How Maria and Shaz pass the time [GRIMDARK BARRICADES]
At the GRIMDARK barricades (that take place QUITE EARLY ON to emphasise how awful grimdark is)...
After the barrage of violence, the quiet was certainly no god-send. The hush was deafening and filled Combeferre with a sense of dread that he had never before experienced. He stood in the doorway of the poor café, now stripped of its original use and instead converted into both hospital and morgue, the back room now filled with an almost alarming amount of fatalities from the past day. The front, where patrons would have once sat and enjoyed their coffee, discussing their day with their friends, was now filled with the sleeping bodies of the poor souls still trapped beyond the barricade and those too weak to move, inhibited by exhaustion and broken bones alike.
Tucking his glasses into the pocket of his coat, Combeferre rubbed the bridge of his nose, defiantly stifling a yawn as a small digital clock flicked “2:34AM” at him from across the room. There were dark circles under his eyes, and bloodstains flecked across his forearms and his shirt. There hadn’t been any time for him to find new clothes, nor to wash away the blood of good people that had been spilled over his hands. Not that it mattered, in any case. The morning was drawing closer and closer, no matter how much the minutes seemed to drag by, and Combeferre could not muster any enthusiasm or hope. Not now. Too many died before his very eyes today, because their wounds were just too much for him to handle, or it was simply too late to do anything.
He lingered in the doorway, waiting, watching the barricade warily as though he expected it to suddenly shake and fall apart. He hadn’t seen a familiar face for several hours, having been too busy trying to save lives, though he was almost glad for it; the wounded were always brought to him. Nobody was even left at the barricade, be they dead or alive. At least it was an assurance that certain people were still alive and well.
Unlike Combeferre, the lull didn’t fill Enjolras with dread, but with hope. He used the time well, moving quietly from man to man, scaling the barricade with sure-footed confidence. There was little light to see by - Enjolras wasn’t so foolish as to think he could illuminate the barricade when they were so desperately surrounded - but in the darkness one could make out the pale shades of his face, animated as he encouraged his men. Even without his shock of blond hair, reduced as it was to a prison buzzcut Enjolras was still striking to behold: his shorn head seemed to emphasise the classical perfection of his cheekbones and leant added weight to his authoritarian severity. With one hand Enjolras would touch someone’s shoulder, or clasp their hands resolutely, but in the other he carried a gun that seemed like it should be impossibly heavy for the youth to carry. Nonetheless he wielded it with the certainty of a seasoned soldier and kept it close by at all times.
Satisfied that his men were as well-equipped and would keep their posts Enjolras’s thoughts turned to the makeshift infirmary and its inhabitants. He descended the paving slab stairway, gun in one hand, and quickly crossed to the doorway. By the amber light of the city skyline he could make out Combeferre’s form but Enjolras couldn’t spare any thoughts for gladness - not yet, not while there were still duties to perform. As he neared Combeferre he reached out a hand, black with cartridge dust in some places, dirty red with old blood in others, to touch him on the shoulder. “What’s the situation in there?” He asked in low, expectant tones.
He didn’t bother greeting Enjolras, though admittedly he started somewhat at his touch, slipping out of his drowsy gaze. It took him a moment to respond to the question, eyes blearily gazing inside the café at the sleeping mass of bodies, slowly and accurately going over the information of the day’s injuries for at least the fifth time today. The number had just continued to steadily climb without end.
“Fourteen dead, close to twenty injured. I think at least six won’t last the night,” he finally managed, in a soft, weary tone. As he spoke his eyes stayed upon the people, not quite feeling the strength to hold Enjolras’ gaze at the moment. He folded his arms, leaning more weight against the doorframe as he tried to keep himself upright and alert, so tired but knowing that sleep was far, far away. “Anyone else injured out there? We’re running out of medicine, so they better speak up unless they want to go septic.” There was a blunt and pragmatic quality to his voice that suggested frustration; the medical supplies were lacking significantly, and Combeferre wished deeply that he’s spent more time and care in gathering them.
“A few more shrapnel wounds, all shallow.”
Enjolras’s hand remained on Combeferre’s shoulder but his gaze, and attention, slid past him and in to the room beyond. Enjolras’ general demeanour throughout the whole insurrection had been that of a cool, calm military leader - but something melancholic, imperceptible in the shadows of the cafe doorway, briefly passed over those pale features. “They join a long list of those who have died for freedom; their names will be remembered forever,” he said in a loud, sure voice but added in a quieter tone even as the very echoes of his words still reverberated around the complex: “You did all you could for them.” The hand on Combeferre’s shoulder tightened meaningfully as he looked back around to study his friend’s face with a steady, if concerned, look. “I know you did.”
“All I could do wasn’t enough,” Combeferre murmured softly, still staring at the sleeping, unmoving. “In these conditions I don’t even know whether it’s because I am limited or whether I simply don’t have the ability to save them.” Over the years, he’d spent enough days, nights and hours in hospitals, treating people and taking up their gratitude for his help. Only twice before had he ever had his patients die, though never of his own negligence. Here it was impossible to tell - was he really doing enough? Was it really everything that he could do, or was the pressure suffocating him, quietly and carefully, sneaking up on him without him noticing?
Suddenly incapable of staying still, he tried to straighten himself again, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again, still unable to look at Enjolras. “It wasn’t enough,” he repeated, quietly. “Not for Jehan, not for Pepper.” He couldn’t help his brow knitting somewhat, swallowing a little thickly, trying to keep the note of bitterness out of his voice and failing spectacularly, his tone a little choked. “Courfeyrac held her hand the whole time, telling her it’ll be alright. By the time Jehan was brought in I don’t think he had the strength to try and push any more false hope into anyone. Just took his hand, accepted it and waited.”
