In which there is a bit of quiet time

[wings_of_a_swan]

Enjolras is in room number 89, which seems appropriate.

The room itself is decorated, or rather not decorated, in much the same way that Enjolras's rooms in Paris were. Though with rather fewer candles. And no stove, yet it's a perfectly comfortable temperature--is it spring or summer here? Is it always spring or summer here?

Combeferre takes in the window, the books scattered here and there, the walls bare except for the Declaration of the Rights of Man--and a flag. A red flag, with holes and stains that could only be blood.

The barricade's flag.

Combeferre blinks hard, and looks away. If he weeps now, it won't be quiet sobs and tears, but the sort of howls that would frighten the neighbors, if there are neighbors. And if they are capable of emotions like fear.

He turns to see Enjolras looking at him. He suspects Enjolras is worried. Combeferre wants to reassure him, but it's not so easy to think of how.

"There's nothing to be concerned about, my friend," Combeferre finally says, knowing it's not his best effort. "After all," he adds drily, "we're both dead. What more can happen?"

Comments

[merryeccentricities]

Joly's at the door already-- on the other side. And up a ladder. And carrying a box of decorations in one hand and trying to hang a wreath with the other and warning kittens away when he can be bothered.

The knock makes him jump a bit.

Those on the other side of the door will hear a series of subdued crashes, a sharp "mew!" or two of protest answered by muffled apologies, and the sound of a ladder and a few boxes of ornaments being shoved quickly out of the way.

Joly doesn't bother to take the tinsel out of his hair before opening the door, with a friendly smile and the beginnings of an apology for taking so long. And then he sees who's at the door. He beams, and absolutely throws himself at Combeferre, hugging him tightly before pulling back to study his face.

"You're here! You made it! We were wondering who'd come next, of course we knew you would, have they told you about the library?" He laughs, and rubs his eyes, and moves to pull them all into the apartment. "Come in, come in!--Mind the kittens, and the ornaments, sorry, Christmas coming, you know, oh, I'm so glad you made it in time though! Have you seen the infirmary? Of course not,what am I thinking, but oh, Combeferre, you'll be amazed! It's wonderful! Do any of you want a drink or--? Ah, sit wherever you like, the furniture is...solid..." he never quite knows what to say about the decor. "Do Bossuet and Bahorel know yet?"

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

The rats are fast messengers. By the time Joly asks, Bahorel and Bossuet do indeed know, and it's not many minutes before they're at the door.

Bossuet has a certain calm that generally means he's very drunk, but there's nothing unusual about that condition; and the brightness of his eyes when he sees Combeferre and pulls him into a hug comes not from liquor but from affection.

[clayforthedevil]

Bahorel, meanwhile, has a couple of bottles along to ensure that everyone can get happily drunk, if they want to. He sets them down before swooping Combeferre into rough hug, letting him go with a light shake.

"Finally showing up? You realize I'm in the lecture-hall before you, this must not happen again, we shall both lose our reputations."

[wings_of_a_swan]

Combeferre sees the bottles and realizes again that he's already feeling woozy from lack of sleep, but what does that matter? Bahorel is here and boisterous and laughing, and that makes worrying about anything, especially something petty like sleep, almost impossible. "You've become staid in your old age," Combeferre says as he claps Bahorel's shoulder, "and you've set me a good example by arriving early. How kind of you."

[wings_of_a_swan]

Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Joly, and now Bossuet--Bossuet, hale and bright-eyed and unhurt. Combeferre fears he is in danger of a very Romantic death (well, re-death, if such a thing is possible) from emotional extremes, first the heartbreak of the barricade, and now this joy that renders him almost incapable of speech.

Almost. "You were right about the Bar," Combeferre says, while still hugging Bossuet. "I thought that was wishful thinking, but apparently not. It is--" No, he's not going to start weeping again, he won't allow it. He takes a deep breath before continuing. "It's indescribably good to see you again."

[wings_of_a_swan]

Combeferre is unsurprised to hear a kitten inside the room of Joly and Bossuet.

Make that multiple kittens, plus Joly--Combeferre only has time to grin like a fool in greeting before he's swept into Joly's hug. He hugs back fiercely, letting Joly ramble without interruption until his last question.

"They should know soon, if they don't already. Enjolras said he sent some sort of message. And no, I haven't seen the infirmary yet. I must see it as soon as possible--it must be marvelous, if it's like the rest of this place--" By Joly's smile, Combeferre can tell he's been aching to have someone to properly share the wonders of the infirmary with. Combeferre interrupts himself to pull Joly into another embrace. "You might have been certain we would see each other again, my friend, but I wasn't."

Stepping back, Combeferre looks around the room. Enjolras was, as always, absolutely accurate. There are cherubs, and it is very blue.

[pro_patria_mortuus]

During all of this -- Joly's rush of joyful babble, Bossuet and Bahorel's arrival, the hugs and the banter and the occasional relocation of a confused kitten -- Enjolras has settled himself on one of the couches, out of the way, to watch the proceedings.

And, quietly, to rejoice in them.

[wings_of_a_swan]

Combeferre, surrounded by the others, catches Enjolras's eye and smiles again, or maybe the smile he already has grows wider, or something. If this isn't heaven in the strict metaphysical sense, Combeferre doesn't care. It far exceeds any celestial happiness he could imagine.

[le_centre]

And Courfeyrac flings himself down next to Enjolras, also to watch, and to allow the sheer relief to settle.

They are nearly whole. All of them, nearly whole.

He will get heartily drunk on Bahorel's bottles in just a few moments. But for now, he rests his head briefly on Enjolras' shoulder, and just grins at Combeferre, at Joly's enthusiasm and Bossuet's drunkenness. At all of them; nearly, nearly whole.