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That night was the worst of his life so far. There was a choking darkness, as all of the light outside the stapled-shut curtains from a window too tall for Enjolras to reach drained away. He couldn’t see his surroundings. He couldn’t see himself. He took a few steps back once he realized just how dark it was, his back hitting a cold, concrete wall.
“I think the cops are gone.” Enjolras turned his head in the vague direction of Combeferre’s voice. “I heard the door open and close an hour ago,” Combeferre said, “it’s so quiet I can hear your breathing, we’d know if they were here with us.” Combeferre’s calm logic was a welcome relief from the gloom, Enjolras leaning his head against the wall,
“Would they really leave us without a single guard? Can they legally?” He asked.
“Mmm, I imagine they aren’t as legally strict when it comes to revolutionaries fighting the law,” Combeferre said. A hand grazed Enjolras’s shoulder and Enjolras knew it was Combeferre’s, because it was firm and cold. Also, Combeferre was the only other person trapped in the little cell with him. Probably.
“Hm. Either Courfeyrac will pay bail in the morning or, if that isn’t an option, Bahorel will break us out,” Enjolras laid his hand over his friend’s.
“Good god, not again.”
“It’s an option. I spoke with him about it before the rally, in case we were captured. My caution proved correct.
“Bahorel is the Hulk,” Combeferre laughed softly, “or Mr. Incredible. He definitely leaves behind the biggest trace. Or message. It depends on how you look at the situation.”
“Indeed,” Enjolras closed his eyes after a moment, beginning to notice the shooting pain that had been running through his body. There was a cut on his head that was bleeding into his face. The feeling was mildly unpleasant. His abdomen and chest were also aching.
“Enjolras,” Combeferre said.
“Combeferre,” Enjolras replied flatly. They’d been through this routine many times before. A delicate dance of bouncing questions back and forth and trying to find their way beneath each other’s stupid self-sacrificial pride. Enjolras could smell blood, his nose had grown quite sensitive to it over the past year. Whether it was his own or Combeferre’s was beyond him, and it was impossible to tell his friend’s state in the dark.
“You took quite a fall when you were hit with the baton,” Combeferre said, “are you alright?”
“As I recall you were also thrown to the ground by an officer on numerous occasions,” Enjolras couldn’t stop the anger that crept into his voice. The police hadn’t just been violent with the Les Amis’s medics lately. They had been targeting them. Bahorel had been the only thing that had stood between an unarmed Joly and death at the rally only 5 hours ago, which had quickly morphed into a full-blown riot.
“That’s besides the point.”
“Is it?” Enjolras let himself smile. It was dark. Combeferre wouldn’t see it.
“I’m going to sleep,” Combeferre said, sitting beside him, his body against Enjolras’s leg. Combeferre was used to being someone for his friends to lean on. Enjolras was happy to provide him with the opportunity to lean on someone else when the need arose. He didn’t press the issue of wounds further, trusting Combeferre to at least give some indicator of anything that was immediately dangerous if there was.
“Sleep well, friend,” Enjolras squinted through the dark, “I’ll wake you if anything happens.” Combeferre didn’t respond. He was already out. Enjolras brought a hand to his temple and wiped away more blood, taking a deep breath. He had indeed been hit with a baton. Actually, hit wasn’t the best word for it. Slammed would be better. He’d fallen against the pavement after and had immediately pushed himself up. Staying down could be a death sentence. Now, he was left with a prominent ache in his ribs that hurt like hell every time he moved. Or breathed. He’d broken ribs before, and it didn’t hurt quite as much, so he was holding out hope that he had only badly bruised them.
Combeferre stirred from against him after an hour. His breathing was quick. Too quick. “Combeferre?” Enjolras shook him. Combeferre shifted his position, moving to a proper sitting position after a few minutes. He was still breathing quickly. “Are you alright?”
“Just a dream,” Combeferre muttered, “of course, waking up to darkness doesn’t exactly help.”
Enjolras knew what kind of dream he’d had. They were all plagued by them at some point. Visions of their friends' bodies, strewn against the ground, broken and dead. Pools of blood. Screams. Jehan’s innocent face, haunted. Bahorel looking weak in death. And Grantaire… a shiver crept up Enjolras’s spine.
“Do you… want to talk about?” Enjolras asked.
“Aw, I appreciate your attempt to be a normal friend, but it’s alright,” Combeferre patted his leg. Enjolras sucked in a breath as pain coursed through his body again. Combeferre was quiet. He had heard the gasp, of course. He knew. But they’d deal with the problem once they were free. Morning couldn’t be but so far, could it? “You can sleep now,” Combeferre’s hand moved from his leg to his shoulder, “I’ll wake you if anything happens.”
Normally, Enjolras would refuse. But the events of the day were still weighing heavily on his shoulders. The responsibility he always carried was a great one. And an exhausting one. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back.
