Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Enjolras is a proud man and insists on walking out of the prison under his own power. Combeferre understands Enjolras better than the man himself probably does and knows this. He’s half a step behind his brave leader every step of the way, importantly not touching him, but ready, waiting even, for the moment when Enjolras can’t continue.

It doesn’t take long in coming. They are out of sight of the prison, a few streets away when Enjolras can’t suppress the wretched coughing which has plagued him for weeks anymore and has to lean panting for air against the stone wall nearest to them. Combeferre’s hands are strong on his shoulders and all but holding him up.

“Can you continue?” Combeferre asks quietly after Enjolras has had a moment to try to catch his breath. It is difficult and largely unsuccessful.

Enjolras nods, and pushes off the wall, walking cripplingly slowly leaning most of his weight on Combeferre. After a few steps he lifts his head and takes in the street they are making slow progress along.

“Where are we going?” he asks. His voice reflects none of its former smoothness or power, it is barely a broken husk of a voice destroyed by the cruelties of prison and illness.

Despite Combeferre’s almost overwhelming desire to wrap his arms around his friend and clutch him to his chest as if to protect him from all the injustices and hurts in the world, he doens’t. He understands the importance of control for Enjolras, and equally understands, as Enjolras does, that that control will be abruptly seized from him soon enough as the illness overwhelms him. So, this time between the enforced lack of control imposed on him by prison and the convalescence awaiting him is treasured and respected by the them both.

So Combeferre contents himself with taking as much of Enjolras’ weight as the other man will let him and holding him as close as is practical as he answers. “Joly and Bossuett’s. Their apartment is largest, the others are there, beside themselves with worry and desperation to see you alive. And free.” He adds after a moment, watching Enjolras’ cracked lips curve into a small, pleased smile. “Also, Joly is going to want you as magnetically aligned as possible and has set up their spare room for just that purpose. Unless , of course, you’d rather your own bed?”

Enjolras sighs a little, and has to pause to cough, but firmly shakes his head, quiet but detmined in his desperation to see his friends and accepting the inevitable fussing which is going to descend on him. He can’t help but admit to himself, after the horrors of prison, he’s actually looking forward to it somewhat. His breathing is becoming laboured now, even between coughs and he knows the time has come to accept the help Combeferre is so desperate to offer.

“’Ferre...” he murmurs, coming to a shaky halt.

Combeferre understands immediately and stoops to sweep his arm under Enjolras’ knees and pull him up into his arms. Enjolras is worryingly limp in his arms, but so underweight that it is easy for Combeferre to lift him. Ironically, Combeferre is happier now his friend is closer to him, protected in his arms, and their progress is much faster.
Enjolras remains conscious, head a heavy, hot but welcome weight against Combeferre’s neck. He stops Combeferre as they reach Joly’s building with a squeeze of his shoulder.

“I would walk on my own two feet, please, ‘Ferre.” He whispers. Combeferre nods, understanding as he always does, and reluctantly eases Enjolras’ legs to the floor. Stairs are a challenge, even more so that the slow trudge from the prison gates, and both Combeferre and Enjolras have never been so glad that Joly lives on the first floor.

Combeferre lets Enjolras push away from him, taking a moment to ensure he is steady, if somewhat precariously, on his feet before letting go entirely. To his mild surprise but elation, Enjolras reaches over and takes his free hand as Combeferre opens the door.

As he watches his brave, bruised, battered and barely alive friend walk into that room full of their friends Combeferre thinks he’s never looked more beautiful, more admirable than he does at that moment. The assembled amis are frozen for barely a moment as they enter. Only Courfeyrac and Joly have seen Enjolras since he was incarcerated, and subsequently, as his robust health succumbed to the atrocities of prison and his strong, young body to the abuse of the guards.

For his part, Enjolras feels his heart swell with affection at the site of them all assembled and waiting for him, and feels a small knot of worry for them relax as he is able to see for the first time in months with his own eyes that they are all truly, to all appearance, whole and well.

“My friends.” He begins in a strong a voice as he can muster, and Combeferre worries for a ridiculous moment that Enjolras is planning some speech in his current condition. But Enjolras smiles, tears beading along his lower lashes and finishes with heart felt relief in his voice, “I’m so glad you are all alright,” before his body finally and completely gives up and he crumples.

Combeferre, who is of course closest, easily scoops him back to his arms but Courfeyrac is only inches away. He seizes Enjolras limp arm and folds it onto his chest so Combeferre can manoeuvre him through the door to the bedroom which has been prepared and onto the bed.

It is only Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Joly who enter at first. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are unquestionably Enjolras’ closest companions in this world and not now about to be separated from their chief, nor each other, for the foreseeable future. Joly is overwhelmingly glad his medical qualifications grant him access to this sacred reuniting and gift him with the opportunity to be close to Enjolras and reassure his own soul their chief is alive and there is hope will soon be well. Joly watches, a lump of emotion in his throat as Combeferre and Courfeyrac calmly, affectionately and tenderly strip Enjolras of the prison rags he wears; the clothes he was arrested in, the blood soaked vest, shirt and trousers he had worn on the barricade of months ago. Tears stream silently down Courfeyrac’s face as Enjolras’ broken, wasted body is revealed, relief and horror overwhelming the usually irrepressibly cheerful Courfeyrac. Joly is equally gentle and tender as he examines Enjolras as best he can with his patient unconscious, and helps the other two redress him in the softest bed clothes they’ve been able to source.

Joly and Bossuett’s apartment might be generously proportioned, as is the room in which they lay Enjolras, but once the rest of the friends have arranged themselves around the bed in some sort of silently agreed upon communal vigil for this first night reunited, the room is undeniably cramped.

Enjolras is filthy, and covered in blood, some of which may be months old and some of which is clearly and worryingly new. But sleep is the best medicine at the moment, bathing can come later. The room is quiet and peaceful with the rhythmic breathing of eight young men watching the erratic and jerky breathing of the ninth in the bed. Combeferre can hear the wheeze in Enjolras’ chest, the crackle of fluid clearly audible in the quiet. He hopes the others don’t realise what the sound means, but knows they probably do. He has known for weeks that Enjolras almost certainly has pneumonia since he heard his coughing during one of his seldom allowed prison visits. He and Joly share a wince as they listen to Enjolras’ cough in his sleep without waking.

Enjolras wakes occasionally, very briefly, barely opening his eyes as a water glass is pressed to his parched lips and cold clothes are laid across his burning forehead. Each time he does, he realises he is surrounded by his friends and smiles as he slips almost instantly back into to sleep. He wakes to a series of kisses against his forehead as dawn breaks and several of les amis take their leave. It is dark once again the next time he fully awakes and registers both of his hands are firmly captured between someone elses. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, he knows, before he opens his eyes.

Sure enough, they are both there, both look exhausted. Enjolras is immensely grateful for their presence and squeezes both of their hands. Courfeyrac jumps a little, mind probably wandering off in some reverie. Combeferre doesn’t, but looks almost expectant.

“Ah, welcome back.” He says.

“’Ferre, ‘Fey.” Enjolras whispers.

