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At the top of the stairs, Combeferre paused, his forehead and the palm of his hand pressed flat against the door, and closed his eyes. He was exhausted. His shoulder muscles bunched tight around his neck, his head pulsed with ache, and his hands shook slightly, beginning when he had cleaned himself up at Necker, exacerbated by the chill on the journey home. There was a core of heat deep down in his chest that made him clench his jaw and itch to squeeze his hands into fists.

He was angry.

It made little sense to Combeferre. There was no reason to be angry. He was not angry at Necker’s team of medical students who, though shocked at the barbarism of the amputation, had performed admirably. Not at Joly, brave, invaluable Joly, who was undoubtedly frightened out of his wits, and yet kept himself together, acted as Combeferre’s assistant, only allowed himself to panic after he was no longer needed (and Combeferre had sent him home, then, knowing he could only ask so much of his nervous friend). Certainly not at the patient, a laborer who had fallen beneath a cart, such a common accident. And not even at the doctor who’d assigned Combeferre and the other med students to the case, a rough veteran who, buried under the weight of the cholera outbreak, had no time for lost causes.

Was he angry at himself? That didn’t seem quite right, either. The man had been half dead when his companions brought him in. And Combeferre had given the amputation a valiant effort. He’d learned the procedures, of course, but texts and cadavers did not prepare you for the screaming, the blood, the chaos and the panic thick in the air. He’d kept calm, for the sake of the patient and his friends, for the sake of the younger med students, for Joly. He’d taken his fear and uncertainty and molded it into a ball, tucked it in the pit of his stomach where it would not interfere with his senses or cloud his mind.

That ball of tension had warped, though, evolved into something hot and sharp that coursed through his veins. He took a deep breath through his nose, and tried to settle. He was positively not angry at Enjolras; in fact, Combeferre was rarely, if ever, angry at Enjolras. If they quarreled or disagreed, they spoke about it in calm tones, were open and honest and talked freely of their fears and hurts and beliefs. Conversations with Enjolras were rational, and always concluded with patience and understanding.

Combeferre was not feeling particularly rational. And it would not be fair to take his perplexing mood out on his dearest friend. He would wait to discuss his failed amputation with Enjolras in the morning, when he was more relaxed, had greater control over his emotions.

After a few moments of quiet breathing, Combeferre pushed the door open to find Enjolras in his customary position at the desk, writing by candlelight, his long hair, typically tied back, hanging loose around his shoulders. At the sound of footsteps, Enjolras glanced up and smiled at Combeferre, who felt a bit of his tension melt away. Perhaps the night would be salvageable, after all.

“Good evening,” Combeferre said, nodding to Enjolras and unbuttoning his coat.

“How were your rounds?”

Combeferre felt his shoulders seize up again. He wouldn’t speak of it tonight, but he couldn’t lie to Enjolras. That would be a betrayal of his friend, and of himself. “Challenging,” he said, and winced at the terseness in his voice. He tried to smile, to soften the pinch of confusion that materialized on Enjolras’s face at his brusque reply, but the tight movement caused a spike of pain to shoot through his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

“Are you well?” Enjolras asked.

Combeferre waved him off and shrugged out of his coat. “Fine. A trying day, but I am well.”

“Combeferre.” Enjolras’s voice was insistent, his eyes wide and imploring. “Your shirt.”

Combeferre looked at his arms and realized he was still covered in dried blood. His sleeves, rolled up to the elbows, were caked, his glasses speckled. “Ah, yes, well.” He swallowed. “Things got a bit messy.”

Enjolras was up in an instant, leading Combeferre to his vacated seat at the desk and pushing him down with more force than Combeferre anticipated.

“It’s not my blood, you know,” Combeferre said.

“Shall I help you wash?”

“I can do it myself.” Combeferre noted the sharp edge of his voice once again, and dropped his head into his hands. He had no right, no reason, to be cross with Enjolras. “I’m sorry,” he murmured into his fingers. “I am being inexcusably irrational right now.”

Enjolras’s hands came to rest on his forearms and gently rubbed up and down, as if trying to chafe the tension away. “There’s nothing to forgive, of course,” he said, and pressed his lips briefly to the crown of Combeferre’s head before moving to retrieve the kettle of warm water from the stove.

