He cannot help the tears that keep rolling from his eyes. He does not try to fight them, simply lets them come as they will, his heart heavy and aching. Mamma is gone, back home again, after kissing him several times on the face and reminding him of how much he needs to rest and promising to return soon. (Raoul squeezed his hand, his eyes soft and gentle, and whispered, "It's good to see you," and leaned in and pressed his lips lightly to his forehead, and his voice carried so much more than his words.) And he wishes she were still here, wishes she would not leave him alone in this room, that she could stay and he could cuddle against her, and she would sing to him as she did when he was a boy, and whisper stories to him of Papa.

Papa. Should he have told her of Papa? Of the way he always seemed to be there when he opened his eyes? Of the way he spoke to him and cradled his hand? Even now he struggles to remember the things that Papa said, but those sad words have lingered in his mind, as if they are woven into him, have become part of the fabric of his heart.

I wish I had fought harder.

I wish.

And pain lances through him, makes him gasp, because he, too, wishes Papa had fought harder. Wishes he could have spoken to him, properly, even just once. That he could have had him growing up, even just for a time. He has spent his whole life aching for his father, and in those days when he was so ill he had him, but now he is lost to him again and it is as if all of the old wounds have been ripped open, as if they will not heal no matter how much time passes, how much he tries to move on from them.

"I love you, Papa," he whispers, his voice hoarse, into the stillness of the room, as if his father might be here now, simply hiding out of sight, and it would be so easy to hide out of his line of sight now thanks to his damn eye. I love you. It is the one thing he has ached to tell him all of his life, and it is only now that he is able to breathe the words, and his Papa is not here to hear them. (Was he really there? In the hospital? Or was he simply an hallucination? Something dredged up by his feverish brain to try to force himself to live? He must have been there, he must have been. Konstin could see him and he never knew what he looked like, never could have known, only what he has heard, and so when he was able to see him, able to feel him and hear him, (and how could his feverish brain have conjured how his voice was if he never heard it before?) then he must have really been there.)

"I love you."

Raoul's arms are tight around her, safe, his face buried in her hair, voice muffled. "He's going to get well," he whispers, "he will, he just needs time." But no matter what he says, all of his gentle words, none of them can ease the pain twisting inside of her, can banish the tears that keep rolling down her cheeks.

She held herself together in front of Konstin, fought her tears as well as she could. But she is away from him now and the tears come, keep coming and there is no stopping them, can be no stopping them, not now that she is away from him again. He is so ill, her poor, dear boy is so ill. And he clung to her hand as if he were only a child again, as if he never wanted her to leave, as if he needed her there every moment to keep his own pain away, to bring himself some comfort.

She had to leave him, she had to. She did not want to exhaust him too much when he is so very weak, and no matter how much she longs to be with him, how much he needs her with him, it would not be right to be there in the way of the nurses and doctors who keep checking in on him, even as he slept.

"Oh, Christine." And there are tears thick in Raoul's voice too, and she wraps her arms around him, holds onto him tight, as if by clinging to each other it will be enough to give Konstin strength again, enough to help him heal. And she can still feel Konstin's hand wrapped around her own, the weak impression of his touch lingering in her skin, and Raoul kisses her hair. "Oh, Christine."

The orderlies unload the casualties off the train, and load them into ambulances, and slowly she picks her way through the crowded platform, trying to find someone she recognises. Is Papa here waiting for her? Or Maman? Or both of them? Or are they at the hospital with Antoine?

There are too many people, far too many people, and panic briefly flares in her stomach that there is no one here for her, that she will have to find her own way home. But in the next moment she tells herself that is ridiculous. Of course, there is someone here for her, of course there is. It is only a matter of finding them in the crowd, whoever it may be.

Hardly does the thought cross her mind when she sees a flash of a heavy dark blue overcoat and then arms are wrapping around her and swinging her in the air. Blue eyes, and dark hair, and a grin, and then she's grinning back because it's Guillaume and it would be like Guillaume to hide on her in a crowd, just like Guillaume, and then she's laughing, and tears are streaming down her face, and Guillaume is setting her down, and she barely has time to register how tired he looks, and drawn, when he is pulling her into his arms for a proper hug.

"It's good to see you," he whispers into her hair, his voice hoarse, "good to see you."

And good to see you barely qualifies as able to express how wonderful it is to see him, how wonderful it is to feel his arms around her, safe and warm. It must be a year and a half at least since she has seen him, since they have both been on leave together (and if she were not so tired she would know, would be able to summon the date from memory, but she feels as weak as if one strong wind would blow her away, as if she is only able to stand now because of Guillaume her supporting her).

"Maman insists you go home to bed," he adds, pulling back and surveying her, his mouth creased and critical, ever the concerned eldest brother, "and I think she might be right. You look exhausted."

Exhausted is an understatement, and she nods. "Bed sounds good." The lie rolls off her tongue as easy as any, as easy as all of the ones she will need to get used to telling about how she is feeling, and Guillaume scoops up her bag, and drapes an arm over her shoulder, and she tries not to think about when a time will come when he will ask her why she is so worn out, and she will have to tell him the truth.

Shadows shifting in the fog, dull and dark against the mist. A flash of grey, of blue, of scarlet spurting into the air. He needs to get to that scarlet, needs to get to it, plug it somehow, fingers buried deep in bullet wounds. And he is stumbling, his knees throbbing, legs aching as he pulls himself through the mud.