“Stop it,” Enjolras ordered, his eyes flashing in something close to annoyance as the hand on Combeferre’s shoulder fisted to take hold of his shirt.
He had seen the commotion that surrounded each and every death - or rather, he had been aware of it on some deep, personal level. With each death he had strived to bolster the dip in morale that followed, something he had generally been quite successful at all in all. To hear such despondency from Combeferre weighed heavily on Enjolras conscience, affecting him more than he felt comfortable with.
But there were too many ears, too many people near to overhear them. If Combeferre wanted to despair he could damn well do it away from their comrades. With his hand still firmly clutching Combeferre’s shirt he slung his weapon over his other shoulder and half-steered, half-dragged him away into the deeper recesses of the complex. They passed through the room of the near-dead, then that of the dead, until they reached an empty, one-windowed store room.
“Stop it,” Enjolras repeated when they were safely inside and away from prying ears. It was still no less of an order but this time it was tinged with desperation and disappointment. “God, I don’t want to hear that from you again. We’re supposed to be making their deaths matter, not bemoaning them. There are no false hopes here!”
Combeferre allowed Enjolras to pull him away, too exhausted to fight or argue. He had already lost his hope hours ago; all these stunning, golden ideals were worthy goals, they were made to be fought for, but he was finding it difficult to unleash the strength to engage in the battle himself. He had seen too much goodness, too much innocence slipping away from life today. Enjolras’ words caused him for the first time to look up at him, and for the briefest of moments there was a flash of anger in his eyes. Pure, unbridled anger that wanted to tell his best friend to realise how much this hurt. Combeferre had lost two close friends already, and he couldn’t see the light at the end of this blasted tunnel.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, eyes cast down again, pushing back his dusty hair from his forehead, absently pulling out his glasses again to try and put the world into focus - at least physically. “I’m sorry.” Struggling with words, he fell back into silence, for once in his life feeling helplessly awkward. For all the disillusionment slipping into his heart and his mind, he could not find it within himself to openly express it. How could he do that to Enjolras? The man had changed Combeferre’s life, undoubtedly for the better, brought so much richness and illumination to it. No. He couldn’t turn back on it now.
“Combeferre, I’m not saying we can’t mourn them,” he explained firmly. The fist on Combeferre’s shoulder finally relaxed and Enjolras withdrew his hand. With one swift movement he unslung the rifle from across his shoulders to lay it carefully against the wall nearby before turning back with both arms outspread in a consolatary invitation. “But we can’t regret what we’ve achieved here.”
He eyed Enjolras’ outspread arms almost longingly, for a moment, but he held himself back for a moment of obvious hesitation. He wanted to ask what it was they had achieved here, because he couldn’t see beyond the darkness and the death that surrounded them all. He forced himself to look up at Enjolras, take a good look at the man who had shaped his life. The close cropped hair, the determination in his eyes, he simply radiated hope and goodness and Combeferre wanted nothing more to take hold, he wanted to share in the strength that got Enjolras twice through prison and was still propelling him through this ordeal.
“I don’t want to have any regrets,” he agreed, a little blankly, staying where he was.
Enjolras frowned. Of course he knew Combeferre well enough to guess what was going through his thoughts but it was only then that he realised that Combeferre’s apologies hadn’t been for what he’d said. Rather, it seemed to Enjolras that it was an apology for his inability to make that necessary leap of faith that he, Enjolras, had always expected of him.
Ignoring Combeferre’s unwillingness to embrace Enjolras took a decisive step forward and enfolded him in his arms, unashamed of how grimy with dried sweat and cartridge dust he was, and held him tightly. “If I could make you see what I see, make you as fearless as I am--” he started saying, digging his fingers into Combeferre’s coat in sheer frustration. He couldn’t think of any more words to say to inspire him that he hadn’t tried already, anything more he could do to give him hope... save holding him as tightly as possible.
He gave in. He allowed Enjolras to enfold him in the embrace, bringing up his own arms to wrap them around his middle, burying his face for a short while in the crook of his neck, gripping the fabric of his clothes tightly. The contact was so comforting, so warm and real that Combeferre immediately felt so guilty for his bleak, pessimistic and obscured outlook on everything. “No regrets,” he breathed, his voice muffled. Breathing in heavily, he lifted his head, pausing when his mouth was close to Enjolras’ ear, still holding onto him tightly. He leant back, just a little, just enough to look Enjolras straight in the eye before pressing a soft, chaste kiss to his lips, slowly releasing him, immediately moving his entire body back as he pulled back.
As Combeferre pulled back Enjolras had gritted his teeth and bleakly prepared himself for some awful confrontation, but in fact it made what he was treated to instead all the sweeter. Enjolras submitted in mute confusion to the kiss. The faintest of worry lines creased his forehead as he frowned hazily took stock of what was happening and it wasn’t until Combeferre began to pull away that Enjolras realised that he had unconsciously closed his eyes.
But Combeferre pulling away was what triggered him in to action: he caught his friend up even tighter in his arms in quiet refusal to let him move.
