The line of bodies stretches on, silent and still beneath the noonday sun, their blue uniforms stiff. So many faces pale and waxy, so many blood-stained pale hands. He should turn back, should go back, but he needs to know, needs to see. (Please, God, don't let Antoine be here, please God.)

Dupuis is the first face he recognises, has a name for, and his knees almost buckle at the sight of the torn-open uniform, the dark blood staining the undershirt and his slightly-open sightless eyes. Dupuis can't be dead. He's not allowed to be dead, it's impossible!

He blesses himself and turns away, nausea twisting in his gut as he stumbles on. There are more faces that he knows, faces he can recognise but not think of the names for, that he has seen in the trenches or on the trains or in the camp. So many faces, and more that he does know, more that makes the nausea twist afresh in his stomach. Mazet, his lined face slack, eyes forever wide as if he was caught by surprise and the hole in his neck gapes. Robert, half his face slashed open, recognisable by the missing top of the index finger on his left hand. (It was an accident with a horse when he was a boy, he said, but it was not enough to keep him from getting conscripted.) Henri, Lieutenant Henri, his dark hair that he always wore slightly longer than regulation (and that Konstin always turned a blind eye to) a cushion for his head, a spot of blood at the corner of his mouth, and his stomach has been opened up, looks like a stylised painting of the inside of a pomegranate. (Bile burns Konstin's throat, acidic in his mouth, but he swallows it down.) De Courcy. Valentin De Courcy, eyes closed and a hole in his chest, over his heart, looking for all the world like an angel torn down from on high to lie here, a sacrifice to a god oblivious.

A shell crashes, somewhere to his left, and he stumbles, trips, falls, the ringing in his ears making the world feel as if it is turning around him and it takes him a moment, a long stretching moment, to realise that he is lying on top of Antoine.

Antoine, lying still and stiff. Antoine, a trail of dry blood down his cheek. Antoine, his eyes staring sightless and blank into the sky and there is screaming, screaming from somewhere, and Konstin's throat is aching and the tears blur his vision so that he cannot see Antoine, cannot see him—

He wakes to loud whimpers, shallow, fast breathing, and the rustling of sheets, and though it takes a moment to piece it together, takes him a moment to realise who is whimpering, he looks over to the other bed and finds Konstin tossing.

All sleep, all tiredness, drops from Antoine in a heartbeat, every fibre of him screaming that Konstin needs him, Konstin needs him, and he calls his name (Konstin, Konstin), tries to stretch over, to breach the distance between them but the effort of it strains his wound and pain lances deep into his stomach, sweat beading on his forehead as he gasps.

And it is as if Antoine's own gasp cuts through Konstin's brain, is all that it takes to rouse him from his nightmare because he stills in the bed, still breathing hard, and his eyes flicker open.

"You're all right, Konstin. You're all right." Antoine's voice is hoarse with disuse, and the pain beneath his ribs, now subsiding.

"Ant—Antoine." Konstin's voice is faint, and its very faintness makes Antoine's heart twist.

"Ssshhh. I'm here, I'm here. You're all right." And how he wishes he could touch him, could leave this bed and take him in his arms and rock him and kiss him and hold him until he settles, until he is able to sleep easily, but dammit he hasn't the strength to move, and if he moves the pain will get worse and he is no good to Konstin if he is in pain himself, no good.

Konstin turns his head, and Antoine can see the tears welling in his eyes as they flick over his face, and Konstin swallows, his voice faint as he repeats his name again. "Antoine."

Was it me you saw wounded in your nightmare? The question pops unbidden into Antoine's mind, catches in his throat, but he dare not ask it in case it brings the nightmare back, in case it makes Konstin suffer more, so he pushes it away and says, fighting to keep his voice steady, "You're all right now, I promise," and then, softly, in Persian, "I love you. I'm here. I'll always be here."

Konstin's lip twitches, and a tear slips down his cheek as his eyes close, and in the next moment his breathing has evened into sleep, and Antoine lies back in his own bed, his heart pounding, knowing that sleep will be a long time in coming back to him, and praying, silently, that this time Konstin will not have any nightmares.

