12A/N: Combeferre is never ill; not violently at least. But when the stress of being a junior medic at Necker becomes too much, Enjolras, Joly and Courfeyrac are there to pull their beloved guide up and out of the fever ridden darkness which plagues him.
Canon era because I haven't written anything canon in what feels like a long time and I want to get back into it now that exams are over and Barricade Day is fast approaching!
Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me!
Even The Darkest Night Will End
The fever comes unexpectedly and violently; crashing into the small, cramped apartment in a whirlwind of heat, noise and sweat soaked linen. Later, when he's coherent again, Combeferre will put it down to stress, anxiety and exhaustion from working far too many long hours at Necker with very little sleep during one of the worst cholera epidemics Paris has seen in recent years; but now he can think of little else but his own immediate discomfort.
It's too hot. Far too hot. Why is it so hot? The heat; the hard, sticky, summer heat that swoops down on Paris like a pack of vultures at the end of May and does not let the city out of its' iron grip until mid September is so different, so utterly alien to his system compared to the soft coolness that rolled down each April from the sloping Limousin hills of his childhood. In some dim part of his brain, some part that he doesn't understand, he wishes he was back there now; wishes with all his heart that he was home; home in the farmhouse with his parents and sisters; home in his garret bedroom with the sloping beams and Juliette poking her head around the door; her auburn plaits tumbling out of shape and framing her face in a blaze of ruddy gold; dark, vibrant eyes sparkling with silent mirth….
His whole body trembles with the conserved heat that has crashed into his system and try as he might, he can't seem to get rid of it. Can't seem to find some semblance of comfort amid the great swathes of sticky, sweaty linen that binds him to the bed as he desperately tries to find some sort of relief. Can't seem to think, to feel, to understand what's happening; even though he has to understand, he knows he has to and yet his brain seems to be filled with an unintelligible buzzing and try as he might nothing makes sense…
From somewhere in the depths of the darkness he hears a window bang itself open, the stifling, humid air billowing in from the street bringing his exhausted body little comfort. Dimly he can hear the lapping of the river against the pier, the once soft, almost melodic rush of the water combined with the rattling rush of late night fiacres crashing painfully against his now tender ears, the stench rising up from the water making him want to gag even though he knows he can't be sick now, knows that he's already lost too much fluid already through the sweat that seems to have drenched every inch of his body, knows that…
From the street below a cat yowls and a voice shouts something unintelligible that darts across the water; the voice joined by another rising shout that is thick with urgency floats up from the road below his window; a shout he thinks he vaguely recognizes; but where or whom it belongs to; he isn't sure. He can't think in this heat. He's tried but the pain rising up through each flush, the desperate, aching need for water; even though he knows that he will most probably throw up if he drinks that seems to torture his barren tongue makes any idea of rational thought impossible. If only he could get out of this dratted heat then maybe, maybe he could do something about it but as he tentatively tries to move under the covers; his legs begin to feel like jelly and it is so damn hot as a sweaty hand gropes blindly in the darkness for the cold security of his spectacles, the thick, useless fingers slipping, sliding, grasping on nothing but air in their futile quest…
'Combeferre? Combeferre!' The sensation of hands on his face; the frantic fingers pressing almost painfully into flushed cheeks brings him slowly back into semi-consciousness; the darkness that has plagued his brain for so long slowly ebbing away from his vision enough for him to make out vague, hazy shapes looming out of the gloom; but little else.
Faintly, he can feel the cold hard roughness of wood underneath him; although why and how he got to be on the floor is anyone's guess as he struggles to focus on the voice as his body is lifted gently into the speakers' lap. ''Ferre… Combeferre … Henri, it's me…. It's Joly… Can you open your eyes for me Mon Ami?'
The voice is low; low and soft and yet tight with urgency as he struggles to do as he's bid; feeling something blissfully cold being placed across his forehead in the waiting minutes. Every breath he takes is an effort; the expansion and contraction of his lungs sending short, sharp bursts of pain across his chest as Joly's fingers catch themselves within his hair, the dexterous digits radiating with a sense of forced, pained calmness that makes the older medical student's heart ache. He knows that he shouldn't be doing this to Joly. He shouldn't be making a burden out of himself to Joly, to Courfeyrac, to Enjolras, to any of them and yet he is so tired and so thirsty and so, so unbearably hot as thick, tired fingers scrabble suddenly for a better grip on Joly's jacket lapels…
The sound of a door slamming itself open onto a blast of stagnant, summer air makes him curl closer into the chest supporting him; his ears ringing, eyes burning with unshed shards of scalding silver, his whole body throbbing as something blissfully, frigidly metallic is pressed against his barren lips and a cool hand reaches for his forehead.
