6A/N: A continuation of my oneshot 'In The Ocean Washing My Name Off Your Throat'. It's not necessary to have read that one first, but I'd highly recommend it.
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 epic novel into something cohesive- please don't sue me!
16. Blood (Les Miserables)
There had been so much blood.
Blood blooming over a sweatshirt that was staining a slow, sickening scarlet.
Blood that seemed to appear from nowhere, dribbling down ice blue lips; the weight of the drenched halo feeling suddenly weightless over his palm as the minutes ticked on.
'Hold on', he had heard himself whisper, hearing the unbearable crack in his voice before he can stop it echoing through the silent, rain-soaked night.
'Hold on Enjolras. Please. Please Mon Petit.'
He remembers the weight of Enjolras's hands scrabbling at his own, the fingers slick with sweat and dirt; the eyes he knew so well dilated with the purity of the pain.
Remembers…
Don't think about that.
The voice sounds like Courfeyrac, could very well be Courfeyrac perched on the bed beside him as he had so often done in the first nights after the accident. Those were nights that never seemed to end nights that were filled with memories, images played in painful slow motion of the walk, the gang, the insults, taunts, Enjolras's anger seemed to coil like fire, reaching higher and higher until he sprung forward; the marble man turned red devil across the shadows of the alleyway.
A flash of metal; a knife-point glimmering just in his line of vision, the action so sudden that he almost missed it.
'Enjolras! Enjolras, get away!'
The crunch of knuckle meeting skin as a fist made contact and then…
And then the scream. That scream; that sudden, bestial scream that had torn through him as if he were nothing more than cloth himself.
He can't remember what happened after that. Can't remember how he had managed to evade the boy who had been told to hold him, the bite of a knife held with ruthless fingers to his throat.
Can't remember those seconds, those desperate minutes in which the part of his brain that was still in the medic's library went into overdrive.
'Four minutes. That's all the time that you have before the patient's circulation will be cut off.'
Can't remember the run towards Enjolras, or how he had managed to remove his jacket in the process, the weight of the water seeping into his jeans as he guided his best friend's head into his lap.
'Hold on. Please Enjolras. Please hold on. I need you… We… We need you. Please don't go…'
And yet, even now, he can still see the glassy eyes dilated with pain flickering up at him; hazy with a pain that was cutting into both of them, refusing to let either go.
The weight of his best friend's hand growing steadily limper, crawling across the lifeblood that was streaked across his palm as Enjolras struggled for breath, tears trembling across his lashes.
'999? Yes… Yes… My name's Henri Combeferre and… there's… there's been an accident… Yes… Please… Please hurry!'
And Enjolras' fingers weakly tugging at him, his mouth desperately trying to form words that at first, words that had been lost within a sudden burst of blood.
'I can't lose you. I won't… I won't lose you.'
The words had come so naturally to his frozen lips that he hardly heard them; is surprised that he even remembers them.
A slight squeeze on his fingers, the cerulean blue eyes flickering with the prospect of a death too soon, of a life that had had so much more to live for.
'It's… It's… not your fault… 'Ferre…'
The weight of the hand slowly slipping from his own, to be replaced by another that he didn't recognize, the voice that he had loved with all his heart to be replaced by another he can't remember ever hearing.
'Come back… Come back Mon Petit. Please come back…'
He can't come back. Even in this darkness that he knows is reality, he can't come back.
The weight of the hand on his shoulder tightens, trying desperately to pull him back into the present, but still he finds it impossible.
'It's all right Combeferre. I promise it's all right. Please come back.'
He doesn't want to come back.
He can't, not when the man whom he had loved; loved as a friend, as a brother above all things cannot come back and yet still he remains.
Still he remains living a life that was not meant for him to live, still he remains living, breathing, bound to the knowledge that it was all his fault.
'It wasn't your fault Combeferre.'
Oh, if only Courfeyrac knew! If only he could possibly understand how much it was his fault, his fault for taking the route through the alley instead of doing the right thing, the sensible thing, being the level-headed guide that his friends expect of him, that he expects of himself and calling a taxi to take them straight to the flat, if only…
His chest heaves again, his eyes stinging with tears that cannot be shed.
The hand on his back moves closer, caressing his shoulder blades and yet he feels nothing.
Sees nothing.
Knows nothing.
Oh God.
Oh God.
Oh, Enjolras!
'Combeferre, please!'
Through the darkness he hears Courfeyrac's voice break, words spilling over tears that in turn spill over him and yet still he hears nothing.
'Go to bed Courfeyrac.'
The words are muffled in the darkness, so low and quiet that he hardly speaks them at all.
He knows that he won't agree.
Knows that the beat of silence that passes between them, that has passed between them ever since they all returned from A cold and shaking with a realisation that none of them wanted to make a reality will stretch on forever, will continue to stretch on until one of them finally breaks and puts an end to all this.
'I can't.'
If it were any other situation, he would have smiled at the centre.
In any other situation, the hand on his shoulder would be waiting to hold him, to embrace him, to try and soothe out all the hurts as it always did.
But this situation is not like any of the other situations.
This situation has left their oldest, closest friend; the bringer of life and love and liberty, lying dead in a morgue and it is his fault.
'I can't bear it Combeferre. I…'
I know you can't. None of us can.
'Go to bed. I'll see you in the morning.'
The darkness swallows his words, muffling the creak of the mattress as Courfeyrac rises; padding over like a cat to the pillow.
The graze of salt-stained lips against his cheek is the last thing he hears before the dreams return, bathed in blood and fire and there is nothing he can do but wait until the morning to be able to banish his demons.
A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Questions, comments, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!
Much love and enjoy x