She is aware that they are not tasking her with anything strenuous. Nobody has said anything about it, but it is in their side-glances, the way they ask her quietly to do simple things. None of the surgeons ask her to assist with surgery, not Lefevre, not Mabeuf, not even Carrière who has so often asked her to scrub in, even if only to measure a pulse.

Do they all know what happened? Has someone told them, that she made the cardinal mistake of falling in love with a patient, and that he died? Did the rumour of it, of her and Edouard, spread through the nurses and orderlies and surgeons as if by some sort of osmosis, so that nobody will trust her now to do anything remotely taxing?

Or do they simply think she is exhausted, and blame her weariness on Antoine and Konstin's wounds?

Part of her is grateful. The very thought of facing a surgery now makes her stomach churn, and her fingers well remember the feel of Edouard's pulse, the way it faltered as Carrière was amputating his leg. She knew then, deep down somewhere inside she felt that falter and it was obvious that he could not live though it looked for all the world like he would. But that part of her that knew kept it a secret from the rest, and even now her heart tries to deny that he is gone, though she has only to wrap her fingers around her Saint Anthony to know, as if some part of the metal capsule remembers the hours it spent lying on his chest.

But she is not helpless. She is not going to faint at the first sight of blood and she has proven that, over and over again, no matter how fragile she feels, how tenuous, as if the strongest thing inside of her now is the numbness that Edouard has left behind, and the fact that they all think she is helpless is so—so frustrating. Damn them! Can they not see that she is more capable than that?

Or are they fixated on Amélie steadying her after she rushed from the ward with the man whose back was peppered with shrapnel? And the way she could not help crying as she left the Lieutenant who enquired after Capitaine Laurent?

Is it because of the leave Matron has decided to give her? The long leave of six weeks back in Paris, that she is to go on in three days' time? That must be it. Surely that is it. Matron has judged her delicate, and the length of the leave is evidence of that, and this delicacy is what they see, what they fear, as if will make a mess, cause harm, if she is trusted to do anything more exhausting than picking out shrapnel and changing bandages.

And part of her is grateful for the leave, grateful for the chance to escape this place where she cannot settle unless she hides herself in the chapel, where nausea twists in her stomach at the thought of tending to another officer in the room where Edouard breathed his last. That part of her wants to run, as far away as she can. Away from this hospital and its pitying glances, away from Paris where if she stops and listens she can hear the distant roll of guns like thunder, away from France and this war and pretend none of this has happened, pretend she is not Marguerite de Chagny, nurse and daughter of a Comte, pretend that she has not had countless men die under her hands, pretend that Edouard did not take her heart with him. And part of her rebels at the very thought of leaving. This is where she knew him, where she loved him, and kissed him, and prayed for him, and their short time together is bound up in these walls. And part of her wants to curl into a ball, and wish the world away, wish it all away, everything, and have her mother take her in her arms and promise her that she is safe, and all is well, and she has nothing to fear, nothing to grieve over, as if she could be a little girl again.

It would be nice to be a little girl again. When she was a little girl, she dreamt that someday she would simply bump into a man, and in that bump would be a future history unfolding. And sometimes she dreamt that she would meet him at a ball, at the opera, and he would ask her for a dance, and she would recognise him, see him as if she had known him all of her life, and agree.

She never dreamt she would meet him in a hospital, and that he would die in her arms, and leave her adrift forever.

Perhaps they are right to not trust her. She does not even trust herself, now.

"I've sent a telegram to Marguerite," Raoul's voice is soft, and he groans as he settles into his armchair, "to wish Antoine a happy birthday. I'm sure he feels relieved now that Konstin is recovering."

Relieved is likely an understatement, Christine thinks but does not say. She has often wondered what it is between them. It is so much more than friendship, so much more even than brotherhood. It is not like anything she has ever seen before, the way they rely on each other, need each other. She first noticed it when they came back from Persia. It was in the way Antoine would glance at Konstin, the slight quirk of Konstin's lip in return, as if they have learned to each tell what the other is thinking without the need for words.

