Work Text:
•°•°•°•°•°•°•
Looking at the stars, Combeferre wondered why those silver crumbs in the firmament are best seen when the world seems at its most miserable. Why does the mosaic of night sky — as if in spite — arrange itself into a beautiful pattern, while the earth around looks like failed stripes left behind by a grief-stricken artist? The cosmos millions of miles away resembled the end of a painter's process, while the meadows surrounding Paris were a few splashes of grey — like mud stains on an elegant coat. Could it be that the gods, in creating the universe, had fallen into a kind of melancholy and despondency similar to that in which Combeferre now found himself? This raised another question: could they have had something in common with humans, this strange kind of grief as well as fear? And if so, what use was it to them in a place where mere mortals felt the same, unable to change anything?
Prouvaire once said that the inhabitants of the heavens were, contrary to appearances, merciful. He vehemently denied portraying Zeus as a nasty ruler, citing the fact that he freed his siblings and saved his father's life. He also defended Apollo, although wept over Martias. He justified Artemis actions, while sympathising with the hapless Actaeon. Jehan Prouvaire nourished love for all, smiling even from under the veil of tears. But how could he love those who wanted to cruelly snatch life from his chest? Was he already a martyr or rather a madman? Both of these attitudes frightened and confused Combeferre.
His life was changing pace, running faster and faster, like a Sisyphean stone tumbling down the side of a mountain peak. Yes, this example was a perfect comparison... The boulder was rolling, nullifying years of work and taking away the chance of a future for many young friends. But now it was too late; he could only watch the end approach with every heartbeat.
He didn't say goodbye to anyone. Why should he? Would he have the strength to write his family one last letter: “Father, Mother, I will die tomorrow”? Would he have been able to add the note underneath, “I love you,” as he threw himself into death? God, he lacked courage and, above all, honour. His parents would have to show this short goodbye to the two girls one day, telling them about their wicked brother who — instead of saving lives — took it in his last moments. He couldn't do that. He loved younger sisters — and wanted them to remember him as Théo wading barefoot in the stream, catching fish in the jar with water.... Or a caring guardian, humming ancient Greek lullabies. As a doctor who could not shrug shoulders indifferently when he was called out in the middle of the night to a sick person, without money.
He wanted them to remember him that way. Not as a man with a bloodied face and a gun in hand, standing over the body of someone he had just murdered.
That was why he left Paris that day. Fear had crippled everything he had ever been told in the secret meetings in Musain. He trampled on the Hippocratic oath he had once taken with trembling lips, full of the taste of salty tears. How was he supposed to kill someone? He couldn't, and he knew it.
And only one other person knew it too.
•°•°•°•°•°•°•
Enjolras did not greet him when he arrived at the meadow. The rustling of the wet grass beneath his feet was enough for any words. Combeferre was well acquainted with such footsteps; they announced deep contemplation of something not commonplace. He refrained from making eye contact with the leader. Even without it, he knew that the blond man was waiting in anticipation of what Combeferre was about to say. Enjolras obviously didn't want to break the silence of the one who had sought it first.
“The moon is almost full tonight.”
“It is,” he whispered.
“Tomorrow it will be the most beautiful.”
Laurent did not reply immediately. When Combeferre finally turned his head, he noticed that Enjolras wasn't looking at him. He was watching something in the distance, invisible to the human eye. He was penetrating the ink veil to the depths, searching for some hidden sign. After a while, Combeferre slowly took his hand, reminding of his presence. He flinched and nodded, stepping back.
“To anyone who is about to die the world suddenly becomes beautiful. And yet it's still the same, isn't it? It's strange that no matter how much pain you suffer in it, in your last hour you grasp at it as tight as you can.... and yet even in the hereafter a better fate awaits you than here.”
“This is only a temporary illusion, Enjolras. A mere panic attack of our nervous system. A sequence of biological reactions that follows when, faced with the approaching end, our brain begins to believe that death is up to us and that we have brought it on ourselves…”
“Combeferre.”