This was it; this was that unknown way to reach out to Combeferre that Enjolras had sought so desperately to discover. It was the purest manifestation of how much he depended on - how much he needed - his friend expressed in a way that had always been so unnervingly inexplicable before now. Realisation dawned like the sunrise on Enjolras, clearing away the frustration in his expression and leaving him inspired. He leant back in to catch Combeferre’s lips up with his own, kissing him with a surprisingly fierce passion that hinted at Enjolras’s desire to resolve years of suppression and inner-conflict.
Combeferre expected chastisement. He expected to be rebuked for succumbing to physical desires right now, of all times. What he didn’t expect is everything that happened. The sensation of Enjolras holding onto him tighter was a sudden burst of thrill and exhilaration that sent goose-bumps up his arms and a soft shudder down his spine. Making a muffled noise of surprise, he found himself clutching Enjolras’ shirt, nails digging into the material as though he was afraid that he’d just disappear if he let go. He responded just as ardently, feeling the dull ache in his heart lessen for the first time in almost eight years. The satisfaction and the genuine happiness that he felt in this moment was palpable, from the desperate intensity of his kiss to the almost inaudible groan that rose from his throat, against Enjolras’ lips.
Years spent dwelling on a love that he was so sure to be entirely unrequited melted away from his consciousness there and then, leaving Combeferre with his heart fully exposed on his sleeve. For the briefest of seconds he wondered why - why he never had the courage to express this before, but he kicked the thought aside swiftly. Regardless of the things he had or hadn’t done before, all that mattered was right now, and right now he had finally found his resolution.
For the past twenty-four hours Enjolras had been a soldier and a leader of men. He had battled not for his life, nor his friends, but for his ideals - a sweaty, bloodied manifestation of everything he had dedicated his adult life to defending. He couldn’t be shy with Combeferre, neither could he be gentle, not when he had led such a bloody battle barely hours before. He could hear the far-off noises of battles through the slats of the boarded up window, an awful reminder that there were still men and women fighting and dying at the hands of Baelheit’s men on the streets of New York.
With one arm still pulling him inwards in to crushing embrace Enjolras freed the other one to clutch at Combeferre’s shirt front, mindless of smearing the still-damp blood flecks that covered it. Through both pushing and pulling, Enjolras manoeuvred his weight until he had Combeferre up against the wall, only breaking the kiss - fierce and consuming as it was - to breathe heavily and mutter indecipherable words of encouragement.
Heart pounding like never before in his chest, Combeferre allowed Enjolras to push, pull, clutch - he was a tall, sturdy man, that was for sure, but he couldn’t resist the physical force that Enjolras had so suddenly unleashed, and he didn’t want to either. He was clumsy in his movements, his kisses suddenly boyish and inexperienced, one hand inelegantly rising to cup Enjolras’ face. It slipped around to the back of his neck when they pulled apart, keeping him as close as possible, not wanting to let him get too far away. Something was still so unreal about this, too perfect in a situation that was too terrible. He struggled to catch his breath and stumbled helplessly over his words, too overwhelmed to stop himself from trying to speak.
“I’ve been- you were always, I never-” For all that he wanted to say, words were failing him spectacularly, and he simply broke into a stream of breathless, semi-incomprehensible French, his voice growing too soft and low to be understood.
“God, Émile.” Enjolras bent his head, burying his face in Combeferre’s chest and still clutching blindly at any scrap of clothing he could. He breathed heavily, his shoulders heaving with each shuddering lungful, as if the emotion of the kiss had taken the effort of a marathon. He could smell the antiseptic on Combeferre’s hands, so close as they were to his face; the nature of the smell in itself should have been unnerving but it was so very unique to Combeferre that it was more reassuring than anything else.
For a minute Enjolras was quiet, leaning heavily on Combeferre until his breathing returned to normal, his face still pressed to his collarbone. “If anything you should believe in me,” he said after a while, his voice fierce and muffled by the closeness of Combeferre’s neck.
“I’ve always believed in you,” Combeferre muttered, almost a little savagely, his mouth pressed to Enjolras‘ closely cropped hair, eyes clenched shut. An obvious shudder had run through his body at the sound of his name coming Enjolras’ mouth, the sound of the letters forming in his voice. “How else do you think I’ve managed to pull myself through all of this?” His hand fumbled a little, gripping and re-gripping Enjolras’ clothes. “You are what I believe in more than anything, more than freedom and justice alike.” He sighed, softly, laying a small kiss to Enjolras’ temple. “Because you more than anyone know how to spur people, how to find the revolution within them. I believe in you,” he repeated again, once again struggling to find words and reverting to parroting things blankly.
“I love you,” he finally whispered, so quietly that it was barely audible. “I’ve loved you for all these years and I’m not about to stop on this damned barricade, not for all the freedom, the death or carnage in the world.” He breathed out heavily. “I won’t stop fighting, either.”
Was this love? Hearing Combeferre say he believed over and over again, Enjolras realised that it was as close to love as he would ever feel. It was a small victory compared to the bigger picture but Enjolras relished it nonetheless.
“ You’re more a part of me than any of the others, and as much as the revolution itself.” He looked up, taking one of Combeferre’s larger hands in his own and pressing it firmly against his own cheek. “I need that belief; I need you to believe in me. You’re so necessary to me that sometimes it frustrated me to think of it.” Even in the dark half-light of the storeroom there was an unmistakable breaking of Enjolras’s stoic expression as he reached up to press kisses across Combeferre’s cheek, saying in between them: “I may be the driving force but you... you’re the foundation. And I love you for it.”