“Were you going to wash with that?”

Enjolras shook his head, looking momentarily sheepish. “You were late coming home, so I heated it up for you.”

Combeferre felt the corners of his mouth quirk upward, just a fraction.

He unbuttoned and stripped off his shirt while Enjolras gathered the washbasin and set it by the desk, taking Combeferre’s hands in his own and running a soft cloth over his arms, scrubbing a little at the patches of blood dried there. Combeferre sat numbly under his ministrations and tried to clear his mind, but thought constantly of the amputation. His technique had been textbook, but the man had lost so much blood before he’d even arrived. It was a desperate attempt, destined to fail. And yet Combeferre knew, although this was the first amputation he’d performed, it would certainly not be the last. The staff at Necker was horribly overworked, the people coming in droves, looking to them as a final hope. If he was to be their one salvation in a society which largely ignored their ailments, Combeferre owed it to the people to be qualified. They deserved something better.

Enjolras lifted Combeferre’s glasses to rest atop his head and gently ran the cloth over his forehead, his cheeks, down his nose, across his neck, even behind his ears. Combeferre tried to relax into Enjolras’s touch, but his mind was running circles, his thoughts straying to the surgery, though he tried to quell the impulse to dwell on it. He simply did not wish to think anymore.

“The shirt,” Enjolras said. “We should soak it, before it becomes unsalvageable.”

Combeferre nodded and grabbed the filthy shirt from the floor, submerged it in the rapidly cooling water while Enjolras retrieved a nightshirt for him. He changed, returned his glasses to his face, and sat at the desk again, where a medical textbook he’d been reviewing before his rounds lay open on the corner. He reached for it and flipped through the pages to the section that detailed amputations, and began skimming the text. Perhaps his tourniquet had not been tight enough, the arteries not tied off entirely, perhaps the pain had been too much of a shock to the patient’s system, and should he have taken the time to dose him with laudanum before attempting to –

A hand reached forward to still his, and Combeferre curled his fingers into his palm. Enjolras’s thumb stroked gently over the back of his hand before he reached beneath Combeferre’s fist and grabbed the book, closing it and setting it aside. “You should eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.” Just the thought of food was making Combeferre nauseous.

“I assume you haven’t eaten dinner, and – ”

“Enjolras, please,” he snapped, and instantly pursed his lips together, shame swelling in his chest. He reached for the stack of pamphlets Enjolras had been working on, desperate to be useful to his friend that night, to redeem himself for being so unduly irritable. To apologize to Enjolras when the words “I’m sorry” no longer seemed adequate. “Shall I edit these for you?”

“Are you not tired?”

Again, Combeferre did not wish to lie. “Hand me a pen, and I’ll review your rhetoric. Who are these being distributed to? Your diction has a tendency to become unnecessarily lofty when addressing – ”

“Stop.”

Combeferre bristled. He set the pamphlets down and flattened his hands on the table. “You don’t require my assistance tonight?”

“My friend, I only require that you rest. I see the exhaustion in your eyes, hear the strain in your voice. Please, lie down at least.”

“And yet, when I implore you to do the same, you seldom listen.” Combeferre meant to sound teasing, but couldn’t quite manage it.

“We’ve discussed our differences in this regard,” Enjolras said evenly. “My body requires fewer hours of uninterrupted sleep than yours to function optimally.”

Combeferre could not stop a guilty blush from rising to his cheeks.

“This is nothing to be ashamed of. It does not denote weakness, only divergence.”

“And this will appease you?”

Enjolras smiled. “Very much.”

Combeferre did not return his smile, but nodded and retreated to the bedroom, lay down on his side and shut his eyes. There was no comfort in his soft sheets and cool pillows, no pause in his looping thoughts, his mental review of his performance at Necker. Joly, no doubt, would have nightmares tonight; Combeferre was not prone to nightmares, but he occasionally found himself in the grips of insomnia after particularly stressful days. The flickering candlelight from the common room often acted as a balm, helping him drift off to sleep amidst the soothing sounds of Enjolras’s pen scratching paper, the soft crinkle of pages turned.

