pro_patria_mortuus | (no subject)

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He brings Dr. Tam's notes upstairs. He has felt like this before; he knows this lightning crackle under the skin. This feeling of too many thoughts for one mind to contain, of racing to keep up with himself, of possibilities and horizons and horrors all roiling together in a swelling cloud, bigger than one body's flesh can hold. And yet he is flesh -- now dead. There is never enough time to channel everything he wants into action. He feels detached from himself. These bones and muscles, these hands, this body that walks down a hallway and turns a key in a latch and closes a door behind itself; it will do these things, his mind is tied to these hands and eyes and tongue, but all that is Enjolras is immersed in the storm of thought.

There's a lump in his throat.

He sets the folder carefully on top of his desk.

The next step is obvious. He needs to tell Bossuet of this. They both need to understand it as completely as possible, every detail. So many lives can be saved.

He rests a hand on the desk for a long moment, looking down at the innocently closed folder with its few simply written pages inside.

Then he straightens, and picks up the folder once more, and goes to knock on Courfeyrac's door.

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'Come in!'

Courfeyrac is sprawling on his bed, waistcoat unbuttoned, a glass of wine to hand on the nightstand. His hair is dishevelled - more than usual, that is - and he looks rather like he has been up all night reading the thick book in his hands. Which is exactly what he has been doing. A closer inspection of it will reveal it to be a history of nineteenth century France.

That particular knock can only belong to Enjolras, Bossuet or Gavroche, but even if it were not them, he would shout the same. There is nothing to hide in this room, after all. Yet.

Edited 2014-06-27 20:04 (UTC)

Or Grantaire, in theory -- he does know it, even if he was never one for producing or caching seditious materials -- but Enjolras has no idea whether he's ever bothered to employ it. Certainly Grantaire knocking at the door of his lodgings is snot omething he's personally experienced, whether or not it's the tell-tale pattern that states I'm of the inner circle of the Amis de l'ABC, and no one who isn't is with me.

Unlocked. He enters.

(A gift, still, to be able to do this. A gift to knock on a door and hear a beloved voice, enter and find a friend smiling.)

'Enjolras!'

He waves the book immediately.

'You were not wrong, my friend! This is-'

'...what is wrong?'

he has known this man too long not to recognise the worn edge to him, and he cares too much not to ask after it.

He nearly says Nothing, precisely -- but only nearly.

He isn't certain of the truth of the words. Too many feelings are battling inside him. Nothing is wrong, precisely, that has not been wrong since he arrived here, and yet.

"I spoke to a doctor of the infirmary. One Simon Tam."

He sheds his jacket as he speaks, hanging it carelessly near the door. If it wrinkles, it wrinkles. (It's good wool; it probably won't.)

"A good man, and from a year centuries beyond our own. I asked him about disease. Cholera, and others. How to to prevent their spread, how to care for the sick and injured."

When he drops onto the bed beside Courfeyrac, it's more heavily than usual. There's a sag to his shoulders, a weariness in the drape of his hands, that he didn't show in front of Dr. Tam.

'Oh?'

He shuts the book and tosses it onto the floor without a second thought, then hauls himself up to sitting, cross-legged - at Enjolras' side.

A moment's thought. Disease? His mind goes to-

'Oh.'

Enjolras's eyes close.

He's desperately grateful for Courfeyrac's presence. For so many reasons. If anyone asked, he would enumerate them gladly -- though perhaps not in this precise moment.

"It's simple."

His voice is rough in his own ears.

'The prevention of disease?'

He frowns. It does not seem as though it would be simple. Not when it kills so many.

The fingers of one hand shift, a rare unclear gesture. There are complications still, no doubt, and Tam's notes speak of a few and hint at others, but --

"Boiling water before consuming it. Cooking vegetables. Washing hands frequently with soap, boiling surgical instruments or washing them in strong spirits."

This is not a clear explanation. He should be mentioning the underlying causes first. To Combeferre, he would; to Combeferre, he would simply hand over Tam's papers, tell them to speak, without this need for a double layer of intermediaries.

