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

[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."