While Enjolras spoke, Combeferre uttered a soft noise almost like a whimper of relief and frustration, brushing his thumb roughly over Enjolras’ cheek, his other hand uselessly gripping at the space where Enjolras’ characteristic curls had once been. As soon as Enjolras stopped talking, Combeferre tugged him sharply forwards once again, catching his lips in another kiss with renewed fervour. It was all too bittersweet. He knew that soon, he would have to stop, let Enjolras go. He’d have to go back to his patients, maybe even take up a post on the barricade on himself. They had precious, precious hours left of this newfound emotion, even though Combeferre was perfectly aware that it wouldn’t take precedence over anything that might happen, whether in the next hour or the next minute.
Hooking one hand around Combeferre’s neck Enjolras slipped the other through the opening of his shirt to run the rough, newly-gun blistered pads of his fingers over whatever smooth stretches of shoulder and chest that he could find. His lips were hard against Combeferre’s but hardly lacking in warmth. He exhaled into the kiss, thankful to have his friend as close as physically possible, and eager to express just how much it meant to have Combeferre with him at such a great and awful time in his short life.
He let out a shaky breath at Enjolras’ touch, reciprocating by lowering a hand and hastily, inelegantly battling the folds of his shirt in order to find his skin, softly trailing his touch along Enjolras’ spine before splaying his fingers across the warm expanse of his lower back. With that hand he pushed their bodies even closer together, kissing him harder still, not caring for one moment how much desire and desperation he was expressing through this need to close any distance between them. Combeferre just needed Enjolras to know how much he wanted this, the spark of uninhibited joy it gave him. Conveying the physical love was only a “next step”; for years he’d shown his love through his loyalty, through never leaving Enjolras’ side no matter his own internal conflict, through resolutely remaining his foundation. This was the only consummation he could ask for.
Enjolras shifted in to Combeferre’s touch, enjoying the cool unfamiliarity of his hand between his clothes and skin. It was physically impossible for them to be any closer than they already were and yet Enjolras still continued to push himself on Combeferre with all the pent-up frustration of a weary, desperate soldier.
And yet Enjolras couldn’t bring himself to want Combeferre sexually; this was neither the time nor the place for it. As much as he wanted to press himself against him, Enjolras couldn’t bear the idea of sullying it with any kind of sexual desire, especially given the awful circumstances they were in. The idea was abhorrent, but not because it had anything to do with Combeferre.
Enjolras’s kisses were genuine, that was for certain: he kissed Combeferre like it was an expression of everything he’d ever wanted to convey about their friendship and closeness since they’d first met. But any kind of sexual advance beyond that would have been hollow and empty; Enjolras had never really felt entirely comfortable making any kind of sexual advances. Everything and anything he had ever known about sex he’d learned from Courfeyrac what felt like years ago and then half-forgotten in his long periods of celibacy since.
He relaxed in to the embrace, breaking off the kiss so he could look up breathlessly into Combeferre’s gaze. Enjolras pressed a hot palm against his cheek, pads tracing his friend’s creased brow before moving to stroke his cheek with the back of his curled fingers. It was a gesture of intimate familiarisation, as if Enjolras had never seen Combeferre’s face like this before. He shook his head faintly. “I hadn’t planned on this,” he admitted in a hesitant undertone.
The thought of sex actually hadn’t crossed Combeferre’s mind; admittedly he had wondered enough times what it might be like, but this was enough. To know that he wasn’t just a lovesick fool was enough for him. Over the years he’d been in enough relationships, ones that had never meant more than someone to spend the night with just for a while, nothing more than someone to stop him from growing lonely and closing in on himself. Emotions and desires didn’t come easily to Combeferre, they never had. Previous girlfriends and lovers had always left him because he was too quiet, afraid of being affectionate. He just never knew how much to show, how far to go, and no one had ever thought to guide him. Surely the one who guides others is one who is assured in himself?
“Neither,” Combeferre murmured, leaning his head down to press their foreheads together lightly. “I don’t think I ever had any intention of…” he shook his head, scrunching his eyes shut. Instinctively he leant against the touch of Enjolras’ hand, levelling out his awkward breaths.
Enjolras clasped Combeferre’s cheek and then started to carefully rub away a smear of someone else’s blood from with a thin finger. Predicting what Combeferre was trying to say, Enjolras gave a faintly wry smile.
“I dare say you didn’t, no,” he said simply before placing a small, firm kiss on the patch of skin he had just cleaned. “But these situations bring out the best in people.”
“The best…” Combeferre trailed off, uttering a short laugh, his expression turning a little sheepish, though his eyes stayed shut. He rubbed a spot on Enjolras’ neck absently with his thumb, breathing out softly. “I don’t know if it’s better or worse to have found a resolution for- well, this.” Once again he laughed, though this time it was a little strained. “I thought - I thought you’d just. I don’t know. I didn’t think you’d…” He was having particular difficulty in finishing his sentences, and the proximity, the touch, none of it was helping.
“Worse?” Enjolras echoed, studying Combeferre’s face with intent curiosity. “Why would it be worse?” Although his expression was blank in the darkness he couldn’t help but keep the suggestion of a frown out of his voice, but hearing the strain in Combeferre’s laugh moved him to press another kiss to his cheek by way of encouragement.
“I don’t want to let you go.” He murmured this quietly, shaking his head a little. “I know I have to, but it makes it that much harder.” Every new kiss that Enjolras placed against Combeferre’s cheek made his heart heave with both happiness and resignation. “I’m sorry,” he suddenly added hastily, not quite sure what he was apologising for but feeling a relentless need to do so anyway. In fact he lessened his grip on the back of Enjolras’ shirt almost pre-emotively, readying himself for the inevitable.