But she has never asked Konstin about it. If he wanted her to know, he would tell her.

"It's a pity that he has to spend his birthday in that place." She does not look up from her knitting. It is another scarf, this time for Guillaume, and it is nearly finished. She has selected a dark shade of blue to draw out his eyes, and perhaps it will keep him warm when he is back on the ship, on those nights when he is not on duty.

She had almost forgotten it is his birthday, and Antoine's too. The scarf has been lying in her knitting pile for months now, three-quarters finished and then abandoned, forgotten. It was Philippe's phone call this morning that reminded her, when he called to remind her and Raoul (and Anja and Émile too, of course) to come over in the evening for "a private family get together for Guillaume."

There was not time to arrange anything before this, not when it was not certain that he would be home on leave, and it would be unseemly anyway, with Antoine and Konstin both lying wounded. It does not seem right, somehow, to be marking the occasion when Antoine cannot be here to celebrate his birthday, but she can understand Sorelli and Philippe's reasoning.

Guillaume is home, and who knows when he will be home again.

And they have already had one son wounded. It is better to do what they can, now, when they have the opportunity.

"There are a couple of bottles of Bordeaux downstairs," Raoul says, oblivious to the thoughts tripping through her mind. "Very good stuff, pre-war of course. I think we should bring it over to them, for the occasion that's in it."

"That sounds good.

He wakes slowly, eyelids too heavy to open them, and his thoughts wander slowly over the last few days. Konstin, recovering. Konstin having nightmares, turning to him with tears in his eyes in need of reassurance. Konstin smiling at him, so pale but looking so happy. The image lingers, an impression of a memory that is warm and soft, wrapping Antoine in its embrace.

The first thing he sees when his eyes flicker open is that memory renewed, Konstin pale and smiling at him from the other bed, his eyes twinkling.

"Happy birthday," he murmurs, and his voice is hoarse, but it is so good to hear that voice, so wonderful, that it takes Antoine a moment to realise what he said, and then he has to struggle to think. It was the sixteenth of September when he was supposed to go back behind the lines, and he found Konstin in the fog the day before that, and it has been so many days, so many long days here in the hospital. It is highly possible that it is his birthday.

"Is it?" He is unable to keep the question from his voice, and Konstin gives a small nod. "How do you know?" If he, who has been conscious for most of this time, has lost track of the days, then how can Konstin who has been mostly either unconscious or delirious know?

A gleam comes into Konstin's eyes, as clear in his bad eye as in his good one. "I asked a nurse for the date."

And in spite of everything, in spite of the worry of the last few days and the fear and slight pain lingering in his own wound beneath his ribs, Antoine chuckles. What could be more classically, more typically Konstin, than needing to know the date? Or even, needing to know the date when he has just attained enough lucidity to be aware of his own surroundings, and to remember things from waking to waking? "It's a long way from how I imagined we might spend it." They would have been due to go back up the line in a day or two, barring any unforeseen circumstances, and he had intended to spend the day as much as possible with Konstin, taking brandy with him and going for a walk together. For the last handful of months they have been stationed within walking distance of each other, though time and sensibilities have dictated that they could not spend too long together unless they each had a strict military excuse.

For that one day alone, he had planned to delegate as much of his workload as possible to Thibault, attend only to any truly pressing matter himself. But now here he and Konstin are, in neighbouring beds but unable to truly enjoy the day.

He wishes he could be disappointed. But it is difficult to be disappointed when his heart is still singing with relief at the fact that Konstin is going to recover.

Konstin's voice breaks into his thoughts, and all thoughts fade when faced with that voice now. "I almost think it's better. I don't have to worry abou—" he inhales sharply and Antoine feels a slight flicker of worry but before he can say anything Konstin is shaking his head, continuing, "about you getting pulled away to your duties."

What was that inhale of pain? "Kons—"

And there is a slight edge to Konstin's words as he says, "Just my ribs. Need to be…a bit more careful."

