnel wounds to his chest that are not very deep and some to his stomach, concussion, his left arm is badly cut…shrapnel in his eye…"

"…doses of morphine…"

"…the curé, Abbé Dumas, blessed him…"

"…the surgery went well…still very weak…lost a lot of blood but had two transfusions, one before surgery and one after…in the same room as Antoine…"

"…when they are more awake I want to ask them how they ended up travelling together, though Konstin may not remember, and Antoine's memory may be hazy…"

And at the back of her mind Christine thinks, at least they are together, but it is the other words that worry her, that chill her blood and make it feel as if there are fingers wrapping tight around her heart. His legs, his eye, his chest. Will he be able to walk? Will he be able to see?

The curé blessed him. Was it just a blessing or was it—was it something more?

(Don't let it have been anything more.)

But his ribs and his chest and his stomach. So much damage done to him. Her poor boy. He's been through so much, suffered so much. He must be in so much pain, though surely the morphine is keeping him at least a little bit comfortable. The thought of Konstin and morphine makes her feel nauseous. It was the morphine that killed Erik, the morphine that weakened his heart, she knows that, she knows it. And if something like that were to happen to Konstin, if he were to have that much of his father in him…

(If she closes her eyes she can still see the glint of the needle, and the way Erik held it as he eased it into his arm, the droplet of blood that it left behind. She used to stroke his needletracks as he slept, and wish there was some way that he did not need it.)

She doesn't think she could bear it. Sometimes she can still hear Erik gasping for breath, see the white of his knuckles as he fought the pain in his chest, and if that happened to Konstin—If he had to struggle for air thanks to that damn drug—

He might be struggling for air anyway. Marguerite said the shrapnel in his chest was not deep, but when it was in his chest at all—

The letter slips from her fingers and she does not try to pick it up, cannot bear to see what is written there a moment longer. What was it that she was hoping for when she opened the letter? Some assurance that he would be all right? That though his injuries are serious they are not actually as grave as Marguerite made it sound in her telegram?

She does not know what she was expecting. But it was not for words like went well to be followed closely by still very weak or lost a lot of blood. Or for him to have so many wounds. She thought he had been shot. That was her first assumption when she heard he was wounded and had calmed down enough to think of such things. Surely, she thought, he must have been shot. But for him to have been sliced open in so many ways, his body torn and blood spilling out from so many different wounds —

It is unbearable to think about. Unbearable to consider. Unbearable to imagine. What must he be thinking? Or is he able to think with all of that morphine they've shot into him? Does he even know how ill he is or have they spared him that fact?

She hopes that he does not know, hopes that he is not frightened. If he is frightened she does not know how she could ever take it.

Footsteps draw her back, muffled footsteps, and hardly has she looked up from the letter lying on the floor than Raoul has sat down beside her on the couch, and wrapped his arms around her. He is damp, and smells like rain, and his lips are cold as he presses them to her forehead. "I'm sorry for leaving you at such a time but I just—I couldn't—"

And she understands, she does, because Konstin has always been his son too, in a way. He was there the day he was born, has loved him and cared for him and worried for him ever since

His heart is aching too, now.

(What would she ever do without him?)

"I understand," she murmurs, leaning into him, and his thumb is gentle as it wipes away the tears that have trickled from her eyes.

He nuzzles into her hair, and his voice is soft as he says, "I met Philippe when—when I was out. He said that Guillaume arrived shortly after dawn, and went straight up to bed. Sorelli told him what—what had happened when he woke afterwards."

"How did he take it?" Christine knows, even as she asks, that Guillaume will not have taken it well. To arrive home on leave, only to discover his twin brother and cousin are both lying badly wounded? How could he ever take that well?

"He went straight for the bottle of cognac. But Philippe says he has calmed down a good bit now. Marguerite wrote them about Konstin too, and how bad—how bad he is. But not in quite as much detail." He swallows. "They send their regards."

And Christine does not know what to say to that. All she can think of is Konstin, lying so ill and so far away from her. And Antoine, who is with him and wounded too though Marguerite went to great pains to specify that the bullet did not damage any organs, though that does not mean he is out of danger. And for a long time, she and Raoul sit in silence, simply holding each other, each lost in their own thoughts.