After the barrage of violence, the quiet was certainly no god-send. The hush was deafening and filled Combeferre with a sense of dread that he had never before experienced. He stood in the doorway of the poor café, now stripped of its original use and instead converted into both hospital and morgue, the back room now filled with an almost alarming amount of fatalities from the past day. The front, where patrons would have once sat and enjoyed their coffee, discussing their day with their friends, was now filled with the sleeping bodies of the poor souls still trapped beyond the barricade and those too weak to move, inhibited by exhaustion and broken bones alike.
Tucking his glasses into the pocket of his coat, Combeferre rubbed the bridge of his nose, defiantly stifling a yawn as a small digital clock flicked “2:34AM” at him from across the room. There were dark circles under his eyes, and bloodstains flecked across his forearms and his shirt. There hadn’t been any time for him to find new clothes, nor to wash away the blood of good people that had been spilled over his hands. Not that it mattered, in any case. The morning was drawing closer and closer, no matter how much the minutes seemed to drag by, and Combeferre could not muster any enthusiasm or hope. Not now. Too many died before his very eyes today, because their wounds were just too much for him to handle, or it was simply too late to do anything.
He lingered in the doorway, waiting, watching the barricade warily as though he expected it to suddenly shake and fall apart. He hadn’t seen a familiar face for several hours, having been too busy trying to save lives, though he was almost glad for it; the wounded were always brought to him. Nobody was even left at the barricade, be they dead or alive. At least it was an assurance that certain people were still alive and well.
Unlike Combeferre, the lull didn’t fill Enjolras with dread, but with hope. He used the time well, moving quietly from man to man, scaling the barricade with sure-footed confidence. There was little light to see by - Enjolras wasn’t so foolish as to think he could illuminate the barricade when they were so desperately surrounded - but in the darkness one could make out the pale shades of his face, animated as he encouraged his men. Even without his shock of blond hair, reduced as it was to a prison buzzcut Enjolras was still striking to behold: his shorn head seemed to emphasise the classical perfection of his cheekbones and leant added weight to his authoritarian severity. With one hand Enjolras would touch someone’s shoulder, or clasp their hands resolutely, but in the other he carried a gun that seemed like it should be impossibly heavy for the youth to carry. Nonetheless he wielded it with the certainty of a seasoned soldier and kept it close by at all times.
Satisfied that his men were as well-equipped and would keep their posts Enjolras’s thoughts turned to the makeshift infirmary and its inhabitants. He descended the paving slab stairway, gun in one hand, and quickly crossed to the doorway. By the amber light of the city skyline he could make out Combeferre’s form but Enjolras couldn’t spare any thoughts for gladness - not yet, not while there were still duties to perform. As he neared Combeferre he reached out a hand, black with cartridge dust in some places, dirty red with old blood in others, to touch him on the shoulder. “What’s the situation in there?” He asked in low, expectant tones.
He didn’t bother greeting Enjolras, though admittedly he started somewhat at his touch, slipping out of his drowsy gaze. It took him a moment to respond to the question, eyes blearily gazing inside the café at the sleeping mass of bodies, slowly and accurately going over the information of the day’s injuries for at least the fifth time today. The number had just continued to steadily climb without end.
“Fourteen dead, close to twenty injured. I think at least six won’t last the night,” he finally managed, in a soft, weary tone. As he spoke his eyes stayed upon the people, not quite feeling the strength to hold Enjolras’ gaze at the moment. He folded his arms, leaning more weight against the doorframe as he tried to keep himself upright and alert, so tired but knowing that sleep was far, far away. “Anyone else injured out there? We’re running out of medicine, so they better speak up unless they want to go septic.” There was a blunt and pragmatic quality to his voice that suggested frustration; the medical supplies were lacking significantly, and Combeferre wished deeply that he’s spent more time and care in gathering them.
“A few more shrapnel wounds, all shallow.”
Enjolras’s hand remained on Combeferre’s shoulder but his gaze, and attention, slid past him and in to the room beyond. Enjolras’ general demeanour throughout the whole insurrection had been that of a cool, calm military leader - but something melancholic, imperceptible in the shadows of the cafe doorway, briefly passed over those pale features. “They join a long list of those who have died for freedom; their names will be remembered forever,” he said in a loud, sure voice but added in a quieter tone even as the very echoes of his words still reverberated around the complex: “You did all you could for them.” The hand on Combeferre’s shoulder tightened meaningfully as he looked back around to study his friend’s face with a steady, if concerned, look. “I know you did.”
“All I could do wasn’t enough,” Combeferre murmured softly, still staring at the sleeping, unmoving. “In these conditions I don’t even know whether it’s because I am limited or whether I simply don’t have the ability to save them.” Over the years, he’d spent enough days, nights and hours in hospitals, treating people and taking up their gratitude for his help. Only twice before had he ever had his patients die, though never of his own negligence. Here it was impossible to tell - was he really doing enough? Was it really everything that he could do, or was the pressure suffocating him, quietly and carefully, sneaking up on him without him noticing?
Suddenly incapable of staying still, he tried to straighten himself again, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again, still unable to look at Enjolras. “It wasn’t enough,” he repeated, quietly. “Not for Jehan, not for Pepper.” He couldn’t help his brow knitting somewhat, swallowing a little thickly, trying to keep the note of bitterness out of his voice and failing spectacularly, his tone a little choked. “Courfeyrac held her hand the whole time, telling her it’ll be alright. By the time Jehan was brought in I don’t think he had the strength to try and push any more false hope into anyone. Just took his hand, accepted it and waited.”