Damn right he needs to be more careful. No point in straining himself now when he is still so fragile. "You'd better be." And Antoine cannot help a slight grin. "I need you with me for the next fifty years." Fifty years, at least. They will be aged old men, stooped and withered and wrinkled, and he will still need Konstin. The alternative is—is simply unthinkable! And he will not think of it, not today.

Konstin grins tiredly. "Don't say that too loud. People might talk."

It is on the tip of Antoine's tongue to say, let them, and on the back of his tongue to follow that with, I love you, but the clacking of footsteps just outside in the hall silences him, and both he and Konstin look towards the door. In a moment, Marguerite appears there, as if summoned by their joint gazes. And for all of the giddiness bubbling inside of Antoine over Konstin, he cannot help but notice how pale and drawn she looks, and worry flickers in his heart at the sight of how worn out she is, and the worry flares deeper when Konstin half rises, and hisses when the movement strains his wounds, his face a grimace.

"Don't move!" Antoine and Marguerite's voice blend, and Marguerite is rushing across the room to Konstin's side, easing him back down with her hands on his shoulders. "You're not half-healed enough yet to try to move," she admonishes, and the fear in her voice goes straight to Antoine's heart.

Konstin's breaths come heavy, and he stares up her, his eyes wide. "Marguerite? Is—is it really—?"

"Yes. Yes, it really is. And you need to rest. Promise me you will, Konstin, promise." Under the force of her gaze Konstin nods, and swallows, his breathing a little easier, and Marguerite's lip twitches slightly. "Good." She pats him lightly on the hand, and he smiles, and then she moves to Antoine, settling herself on the edge of his bed. His wound twinges at the movement, but only slightly, and he can disregard it in the face of Marguerite.

Up close, he can see how terrible she really looks. The dark circles under her eyes, the new creases at the corners of her mouth that he is certain were never there before, how washed out her skin is, faintly grey. When did she last sleep? When did she last eat? Surely nothing could have happened, nothing worse than what has happened to he and to Konstin. It must be worry over them that has her looking like this, but she has no need to worry over them now, and his voice is low as he asks, "What's wrong, Marguerite?".

She smiles in answer, but it is forced and does not quite reach her eyes, and Antoine feels a check at his heart, a flash of nausea over what could possibly be troubling her, even as she says, "Nothing. Nothing. It's just been a long few days." And even as he fears that that is not the whole truth, privately Antoine agrees with her. Long does not begin to describe how the last few days have been, and her eyes are hollow.

But he cannot wonder, cannot worry, not for long, because Marguerite is speaking again. "It's good to see you both awake. Happy birthday, Antoine." And she leans in and kisses him gently on the forehead, his heart lurching. For a moment as she pulls back, he thinks he sees tears in her eyes, but in the next moment they are gone, and she is reaching into the pocket of her uniform, withdrawing several envelopes. "I've had telegrams for you, from Maman and Papa, and from Guillaume, and from Christine and Raoul." And now it is his eyes that are watering, and he takes the envelopes from her with trembling hands, and he could swear he hears a slight sniffle from Konstin's bed as Marguerite whispers, "They are sorry that—that you have to spend your birthday like that."

His fingers shake as he opens the top envelope, and finds the telegram from Guillaume, and the words written there send a bolt of pain through his chest, an aching longing for his twin. GLAD YOU WILL LIVE STOP DO NOT PULL THIS STUNT AGAIN STOP HAPPY BIRTHDAY BROTHER

The tears blur his vision so that he cannot see the words, and Marguerite is wrapping her arms around him, pulling him close, her hand cupping the nape of his neck, and he can't breathe, can't stop the tears, can only gasp and wish for Guillaume, wish to hear him say those words with his deadpan serious voice, and see the tears in his eyes that would go with them. But Guillaume is not here, not here though it is his birthday too, and Marguerite is shushing him, and he can hear Konstin whispering something but what the words are he cannot make out.

A/N: Please please please please please please please leave a review! They mean so much to me and really help motivate me for some of my other fics (namely 'Tender Is A Kiss'/the Composer AU)

For the sake of all that is good and E/C, REVIEW!

Up next: Preparations for a train journey