“Enjolras?”
“Oh, yes,” he murmured, “go ahead.”
The choking black faded into a more familiar one.
“Enjolras.”
“Enjolras, get up.”
“Enj.”
Enjolras’s eyes shot open. He brought a hand to his face, wrinkling his nose at the sticky dried blood he was met with. It was light. He could see. He slowly turned his head to face Combeferre, who was standing beside him on the cell bench, reaching up towards the window, which had light seeping through it.
“Oh good, you’re up,” Combeferre looked down at him, then back up, to continue to sign with Bahorel who was crouched outside the window, unable to hear him through it. All of the Les Amis had learned to sign to accommodate Jehan. But they had also found it useful for quick non-verbal communication in public. Or through thick jail windows. “Apparently the entire building is empty. They’ve just left us here. What for is beyond me. But since they violated our rights I see no reason why we can’t take action and escape.”
“You don’t need to rationalize it to me, I have no moral opposition,” Enjolras pushed himself up with some effort, standing beside his friend. He was very good at swallowing his pain and doing what needed to be done. He had to be. You didn’t have a very successful revolution if your leader keeled at, say, a bullet to the arm.
“Duck and cover,” Bahorel signed, Enjolras and Combeferre scrambling down and rolling under the bench at just the right time, glass flying across the room in tiny pieces as the window was smashed. “Hey! Can y’all hear me now?”
“Unfortunately,” Combeferre smirked, carefully rolling out from under the bench.
“Be careful of the glass!” Bahorel shouted.
“Thanks, I hadn’t noticed the glass that’s currently coating the entire floor,” Combeferre was already in much higher spirits than the previous night, carefully stepping through the areas that were the least affected by the shattered glass. Enjolras moved to roll out as well, biting his lip to avoid groaning as excruciating pain shot through his chest. He breathed deeply for a few moments, then slowly removed himself from under the bench. He climbed on top of it after. “Bahorel, Enjolras can’t even reach the window with a jump and even though I can, I don’t have the upper body strength or grip required to pull myself up.”
“That’s why we brought rope,” Feuilly suddenly appeared, tossing one end of a rope down, “just hold on and we’ll pull you up individually.”
“Feuilly,” Enjolras frowned, “you shouldn’t be here, if you’re caught -” Feuilly cut him off,
“-I’m the only one who can come close to matching Bahorel in strength. Besides, it’s my rope, I want to monitor its use. Oftentimes items tend to mysteriously disappear on rescue missions.” Enjolras cringed slightly at the thought of the amount of supplies they’d dropped into rivers, cracks between buildings, and a couple times the sewers over the past year.
“Alright guys, let’s hurry up before your bereaved wife goes insane and runs over here himself,” Bahorel called down.
“Courfeyrac is not a bereaved wife!” Combeferre yelled back, Enjolras looking at the rope that was currently dangling in front of him. “You first, I’ll help push you up,” Combeferre said, Enjolras shaking his head and pushing the rope towards his friend instead. “Enjolras.”
“Combeferre.”
“Enjolras.”
“Combeferre.”
“AND BAHOREL. Now someone grab onto the damn rope, jesus fucking christ,” Bahorel waved the rope so that it hit both of them in the face. Enjolras gripped onto it, sweat running down his face. Bahorel and Feuilly started to pull him up, Enjolras closing his eyes and willing himself not to let go. If he fell he’d almost certainly fall onto the glass anyway. Finally, he reached the window and Feuilly fully pulled him through, Enjolras laying in the grass beside the building while watching them help Combeferre up. They were shielded from the road at that angle, but if a cop actually pulled up and decided to go inside the building, the situation wouldn’t end well.
Combeferre was limping, he realized, once the other man was safe on the grass. He narrowed his eyes.
“Alright, let’s get moving,” Bahorel said, tossing the rope back to Feuilly.
“So, no photos were taken or anything?” Feuilly asked as they hurried away from the small police station.
“No,” Combeferre said, “we showed them the fake IDs Eponine managed to procure last month.” The four were silent for a moment, Enjolras wiping sweat from his face and starting to cough, his ribs aching.
“What about security camera footage?” Feuilly asked, putting the rope in the bag he was carrying so that they looked less suspicious.
“I knocked them out the second we entered the building while fighting with the officers,” Enjolras said.
“Good. I don’t know if it even matters, though, images of all of us are already plastered throughout the local news,” Feuilly grumbled, sticking his hands in his pockets and quickly removing them as a police car drove by, the young men letting out a collective sigh of relief when it didn’t stop in front of them.
“I have a feeling mugshots would be even more impactful,” Combeferre said, his limp more pronounced. He was favoring his left foot, “or shots of us in jail. Most of the time the public doesn’t remember us. Otherwise we would scarcely be able to leave the house.”
“It’s very strange of the cops to be this disorganized, though,” Feuilly said.