A voice tore through the hitherto suppressed pain. Combeferre stepped back, but Enjolras turned at once and caught him by the wrist. Combeferre came closer with a worried expression.
“Enjolras, what is going on?” he asked, trying to lift his arms to straighten his hunched friend; to no avail. “For God's sake, what's wrong? Was it because of the Maine artists' refusal? Will the funeral be postponed? Dear God, say anything, it can't be that bad! After all, we still have time!”
Enjolras kept quiet. But after a moment, Combeferre noticed that although his tongue was silent, his body was speaking. A shiver of fear went through him
“You— you are crying?”
Enjolras raised head showing tears on cheeks. Something in Combeferre's chest tightened painfully, like that day in July 1830 when he found his wounded friend in the street. But now this spasm of the heart was not anatomically explainable. Why was the pulse he sensed so fast? They were not in a threatening situation, unless Enjolras was seriously injured.
'“We don't have time,” whispered Enjolras. '“Whatever I thought before, I wish I had it now, I wish I had it far more than I deserved. I wish... I wish we both had more of it than we were given. That there would at least be enough of it to count and recognise all the stars we will ever see. Tell me, please — have I lost my mind completely? Is this madness? I am not a coward, Ferre. I am ready. But for some reason, part of me loves this cruel world.”
Enjolras looked at him with such anguish that, as a good medic, he wanted to agree. If only to get an explanation for this vague behaviour himself. Enjolras seemed terrifying in this form: strangely strained with emotion, terribly human. It was torture to see him like this, making it easier to move away rather than come closer. But Combeferre needed and wanted to help him, so, against his instinct, he embraced him.
He felt no resistance. Enjolras wove his trembling fingers through dark hair.
It was like holding a bird, which, having become entangled in a piece of wire, finally stopped scrambling, noticing that it was only tugging its ripped breast more. The trap into which one has fallen will always remain so — until death removes its prey from the snare. However, there was no turning back. They could only stare at the glow of dawn, which was soon to burn them to ashes. If Combeferre had been a little more naive, he would have believed in reincarnation — or at least that he would rise from the ashes like a phoenix. But the Bible is clear: for dust thou art and unto dust shalt thou return. It is an unclosed circle, not subject to continuity.
“You have never given me any reason to claim that. You love France, Enjolras. But you can and must love people too, which is why you fear for them. Have we not read each other poems about ancient heroes? After all, that is what makes us different from them! The divine sons felt a powerful protection for themselves and trusted it. And us? We feel alone in our lives, so we fear for those with whom we share them. We have no guarantee that there is something more after death — that someone is waiting for us with open arms and that we will also meet there those who die after us. Love is the future.”
Enjolras' embrace weakened as he pulled away. The tears on his face seemed to have frozen in their position for a moment, like drops falling from melting stars. Combeferre rubbed them away caressingly with thumb. He wanted to believe that this would restore his friend's face to its former strength and pride. But the young man, just as before, was crying soundlessly. He only allowed himself to squint in order not to wet Combeferre's shirt, which was close to his face.
“So I have made a hero of myself in vain?” he threw accusingly, more towards fate than to anyone else. His tone was tinged with sorrow. “In vain have I sacrificed myself to now retreat, because of human weakness?”
Combeferre shook his head, placing hands on the red coat.
“Achilles also despaired after the death of Patroclus,” he noted. “It would be thoughtless to give up now. Suddenly crushed hope hurts the most. Let's not leave the people once we have given it to them. Remember that you can always turn grief and anger into strength. Make a sting out of the bayonet that will reach your comrade. You just have to see the light in front of you and be careful not to create a Hector. If you must fight, fight for the world your fallen friends wanted, not for them. And you will prevail, you will see”
He stood still for some time, but Enjolras stared silently at the ground beneath their feet. Combeferre finally leaned over, placed a kiss on his temple and whispered:
“I promise that I'll stay with you. 𝘉𝘰𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦.”