Marguerite only meant to sit with Dupuis for a few minutes, but she ends up sitting there for almost an hour. He sleeps the whole time, only shifting very slightly now and then, as if to get more comfortable. She does not speak, but there is nothing that she wishes to say, and when, at last, she sets his hand down, she strokes the hair back from his face. It would not do for him to wake, and have it falling into his eyes.

She slips from the room quietly, her heart full of thoughts of him, and easier than it has been in days. It is good to see him resting so easily, free from pain and the worry that she so often sees in his eyes. And if his pulse is still weak, likely it will have improved by tomorrow. There is no need to worry.

She will pay a quick visit on Antoine and Konstin, just to be certain that they are resting easily too, and then she will go to bed. It will be so nice to lie down, and just sleep.

She does not get as far as checking on Antoine, only sees that he is asleep. It is Konstin's bed that is the first she meets when she comes through the door, and there is nothing unusual in that, but what is unusual is the flush of colour across his cheekbones, a faint red that was not there yesterday. He groans and turns his head away as she presses her wrist to his forehead, and the heat burning through his skin pulls her to full wakefulness in a heartbeat.

Heat means fever. Fever—

Bile burns her throat, and she swallows it down, hands pulling back the sheets covering him. Already the questions are flickering in her mind, the questions she has asked so many times before of others. Where is more likely to be infected? His leg which is a mess, or his abdomen?

Abdomen. There is no question of that.

Her fingers are loosening the bandages in a flash, tugging them open, and with trembling hands she eases the dressings back, fights to tune out the whimpers coming from his throat.

The surgical wound is inflamed, angry streaks of red around the stitches despite the two rubber tubes in place as drains. Fluid weeps from between the stitches, and her head spins.

Weeping fluid. Inflammation. Fever. No. Oh, no.

Quickly she replaces the dressings, re-does his bandages. She needs to tell Matron, and Lefevre. Lefevre needs to see him now.

"I'm sorry, Konstin," she whispers, pulling the sheets roughly back up over him, and he groans again, his lips twisting as he gasps. "I'm sorry"

And her last thought, as she runs down the hall to find Matron is, thank God Antoine is asleep.

It is voices that pull Antoine back to wakefulness, unfamiliar voices. He is too tired and groggy to make out most of the words, but he catches snatches of them, words he could never hope to understand like tachycardia and tachypnea. It is the other words, like rigidity and inflammation and abdominal tenderness, that make him wonder. Moans accompany that last phrase, abdominal tenderness, pained moans that make Antoine's throat tighten.

Who is it that they are talking about? Who is moaning?

Not—Not Konstin. It must be somebody else. Surely they can't be talking about Konstin.

Antoine's eyes flicker open, and it takes him a moment to adjust to the light, his vision blurred. It is Marguerite's face that he sees first, Marguerite pale and drawn, standing at Konstin's head, and frowning. A flush of red stands out on Konstin's cheek, stark against the pallid grey of his skin, and then Antoine sees another nurse beside Marguerite, one who is older, who looks as if she is in charge. And beside her, beside her is a tall man, with flecks of grey through his dark hair, and he is feeling Konstin's stomach, the dressings pulled back.

Antoine's heart clenches tight as the man shakes his head, and through the rush of blood in his ears he hears, "…likely infected before he arrived…possibly some necrosis…need to open him up again…" and Antoine screws his eyes shut, because if he does not see them it is not real. If he does not see them it does not matter, is all a dream, cannot hurt him or Konstin or anyone. Just a dream. Only a dream. That's all it can be. That's all it is allowed to be. And pain lances deep in his chest, telling him that it is real, it is, but he cannot believe it. Not about Konstin.

Antoine swallows, and flexes his fingers. If he goes back to sleep, he will wake to find everything well. And Konstin will be awake, and smile at him, and there will be no more talk of necrosis, no more talk of infection. All of that will be lies. There will only be him, and Konstin. Just him and Konstin. And all will be well.

If he just sleeps. If he just sleeps.

A/N: I didn't expect to have this chapter up so quick. I also didn't expect it to get so out of hand! The length of it is pretty astounding for me.

Quite a lot happens, and I hope you've enjoyed the angst. Please let me know what you think. I'm hoping to have the next chapter ready by next weekend, so you have a bit of wait but not too long!

Please review!

Up next: Konstin remembers, and dreams. Christine gets another telegram and spends a lot of time thinking. Marguerite tries to distract herself, and Antoine panics.