“They can be as disorganized as any other person, that’s the problem,” Enjolras said, “they are no more than men, with the power of life and death over others given to them with little consequence.”
See, unions can be bad, Grantaire’s voice hammered in Enjolras’s mind.
“We can talk about this later,” Bahorel said, “let’s get y’all to the Musain, everyone’s waiting there.”
Enjolras and Combeferre both straightened up at the thought of meeting with the rest of their friends. Feuilly and Bahorel struck up a conversation about a recent sports game that Enjolras couldn’t decipher based off of their speech. Sports tended to all meld into one to him. Combeferre also wasn’t very engaged, giving Enjolras a look, no doubt having noticed the increasing frequency of Enjolras’s coughing and the flinches they always resulted in. Enjolras gave him a look in response, motioning to the leg he was favoring. Combeferre looked away.
They arrived at the Musain a half an hour later, Courfeyrac being the first person to run over, bags under his bright eyes,
“Oh thank god, I was so worried,” he said, kissing Enjolras’s cheek, Enjolras left in the wonderful bewilderment that always resulted from any interaction with Courfeyrac, even after almost a decade of solid friendship with the man, from the eighth grade and up.
Enjolras looked around the back room of the Musain. All of their friends were there. Even Grantaire had managed to be pulled away from his weekend ritual of blackout drinking and misery. Joly rose from his seat and walked over,
“Both of you, sit down right now.” They did so. There was no arguing with Joly when he took that tone. It was funny how one of the smallest members of their group could be the most terrifying.
The other Amis began chatting with each other once more as Joly examined Enjolras and Combeferre from head to toe. It had been universally agreed during a previous meeting that Joly examined anyone who was released from a holding cell or stay in jail, after multiple incidents of open wounds, pneumonia, lice, and once tuberculosis that had involved an unfortunate Bossuet.
Joly looked at Combeferre first, who gave a brief protestation about being a doctor and knowing when he was injured. This resulted in a death glare from Joly and silence from Combeferre. Joly stopped once he got to Combeferre’s foot, rolling down his sock and revealing a great deal of swelling. He pressed into it with his fingers, Combeferre hissing.
“That’s an impressive sprain. Courfeyrac, get him some ice,” Joly said, not letting Combeferre roll his sock back up despite his best attempts, “doctor my ass, you’re a fucking idiot.”
“Joly!” Bossuet gasped, “that’s not nice to say to a friend who just got out of a holding cell.” Joly glared, Bossuet shrinking back, “yes sir.”
“Onto the original idiot,” Joly said, lifting up Enjolras’s shirt immediately and raising an eyebrow, “yeah, that’s what I thought. What is this, the third time? You need to give your ribs a break, dude. Fucking idiot.”
“In our defense we didn’t actively choose to be attacked by cops,” Combeferre said.
“I know. You did actively choose to hide your injuries from each other and Bahorel and Feuilly, though, didn’t you?” They were quiet, Joly taking his bag and giving them both a rather generous amount of painkillers, both legally and illegally obtained, putting ice against Enjolras’s ribs and Combeferre’s ankle. They had to treat anything but the most serious wounds themselves. Showing up at the hospital would raise too many questions at that point.
“We need to talk about our next move,” Enjolras mumbled after a little while, his voice slightly slurred and his eyelids drooping.
“Can’t we do that tomorrow?” Marius groaned, everyone staring at him, “what?”
“As much as I hate to agree with stick-boy, I think we all need some rest,” Feuilly said.
“Stick-boy?” Marius mouthed.
“Agreed,” Joly said, “you two most of all,” his voice softened, “the past few days have been a lot. We can deal with things tomorrow. Right now, we’re just happy to have you two back and mostly okay.”
“Huzzah,” Grantaire said loudly from across the room. Everyone erupted into chatter once again, the couch that Bahorel had randomly dragged into the room a few months ago being surrendered to Combeferre and Enjolras for the time being, Enjolras resting his head against Combeferre’s shoulder. The pain around his ribs was dulled for the time being, though it was still quite annoying.
“You’re an idiot,” Combeferre said, “you should have told me that you were in literal agony.”
“You should have told me you were in pain,” Enjolras shot back.
“You’re not a doctor.”
“No. But I am your friend.” They were both quiet for a minute. They didn’t usually speak about their friendship out loud. They didn’t have to. Their bond felt so natural that it was just another fact of life. One of the most important ones.
“We’re both stupid. And stubborn,” Combeferre decided, wrapping an arm around him. Enjolras smiled. He was warm and comfortable against his friend, listening to him drone on about the ethics of animal amputation before thorough assessment.
Around them, their friends talked and laugh, their sounds melding together into a welcome buzz that warmed Enjolras’s heart.
They could talk about things later.
For now, Enjolras took a deep breath and stayed in the moment, Combeferre’s heart beating against his.