20A/N: They would all fall in the end, he knows that. They all know that. He is not afraid of death, more afraid of dying alone. (Oneshot)
Well… Um… Hello again Les Miserables fandom! You could say that this story is the product of about five months of writers' block concerning Les Amis de l'ABC, during which my life and writing, has changed, hopefully for the better, as well as having the main theme from Schindler's List on repeat via Youtube.
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 as well as trying to find my way back into the realm of fanfiction writing- please don't sue me!
All That I Have
The darkness comes quicker than he expected. The sudden, bursting bloom of pain; that sharp, cold pain seeming to erupt from his very core makes his body want to curl in on itself and yet unable to as it continued to slash away at whatever delicate muscles and bones tried to stop it.
He feels his feet slipping, sliding; hands scrabbling on nothing but air; mouth opened in a sudden, silent scream.
The silence is the worst of it, he thinks dimly. The silence trapped inside his own head; blocking out the screams of his fellow insurgents, the boom of the canons and the never ceasing, never ending rattle of the bayonets whose rattling wails had been their requiem for far too long now. The silence that is dark, dripping with shockingly scarlet blood blooming through his chest, slashing through his windpipe as he struggles for air. Air that comes finally, painfully; forced through lips blooming with blood as his windpipe fights to release the exhaled carbon dioxide. The iron jars painfully against the roof of his mouth, mirroring the scarlet kisses that trickle from an unknown wound at his temple and through his split lips.
His hand falls back, twisting his steadily breaking body awkwardly against a barrage of rubble but he can't think about the pain. He can feel his fingers scrabble on something that could be a bookshelf, could be a chair; could be a frozen pane of shattered glass for all he knows or cares. Desperately he tries to get a hold of whatever is below him, to hold on, to stay present, even though the darkness is fast approaching is too enticing and…
'Courfeyrac? Courfeyrac!'
A voice.
He knows that voice.
Somewhere….
A candlelit café in the depths of winter; a rally on the streets rising above the surging, seething mass of the crowd, a soft chiding remark as a cool, wet cloth bathes another war wound, a whispered kiss…
'Courfeyrac, please! Please don't… Don't be… Don't be… The others… I… I can't… Not you… Not you too… '
Blood dribbles from a gash in his hairline, blurring his already broken vision. He blinks it back weakly as the footsteps come ever closer; stumbling, tripping, leaping over the rubble of their hopes for a better, brighter future.
A face adorned with thrice broken spectacles, held together with a length of string seems to swim before his line of vision. A dark, once handsome face now ashen with an indistinguisble mixture of pain, blood and gunpowder kneels before him; silver tears catching on eyelashes that already seem to be red rimmed but whether that's from the smoke or emotion, he can't tell.
'Courfeyrac…' The voice breathes again, the final syllable breaking desperately as a hand reaches for his own; suddenly desperate for the weight and security of another's touch. He tries to focus on the weight of Combeferre's hand clutched in his, of the weight of the fingers calloused from years of leaking ink pens or the hilt of a knife, on the desperate fondness that seems to radiate from every pore of the guide's exhausted being as they cling to one another.
'Hold on', he thinks he hears being murmured through the sudden silence; the two words choked and barely audible through bitter tears. 'Hold on 'Feyrac. Just for a little while longer, I promise.' The weight of a finger softly tracing the curve of his blood stained cheek, hovering over the slash marks marring the high, fine cheekbones.
'…'Ferre…' He tries to choke out, but the word is lost within a sudden fit of agonisingly painful coughing; blood blooming over his teeth, dribbling over his lips. The hand that hushes him is soft, the hem of a handkerchief salted with tears as it wipes away the blood.
'There now', he hears the voice he has come to love so dearly whisper desperately as he struggles to keep focused on the wide, dark, liqueur coloured orbs hovering above him. 'It's going to be all right, I promise. It's going… It will…' Combeferre's voice breaks for a sudden, desperate moment as the darkness seems to crowd his features and he blinks, desperately trying to not lose him.
'C…'Ferre… Please…' His voice doesn't sound like his own anymore. It's clogged with salt soaked iron and every syllable is an effort as he tries desperately to get a firmer grip on the guide's hand.
But Combeferre's head is buried in his chest, arms encircling his body, caught in curls of blood soaked ebony, shoulders heaving with silent, desperate sobs as the calloused grip of shaking fingers seems to melt away as the darkness finally consumes him; a thousand unspoken promises floating from his lips.
Fin
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Much love and enjoy x