“Stop it,” Enjolras ordered, his eyes flashing in something close to annoyance as the hand on Combeferre’s shoulder fisted to take hold of his shirt.
He had seen the commotion that surrounded each and every death - or rather, he had been aware of it on some deep, personal level. With each death he had strived to bolster the dip in morale that followed, something he had generally been quite successful at all in all. To hear such despondency from Combeferre weighed heavily on Enjolras conscience, affecting him more than he felt comfortable with.
But there were too many ears, too many people near to overhear them. If Combeferre wanted to despair he could damn well do it away from their comrades. With his hand still firmly clutching Combeferre’s shirt he slung his weapon over his other shoulder and half-steered, half-dragged him away into the deeper recesses of the complex. They passed through the room of the near-dead, then that of the dead, until they reached an empty, one-windowed store room.
“Stop it,” Enjolras repeated when they were safely inside and away from prying ears. It was still no less of an order but this time it was tinged with desperation and disappointment. “God, I don’t want to hear that from you again. We’re supposed to be making their deaths matter, not bemoaning them. There are no false hopes here!”
Combeferre allowed Enjolras to pull him away, too exhausted to fight or argue. He had already lost his hope hours ago; all these stunning, golden ideals were worthy goals, they were made to be fought for, but he was finding it difficult to unleash the strength to engage in the battle himself. He had seen too much goodness, too much innocence slipping away from life today. Enjolras’ words caused him for the first time to look up at him, and for the briefest of moments there was a flash of anger in his eyes. Pure, unbridled anger that wanted to tell his best friend to realise how much this hurt. Combeferre had lost two close friends already, and he couldn’t see the light at the end of this blasted tunnel.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, eyes cast down again, pushing back his dusty hair from his forehead, absently pulling out his glasses again to try and put the world into focus - at least physically. “I’m sorry.” Struggling with words, he fell back into silence, for once in his life feeling helplessly awkward. For all the disillusionment slipping into his heart and his mind, he could not find it within himself to openly express it. How could he do that to Enjolras? The man had changed Combeferre’s life, undoubtedly for the better, brought so much richness and illumination to it. No. He couldn’t turn back on it now.
“Combeferre, I’m not saying we can’t mourn them,” he explained firmly. The fist on Combeferre’s shoulder finally relaxed and Enjolras withdrew his hand. With one swift movement he unslung the rifle from across his shoulders to lay it carefully against the wall nearby before turning back with both arms outspread in a consolatary invitation. “But we can’t regret what we’ve achieved here.”
He eyed Enjolras’ outspread arms almost longingly, for a moment, but he held himself back for a moment of obvious hesitation. He wanted to ask what it was they had achieved here, because he couldn’t see beyond the darkness and the death that surrounded them all. He forced himself to look up at Enjolras, take a good look at the man who had shaped his life. The close cropped hair, the determination in his eyes, he simply radiated hope and goodness and Combeferre wanted nothing more to take hold, he wanted to share in the strength that got Enjolras twice through prison and was still propelling him through this ordeal.
“I don’t want to have any regrets,” he agreed, a little blankly, staying where he was.
Enjolras frowned. Of course he knew Combeferre well enough to guess what was going through his thoughts but it was only then that he realised that Combeferre’s apologies hadn’t been for what he’d said. Rather, it seemed to Enjolras that it was an apology for his inability to make that necessary leap of faith that he, Enjolras, had always expected of him.
Ignoring Combeferre’s unwillingness to embrace Enjolras took a decisive step forward and enfolded him in his arms, unashamed of how grimy with dried sweat and cartridge dust he was, and held him tightly. “If I could make you see what I see, make you as fearless as I am--” he started saying, digging his fingers into Combeferre’s coat in sheer frustration. He couldn’t think of any more words to say to inspire him that he hadn’t tried already, anything more he could do to give him hope... save holding him as tightly as possible.
He gave in. He allowed Enjolras to enfold him in the embrace, bringing up his own arms to wrap them around his middle, burying his face for a short while in the crook of his neck, gripping the fabric of his clothes tightly. The contact was so comforting, so warm and real that Combeferre immediately felt so guilty for his bleak, pessimistic and obscured outlook on everything. “No regrets,” he breathed, his voice muffled. Breathing in heavily, he lifted his head, pausing when his mouth was close to Enjolras’ ear, still holding onto him tightly. He leant back, just a little, just enough to look Enjolras straight in the eye before pressing a soft, chaste kiss to his lips, slowly releasing him, immediately moving his entire body back as he pulled back.
As Combeferre pulled back Enjolras had gritted his teeth and bleakly prepared himself for some awful confrontation, but in fact it made what he was treated to instead all the sweeter. Enjolras submitted in mute confusion to the kiss. The faintest of worry lines creased his forehead as he frowned hazily took stock of what was happening and it wasn’t until Combeferre began to pull away that Enjolras realised that he had unconsciously closed his eyes.
But Combeferre pulling away was what triggered him in to action: he caught his friend up even tighter in his arms in quiet refusal to let him move.
This was it; this was that unknown way to reach out to Combeferre that Enjolras had sought so desperately to discover. It was the purest manifestation of how much he depended on - how much he needed - his friend expressed in a way that had always been so unnervingly inexplicable before now. Realisation dawned like the sunrise on Enjolras, clearing away the frustration in his expression and leaving him inspired. He leant back in to catch Combeferre’s lips up with his own, kissing him with a surprisingly fierce passion that hinted at Enjolras’s desire to resolve years of suppression and inner-conflict.