There is so little voice behind his words he mouths them more than anything. His chest is sore and heavy and he is disgusted when he rolls as much as he can onto his side to cough and coughs up sputum. Combeferre is there with a cloth and wipes his mouth gently as Enjolras pants for air and attempts to sit up. Sitting up feels better, he can breathe easier, and is grateful for the water glass Courfeyrac presses to his lips. His voice is stronger after he swallows, if not what it once was, and he feels a little more human than disjointed moments of consciousness. “Thank you.” He says, but is shushed by Courfeyrac’s kiss to his temple.

“We have a little surprise for you.” Courfeyrac says.

Enjolras is quiet and observant as they help him sit up, pulling the covers back from his bare legs. Par dieu, they are black and blue, covered with grime and much thinner than he recalls them being. Between them they pull him to his feet and support him between them; Enjolras is shaky and weak beyond all reason and his legs are clearly not going to do the job of supporting weight and walking at the same time, so he holds on to them tightly with shaking arms, grateful for and secured by their arms entwined around his thin waist.

In the living room Joly, Jehan and Bahorel are standing in their shirt sleeves around the fireplace, in front of which sits a bath.

“No offence, my dear Enjolras, but you are in need of a bit of a bath.” Courfeyrac whispers in his ear.

Enjolras laughs, and although it makes him cough seconds later, it feels wonderful.

In all his time in prison he’d never given much thought to the filth which surrounded him beyond how horrendous conditions were for others, without much thought to himself. After a while, after it became apparent release wasn’t going to come in days or even weeks, there’d been more pressing things than worrying over cleanliness, and even the fight for freedom had eventually been consumed by the fight to just survive. So for the first time in months Enjolras was aware of quite how disgusting he felt and here his friends were, immediately offering the solution. Quite suddenly overwhelmed and with a lump in his throat and blinking back tears Enjolras could only whisper a weak “Thank you.”
He is quiet as Combeferre and Courfeyrac lower him to the floor and calmly strip him down to his underwear, then step back allowing Joly to do something to his hair and then his skin with what he after a moment realises is lice powder. Strangely, he is not embarrassed but touched at the quiet pragmatism of his friends and their utterly respectful touches and handling of the whole situation. Tears threaten again, but Enjolras swallows convulsively.
It is Bahorel who kneels next to him and lifts him into the bath with strong, solid arms. Enjolras thanks him with a touch, Bahorel returns his own thanks, thank you for letting us help, with a smile and steps back.

The tears which have been on the verge of spilling down his cheeks do so now as he is able to take in just how wonderful the water feels, as do his friends’ hand and clothes against every inch of his sore and undeniably itchy skin. He can see Courfeyrac and Combeferre in front of him, and Joly out of the corner of his eye working on his back. Bahorel has disappeared, leaving this most intimate of procedures to those best equipped to carry it out. Fingers on his scalp, working through his hair startle him for the barest moment before he realises, Jehan, and hears the poets quiet voice gently murmuring poems and verses as he combs through Enjolras’ matted blond hair. As the pads of his fingers massage his hair it’s all Enjolras can do to keep from becoming utterly limp, which probably wouldn’t make his friend’s job any easier.

Joly has finished whatever he was doing to Enjolras’ back and eases him back to lean against Jehan’s knees and lie his head in the poet’s lap. Enjolras has just enough wits about him to realise his sopping wet hair is going to get Jehan’s lap wet and makes a noise and movement to object. Jehan, as if reading Enjolras’mind, is having none of it and his fingers grip Enjolras’ temples firmly, placing his head in his lap. Enjolras flicks his eyes up to look at Jehan, the poet simply smiles, continues to murmur poetry as he works and begins to tease the tangles out of Enjolras’ blond hair, strand by strand. Armed with a comb and scissors for knots which won’t yield even to Jehan’s nimble fingers, Enjolras feels not one tug or pulled hair and loses the battle with limpness entirely and sighs, more relaxed and comfortable than he thinks he’s ever been in his life. Enveloped by friends, and their love and tender care, he is so far gone he’s entirely unaware of the pain of bruises as the others’ hands ghost over his limbs and the dismal ache in his chest.

Bahorel reappears, an enormous bucket in each hand and Enjolras realises he has slipped off to sleep a little and wonders where they’ve sourced this amount of hot water, enough to change the filthy water in the tub for fresh, clean water. Jehan’s tender ministrations have moved back from his hairline to his crown now, the poet’s hands occasionally tipping Enjolras’ head from one side to the other so he can access the worst of the matting. Combeferre, Joly and Courfeyrac go back to work once again, and now the sharp tang of carbolic soap strong Enjolras’ sensitive nasal passages, and although it makes him sneeze, the familiar, but long missed smell, makes him feel wonderfully clean. Jehan has finished his work on the mess which was his hair and is combing it through gently. Water cascades over his head, rinsing through hair which once again looks blond, not red and brown from blood and filth.

Enjolras doesn’t even realise his eyes have drifted closed until he opens them again when a cloth gently touches his cheek. Combeferre is hovering in front of him, gently wiping over Enjolras’ forehead, cheeks, lips. Enjolras manages to smile at him, head still supported by Jehan’s knees because his neck is doing a really poor job of it, but Enjolras is remarkably sanguine about it. Combeferre looks vaguely amused, and incredibly fond of him as he returns the smile and kisses Enjolras on the forehead. They have all developed this habit, he muses, of kissing him when they leave the room or tend to him in some way. Enjolras can’t say he minds, and makes a note to himself that he has a lot of kisses to return at some point. He almost giggles at that thought, but suppresses the urge. A cool hand against his forehead tells him he did a poor job of keeping his drifting thoughts from showing on his face and they suspect his fever might be rising. This is true and Joly announces as much.

Bahorel reappears to lift Enjolras from the bath, with little regard to getting himself wet evidently. He is quietly and efficiently wrapped in towels, and dried with more care than given to even the smallest baby. He is most of the way to sleep before Bahorel is able to put him down on the bed, absently noting the sheets have been changed, and burnt he hopes considering the state of him. Before sleep entirely claims he once more murmurs, “Thank you,” and is shushed by 6 kisses to his temples, hands, forehead and cheek. As he sinks down into oblivion and comfortable pillows he is surrounded by bodies curling up to him in the centre of the bed.

Chapter Text

Again, Enjolras slept continuously for much of the next day. He was woken periodically by either particularly harsh bouts of coughing, or to a gentle squeeze of his hand or shoulder, or a soft kiss to his temple. Either way he was never alone and there would be a glass of blissfully cool water held to his lips, a set of steady hands to brace him against the coughing and trace gentle, soothing circles over his chest.

Sometimes there is quiet conversation floating over him, but he isn’t conscious enough to understand it though it comforts him and he is content to slide in and out of consciousness to the soft murmur of his friend’s voices. After a time he begins to catch understandable snippets of conversation and tries to puzzle them together.

“...it’s been two days; I can’t leave it any longer.”

“Should we wake him?”

“No, but it...it might not be pleasant. I would have you here in case he wakes.”

“Of course, but wouldn’t Combeferre be...”

“He needs to sleep. As long as one of the two of you is there...”

Enjolras loses the end of the sentence, sinking once more into oblivion.

The next time he wakes it is to sharp pin-pricks of pain in his back. He is sitting up he realises, held by a strong pair of arms against someone’s shoulder. The pains in his back are regular, almost rhythmic, and he senses a presence behind him. A particularly sharp pain takes him by surprise and he can’t help but cry out.

