A/N: Warning for nightmares and references to blood.
Pain aches in his stomach. Has he been shot? The world is dim, grey, and a face hovers before him, a face—Antoine! It is Antoine, his mouth twisted and eyes shining, face pasty pale, fingers gentle, trembling as they brush the hair out of his eyes. "Konstin," he whispers, his voice hoarse, "Konstin."
Konstin shivers, whether from the pain still burning in his stomach or the note of fear in Antoine's voice, he cannot tell, and his lips are stiff, his voice groggy as he whispers, "Hold me," and Antoine nods, tears trickling from his eyes. A shadow, a flicker of movement as Antoine lowers himself down into the mud, wrapping his arms around Konstin though Konstin can barely feel them, feels as if he is as insubstantial as air.
There is something he must say, something important, something necessary. "If they come to—to take me away, don't let them." The very thought, of leaving Antoine's arms, is enough to make cold sweat bead on his skin and he shivers again, distantly feels Antoine's arms tighten.
"I won't. I won't, I promise. I'll be right here." Antoine's lips are light against his forehead, their press faint, and Konstin draws a shuddering breath, the pain seeping into his chest, constricting his lungs, dulling the edges of his vision.
"I—" he swallows, "love you." He needs to say it, needs to—to make sure he knows. He has to know. He has to.
"I love you too, I love you." Kisses pressed to his forehead, his cheeks, his lips, lingering, pressing, though he does not open his mouth, can taste the metallic iron of blood.
"Don't—let go."
"I'm not going to." He can feel tears running into his hair, arms tighter around him, Antoine fading and his heart stutters because Antoine can't fade he can't he needs him.
Words trip to his tongue, poetry, heard long ago but the sentiment was right, the sentiment was always right, and the lines reminded him of someone who ought to have been here but his mind is too hazy to think, to draw it up, but the lines feel right now. "Had we but—world enough—and time." He has to stop to breathe, his breath catching in his throat. Oh the things they need to do…
A sob, half-caught. "Don't you pull Marvell on me now, you bastard. You're not—you're not going anywhere I can't follow, all right? I need you here. I need you." The voice is muffled, and he can feel lips against his skin, fingers tapping his cheek, but the world has darkened to night and there are no stars, only arms wrapped around him and a voice, a voice pulling him into the darkness.
His eyes flicker open to misty light, filtering in through the blinds, every part of him aching heavy as he lies. He tries to move, tries to shift himself, but pain lances deep in his stomach and he cries out, tears stinging his eyes. Antoine. Wasn't Antoine here? Antoine was—was somewhere. Where is he?
Running feet down the hall, and then hands are fumbling over him but the light is too dim to see, his eyes too heavy, and a soft voice is murmuring to him, a soft voice, "You're all right, Commandant Daaé, you're all right. Are you in any pain?"
Pain? Of course, there's pain, he wouldn't have cried out if he was not in pain, and he nods, his throat aching too much for words.
"I'm sorry, but you're going to have to wait a little longer. Your chart says it is not long since you had morphine. I can't give you any more yet, I'm sorry."
Antoine said something to him like that before, didn't he? So long ago, only it was not about morphine it was about opium, and there was no sharp pain in his stomach when he tried to move but his skin was so itchy it felt as if it was all going to peel off and crawl away. Antoine. He needs Antoine. Antoine would take the pain away.
But his lips are too stiff to ask for him, and the darkness is creeping back in, and he is falling, falling.
His eyes flicker open to grey, to pale watery light, and Antoine's face is haggard, his cheeks stubbled, but a soft smile twitches at his lips and he murmurs, "It's good to see you. So good to see you."
Soft fingertips, light against her cheek, the touch lingering, tingling warm in her skin. Each shift of him against her is gentle, slow. His easy breathing, the susurrating murmur of his heartbeat, the tiny movement of his lips against her forehead. She presses herself tighter against him, too tired to open her eyes, his arms tightening around her.
And in the stillness of the world, the trundling of vehicles on the street below dulled almost to nothing, her body aware only of Raoul, here and warm, the steadying presence he has always been, that she has always needed, all she knows is that Konstin is safe, and he will be well, and somewhere, somehow, some part of Erik is still watching over him and guarding him. Émile and Anja are at work, and Konstin is safe, and Raoul is here holding her, and those simple facts are all that matter in the world.
She is a ghost, an automaton forcing smiles, for Maman and Papa, and Guillaume and Antoine both. The questions from before, from when they were loading him into the ambulance, linger in Antoine's eyes as she sits with him, and all the time she prays he will not ask even as she rattles on about how nice it is to be home and you look so much better and every scrap she can think of to fill the silence. If he realises she is trying to distract him he does not say, simply nods along and smiles and makes agreeable noises, though his hand is gentle wrapped around hers, waiting for her if she wants to say anything of consequence.
Maman does not pry, though Marguerite can see her worried glances. And Papa hugs her firm, and pats the back of her hand, as if he needs to assure himself that she is really here, needs to assure her that she can tell him what it is preying on her mind.
(She could not talk to Papa about Edouard. It would not—would not feel right to confide in him, not without talking to Maman about it. But the very thought of talking to Maman about it makes the words turn to dust in her throat.)
