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The hour had grown late, the candle at their table all but burned down and Enjolras’ eyelids felt heavy as lead, his limbs aching and weighed down by exhaustion. Most of his friends had been and gone, tonight one of the few and far between where they all reunited in the back room of the Musain and Enjolras had indulged himself despite the crushing amount of paper work awaiting him at his desk. These days it had become rare for each and all of them to find an appointed time to meet, their duties many and diverse in nature. Enjolras could hardly spare a minute away from his desk and, if not there, then he was shut away with the Assembly to discuss legislation. His friends visited him often and he was grateful for it, but it was not the same as having them all together and talking like in days passed. Although the circumstances of the meetings in the Musain had not been ideal, Enjolras had to admit that he missed them nevertheless and though he lived to be of service to France and its people, these past few days his thoughts had become tangled and his head throbbed more often than not.
Suppressing a groan, Enjolras sought to straighten his spine and cast a tired look around the room. Combeferre had left only minutes past with a press to Enjolras’ shoulder and a reminder that Enjolras should not forget the importance of sleep. Feuilly, Bahorel, Joly and Bossuet had all left within hours of each other, promising to visit again soon. Joly had been most concerned with Enjolras’ complexion, fussing endlessly until Enjolras had cut him down with a sharp look. He appreciated his friends’ concern, but there was hardly any reason to worry, mere business had yet to kill a man and Enjolras was not one to back down, no matter the obstacle.
Across the room, Grantaire was slumped against Courfeyrac, one of his hands still curled around the neck of a bottle, apparently fast asleep. Courfeyrac seemed not to mind being used as a pillow and was involved in an intent conversation with Jean Prouvaire, who was just then illustrating a point by reading aloud a quote from the book in his hands. Enjolras wondered whether any of them would notice if he simply slid beneath the table and curled up to sleep. His legs felt as though they would no longer carry him.
He must have dozed off, lulled to sleep by his own senseless thoughts and the comforting sound of his friends’ murmured conversation, because when he next opened his eyes it was to Jehan leaning over him, a soft hand on Enjolras’ shoulder and concern writ upon his delicate face.
“Enjolras,” he said, in a manner that spoke of having repeated the same thing a few times already. “Are you well?”
The ability to speak, a skill usually so natural to Enjolras, seemed far away and out of reach and all he could manage was a confused blink, his vision slightly burry around the edges. Jehan’s concern lingered, his brow furrowing further and his hand remaining on Enjolras’ shoulder, a warm weight that spoke of comfort. Enjolras, unthinkingly, leaned further into it.
“I will see Enjolras to his rooms,” said Jehan and it took Enjolras an embarrassingly long moment to realise that the words had not been directed at him this time, but at Courfeyrac, who was busy heaving a limp Grantaire to his feet. “Will you manage on your own?”
Grantaire mumbled something inaudible against Courfeyrac’s shoulder, who sighed and grabbed one of Grantaire’s arms to drape over his neck. His other slid around Grantaire’s waist to steady him and they successfully stumbled forth a few steps.
“I have managed before,” said Courfeyrac with a tired grin. “I shall manage again. Good night to you, Jehan, Enjolras. See to it that you get some rest, you look rather ghastly, my friend.” The last part was directed at Enjolras, who could not find the strength for a sharp retort and feared that his blurred gaze hardly did his usual glare justice.
“Come, Enjolras,” said Jehan after Courfeyrac and Grantaire had staggered outside.
He helped Enjolras to his feet with a firm hand on his arm and Enjolras obediently rose and promptly swayed precariously on the spot, his vision blurring and his head spinning wildly. Jehan steadied him. He was not a tall man, his stature slender and rather waif-like, but he possessed great amounts of hidden strength - both in body and spirit. It was something Enjolras had always admired in his friend.
The air outside was cold and biting, though it hardly did anything at all to clear his head, and Enjolras found himself being led down the street without remembering quitting the café. Jehan led him surely, a warm presence at his side, knowing the way well after having walked it for years.
Despite being celebrated as the leader of the revolution and his current position in the Assembly, Enjolras had refused to move out of the lodgings he had inhabited ever since cutting ties with his family. He did not see how a change in position justified more space than he could hope to utilise as a single person, and his rooms had served him well before he had become a political figure and would keep on doing so. The only luxury he had allowed himself with his new salary was a new bed, both bigger and softer than his last, and a sturdier desk. He hardly had need of more than that.
By the time they arrived at his home, Enjolras felt clammy, his brow heated even as shivers raced down his spine. He was weak-limbed as Jehan deposited him on his bed, unable to even consider taking off his jacket. The ceiling above him was an unrecognisable blur and the few candles Jehan lit did nothing to clear his vision.
When he felt a gentle tugging at his feet a moment later, Enjolras blinked open eyes that he did not remember closing in the first place and turned his head to find the source. By then, Jehan had already finished pulling off his boots and the mattress dipped as he sat beside Enjolras, his hand cool as it touched his brow.
Enjolras’ eyes fell shut once more, fearing he would be unable to re-open them.
“Dear god, you are burning up,” exclaimed Jehan somewhere above him. Enjolras hardly registered the words.
What followed after was rather a blur and Enjolras would later on be hard pressed to recount the exact order of events, everything blending together in a whirl of pain and light so bright it pierced his eyes. Jehan’s presence was the only constant, his cool hands brief points of relief in-between a sea of agony.