“Jol...Joly, he’s awake.” Courfeyrac. It is Courfeyrac’s shoulder he is leaning on and his arms gently holding him upright.

“I’m almost finished. I’m sorry, Enjolras, I know it hurts. It won’t be long.” Joly’s voice murmurs from behind him. “Some of the wounds on your back aren’t healing well, I’m stitching them up.” He explains.

Enjolras nods against Courfeyrac’s shoulder, pressing his face into the other man’s neck as the pin pricks resume. Courfeyrac is murmuring in his ear, nonsense words and soothing phrases, little epithets to distract him. Enjolras focuses on the sound of his voice until Joly is finished and he feels the bed shift as the doctor moves to sit beside him.

“I’m sorry, I know that hurt.” Joly says, and he looks guilty and sorry.

Enjolras lifts his head from Courfeyrac’s shoulder; it’s difficult and he’s almost exhausted from the effort, but shakes his head at Joly and smiles to try to make him feel better. Joly returns the smile, but his expression remains sorrowful.

Enjolras finds his hand where it rests on the bedspread and gives it a squeeze. “Thank you.” He whispers. Joly’s cheeks flood with colour for a moment and the horrible guilty look finally disappears.

“It is good to see you awake.” He says. “I need to examine you properly now you are conscious, if you are feeling up to it?”

Enjolras nods, releasing Joly’s hand so he can unbutton the loose shirt he’s wearing. He is almost shocked when he glances down at himself; one side of his chest is black and blue, his torso marred by several sores. He looks away, to Courfeyrac’s face. Courfeyrac has tears in his eyes, his lip bitten between his teeth as he too looks at Enjolras body despite having seen it many times over the past two days. Enjolras isn’t sure for whose benefit he takes both Courfeyrac’s hands in his, but as Joly begins the exam he holds on for dear life.

Joly is muttering under his breath. “Sorry, sorry, I know, I know it hurts. Just a moment...” His hand is pressed to the bruised area of his chest, fingers fitting between the ribs. Enjolras gasps as pain blossoms there. “I’m sorry...sorry...oh...” Words and apologies trip from Joly’s lips as his fingers probe before he formulates a question. “Was there a sharp pain when I did that?”

It hurt, but nothing much more than the dismal ache which permeates his entire chest. “No.” He says.

Joly nods, and sighs in something akin to relief. “Good. Good. I was worried your ribs on this side were broken. But bruised only, thankfully.”

Enjolras is thankful too, and says as much to Joly who chuckles lightly. It is good to hear his friend laugh. He’s pressing the end of his ear trumpet to Enjolras’ chest now, who dutifully tries to follow his instructions to breathe in and out, and cough, on demand. It’s difficult, as he is struggled to breathe evenly as it is and coughing triggers an uncontrollable bout which brings tears to his eyes and leaves him panting, leaning limply against Courfeyrac again.

Joly is apologising profusely again but continues the procedure, this time on his back. Enjolras thinks that he really ought to address this misplaced guilt Joly has at some point.

Joly is frowning slightly as he finishes and gently brushes golden strands of hair behind Enjolras’ ear and feels his forehead with an air of utmost concentration.

“You need to eat. I know you’re tired but do you think you can stay awake long enough to take a bit of broth?” Courfeyrac is asking him. Enjolras flushes as he realises his eyes have fallen closed and he is leaning into Joly’s cool touch, and more than half slumped against Courfeyrac. The doctor smiles fondly and indulgently at him.

“Think so.” Enjolras nods and tries not to whimper as Joly’s gentle hand is removed.

Courfeyrac disentangles himself from Enjolras and the bed clothes. “I’ll be right back.” Without Courfeyrac there to support him Enjolras sways for moment, feeling as though his bones have banished and will merely slump forward onto the bed. But Joly’s arm is there, all but holding him up while the other hand builds a mound of pillows behind him before pressing him gently back into them.

Joly takes a moment to rearrange the covers over Enjolras’ legs, disarrayed as they were from the, to Enjolras at least, exhausting activities. He snorts mentally at himself, he is aware he’s been awake for barely fifteen minutes but is already shaky from fatigue. Joly is sitting next to him on the bed now, facing him, taking his hands in his with a serious look on his face. It’s similar to the face Combeferre gets when he sits Enjolras down to try and make him accept a particular point or other they don’t agree on. Prior to the barricade, to prison, it was most often to convince Enjolras to slow down, to sit, to eat, to sleep.

Enjolras speaks before Joly draws a breath to begin, and beats him at his own game with a serious and imploring expression of his own.

“Joly. What happened...after...the barricade...I have seen...and Combeferre has said but...are they all...alright? I need...to know.” He asks, awkwardly fitting half-finished thoughts and words between breaths.

Joly’s expression changes, suggesting this is the last question he wanted to answer and he hesitates, wondering how best to respond.

Enjolras’ hand squeezes his where they are joined atop the blankets. “Joly. Please.”

“Ah...alright, alright, but you must promise me that you won’t over excite yourself.”

Enjolras nods his promise and urges Joly to continue.

“Everyone’s fine. All of them. I promise, everyone is fine.”

Something relaxes a little in Enjolras as Joly reassures him, but he doesn’t say anything as Joly pauses and holds his gaze as steadily as he is able, exhausted as he is.

Joly sighs, “Marius was shot, yes. In the stomach, but he is almost entirely recovered. He suffered from a fever following the injury, but not nearly as severe as it could have been considering the manner of his rescue. But that is Marius’ story and for another time.” Joly smiles as he continues. “In fact, he is engaged to be married.”

Enjolras feels his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “To...” The name of the girl with whom Marius had become so infatuated with shortly before the barricade escapes him.

“Cosette. Yes. She is quite lovely. Um...they postponed the wedding once we learned you were to be freed, so adamant they were that you attend when you are well enough.”

Enjolras is even more surprised by this; it was no secret that Marius’ infatuation was a frustration to him in the final days of preparing for the barricade. He did not disdain love, far from it, but he was a stranger to it and felt much more value in the love and fraternity he felt between his friends, his brothers, expressed so tenderly since his release, than he felt he ever could in the love for a woman.

“That is...ah...I am touched. Truly.” He said, and he is. Just as he did the last time he was truly awake he feels emotions acutely and has to swallow.

Joly has seen the emotion in his eyes, smiles and squeezes his hands before continuing. “Jehan was taken by the National Guard.”

Enjolras nods, he knows this and Combeferre told him much of the aftermath during his prison visits. Despite seeing Jehan twice and regularly feeling the poet’s presence as he drifted in and out of consciousness he needs reassurance to know he is quite healthy and whole.

“He was unarmed when he was captured, and taken to the Bastille once you had surrendered. His leg was broken, he apparently didn’t go quietly, but it may well have saved his life, his freedom at least. He was released the following day. Apparently even the National Guard won’t imprison an unarmed, injured boy who is simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. They believed you had corrupted him, and didn’t want his death on their hands.”

Enjolras breathed a sigh of relief; he’d known Jehan had been arrested, he’d seen him in another cell in the Bastille. He’d told the guards he’d refused to let anyone leave the barricade during his interrogation but had spent the next week in torment and anguish until Combeferre had finally been allowed to visit him and tell him Jehan had been released. He’d hate to see even his worst enemy imprisoned in the Bastille, but of all people on earth, that sweet poet least of all. Combeferre hadn’t told him about his leg. It is typical, he thinks, that the two youngest of their group, the two he feels most protective of, the two they all feel the most protective of, are the ones who were hurt.