His boot gets trapped, the mud sucking on it, pulling him down, but he can't get trapped out here, not in this fog, not in this mud and is it only mud or is it bits of man blown up? Bits of body sent out to lie in wait, and bile burns in his throat but he swallows it down, tries to pull on his boot. He cannot get trapped. If he gets trapped he's dead, dead. He needs to pull himself out, needs to keep going, to get back to the line.

A screech, louder than the others, a crash, and he is falling, falling, tumbling through the air and—

—and something soft breaks his fall, and he looks down, looks down on a tangled mass of limbs, of horizon-blue uniform all stained dark and stiff and his stomach churns. A pile of the dead, a mound of them, waiting for him, ready to claim him as their king, to drag him down too into their crushing depths and his lungs burn and there is screaming, screaming, screaming—

Screaming, and choking silence, a gurgling breath and darkness.

Footsteps, and Antoine ceases his analysis of the ceiling (the wood is dark, stained, though he can still see two knots, they are close together, watching like disembodied eyes), and turns his face towards the door. The footsteps are just outside, and a moment later the door creaks open, and there like some sort of an apparition, is Guillaume. His face is tanned, more tanned than Antoine can remember, almost burnished, and his hair seems blacker than ever, as if it would shine faintly blue beneath the light.

He appraises Antoine silently, and smiles. "You look terrible," and there is something oddly refreshing about his bluntness that makes Antoine smile back at him.

"Thank you. It's what tends to happen when you get shot."

Guillaume makes a moue of distaste as he crosses the room and settles into the chair by the bed, but he does not comment. Instead, he says, his voice soft, "I collected Marguerite from the train and took her home. She has either gone to bed, or Maman is still fussing over her." He pauses, and his smile disappears, his voice more solemn as he says, "she looks exhausted."

Antoine makes a noise of agreement, and is relieved that he is not the only one who noticed that. If Guillaume can see it too, then there really must be something wrong with her, but Guillaume knows as well as he does not to press her to talk. "It is exhausting work, nursing out there. And—and it cannot have been easy for her, with Konstin and I."

But Guillaume shakes his head, and his face is grave. "It's more than that. There's something in her eyes. A sadness I have never seen there before. As if—well, as if she misses someone very dreadfully. I tried to get her to talk but," and he shrugs, "when she doesn't want to tell someone…"

He words trail off, hang heavy in the silence, twisting in Antoine's brain. What is it that Marguerite is not telling them? It is more than stress and exhaustion, he knows that in spite of what he's said to Guillaume, in spite of what he tries to tell himself. It must be more than that, but—but she's Marguerite. And Marguerite is much too careful, has always been and is especially so in these times, to let herself fall in love with a man.

But Antoine cannot swell on it and perhaps that is best, the anxiety cold on his skin when he tries through to think. Guillaume is speaking again, and his voice is soft as he says, "Konstin was asleep when I looked in on him." And the relief that comes from his words makes Antoine sigh.

Good. It is better for him to sleep than to lie awake, though he would have liked to see Guillaume, Antoine knows. He always likes to see Guillaume, but it is more important for him to rest. "Did he look comfortable?" Please let him be comfortable.

Guillaume shrugs, his lip twisting. "About as comfortable as I expected he might. I take it the morphine is not helping him very much."

"Not as much as it should."

Guillaume raises an eyebrow knowingly, but his eyes are gentle. "It must not have been easy for you." The statement is not a statement, is rather a pointed question, but it does not hold an ounce of judgement. Guillaume has, of course, known for years. He is the one person they confided in, when they returned home from Persia. The whole nature of their changed relationship, and he sighed, and leaned back in his chair with steepled fingers, and said that he had wondered when they would give in and admit their feelings for each other. I've been expecting this day for years, he said, and grinned, then leaned forwards and took both of their hands. It's about damn time.

It must not have been easy for you. The words circle in Antoine's brain, replace the memory from more than a decade ago, and he has a brief flash of sitting beside Konstin's bed that night, that terrible night when his fever was so high and his blood pressure so low that it looked like he might die, and he whispers, his voice hoarse with all of the tears he shed and has yet to shed, "I've had more enjoyable times in the trenches."

And in spite of everything, in spite of the worry, and the pain, and the fear and relief, Guillaume snorts with laughter and Antoine cannot suppress a chuckle. And then they are laughing, truly laughing, and Antoine feels light as air, as if he could fly.

It is a long time later, when they have both caught their breath and talked of inconsequential things (the opera, Capitaine De Courcy, some art that Guillaume wandered out to look at when he wished to distract himself, the weather, even), that Guillaume squeezes Antoine's hand, and the tears are clear in his eyes. "Don't you ever frighten me like that again," he whispers, and his voice is hoarse. "I thought—I tried not to, but I did think that—that you would—or him—"

And Antoine shushes him, shushes him with tears prickling at his own eyes, and squeezes his hand back. "I know. I know. And I'll try, I can't promise, but I'll try."

The words are not enough, can never be enough, but Guillaume nods, the tears at last spilling down his cheeks, and he buries his head in the pillow next to Antoine's, and swallows. "I'm older, remember. It's my job to go before you do and—and I could not bear it if—if something were to happen."

Antoine tilts his head so that his face pressing against Guillaume's, and nods. "Just don't let anything happen to you either." His voice is gruff, and at another time, at any other time, he might follow that with, I don't want to end up as the heir and be compelled to marry a woman, but the humour for it feels unnatural, and he wraps his arm around Guillaume, and draws him closer, as if they were both boys again, and all that matters is that he is here, he is here.

A/N: I'm thinking it will be Monday before I post the next installment of this, though there will be some Fragmentations updates so watch out for them!

Up next: Antoine has renewed hope, and Christine and Konstin have a heart to heart.