When the haze had cleared enough for Enjolras to focus on something beyond his own delirium, he found that the sun was high in the sky, shining merrily through the window and illuminating his sparse bedroom. Attempting to shift into a different position, Enjolras discovered that his limbs were still aching, his muscles weak and trembling. His movements were restricted and the source soon became clear in the form of Jehan, who was wrapped around his body, fast asleep. His friend’s face was pale, his freckles standing out in sharp contrast; his hair was a mess, devoid of flowers and he looked exhausted even in repose.
Enjolras attempted to piece together recent events, straining to remember how much time might have passed, but he found himself unable.
Casting a look about the room, he discovered an abandoned bowl of water on his bedside table, a cloth balanced on its rim with one end hanging in while the other spilled over the edge. The candle had burned down in its holder, the wood around it flecked with dried wax. Looking down at himself, Enjolras found that his clothes had miraculously transformed into a nightshirt, the fabric feeling slightly grimy and still damp where it clung to the length on his spine. Jehan was in his shirtsleeves, pressed in close against Enjolras’ chest with all but three duvets piled on top of them both.
Briefly, Enjolras considered convincing his trembling limbs to cast off the delicious warmth and aid him in an attempt to rise, but the thought only lasted a moment and instead ended in Enjolras settling back down, absently snaking an arm around Jehan and closing his eyes once more.
*
Upon waking again, Enjolras found that the light in the room had changed once more. The sun was gone and dusk had fallen, plunging the room into almost complete darkness and turning each piece of furniture into a shadowed outline.
Jehan was still at his side, their positions slightly different with both their heads resting close together on Enjolras’ single pillow. When Enjolras blinked, he thought he saw the movement repeated on Jehan and when one of his arms emerged from the fort of covers to drag them back securely over where they had slipped down over Enjolras’ shoulder, it was a clear confirmation that his friend was indeed awake as well.
Jehan finished tucking in the duvet, before passing a gentle hand over Enjolras’ brow in a by now familiar gesture.
“Oh, thank god,” said Jehan quietly. “The fever has finally broken. Let us hope that it does not make a reappearance.”
“How long have I been ill?” asked Enjolras, his voice hoarse and his throat straining beneath the effort of speech.
“Two nights and three days.” Jehan returned his arm beneath the duvet, huddling further into it to stave off the chill of the room. “I called for Combeferre and Joly and they both came to see to you, but they said that there was little they could do and that you had exhausted yourself beyond what your body could take. You cannot ignore your needs in such a fashion, Enjolras, or your body will take the rest it needs in this unfortunate way. I wish you would not push yourself so.”
Enjolras reached across the small space to press Jehan’s hand. “I’m sorry for causing you distress.”
“You need not apologise,” said Jehan, turning his hand to squeeze Enjolras’ fingers in return. “Merely promise to take better care of yourself.”
“I shall try.”
It was hard to discern anything in this dim a light, but Enjolras thought that Jehan was smiling and when he spoke again, Enjolras could hear in his voice that it was true.
“It is good to see you are well again. I shall send word to Combeferre and Joly so they do not worry needlessly.”
“Thank you,” said Enjolras, feeling the gentle warmth of affection spreading within his chest. “Your are a good friend, Jehan. I would not wish to part with you for the world. I only wish that I could return some of your kindness.”
“Do not concern yourself with debts, Enjolras, for such things have no room within a friendship. The knowledge alone that you would stand beside me just as firmly were I in need is reward enough,” said Jehan gently, his hand still warm around Enjolras’ own. “There is no shame in accepting help when you need it. We know you are not infallible, even if you sometimes seem to forget it, and I rather welcome the opportunity to be the one to care for you for once. You give so much of yourself to others, it is only fair that you let us give some of it back on occasion.”
Enjolras frowned, the expression lost in the dark. “I’m not as good as all that,” he protested.
Jehan tapped playfully at his cheek, turning Enjolras’ frown into a scowl.
“No, you are better,” he said on a soft laugh. “But even great leaders must admit defeat at times, which means that when I step from this room in order to bring you food, you will not attempt to rise. Musichetta was kind enough to bring some broth and you should try and eat it.”
Enjolras knew better than to argue, for all of Jehan’s gentleness, he could be equally as stubborn. And so he merely pursed his lips as he listened to Jehan scramble from the bed, then light a fire and a few candles, finally enabling them to see one another, before quitting the room to fetch the aforementioned broth.
They ate together on Enjolras’ bed, back to being burrowed under the covers, the room not yet having warmed despite the fire. Jehan made no mention of leaving and Enjolras was grateful for it, finding that he would not have welcomed being left alone.
Their conversation was light, Enjolras’ mind foggy still, from the remains of his illness. It did not stop him, however, from asking Jehan if he would pass him one of the reports on his desk that he had not yet had the chance to read. Jehan stubbornly refused and made Enjolras lie back down with gentle force. Enjolras, of course, hated admitting defeat but was left with no choice when his body decided to betray him and his eyes grew heavy the instant his head touched the pillow.
Jehan had no qualms about showing his amusement, re-tucking Enjolras beneath the covers and settling down at his side.
“There is a time for many words, and there is also time for sleep,” he quoted, laughing quietly.
Enjolras wished to scowl, but found himself too exhausted to manage even that and so gave into his body’s demands and closed his eyes, his forehead coming to rest gently against Jehan’s chest as he curled into his friend once more. And it mattered not that the fire burned low still and that there was a lingering coldness in the room, for Enjolras felt warmer than he had in a long time.