“And now...is he...”

“Fit as a fiddle. The break was clean, he is young and the leg healed well. It’s a little stiff in the cold, so he says, but he can tell you that himself.”

“And the others...” Joly smirks; it is usually him who is fretting over the health of his comrades, but Enjolras is much more of a mother hen than he initially lets on. He can certainly be forgiven his worry considering what he’s been through. “Joly...please...” Enjolras implores him.

“Alright, alright...I’m getting there. Let’s see, I had to stitch up Courfeyrac’s forehead – he was most put out at the thought of a scar, but I think it’s a particularly neat job. Bossuett, amazingly in an astonishing change of luck, had not a scratch on him. Bahorel was concussed, but this is nothing new to him and was back on his feet in a few days. Feuilly had a few scrapes and plenty of bruises, but nothing serious. Combeferre himself did a wonderful of stitching up a gash in my arm.” Here Joly pauses, removes his cuff links and rolls up the sleeve of his left arm and offers it to Enjolras to examine. There is a faint pink line, hemmed by small dots which indicates where the deep gash had been. Joly feels tears prick his eyes as he watches Enjolras run his fingers tentatively along the scar and ghost over the veins and tendons in his forearm, whether from affection for his friend’s concern or in amusement at his fretting Joly isn’t sure. “See, even I am fine. Although I did suffer a fever for the next week, but Bossuett insists it was from nerves and not infection.”

Enjolras smiles, tipping his head on the pillow to look at Joly’s face, lit up and happy as he describes his health. “Joly, you wouldn’t be you if you hadn’t caught some sort of fever, from nerves or otherwise, after that ordeal.”

Joly laughs fully and cannot resist pressing a kiss Enjolras’ forehead. “Ah, there is that old dry humour I have missed, Enjolras.” He sits back, wiping his eyes of the tears which spilled as he laughed.

“And Combeferre...” Enjolras prompts after letting Joly finish chuckling.

“Mmm.” Joly says and sets his chin on his hands, folded over one bent knee. “He was unhurt but for a few cuts and some rather impressive bruises but I’m afraid both he and Courfeyrac have been at a loss, quite distraught, without you, dear leader.” Joly smiles sadly, thinking back to the scene he’d found one night a few weeks after Enjolras’ arrest. He’d called at Combeferre’s to drop off books or some such the other man had requested to find Combeferre and Courfeyrac curled around each other on the sofa, exhausted and both faces red and lined from tears. He shook off the memory and looked up to see Enjolras’ watching him curiously. “Not to say the rest of us haven’t been as equally lost, but I do not know quite what I would do if it had been Bossuett. The only consolation, perhaps, that they at least had each other.”

It was the separation from Courfeyrac and Combeferre that Enjolras had felt most keenly, and only amplified by the separation from the others, who weren’t permitted to visit. Had it not been for Combeferre’s visits, the sole one Courfeyrac and Joly had been allowed, he was quite sure he’d have gone mad.

“They are both much restored now we have you back with us.”

“Where is Combeferre?” Enjolras asks, voicing his awareness of the other man’s absence. He might have been unconscious to all intents and purposes, but he knows that Combeferre or Courfeyrac, if not both, have been at his side constantly.

“Ah.” Says Joly with a wry smile. “Asleep in my bed. Courfeyrac finally got him to sleep shortly before you woke up, and we’ve managed to keep him that way since, thank heavens, as he is in desperate need of it.”

At Enjolras’ worried frown Joly continues, “He’s fine, Enjolras. Really. But both haves refused to leave you for two days, and he is much better at putting Courfeyrac to bed than vice versa. I can get him...”

“No...no...let him sleep.” The anxiety for the safety of his friends that he’d been vaguely aware of, however irrational it had been, begins to dissipate at last. He looks at Joly and says “I need to see them. I believe you, I do, but I need to see them for myself.”

“And they are desperate to see you, awake and coherent. All of them.” Joly clarifies; he smiles widely, affection for his friends plain on his face. “I barely get a moments peace. I swear, Enjolras, beyond that door...” he indicates the bedroom standing ajar, “It is usually a regular circus, if I didn’t know better I would swear none of them have homes of their own.” He complains, but the delight in his voice is far too evident and it makes Enjolras smile. “You are loved, my friend. Most dearly.”

Enjolras curses the apparent ease with which he can apparently be brought to tears these days. Joly saves his blush however, by promptly ruining the moment and laughing fondly at him. Enjolras tries to glare, but he knows it has none of his usual power behind it. Joly chuckles again, and kisses his cheek. Enjolras smiles and coughs briefly, trying to clear his throat.

“The ache...in my chest...” he asks hand ghosting over his upper chest. “It’s pneumonia?”

The smile fades from Joly’s face as he nods.

“Yes. A severe infection in both lungs.”

Enjolras sighs, despite being almost sure of his own condition for weeks since the coughing began.

“I was concerned that your ribs were broken. It is on that side they were broken before?” Joly continues, indicating the bruises once more hidden under shirt and sheets.

“Yes.” Enjolras replies. Joly knows this as he was his doctor back then as well, and had absolutely despaired of Enjolras by the time he was recovered, as had Combeferre; bed rest had not agreed with Enjolras nor he it and he’d driven his friend’s to distraction. He reflects inwardly that this is probably why Joly has brought it up. To alleviate his friend’s palpable anxiety he promises “I’ll try to behave better, this time.”

Joly chuckles. “I hope so. I’m not sure my nerves could take it otherwise.”

Enjolras flushes guiltily, but laughs too. He doesn’t want to ask his next question, but he needs to know and he trusts Joly to be honest with him.

“It isn’t...”

“No.” Joly says quickly, and never in his life has he felt further from indulging his hypochondria. “Not consumption. I am sure of it.”

Enjolras sighs again, in relief. “I will recover?”

“In time, yes. I won’t lie or mince words with you, Enjolras.” The very serious look is back on Joly’s face. “You are seriously ill. And I think you know that. This is likely to get much worse before it gets better.”

Enjolras nods. This too he knows is true. The pain in his chest is dismal, but not entirely unbearable. He doesn’t relish the idea of his already decimated health declining further.

At seeing this pensive expression Joly raises Enjolras’ hands to his lips and kisses the back of his fingers. “We will get you through. I will get you through this. We’re here to look after you, no matter how distasteful you find convalescence and our fussing. But, it’s necessary, for our sakes as much as yours.”

“I know.” Enjolras whispers. “I want...I...thank you, thank you, for everything you have already done.”

Joly’s fingers press briefly against his lips. “None of that. Our love and help is gladly and willingly given. And you will accept and indulge in it, whether you like it or not.”

Enjolras is about to reply, to tell him how safe he has felt the past few days, but doesn’t know how to form the words without bringing himself to tears again; his emotions are still treacherously close to the surface. He is saved from his own quandary by Courfeyrac’s return.

It isn’t until now that Enjolras is able to identify that a significant part of the pain in his torso is actually in his abdomen; he is starving, and it hurts.

Courfeyrac has a tray with small legs in his hands, which he sets over Enjolras’ legs. It smells wonderful and for the first time in months feels himself salivate at the thought of food.
Joly resumes his position perched on the edge of the bed as Courfeyrac climbs fully onto it, sitting in the centre as he passes Enjolras a spoon.

