2A/N: Two young medical students commute home from their shifts at the Groupe Hospitaler La Pitie-Salpetriere and through their exhaustion, discuss the surety of their plans for the future.
Modern AU
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 Victor Hugo's characters into something cohesive- please don't sue me!
Side by Side
He has fallen asleep on the train.
Combeferre can't help but chuckle at the irony of the role reversal. It's usually him falling asleep on Joly's shoulder; exhausted after their twelve hour shift at the hospital and the burdens of studying for his Masters, caged in by books and files, laptop whirring on his knees against the hospital radiators in his snatched moments of free time.
The train jolts a little, swerving through its' journey down the endless chaos of tunnels that make up the Parisian metro system. Keeping his thumb firmly planted in the page of his book; Combeferre readjusts his grip around the younger medic's shoulder, listening with fond concentration to the soft regularity of his breathing. The bags smudging the skin Joly's eyes are a soft, deep purple tinged with blue, the butterfly thin skin tightening every so often as he tumbles through the confusion of his dreams.
'It's all right,' Combeferre murmurs softly as he reaches over to try and dig out his mobile in order to text both Eponine and Muschietta that they had had a later shift than usual and that there was no point in waiting up for either of them without disturbing his companion.
In his minds' eye, he imagines Eponine sitting on the front steps of their apartment building, staring into the soft, indigo twilight, absentmindedly twisting a hank of hair around her fingers. In his minds eye he sees her watching the glowing artificial haze of the street lamps, watching how the shadows dance die in the puddles of orange brilliance. He sees her everything, the curve of her neck, the twist of her fingers, the bite of her teeth playing with her lower lip….
Beside him, closeted in the safety of his armpit, Joly stirs; a soft moan escaping his lips as he cracks an eye open and raises an eyebrow at the older man.
'Tell me when we get there?'
'Of course', he murmurs, reaching over to brush a lock of hair that has fallen, quite adorably into Joly's eyes and finally succeeds in reaching his phone.
'Who are you texting?' Pushing up himself out of Combeferre's lap, Joly rests a hand on the guide's shoulder and studies the phone. The hand is warm, the pressure deliciously comforting as the guide tilts the finished message towards the medic. This is routine for them; a kind of ritual as Joly quirks a small, sleepy smile and Combeferre feels that he could not be more full of fraternal love than he is already at that moment.
'Good enough for you?'
'Good enough,' he murmurs as he settles back down to sleep; his head nestled in the pit of Combeferre's shoulder blade. Absentmindedly, the guide feels his free hand reach up to stroke Joly's hair, thick fingers raking themselves absentmindedly through the silken close cut curls. Vaguely he can feel the gaze of someone across the aisle watching him but doesn't mind; they are all tired, it is late and he does not want to get into a discussion about relationships when all he wants to do is relax and snatch a few tranquil minutes more before they reach the confused hubbub of their destination.
He presses the send button almost lazily and leans back against the seat; careful not to jolt the still sleeping Joly.
The reply is almost instant and makes him smile; making him think yet again of Eponine sitting on the front step listening to the music of the night and waiting, always waiting.
Sometimes, late at night, when their bed is a haven of tangled sheets and coffee scented sweetness, he wishes that she didn't wait for him. That she didn't think that it was her duty to wait for him, that somehow, someday she could find her own way in life; that the burdens of her childhood and adolescence could be shed like an old skin and she would emerge, blossoming and beautiful and safe within her own, true, wonderful being.
'Will be waiting. 'Chietta's here with Bossuet and Feuilly. How was work? Hope they haven't worn you out too much. E x'
They next find themselves standing on the platform; buffeted by the rolling, seething stream of passengers all fixed on the one desire to go home and forget about the bedlam that was the nine o'clock late commute home. Combeferre's whole body feels impossibly tight as he grips Joly's arm and steers them both towards the ticket barriers, wanting to be out of the too full station with its' pungent scent of human sweat and into the cool, crisp Parisian air as soon as possible. He doesn't understand why he gets so anxious when faced with them and their stone -faced keepers every morning and evening. He has his Metro Pass, topped up as always; but still his throat feels as if someone has scraped sandpaper across it, still the palms of his hands are slick with sweat, still he can feel his heart thud audibly against his ribcage…
''Ferre? 'Ferre, it's alright.' The weight of Joly's arm in the bend of his elbow seems to steady him as he silently hands over his Metro Pass and allows the younger medic to steer him through the barrier and out, finally out into the cool, blustery night air.
Normally, at this point, the two would say their goodbyes; Combeferre heading west down the Rue Buffon and across the Jardin des Plantes towards the cheap apartment that he rented with Eponine, Courfeyrac and Enjolras whilst Joly would head north up Port St Bernard and then cross the overpass to reach his apartment on the Rue Jussieu which he shared with Muschietta and Bossuet.
However, today seemed different. Without a word, Joly ignored his usual crossing and fell in step beside Combeferre, trying not betray the worry that was clawing at his heart as he watched the guide delicately remove his spectacles and polish them on a corner of his jacket.
It is not the action that worries Joly, Combeferre's wire-framed spectacles were nearly always dirty, it was the steady, meticulousness of the action, the slight, almost imperceptible tremor of the guide's hands as he replaces them.
'Tell me?' The question is little more than a whisper in the crisp, clear air and at first Joly is unsure whether it has been heard or not.
'I… I…just…' Combeferre's voice tails away, his hands reaching almost instinctively to twist at the simple, gold band that he wears on his ring finger.
His engagement ring, the realisation hits Joly with silent shock and he reaches over to lay a hand across his friend's twisting fingers.
'It will be all right Mon Ami', he murmurs quietly, watching the moonlight dapple through the trees and across the darkly handsome face that he has come to know so well and love so dearly.
'Will she want me though?' The questioning sense of pain in Combeferre's voice is heart breaking and Joly can't bring himself to answer at first. 'I… I mean, after all these years, with my degree and the hospital and…' He tails off; suddenly, uncharacteristically unsure of himself and Joly can only squeeze his hand in reassurance.
'Of course she will. She loves you; you know she does. You are her rock, her moon and stars, her guide in the darkness. Believe me, she loves you.' It's all he can say right now and he desperately, almost selfishly hopes that it will be enough.
Through the dappled moonlight, he can just make out the quirk of a small, unsure smile tugging at the corner of Combeferre's mouth as together they walk on into the Parisian night.
Fin
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