For Maman, and Papa, and Guillaume, Edouard is someone who never existed, someone who is as inconsequential as the clouds, who they could pass in the street and never recognise. And Antoine did know him, but only in passing. Only as someone within Konstin's orbit, who had to be greeted but hidden from. Konstin is the only one who might understand, the only one who knew him, to whom Edouard would matter, but she cannot tell Konstin about him because telling Konstin about him would be telling Konstin that he is dead. And telling Konstin that would be admitting it, would be forcing herself to speak the words that still feel so unnatural no matter how true they are.
She excuses herself from Antoine with a slight peck to his cheek, and slips from his room. The sudden need to see Konstin is unbearable, nausea twisting in her gut and she cannot understand it. What could she say to him anyway? Ask him how he is when it is plain to see that he is still far from well? She could not give him the same prattle she gave Antoine, certainly not, it would not do.
And as she stands before his open door, finds him lying with his head tilted away, she remembers what it is that Antoine said to her so long ago, about ghosts on the battlefield.
The battlefields—they are full of ghosts—Ghosts and wraiths, and they kind of coalesce out of the mist and—it was Erik. I know it was.
Konstin's father. If Konstin's father could be a ghost, could come back to haunt a battlefield where he never was in life and lead Antoine to Konstin in the shell crater then—then might Edouard come back? Might Edouard be a ghost, even now, out there somewhere in No Man's Land in the shell craters and the barbed wire? Might she return to the hospital and attend to some wounded soldier who would swear he was led to safety by a ghost with green eyes?
Her heart pounds, her throat dry. Edouard walked those battlefields. Edouard was wounded out there, lost his life because of what happened out there and it stands to reason that he might come back, might try to save someone else. Konstin wrote once that he was the most talented man at finding a pulse.
dear Dupuis…watches for every man…finds a pulse even better than I can…
If he was so careful, so watchful, as a man, how would he be as a ghost? Infinitely better! He must be out there, he must, must be trying to save someone even now as she is here looking in at Konstin and she needs to get back there, needs to find a way to the lines, needs to look for him, find him, tell him that she is sorry, that she loves him, she's sorry, she needs him, she loves him, so many things she would tell him and she might not be able to touch him but just to see him, to see him—
But even as she thinks it, she knows it is impossible. Men do not simply come back as ghosts. It is not a thing that is done. If it was, then the world would be full of ghosts and everyone would know about it. And Antoine must have been hallucinating, desperate and worried and exhausted. It is impossible that Konstin's father might be a ghost, and even more impossible that Edouard would be one.
She sags heavy against the wall, all of her energy dissipating in a moment, and she tilts her head back, the tears welling up, pain twisting afresh in her chest, and wishes that just for a moment, she could believe.
He can't move, can't move, arms too heavy, legs too numb. He tries to roll over, tries to curl up, tries to plug his ears to drown out the crashing of shells (closer and closer), the crack of rifle shots, whoosh of bullets raining past, but the moment he tries to move pain shoots sharp through his stomach, piercing through to his spine and he chokes, chokes, tastes blood hot and metallic on his lips, a spray of it in the grey air, starkly crimson.
Squelching, boots in mud, faint splash of water and his vision clears, a grey-uniformed soldier coalescing, face impenetrable, bearing down on him, coming and coming still coming, black barrel of a pistol aiming for his chest, and he tries again, heart pounding, racing, tries to move, tries to swing his rifle into position, fingers numb on the stock but it's too heavy and his arm sinks down under the effort, fingers trembling. Bile rises burning in his throat, his lungs constricting, so hard to breathe, and the soldier's finger tightens on the trigger but he will not close his eyes, will not, must see his death coming at him, it would be dishonourable to close his eyes—
A flash of black, cloak billowing though there is no breeze and there is a figure in black standing before him, back turned towards him, and the soft hiss of cord through air, the pistol falling from the soldier's hand, the man's blue eyes blown open wide and he falling back, falling back, rubbing his wrist and falling back, and the black-cloaked figure turns, thin cord snaking up his sleeve, crouching down beside him and all he can see are golden eyes, golden eyes flecked with hazel that seem to almost glow, the crashing shells fading to silence. A soft hand cups his cheek, the light touch of it distant, far away, as if it is touching someone else, and the thumb strokes away a teardrop, and it is the first that he realises he is crying, his vision blurring and he cannot make out the face, only the golden eyes, dimming now, fading.
Fingers tap his cheek, his eyes rolling and glowing gold coming back into focus, creased and anxious. "Hold on, Konstantin, hold on, fight it," the voice is low, and soft, like cotton wrapping around him, and distantly he feels arms, slipping under him, pulling him close. "You're safe now, my boy, you're safe, I promise. They cannot harm you. Just rest." And all he knows are those arms, cradling him close, light silk against his cheek, and the soft beating of a heart beneath his ear, fingers stroking his hair. "I love you, so very much. I love you."
A/N: I hope you have enjoyed all of the angst of this chapter. And that ending! Whoo!
The Marvell poem referenced in the first section is, of course, 'To His Coy Mistress' which dream!Antoine was quoting a few chapters ago.
Next chapter is scheduled for Sunday. In the meantime, please review!
Up next: Antoine dozes, and Konstin receives two very different callers.