"At a conservative estimate: a ninety percent reduction of the risk of contagion of cholera."

Courfeyrac was there for those months of epidemic and horror. And all the other illnesses that kill the old, the young, the poor, the merely unlucky -- a lifetime of knowing that as a background, and then the years of seeing their friends' sorrow and rage for everything they didn't know and couldn't heal.

A death away, at home, with everything and everyone they loved, except their few fellow ghosts.

'Ninety...'

His eyes fall to the notes, and his face registers both shock, and disbelief. Cholera has had Paris in its grip for most of the year, and was not finished with it by the time they died. It is not possible to have come through these months without knowing someone affected in some way by it. Some of the students at the university died, many more workers and their families, uncounted poor people who will only ever become a number because of it.

'...no, surely not.'

Enjolras is silent. His eyes remain closed. There is a wetness prickling behind his eyes that will begin to spill over if he opens them now.

Dr. Tam seemed both honest and sincere. And certainly if such measures have ever been tried, Enjolras hasn't heard of it. (He pays little attention to the details of medical experiments, of course, but Combeferre would have mentioned it in his hearing sooner or later, if he himself was aware.)

So much suffering of the people that could have been averted so easily. It's horrible; it's an affront, it's a tragedy, it's awful. In his mind's eye are blue-faced corpses, children and beggars dead on street corners, and Combeferre's face haggard and heartbroken.

The notes are hidden in a folder of stiff paper, now lying on the bed next to Enjolras, but Courfeyrac may certainly take them and read over them, if he wishes.

Edited 2014-06-27 23:46 (UTC)

He does not. He lays a hand on Enjolras' shoulder instead.

'Bossuet,' he says, quietly.

'Combeferre.'

It is not a difficult conclusion to reach. The information can be passed on. They can do that much.

Enjolras reaches up to clasp Courfeyrac's hand -- to clutch it tightly.

"I know."

Open-eyed now; his gaze stays lowered, looking somewhere beyond the polished floor, and the dampness in them is for now only apparent at close scrutiny. His voice is low.

"It's why I asked."

That is why Enjolras is the leader of them all. He thinks of these things.

'We can only do what we can, Enjolras.'

His voice is low too, more intent on his friend than, as yet, taking in the enormity of this thing.

'And as long as we do it, and do not walk away...it is not terrible, to not have known.'

But thinking what might have been - what might be - well, they gave their lives for that. It is difficult not to dream.

Enjolras nods a little.

It's what has sustained him. They did the best they could with what they had, at every step. If they have both more and fewer resources now, still they're striving as best they can.

And their other friends will too, once they know this. All their fierce hearts and brilliant minds, bent upon alleviating the suffering of France.

It's a long moment before he says, "I kept thinking--"

His voice catches; his fingers tighten on Courfeyrac's. He presses his lips together.

'-yes?'

There is a long pause before he says it. He will not press him unduly, nor ask him to push emotion away in order to speak. It is a gentle prompt, that is all.

"What Combeferre would say. What he would think of this."

His voice is thick. With Courfeyrac, he won't push that back.

He has missed them so. He misses the others still. All of them, but Combeferre, Feuilly -- their absence feels like a hole inside of him, gaping, raw, hollowing him out.

'He would-'

Courfeyrac tightens his fingers on his friend's shoulder.

The notion of never seeing Combeferre again...no. He refuses to believe it will be so. If not here, somewhere else.

'-do what you are doing. He would make sure the information became of use. He would pore over the books for three days before one of us peeled him off the table and put him to bed. He would-'

He would be here, which would be the most important thing.

Enjolras is nodding along, very slightly. Everything Courfeyrac says is perfectly accurate; he can picture it, he has pictured it, a dozen times.

He's nodding along in agreement, but the first tears have begun to slide down his pale cheeks.

'Enjolras.'

He uncrosses his legs so he can move closer, and put his arm properly around the man's shoulders.