'How… How long…?' The voice of the newcomer is thick with urgency; each syllable tight with sudden, choked up tears as Combeferre leans into the touch gladly; grateful to feel the hard steadiness of known callouses rising through his sweaty cheek once more.
'I… I don't know… I missed him earlier and came up to check…' Joly's voice tails away into a badly caught sob as the new body; whom Combeferre in his exhausted, feverish state thinks belongs to Enjolras; although he can't be sure; presses itself tightly against his own; the steady rhythms of his beloved brothers' heartbeat feeling more reassuring than the sound of any spoken diagnosis.
Dimly he feels Enjolras fingers, steady; the marble digits he knows so well shivering slightly with anxiety curl around his own and squeeze for a moment, a silent promise rippling through the touch. 'I'm here. I'm here and Joly's here. Courfeyrac's hopefully on his way home by now too. It's all right. It's going to be all right Mon Cher…. I… I promise.'
'Shouldn't… Shouldn't we get him out of these things?' He feels Enjolras pluck uncertainly at his nightshirt; the clammy linen feeling like an oppressive second skin as it clings to him and feels his lungs let out a pain filled breath that feels more like a moan than anything else and he hates himself for it.
Hates himself because he doesn't like being dependant on others; doesn't like it because ever since he was a child; he has always been the strong one. Whether it stems from being the eldest, or being the only boy in a family of three girls, he doesn't know; but this feeling of utter, childlike helplessness is utterly alien to him and he hates every single second of it.
'Will you let us do that Mon Ami?', Joly's voice is quiet through the silence; the weight of Enjolras' arms holding him upright as Combeferre feels himself nod slowly his brain feeling stupid with the fever and the heat as sudden, unknown questions desperately trying to form themselves at the back of his throat; the words dancing and dying against his barren, lolling tongue as he buries his head further into the darkness of Enjolras' chest.
'Try and stay awake Cher', Enjolras murmurs into his hair; his voice breaking for the briefest of moments as capable hands slowly fumble with the sweaty linen, thick fingers finally negotiating the myriad of buttons and cords and slowly easing the shirt away from burning shoulders. The sudden change in temperature comes as a shock as without warning the icy liquid slowly begins to work its' way around his chest and upper body; a sudden, inescapable, frozen fire seeping without mercy into every inch of his shattered self. In desperation he tries to evade the rough, cold wetness; a small, protesting whimper forcing itself through his lips. Joly, however, is determined; carefully working his way through every pore, every crevice of their beloved guide's fever flushed body until he is sure that there is no decent place that has been left untouched. A steady stream of unintelligible apologies flow from the medic's lips as he works; apologies mingled with the steady rise and fall of Enjolras' chest; of the weight of his chief's nose in his hair; the tight ball of agony in his chest, the faint flow of continuous, anxious kisses falling from lips tight with righteous worry.
Finally, after what feels like decades of icy agony; the cloths' journey begins to slow and the pain in the guide's chest begins to ease. Enjolras' hands are still holding him, Joly's free fingers are still caught within hair stiff with sweat, but he feels like he can breathe again as the weight supporting his body shifts slightly and a warm, soft something he vaguely recognizes as his spare nightshirt is gently eased over his head with a soft, lingering trail of thankful, whispered bisous as he reaches to squeeze back at the wavering, marble digits in a silent gesture of unadulterated thanks.
They remain there curled up in a tangled mess of limbs and bodies until the early hours of the morning when Courfeyrac finally makes it home; his darkly handsome face alive with worry as he crashes into the apartment followed by a bleary eyed Bossuet close on his heels; the pair barely missing upsetting the hat stand in the hallway in their haste to locate their dearest friends.
Combeferre barely moves when a hand is gently laid on his shoulder to make him wake. Instead, he reaches up a hand to squeeze Courfeyrac's in a silent act of reassurance; his fingers still trembling slightly with fever before Enjolras pulls him back down into their nest of limbs and blankets; the chief silently vowing in his heart to never, ever let his best beloved guide go through a fever like that alone again.
Please feel free to read and review! This is either going to be a two or three shot- I'm not committing myself to anything longer than that yet, but we shall see! Comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!
Much love and enjoy x