Combeferre expected chastisement. He expected to be rebuked for succumbing to physical desires right now, of all times. What he didn’t expect is everything that happened. The sensation of Enjolras holding onto him tighter was a sudden burst of thrill and exhilaration that sent goose-bumps up his arms and a soft shudder down his spine. Making a muffled noise of surprise, he found himself clutching Enjolras’ shirt, nails digging into the material as though he was afraid that he’d just disappear if he let go. He responded just as ardently, feeling the dull ache in his heart lessen for the first time in almost eight years. The satisfaction and the genuine happiness that he felt in this moment was palpable, from the desperate intensity of his kiss to the almost inaudible groan that rose from his throat, against Enjolras’ lips.
Years spent dwelling on a love that he was so sure to be entirely unrequited melted away from his consciousness there and then, leaving Combeferre with his heart fully exposed on his sleeve. For the briefest of seconds he wondered why - why he never had the courage to express this before, but he kicked the thought aside swiftly. Regardless of the things he had or hadn’t done before, all that mattered was right now, and right now he had finally found his resolution.
For the past twenty-four hours Enjolras had been a soldier and a leader of men. He had battled not for his life, nor his friends, but for his ideals - a sweaty, bloodied manifestation of everything he had dedicated his adult life to defending. He couldn’t be shy with Combeferre, neither could he be gentle, not when he had led such a bloody battle barely hours before. He could hear the far-off noises of battles through the slats of the boarded up window, an awful reminder that there were still men and women fighting and dying at the hands of Baelheit’s men on the streets of New York.
With one arm still pulling him inwards in to crushing embrace Enjolras freed the other one to clutch at Combeferre’s shirt front, mindless of smearing the still-damp blood flecks that covered it. Through both pushing and pulling, Enjolras manoeuvred his weight until he had Combeferre up against the wall, only breaking the kiss - fierce and consuming as it was - to breathe heavily and mutter indecipherable words of encouragement.
Heart pounding like never before in his chest, Combeferre allowed Enjolras to push, pull, clutch - he was a tall, sturdy man, that was for sure, but he couldn’t resist the physical force that Enjolras had so suddenly unleashed, and he didn’t want to either. He was clumsy in his movements, his kisses suddenly boyish and inexperienced, one hand inelegantly rising to cup Enjolras’ face. It slipped around to the back of his neck when they pulled apart, keeping him as close as possible, not wanting to let him get too far away. Something was still so unreal about this, too perfect in a situation that was too terrible. He struggled to catch his breath and stumbled helplessly over his words, too overwhelmed to stop himself from trying to speak.
“I’ve been- you were always, I never-” For all that he wanted to say, words were failing him spectacularly, and he simply broke into a stream of breathless, semi-incomprehensible French, his voice growing too soft and low to be understood.
“God, Émile.” Enjolras bent his head, burying his face in Combeferre’s chest and still clutching blindly at any scrap of clothing he could. He breathed heavily, his shoulders heaving with each shuddering lungful, as if the emotion of the kiss had taken the effort of a marathon. He could smell the antiseptic on Combeferre’s hands, so close as they were to his face; the nature of the smell in itself should have been unnerving but it was so very unique to Combeferre that it was more reassuring than anything else.
For a minute Enjolras was quiet, leaning heavily on Combeferre until his breathing returned to normal, his face still pressed to his collarbone. “If anything you should believe in me,” he said after a while, his voice fierce and muffled by the closeness of Combeferre’s neck.
“I’ve always believed in you,” Combeferre muttered, almost a little savagely, his mouth pressed to Enjolras‘ closely cropped hair, eyes clenched shut. An obvious shudder had run through his body at the sound of his name coming Enjolras’ mouth, the sound of the letters forming in his voice. “How else do you think I’ve managed to pull myself through all of this?” His hand fumbled a little, gripping and re-gripping Enjolras’ clothes. “You are what I believe in more than anything, more than freedom and justice alike.” He sighed, softly, laying a small kiss to Enjolras’ temple. “Because you more than anyone know how to spur people, how to find the revolution within them. I believe in you,” he repeated again, once again struggling to find words and reverting to parroting things blankly.
“I love you,” he finally whispered, so quietly that it was barely audible. “I’ve loved you for all these years and I’m not about to stop on this damned barricade, not for all the freedom, the death or carnage in the world.” He breathed out heavily. “I won’t stop fighting, either.”
Was this love? Hearing Combeferre say he believed over and over again, Enjolras realised that it was as close to love as he would ever feel. It was a small victory compared to the bigger picture but Enjolras relished it nonetheless.
“ You’re more a part of me than any of the others, and as much as the revolution itself.” He looked up, taking one of Combeferre’s larger hands in his own and pressing it firmly against his own cheek. “I need that belief; I need you to believe in me. You’re so necessary to me that sometimes it frustrated me to think of it.” Even in the dark half-light of the storeroom there was an unmistakable breaking of Enjolras’s stoic expression as he reached up to press kisses across Combeferre’s cheek, saying in between them: “I may be the driving force but you... you’re the foundation. And I love you for it.”