“Slowly.” Joly warns.

His hand shakes awfully as he takes a spoonful, and although he’s loathe to admit it, the journey between bowl and mouth is so hard to achieve he almost gives up. The perseverance is worth it when he tastes the first thing but water to pass his lips in days. The broth is thin; the most his stomach can handle at the moment Joly tells him. He’s exhausted and can barely keep his fingers wrapped around the spoon after he’s managed a second spoonful, relishing the feeling of hot soup coursing down his throat, wretched and raw from coughing and abuse. He is desperate to continue eating, but his hand wavers, verging on failing entirely as he tries for a third mouthful.

He is beyond grateful when Courfeyrac’s warm hand closes around his wrist, taking the weight of Enjolras’ own arm and soup loaded spoon, but allowing Enjolras to retain control. He manages a few more swallows this way before resigning himself with a sigh and passing Courfeyrac the spoon entirely. Courfeyrac smiles at him, and picks up the bowl, scooping up a little of the liquid and touching the spoon to Enjolras’ lips.

He manages just over half of what is quite a small bowl before his stomach protests and he has to shake his head as Courfeyrac offers him another spoonful. Courfeyrac glances at Joly, who nods. “It’s enough. You’ve done wonderfully.” Joly says, warmly clasping Enjolras’ thin arm.

Enjolras returns his happy smile with a weak one of his own, but keeps his lips pressed tightly together because, par dieu, he’s terrified he’s about to throw up and par dieu, throwing up is going to hurt more than Enjolras thinks he can currently cope with. His stomach hurts for exactly the opposite reason now, but it is better than hunger.

Joly notices his expression. “Tummy hurts?” he asks softly.

A small tight nod.

“You feel like you’re going to throw up?”

Another nod.

“It’s alright. You won’t. You haven’t eaten properly or enough in months. It’ll feel strange. Trust me.”

Enjolras can’t help but do so as he looks at Joly’s honest and heartfelt expression. “Your strength will return much faster once you can eat normally again. It will just take a little while.”

Courfeyrac’s hand is wonderfully warm as he rests it gently on Enjolras’ abdomen, as he curls up to Enjolras’ side. He looks at Courfeyrac’s face properly for the first time since waking and sees the small scar above his right eyebrow and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. He looks almost as tired as Enjolras feels. He wraps an arm around Courfeyrac’s shoulders, and feels the other man relax into him a little.

Joly smiles at them. “If you can get him to sleep as well, I’d be much obliged.”

Enjolras nods, turning his head to press his lips to Courfeyrac’s dark curls.

“Do you need anything for the pain, or can you sleep again?” Joly asks, watching Enjolras’ blink for longer each time his eyelids slide shut.

The ache in his belly has already started to abate, leaving him warm, relativatively comfortable and slipping into sleep. He barely feels the bed dip as Joly stands, or the kiss pressed to his curls, then Courfeyrac’s.

“Sleep then, my dears, sleep.” Joly whispers and leaves them to it.

Chapter Text

“Combeferre, you need to rest.” Joly’s voice was pleading, shot through with worry. “Please. You haven’t slept in days...”

Combeferre shakes his head. “M’fine.” He murmurs and looks back to Enjolras, who is fitfully sleeping, and their hands, the fingers of which Combeferre has tangled together and refuses to relinquish.

He hears Joly sighing, off to his side, and he knows the other man is right but he’s waited months to have Enjolras safe and back with them; he isn’t about to let him out of his sight now. It isn’t until Courfeyrac bobs down beside his chair and touches his face gently that he looks away and meets Courfeyrac’s worried gaze.

“’Ferre. Please. Just for a few hours. You’ll be barely feet away. I won’t leave Enjolras’ side and I’ll wake you as soon as he does.”

Combeferre presses his lips into a thin line. He knows he’s been irrational, but, for onc,e doesn’t care.

Courfeyrac is persistent. “Sleep, ‘Ferre. You’ll be next to useless to Enjolras if you don’t. He needs you.” This seems to make an impact, as Courfeyrac knew it would.

Combeferre’s nod is jerky and he reluctantly disentangles his fingers from Enjolras’ and allows Courfeyrac to lead him into Joly’s bedroom. Only Joly sees Enjolras’ fingers contract as Combeferre’s hand disappears.

“Come on.” Courfeyrac murmurs in the other room. “Get your waist coat off, you won’t be comfortable in that.”

Combeferre’s fingers tremble as he fumbles with the buttons and has to admit that exhaustion is starting to get the better of him.

Courfeyrac has untied his cravat for him and folds it and the waist coat onto a chair. His boots, as are Courfeyrac’s, are out in the hall. Joly has a no shoes in the house rule. ‘I don’t care if it’s improper. I’m not having filth from the street traipsed in here on all of your boots.’ He says, and so there is usually a veritable pile of boots in the hallway between the main room and the communal stairwell.

Courfeyrac pulls the covers back and gestures to Combeferre to get in. Combeferre raises his eyebrows at him. “You don’t need to put me to bed, Courfeyrac.”

“Clearly I do. Besides which you have sent me to bed, and tucked me in I might add, for two nights running now, so let me return the favour.” Courfeyrac replies with a fond smile.

Combeferre complies, and has to chuckle as Courfeyrac fusses with the blankets and sheets, drawing them up to his chest before taking a seat on the edge of the bed. As Combeferre sinks into the mattress he realises just how tense he has been; it borders on painful as his muscles finally relax and unclench, before relief rushes over them, and he is suddenly quite limp. Adrenaline, stress and worry are marvellous things for keeping a body going but at some point, Combeferre knows well, the debt has to be paid. He only hope Enjolras can afford to pay back his own.

“Are you going to read me a bed time story too?” Combeferre asks still laughing, but he is dreading sleep.

“If you’d like one, I will see what I can come up.” Courfeyrac replies. He realises Combeferre is playing for time, postponing the moment he falls into sleep and, presumably, another of the nightmares he’s been plagued with since the barricade. He’s hidden it well from the other amis, but Courfeyrac knows his friend well and sees the dark shadows beneath his eyes, the reluctance to retire to bed, the reluctance to be any distance from his friend, Courfeyrac in particular. But he doesn’t know what Combeferre sees when he dreams. He is a rational, balanced and wonderfully calm man and Courfeyrac is unsure he wants to know what horrors are unsettling him so.
Shaking off his train of thought, Courfeyrac continues. “I have another idea, however. If you will permit me?” He holds his hands up close to Combeferre’s face, asking permission to touch him.

Combeferre nods so Courfeyrac takes his face between his hands, just covering his ears. “Close your eyes.” He asks. As Combeferre does so he feels the pads of Courfeyrac’s thumbs gently trace over his eyebrows, then his eyelids and along the bridge of his nose, repeating the motion over and over. It feels rather wonderful and Combeferre hums his appreciation.

“My mother would do this to me whenever I was ill, or upset, as a child.” Courfeyrac says softly, without pausing the motion. “It never failed.”