He felt that one more word and his heart would break. How was he supposed to comfort someone when he was trying to comfort himself? Again, the paradox he had collided with so often returned. Why could he never soothe his own pain first? Why was he given such a fate?
He moved slowly ahead, thinking about this curse. He wished he could stay longer, but knew he couldn’t. He preferred to go home — even if it meant suffering the company of an amused Courfeyrac, an alternately smiling and sobbing Prouvaire, or Joly, boasting about the ring on his finger. It would cause agony, indeed, but worse was to spend one's last moments with a person with whom he would soon have to say goodbye and—
“Ferre!”
He turned around. Enjolras, seeing Combeferre's hesitation caught up with him and embraced him again, looking into his eyes.
“Listen to me, Ferre. I can become Achilles if the gods so wish. May I not even face Hades after death, but only emptiness, I don't care! But I will not let you become my Patroclus! I don't want you to sacrifice yourself for me, my friend.”
He ignored the doctor's gaze that said they couldn't change it, because some decisions are not up to them alone. From such a short distance, their breaths mingled together.
“I have lost enough in my life — my mother, brother, freedom, and then the chance to have an ordinary youth… I don't want another martyr who will sacrifice himself for me. The only thing worth sacrificing for is 𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘵é, you said it yourself. 𝘓𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘵é, é𝘨𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵é 𝘦𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘵é. The three pillars.”
“Enjolras—” muttered Combeferre quietly, but he was not given the chance to finish. And good thing too, because he didn't know what he could say next himself.
“No, Ferre. Perhaps my spirit is of iron, as they maliciously whisper, but not my heart,” he said.
Combeferre only hugged him tighter.
He wasn't lying, he had a heart —and it could do it more than just pump blood. It was capable of sincere love, and of making them both feel a little less sure of their feelings now.
“I know. And we have enough time to make sure of that.”
•°•°•°•°•°•°•
Enjolras' sadness only quieted when they lay down on the unfolded cloaks and watched the night spread out above them. Despite the June weather, it was cold, so they huddled together. From time to time, golden curls spilled over Combeferre's waistcoat as Laurent repositioned his stiff neck. However, the weight of his resting head was too nice for him to complain.
This moment was something they had always longed for. And it wasn't hand rubs, gentle smiles or reciting the names of the constellations from memory. They just had each other, that was enough.
They were mostly silent. They were probably trying to get used to it — or not, because, after all, they wouldn’t be laid in the grave together. They wouldn’t feel their physical presence. Did this mean that looking together was pointless? Not at all. They could at least say goodbye.
Suddenly, Enjolras let out a quiet cry. Combeferre looked at him anxiously, but there was a smile on his face.
“A falling star,” he whispered, before the question was even asked. In the dark, he found Combeferre's hand and squeezed it.
“Saint John wrote that one day we will get used to this. Thousands of bright orbs falling one by one. Rain that will begin to flood the Earth with light and bits of rocks.”
"It will be so beauteous.”
“And probably worth the cost.”
Enjolras lifted himself up on elbow.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I think that people will still find these stars beautiful, even though they will burn them and what they have. To call beautiful something that takes everything away from you is really to admit that it is worth sacrificing yourself for.”
•°•°•°•°•°•°•
“Will our revolution be something similar? Something worth sacrificing ourselves for?”
Combeferre stopped twirling a golden curl around his finger.
“It depends on how we lead it.” Then, after a moment, he added: “But I think it will. I know you and I trust that we will die for something wonderful.”
“Or for someone.”
Enjolras spoke too quietly, leaving only an unintelligible murmur in his friend's ear.
“Huh? Did you say something?”
“No. Nothing.”
•°•°•°•°•°•°•
“Enjolras, do you remember the star that fell?”
“Of course.”
“What did you ask it for?”
“I think it was to give us a chance to see a world for which we'll die,” he responded quietly.
Combeferre nodded, as if that answer was enough for him.
He could only hope that this star was not the one that had kept watch over them from the beginning.
•°•°•°•°•°•°•