While Enjolras spoke, Combeferre uttered a soft noise almost like a whimper of relief and frustration, brushing his thumb roughly over Enjolras’ cheek, his other hand uselessly gripping at the space where Enjolras’ characteristic curls had once been. As soon as Enjolras stopped talking, Combeferre tugged him sharply forwards once again, catching his lips in another kiss with renewed fervour. It was all too bittersweet. He knew that soon, he would have to stop, let Enjolras go. He’d have to go back to his patients, maybe even take up a post on the barricade on himself. They had precious, precious hours left of this newfound emotion, even though Combeferre was perfectly aware that it wouldn’t take precedence over anything that might happen, whether in the next hour or the next minute.
Hooking one hand around Combeferre’s neck Enjolras slipped the other through the opening of his shirt to run the rough, newly-gun blistered pads of his fingers over whatever smooth stretches of shoulder and chest that he could find. His lips were hard against Combeferre’s but hardly lacking in warmth. He exhaled into the kiss, thankful to have his friend as close as physically possible, and eager to express just how much it meant to have Combeferre with him at such a great and awful time in his short life.
He let out a shaky breath at Enjolras’ touch, reciprocating by lowering a hand and hastily, inelegantly battling the folds of his shirt in order to find his skin, softly trailing his touch along Enjolras’ spine before splaying his fingers across the warm expanse of his lower back. With that hand he pushed their bodies even closer together, kissing him harder still, not caring for one moment how much desire and desperation he was expressing through this need to close any distance between them. Combeferre just needed Enjolras to know how much he wanted this, the spark of uninhibited joy it gave him. Conveying the physical love was only a “next step”; for years he’d shown his love through his loyalty, through never leaving Enjolras’ side no matter his own internal conflict, through resolutely remaining his foundation. This was the only consummation he could ask for.
Enjolras shifted in to Combeferre’s touch, enjoying the cool unfamiliarity of his hand between his clothes and skin. It was physically impossible for them to be any closer than they already were and yet Enjolras still continued to push himself on Combeferre with all the pent-up frustration of a weary, desperate soldier.
And yet Enjolras couldn’t bring himself to want Combeferre sexually; this was neither the time nor the place for it. As much as he wanted to press himself against him, Enjolras couldn’t bear the idea of sullying it with any kind of sexual desire, especially given the awful circumstances they were in. The idea was abhorrent, but not because it had anything to do with Combeferre.
Enjolras’s kisses were genuine, that was for certain: he kissed Combeferre like it was an expression of everything he’d ever wanted to convey about their friendship and closeness since they’d first met. But any kind of sexual advance beyond that would have been hollow and empty; Enjolras had never really felt entirely comfortable making any kind of sexual advances. Everything and anything he had ever known about sex he’d learned from Courfeyrac what felt like years ago and then half-forgotten in his long periods of celibacy since.
He relaxed in to the embrace, breaking off the kiss so he could look up breathlessly into Combeferre’s gaze. Enjolras pressed a hot palm against his cheek, pads tracing his friend’s creased brow before moving to stroke his cheek with the back of his curled fingers. It was a gesture of intimate familiarisation, as if Enjolras had never seen Combeferre’s face like this before. He shook his head faintly. “I hadn’t planned on this,” he admitted in a hesitant undertone.
The thought of sex actually hadn’t crossed Combeferre’s mind; admittedly he had wondered enough times what it might be like, but this was enough. To know that he wasn’t just a lovesick fool was enough for him. Over the years he’d been in enough relationships, ones that had never meant more than someone to spend the night with just for a while, nothing more than someone to stop him from growing lonely and closing in on himself. Emotions and desires didn’t come easily to Combeferre, they never had. Previous girlfriends and lovers had always left him because he was too quiet, afraid of being affectionate. He just never knew how much to show, how far to go, and no one had ever thought to guide him. Surely the one who guides others is one who is assured in himself?
“Neither,” Combeferre murmured, leaning his head down to press their foreheads together lightly. “I don’t think I ever had any intention of…” he shook his head, scrunching his eyes shut. Instinctively he leant against the touch of Enjolras’ hand, levelling out his awkward breaths.
Enjolras clasped Combeferre’s cheek and then started to carefully rub away a smear of someone else’s blood from with a thin finger. Predicting what Combeferre was trying to say, Enjolras gave a faintly wry smile.
“I dare say you didn’t, no,” he said simply before placing a small, firm kiss on the patch of skin he had just cleaned. “But these situations bring out the best in people.”
“The best…” Combeferre trailed off, uttering a short laugh, his expression turning a little sheepish, though his eyes stayed shut. He rubbed a spot on Enjolras’ neck absently with his thumb, breathing out softly. “I don’t know if it’s better or worse to have found a resolution for- well, this.” Once again he laughed, though this time it was a little strained. “I thought - I thought you’d just. I don’t know. I didn’t think you’d…” He was having particular difficulty in finishing his sentences, and the proximity, the touch, none of it was helping.
“Worse?” Enjolras echoed, studying Combeferre’s face with intent curiosity. “Why would it be worse?” Although his expression was blank in the darkness he couldn’t help but keep the suggestion of a frown out of his voice, but hearing the strain in Combeferre’s laugh moved him to press another kiss to his cheek by way of encouragement.
“I don’t want to let you go.” He murmured this quietly, shaking his head a little. “I know I have to, but it makes it that much harder.” Every new kiss that Enjolras placed against Combeferre’s cheek made his heart heave with both happiness and resignation. “I’m sorry,” he suddenly added hastily, not quite sure what he was apologising for but feeling a relentless need to do so anyway. In fact he lessened his grip on the back of Enjolras’ shirt almost pre-emotively, readying himself for the inevitable.