Combeferre can see why. Despite his reluctance he can feel sleep begin to overtake him. “This...this is how you got Enjolras to sleep when he couldn’t sleep from the pain in his ribs isn’t it?” Combeferre asks sleepily, speaking of the last time Enjolras had been badly injured. At the time, Courfeyrac had refused to divulge the secret, preferring to fashion himself as a tamer of the mighty, and stubborn, Enjolras, who had been beyond irritated by pain and bed rest and restless from laudanum withdrawal, of which they’d inconveniently run out.

“Mmmhmm.” Courfeyrac replies. He says something else too, but Combeferre is too far gone to really hear and is happy to let the sound of his own pulse beat in his ears and the sound of Courfeyrac’s murmuring voice wash over him and lull him, finally, into sleep.

.....................................................

Courfeyrac is exhausted. The few hours of sleep he’s managed between sitting with Enjolras have done little to alleviate the emotional fatigue and overwrought nerves. It is this more than anything which tells him just how badly Combeferre needs to sleep, because he loves Enjolras just as much as Courfeyrac does, has not had the benefit of even a few hours rest and unlike Courfeyrac, who is happy and unashamed to weep when his emotions overwhelm him, Combeferre bottles them up. So, bed and sleep for Combeferre it is.

Courfeyrac stays with Enjolras, helps Joly stitch up the wounds on his back and tries very hard, but largely without success, not to look at them and think quite how much they look like whip lashes.

It is good to see Enjolras awake though, despite the pain he is in, and he is able to eat which relieves both Courfeyrac and Joly immensely. Proximity to Enjolras actually soothes his nerves, his presence subliminally reassuring Courfeyrac that he’s there, he’s free and alive. It is easy to share Combeferre’s reticence to leave him, even for the next room. So as Enjolras starts to fall back to sleep, Courfeyrac curls up with him, hoping his presence in turn brings comfort to his dear friend.

Dark has fallen fully when he wakes up. He’s more or less behind Enjolras now, propping him up as he sleeps and they are a warm bundle wrapped in blankets. Unfortunately, he has horrendous pin and needles in one leg and so despite how comfortable the rest of him is he’s going to have to move. It is actually rather difficult to wake Enjolras at all in his current state so he is unworried as he manoeuvres out from the bed and rearranges Enjolras on the pillows. Bossuet is dozing in a chair, having taken over the night watch from Joly. Joly, he assumes, is asleep in Bossuet’s bed, being as in own is taken by Combeferre.

His leg wakes up halfway across the main room as he searches blearily in the darkness for a water pitcher and glass. He almost chokes on it as a scream breaks the night time still. His first thought is of Enjolras and he’s at the door to his room in a second, but Enjolras is as still as he ever is. Bossuet sleeps on in his chair.

Combeferre then.

Combeferre is sitting bold upright in bed, drenched in sweat, eyes wide and terrified, sucking air into his lungs in great gulps.

“Oh...’Ferre...” Courfeyrac whispers and goes to him. Combeferre doesn’t notice him immediately, staring blankly ahead, still tormented by spectres of dreams even in wakefulness. Once Courfeyrac’s arms are around him he collapses into him and is sobbing his heart out. “Oh ‘Ferre.” Courfeyrac repeats, taken by surprise.

As Combeferre’s breathing settles again. He asks “Can you talk to me about it. About the nightmare?”

Combeferre just shakes his head into Courfeyrac’s shoulder and hugs him close, clearly unwilling to be parted from him just yet.

“Is it...” Courfeyrac begins tentatively, hesitant to push Combeferre to talk about something he’s not ready to. “Is it Enjolras?”

Combeferre nods and releases Courfeyrac to wipe his eyes with shaking hands. He’s pulled the sleeves of his shirt over them and looks so like an upset little boy Courfeyrac’s heart breaks.

“You see him...hurt...is it...” Courfeyrac is searching for words, not least because he doesn’t want to say what he’s imagining aloud. “Are you seeing him die?”

To Courfeyrac’s surprise, if not relief, Combeferre shakes his head. “No. Well, sometimes. I see the prison, all the time. But...it’s...there’s...” he sobs a little again, and presses his fingers against his lips as he tries to gather himself. “There’s just a gap...I see you and I, or all of us...and he’s not there. He’s just gone. Someone is always missing...never whole, never complete... Gone. There’s a gap...Always a gap..” he trails off, fragmented words tripping silently from his lips as his throat closes.

Courfeyrac doesn’t say anything, can’t say anything, can only reach out to gather Combeferre up in his arms, pulling him into his lap so he can rock him, and hold him like a child, as much for his own benefit as Combeferre’s.

They stay like that for an indeterminate period of time. The darkness loses some of its depth as dawn approaches. Combeferre is still sobbing into his neck, breathing tight and erratic. Courfeyrac’s own face is wet with tears which he doesn’t bother to wipe away as he sniffs and leans back to see Combeferre’s face.

“Come on.” He whispers and pushes Combeferre onto his feet, keeping a tight hold him while he finds his own. He leads him into Enjolras’ room, where despite Ferre’s scream both he and Bossuett are fast asleep.

Combeferre’s tears begin afresh as he sees Enjolras, still, pale and flushed with fever. Courfeyrac steers him round to the other side of the bed and pushes him down on it. “Does this help? Being near him?” Courfeyrac asks.

Combeferre lets out a shaky breath and nods, but his breathing remains tense and disturbed and his eyes haunted.

Courfeyrac knows he shouldn’t be waking Enjolras up, but reaches out to rest a hand his knee and gives it a gentle squeeze. He wonders whether the other man will wake at all, but after a moment he blinks and struggles to focus with feverish eyes on the two of them sharing his bed.

“’Ferre? ‘Fey?” he whispers, weak, but alert.

Courfeyrac shifts so he’s in Enjolras line of vision. “’Ferre’s had a bit of a nightmare, ‘Jol. He’s exhausted, but I don’t think I’ll be able to get him back to sleep now for the world.”

“Oh...” Enjolras says softly, shifting his hand across the bed to take up Combeferre’s fingers. “’Ferre?” He lifts his other hand to gently touch Combeferre’s cheek, and it’s clear that even this small motion is difficult. Combeferre’s eyes suddenly focus at the gentle touch, seeking out Enjolras in the gloom. He sobs brokenly, covering his mouth with a shaking hand his eyes never leaving Enjolras’.

Enjolras puts his hands flat on the bed and tries to push himself up. “’Fey...can you...?” he whispers, a little breathlessly from even this effort, slumping back onto his back.

Courfeyrac moves around the bed so he can prop Enjolras up on a mound of pillows.

“’Ferre.” Enjolras reaches for Combeferre, pulls him down so his head is pillowed against his thigh. “It’s alright.” He murmurs. “You’re alright. I’m alright. ‘Fey’s alright. Just a dream.” He rests one hand on his other leg, fingers stroking through Combeferre’s hair, the other seeking out Courfeyrac as he positions himself so he can curl up around Combeferre and Enjolras’ right hand can rest on his shoulder.

Courfeyrac whispers an apology for waking him, but is shushed by a finger on his lips. Enjolras doesn’t have much of a voice, but he is murmuring softly to Combeferre, words little rushes of air in the pre-dawn gloom. “I’m here.” He whispers. “We’re here.”

Courfeyrac falls asleep for the second time in Enjolras’ bed, his barely-there words and Combeferre’s slowly steadying breathing in his ears.