Combeferre wanted none of this tonight. He wanted noise and work, or silence and darkness. Let him forget today, or let him analyze it, dissect it, and move past.

To his surprise, the candlelight suddenly extinguished, plunging the apartment into a darkness broken only by the soft light of the half moon through the window. He heard Enjolras rustling around, the straightening of papers and changing of clothes, before Enjolras entered the bedroom and slipped into bed beside Combeferre.

Combeferre blinked at Enjolras questioningly. They were accustomed to sharing beds – falling asleep studying or working, the other’s bed too covered in clutter – but that was typically dictated by necessity, and Combeferre was not used to retiring at the same time as Enjolras, the bed next to him often empty when he fell asleep.

Enjolras simply smiled and reached out to slide Combeferre’s glasses from his face, folding them gently and setting them on the end table.

Combeferre sighed. “You do not have to stop your work for me.”

“Of course not,” Enjolras said, and rested his hand on top of Combeferre’s.

They lay in silence for a few moments, Enjolras breathing slowly, Combeferre staring down at the mattress.

“I can hear you thinking,” Enjolras said. “Permit me to think with you?”

And Combeferre could not hold back any longer. He told Enjolras of the amputation, of his illogical anger, his certainty in his own skills and yet, this nagging, unyielding thought that plagued his mind, forced him to review ceaselessly, to question, to doubt.

“I know how irrational this seems,” Combeferre said. “My skills are adequate.”

“Exceptional, in fact.”

“And this man was beyond saving.”

“No doubt.”

“But there will be others.” Combeferre swallowed. “Others beyond my care.”

“Are you afraid of this?” Enjolras gave his hand a squeeze, as if to say, I understand if you are.

“Not afraid. But…there is so much needed right now. Things I cannot provide.”

Enjolras shifted forward, resting one hand at the base of Combeferre’s neck, pushing his fingers up into his hair. “The people need so much, this is true. They need things we cannot provide. They are starving with need, and we are feeding them little but crumbs.”

“I should have more to give them,” Combeferre said, surprised at the tears gathering in his eyes.

Enjolras moved the hand from his neck to thumb the tears away affectionately. “You give of yourself so freely,” he murmured, as if in prayer, “your words and your talents. You share your brilliant mind with all. Should a country prosper from brilliant minds alone, France would be the wealthiest of all nations, with minds like yours at the helm. But again, you are correct. It is not enough. Nor are my words, Courfeyrac’s passion and warmth, Feuilly’s resolve, Jehan’s kindness and curiosity, Joly’s joy, Bossuet’s generosity, Bahorel’s joviality. These are wonderful qualities, but France requires more from us. She requires us to be extraordinary, and no man is extraordinary.”

Combeferre opened his mouth to speak, but Enjolras pulled him even closer, bumping their foreheads together lightly. He spoke in a whisper, his breath stirring the hair around Combeferre’s face. “Don’t you see, though? Together, we shall give France what she deserves: a being of remarkable will. Without a single one of us, this falters. Together, though,” he breathed the word together with such reverence it echoed in Combeferre’s chest, “we are capable of extraordinary things.”

Combeferre grasped Enjolras’s arm, speechless.

Enjolras brushed his lips against Combeferre’s forehead. “You are indispensable to this being, and even more so to me. I am not whole without you at my side. I would lead, but to where? And what end? You plot my course.”

“And you drive me forward,” Combeferre said, his voice thick. “I’m so sorry, my friend, for not coming to you at the start. My thoughts were foolish, and I did not wish to trouble you with them.”

Enjolras hugged Combeferre to his chest, his hand a grounding presence on his back. “When you are troubled, I am troubled. It is never a burden to hear your thoughts on any subject, and it is my greatest joy to help ease your mind.”

Combeferre smiled, the tension slowly dissolving from his limbs. He reached out and grabbed a fistful of Enjolras’s nightshirt, burrowing his face in Enjolras’s neck.

“Will you rest easy now?” Enjolras asked, tightening his arm and tucking Combeferre’s head beneath his chin.

“I think I shall,” Combeferre breathed, and was asleep within moments, in Enjolras’s embrace.