He does not tell him not to be upset. Why should he not be? He can understand him missing Combeferre, and while he is not sure if there is more to it or not - there usually is, with Enjolras - it does not matter. He is distressed.

'He may still come.'

The dam has been cracking for a long time. Now, it gives way.

Enjolras turns his face into Courfeyrac's shoulder, regardless of any awkwardness to the angle, and weeps.

Of course he has wept before at Milliways. For his friends' deaths, for his own loneliness, for all the long suffering of France's people and of humanity. But never before with a friend's arm around his shoulders and a friend's voice murmuring comfort.

It's several long moments before he whispers against Courfeyrac's waistcoat, low as a confession, "I have missed you all so very much."

For those first moments, all Courfeyrac does is hold him close and let him weep. He is a little confused, but no matter - this is rare from Enjolras, but entirely in keeping with the depths of emotion the man is driven by.

And then he speaks, and things fall into place. Of course. Of course.

'We are here now,' he says, soothingly. He is quiet, and stays still. 'We are not complete, but there are some of us.'

One arm has found its way around Courfeyrac's waist. Enjolras leans against him, eyes shut against increasingly damp cotton and wool, silent but for the small hitches of his breath, held close in a friend's embrace, and lets himself weep.

Courfeyrac is here, dear and warm and real. He can fall and be caught.

Courfeyrac does not like to think how it would have been, to have arrived here, far removed to home and to have had no one. He would have been comforted by Grantaire, though he is well aware why Enjolras would not be. Meeting Gavroche again would have been a joy, but he was so young...to have come here, no Enjolras, no Combeferre, no Joly, Bahorel, Feuilly, none of them - not even Marius! - no, he cannot imagine how that would feel.

He has never known Enjolras not be surrounded by people. He has never not been so himself. To arrive, dead and with purpose removed...yes, the man may cry as long as he wishes.

Grantaire and Gavroche were both of comfort. Sometimes, great comfort. But to neither one could Enjolras bare his soul and know himself understood.

It's some time before the tears cease. A little while longer before Enjolras pulls away -- only a little, only enough to lift his cheek from wet fabric and to be able to look Courfeyrac in the face instead of the shirt-collar.

Enjolras is one of those rare people who can cry tidily. More unfairly yet, one who has put no effort into developing the skill. His eyes are red and his face wet, but his face has not gone splotchy, his nose doesn't run. Against his white shirt and black waistcoat, his face is pale and glittering, his hair a golden tumble of undampened curls. Appearance is the furthest thing from his mind.

He feels wrung dry. Weary, and strangely light, as if a weight long carried has been lifted from his shoulders. Every breath and whisper of clothing seems to settle into the comfortable quiet of this room.

"My dear Courfeyrac."

His voice is quiet too, and only a little roughened. His mouth curls into a very small smile, fond and grateful and rueful, full of all the things unsaid. But all he says aloud is, "I hope I haven't spoiled your new waistcoat."

'My dear Enjolras.'

Courfeyrac smiles too, impish, not at all put out by either the tears, or the state of his waistcoat.

'My new waistcoat can bear it. If it does not like it, we benefit greatly from not being able to hear its displeasure. As for me, I choose not to treat it as a citizen, and will disregard its opinions entirely.'

The hand around his shoulder moves, and gently scrunches a handful of golden curls in a gesture of affection. His smile turns from the roguish to something a little more sincere.

'I am sorry you have been so long alone.'

"I am not now."

It's enough. His friends always have been: all that a man could ask for, the ideal Republic prefigured.

'No, you are not now.'

His tone is warm.

'And need never be, my friend. I am but a few doors away, and have precious little occupation. You know you are always welcome with me - I should not even say it, as there's no need at all for it to be stated. There is you, and I, Grantaire and Gavroche and Bossuet. Not enough yet, but far better than none at all.'

What would I do without you? he might have said, months ago and a lifetime away.

He knows, now. But already the long loneliness seems more distant, like a dream that fades away from the waking mind.

"I know it well," is all he says, but the warmth in his voice and in his damp eyes says all the rest.

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