Chapter Text

When Joly awakes it is late in the morning, weak, wintery sunlight falls across his bed offering little light and even less heat. He stretches out an arm, seeking out Bossuet who he has taken to sharing a bed with since one of theirs is usually occupied by Combeferre or Courfeyrac. When he finds nothing but cold empty sheets he remembers leaving Bossuet to watch over Enjolras, and an exhausted Courfeyrac, for the night. Without bothering with clothes, just his nightshirt, he tiptoes across the apartment to Enjolras’ room.

He finds Enjolras still sleeping, remarkably peacefully, with one hand resting on Combeferre’s head, pillowed on his thigh and the other tangled in Courferyac’s curls. All three of them are fast asleep, faces, for the first time Joly can remember in the past three days, at peace. Bossuet is still in his chair, quietly watching them too, smiling softly.

Joly takes his hands and tugs him up. “Come. Come sleep in the bed for a short while, keep me warm. They have each other. They’ll be fine.”

Bossuet purrs as he crawls into his own bed, and hums as he curls into the warm patch Joly has left and Joly himself curls around him.

Joly wakes again what must be hours later; he is ravenous and the faint patch of sunlight on the bed has moved to the doorway. Bossuet sleeps soundly next to him, arm slung around Joly’s waist; they have switched positions during sleep, but doesn’t wake and Joly once again slips from the bed.

He dresses now, hunger gnawing at his belly and thirst parching his throat. He takes a little of the water and bread from the kitchen, checks on Enjolras, who is, as ever, fast asleep, pressed against the tangle of limbs that is Combeferre and Courfeyrac wrapped around each other. Joly suspect this is a close together they can manage to get without hurting Enjolras. Reassured, he slips from his rooms and heads to a nearby cafe to procure food.

He returns with much more food than he needed, such is the risk of grocery shopping when hungry, but is unconcerned; young men are rarely truly satiated when it comes to food, and if there is leftovers it will not be long before the other amis descend on his rooms and happily demolish the remainder.

Bossuet surfaces briefly and breakfasts, or lunches as it is well into the afternoon, with Joly before returning to bed to catch on sleep missed during his night in a chair by Enjolras’ bed.

He wonders whether it is possible to wake Enjolras without waking the other two, as this is longest single stretch of sleep he’s seen either of them take in several days. Setting the tray of food, enough for the three of them should they wake, on the night stand and pulls a chair close to Enjolras’ side of the bed.

His forehead is still warm, but the fever not so ferocious as it has been. It is a good sign that Enjolras blinks awake at his touch, the first time he has awoken to anything less than pain or coughing. Joly holds a finger to his lips, despite the fact Enjolras barely has a voice and indicates the sleeping pile of Courfeyrac and Combeferre. “This is the longest they have slept in several days.” He whispers.

“I didn’t want to wake you either, but I want to get some more food into you. Broth again, I’m afraid, if you feel up to it?”

Enjolras nods and disentangles his hand from Courfeyrac’s hair to take the spoon Joly offers him and tries to take a mouthful of soup, but quickly relents and hands it back to Joly with a resigned and displeased sigh. “I’m sorry.” He whispers.

“Don’t be.” Joly rests a hand on his knee and meets his eyes. “Enjolras, don’t push yourself. It’ll come. Until then, we’ll do whatever you need of us.”

Joly feeds him most of a small bowl of soup and a little milk before he feels full to bursting again.

“Joly, what day is it?” Enjolras asks as he leans back into the pillows.

“Thursday.”

“What day was I...ah...”

“How long has it been since you were released?”

Enjolras nods.

“3 days. You’ve slept for the majority, so I’m not surprised you’re a little disorientated.”

“3 days,” Enjolras repeats, taken aback. “I walked here under my own power just 3 days ago, and now...I can barely keep my eyes open...”

“Don’t worry, it’s to be expected. Your body is exhausted, malnourished and trying to fight one hell of an infection; as soon as you were able to stop fighting, and felt safe, here, with us, all of your energy is going into healing, and the best way to heal is to sleep.”

“How long can I expect to be ...incapacitated?”

“Honestly? It’s hard to say. Your body’s been pushed to its limits, it’s going to take a while for it to recover. It could be a few weeks before you’re back on your feet, or a few months, certainly, until you’re back to your usual self.” Joly worries his lower lip. “There are a number of...complications which could arise...no, Enjolras I’m not fretting without cause,” Joly adds as Enjolras opens his mouth to interject. “There is a real possibility that you...” he trails off, lost for words, dropping his chin to his chest.

“Might not recover.” Enjolras finishes softly for him. Joly feels a hand caress the back of his head gently and looks up to meet Enjolras’ eyes, understanding and gravity clear in their blue depths. “I understand.”

“You will. You have to, and that’s simply the end of it.” Joly says firmly, refusing to allow the quiver in his throat to sound in his voice. “You will recover. Due to the severity and length of infection in both your lungs, there is a chance you will be left with weak lungs – prone to colds and the like, for some time, if not for the rest of your life. I’m sorry...I...”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I appreciate your honesty, Joly. You know that I do.”

Joly nods. “You are young and strong. It is better to dwell on the best possible outcome.”

“I will.”

They are silent for a moment, peaceful and content in each other’s company, each processing the realities of what has been said, before Enjolras speaks again.

“Joly, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid Combeferre and Courfeyrac are going to be woken shortly, I can’t keep from coughing much longer.”

Joly nods and stands to move around the bed to wake the two sleeping men just as Enjolras begins coughing. It is an awful sound, wet and deep but Enjolras simply doesn’t have the strength to actually expel anything from his lungs so each drag of breath in rattles sickly in his chest. Combeferre jerks awake at the first cough, hand immediately finding the one Enjolras isn’t holding to his mouth. Courfeyrac wakes a moment later. As the coughing fit passes Enjolras smiles weakly at them and breathes “Sorry to wake you.”

Combeferre bats him lightly on the leg and stretches, passing a hand over his face as Courfeyrac sits up and shifts himself to sit next to him against the headboard. A strange look passes over Combeferre’s face as if he has remembered in a moment the events of the previous night.

“How long did we sleep for?” he says looking at Courfeyrac.

“About 12 hours, I think.” Joly offers.

Courfeyrac lets out a surprised sort of noise, “No wonder I feel so good. And no wonder I’m so hungry.” On cue, there is a loud grumble from Courfeyrac’s stomach.

“Luckily for you, I have been and procured enough food to feed a small army...it’s in the cupboard.” He waves a hand in the direction of said kitchen.

Courfeyrac is gone before Joly has time to retract his hand, pausing only long enough to give Enjolras a kiss on the temple and Joly one to the top of his head, presumably to thank them for not expiring in the night and providing food, respectively. Courfeyrac, nothing if not thorough in his affection, bobs back into the room after a second to also kiss Combeferre.

Combeferre, still a little muddled from sleep, chuckles at his friend’s antics. “Are you hungry?” he says to Enjolras.

“No, Joly’s already seen to that.” He pats his belly to illustrate his point, illiciting another smile from Combeferre.

“Go on. Go eat. I’ll check Enjolras over and fill you in later.” Joly says, prodding Combeferre in the direction of the door. Combeferre goes at a nod from Enjolras, hands lingering together before their fingers part and Enjolras’ drops back to the bed.

Joly watches Combeferre leave before his eyes flick back to Enjolras, regarding him over his steepled fingers. “I’m not sure what exactly happened last night. But I am glad they have slept, and if means the three of you must sleep in one bed every night so be it...”

“I have missed them more than I can express.” Enjolras says quietly, eyes lingering on the door before looking down at his thin fingers. “I have missed all of you more than there are words to say.” He looks up when Joly’s hand covers his own, and sees the sentiment he feels so very deeply reflected in Joly’s hazel eyes, shining green today with unshed tears and acute emotion.

“And we you.”

Enjolras lets out something which is half a laugh and half a sob because he is unsure what to do with so much emotion constantly bubbling and threatening to brim over and it is unfamiliar to him.

Joly echoes him, tears running over his cheeks, but they are happy tears; Joly is a cheerful fellow, much more at home with expressing his feelings whether it be joy or worry than Enjolras is.

“We’re all a bit emotionally fraught, at the moment.” He says, uncannily sensing Enjolras’ train of thought, with a soft, but happy laugh. “I don’t want to overwhelm you with them all at once, but our friends are eager to see you awake. I have asked Jehan and Marius to visit this afternoon, if you are up to it?”

Enjolras nods, although he is exhausted and can feel sleep gradually ascertain its claim over him again. He is immensely grateful for Joly’s wonderful sensitivity on such matters in asking Marius and Jehan first; the youngest of their clan, and both injured on the barricade have caused Enjolras particular worry.

“I’ll let you go back to sleep in just a minute.” Joly says, already checking over Enjolras various injuries and listening to his chest. He lingers over his back for a long moment, but Enjolras’ thoughts have drifted and he’s asleep before Joly has even finished.

When he wakes Combeferre is reading by candlelight beside him, the light catching his glasses and throwing patches of light across the blankets.

“’Ferre.”

“Hello.” Combeferre closes his book, smiling as he shifts closer to Enjolras. “Good timing. I would have woken you shortly to eat.”

“All I seem to do is eat and sleep.” Enjolras says, pressing the back of his wrist to his mouth as he coughs. “And cough.”

“It will seem like that for a while, I’m afraid. But, there is someone here to see you if you’d like.”

Enjolras nods and tries to push himself up, something he has yet been unable to do without aid. “Ah...’Ferre...can you...”

Combeferre helps him, arranging pillows behind him so it doesn’t look as though the bed is all that is holding Enjolras together, and straightens the blankets over his legs. “Are you warm enough?” He asks, helping Enjolras take a drink of water.

“Mmm, yes. I’m fine. Thank you.”

Combeferre turns and leans out of the door, “Marius? He’s awake.”

Marius looks the same as he ever does when he appears in the doorway, a little more world weary perhaps, but young, whole and happy, if a little apprehensive. Enjolras realises Marius hasn’t seen him since he collapsed after his release from prison, and, although now clean, he must still look a fright.

“Hello Marius.” He says, smiling. His voice, what little has returned of it, still surprises even himself and doesn’t do much to convince Marius he’s not about to die.

Combeferre gives Marius a little shove so he steps slowly, almost shyly, into the room and takes the chair Combeferre vacated moments ago.

“It’s alright.” He holds out his hand to Marius, who takes it hesitantly. He seems to relax when he realises it is warm and squeezing his reassuringly. “So Joly tells me you are getting married?”

Marius opens his mouth, but pauses as if that wasn’t what he was expecting Enjolras to say. “Ah...yes. Yes. Cosette...” It’s as if he can’t help it, his face transforms the moment he says her name and he grins, “Cosette is wonderful. She and her father...I can’t even...” he ducks his head blushing.

Enjolras laughs softly. “I am happy for you, my friend. I’m sorry I was so harsh with you all those months ago.”

Marius looks up sharply, almost angry. “Don’t...no. You...” He pushes air from his nose and visibly gathers his thoughts. “Please don’t apologise to me, Enjolras. Please never think you need to.”

Enjolras doesn’t know how to reply, and doesn’t trust his precarious emotions and says nothing, struck by the love in Marius’ voice, love for him. He wishes he could hug Marius, things are often easier to say, to express, without words but he has to settle for squeezing his fingers again. Marius seems to understand, and squeezes back.

“Cosette is desperate to meet you.” Marius continues after the moment has passed. “We shan’t marry until you can be there. You will come won’t you?”

Enjolras gives him a tired smile. “I would love to. But my recovery may take some time; I would not have you wait to marry your beloved.”

“We are...Cosette is adamant we wait. And I’ll hear no more argument.”

Enjolras blinks, cursing the fever and exhaustion for the tenuous hold he has over his emotions. Ironically, it is a coughing fit which intercedes and gives him a chance to gather himself. “Then...then, I should like to meet her too. It must be... quite a lady to have... captured our Marius’ heart so... completely.” He says finally, rueing the awkwardness of his breathing.

“Steady.” Combeferre’s voice comes from the other side of the room. Enjolras nods, acknowledging him, breathing as slowly and deeply as he can for several minutes.

When he feels a little more balanced he continues with a wry smile, “It might have to wait until I can...actually hold a conversation.”

Marius chuckles. “I should let you rest.” He moves as if to stand but Enjolras hand, surprisingly fast, closes around his wrist.

“Don’t go yet. I’m alright. I hear you have quite the escape story?”

“Well, I’m not sure about that; I was unconscious for most of it. It might be better for another day.” Marius says, catching Combeferre’s nod of agreement from the corner of his eye.

Enjolras sighs, as they’re right, he’s fighting sleep but determined to talk a while longer.

“Alright. Well, at least reassure me you are quite recovered? You were shot...”

Marius nods, his hand hovering unconsciously over his abdomen where the bullet pierced skin and muscle but, thankfully, no organs.

“Yes. I’m quite well now, however. I had a fever for what seemed like a very long time, but the wound has healed and barely pains me at all now. Between Les Amis, my grandfather and Cosette I was most well cared for.”

Enjolras nods, eyes still trained on where Marius’ hand rests on his waistcoat.

“Would...” Marius begins hesitantly, “...would you like to see the scar?”

He unbuttons his waistcoat and untucks his shirt so he can lift it over his abdomen to show Enjolras a puckered, pink scar indented into the smooth skin of his belly. He twists in his seat to show a similar mark on his back. “The bullet passed right through, and miraculously hit no organs. Here...” Bolder now, he reaches out and takes Enjolras’ hand and presses his fingers to the wound. “See, it’s fine. Completely healed.”

Enjolras nods, lower lip caught between his teeth and a weight, a tension inside him relaxes. “Good.” He breathes.

Marius lifts his fingers to his mouth and presses his lips to them. “Now I think you really ought to sleep.”

Enjolras nods sleepily, rapidly losing the fight with sleep, eyes already closed. Marius returns the hand he still holds, laying it across Enjolras belly and whispers, “I’ll see you soon.”

“Sleep takes him so quickly.” Marius says in a hushed voice as Combeferre comes to stand beside him, both of them looking down at Enjolras’ sleeping form.

“He’s very weak, and the fever doesn’t help.”

“I wish there was something more I could do.”

“So do I, Marius. So do I. But it’s a waiting game, waiting for his body to heal, to fight off the pneumonia.”

“He will...he is going to get better? Isn’t he?”

“I hope so.”

Between them, Combeferre feels Marius’ fingers close around his.

“He will. It’s Enjolras. He has to.”