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“Quick, back to the Musain!” Enjolras called, sprinting down an alley. Feuilly followed, but he could hardly stand now from the pain in his wrist. He clutched at it desperately with his left hand, trying to support it, and when he crossed the threshold of the Musain he dropped to his knees, his breath coming in gasps.
His whole arm was throbbing, not just his wrist, but there was a blackening bruise and some sort of horribly raised lump at the base of the wrist where the bone had connected with the gendarme, or more accurately, his truncheon. Feuilly couldn’t even remember what he had been trying to do, only that everyone, on all sides, was shouting and swinging and he could feel rather than see Bahorel beside him headbutting another gendarme, and so he felt he had to-
But no matter. The whole protest, apart from Courfeyrac’s really rather smart little speech about the freedom of the press, had been an unmitigated failure, even by the standards of Les Amis de l’ABC. Very few of Les Amis’ associates had come as they had promised - nothing from the organisations at the Armandine, the Corinthe, nothing from the workers at Feuilly’s atelier and beyond - and the gendarmerie had got wind of the whole thing before Courfeyrac was halfway through the speech. The revolution, even if close, was not nearly as imminent as Enjolras and Combeferre seemed to believe.
Dimly, Feuilly felt a hand at his back, guiding him to a chair, and he half-collapsed into it, still clutching his arm. Then, the hand, which turned out to be Combeferre’s, was gently taking his wrist, and Feuilly gave a hiss of pain.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Joly’s voice came. He was hovering at Feuilly’s elbow, gently prodding at his upper arm to feel for bruising. “Just a moment, I promise.”
Combeferre’s hand continued to probe, lightly but agonisingly, along Feuilly’s right wrist, unbuttoning his coat and shirtsleeve and folding them up. Oh, God, it was his right hand, it slowly dawned on him. His drawing hand; his working hand. Feuilly pulled his cap off and ran a hand through his hair, blinking several times. Oh, God. Oh, God. He glanced up, only half-aware of the assembling crowd of his friends, dumb with shock, and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to melt into the pain of Combeferre’s gentle doctor’s touch.
Combeferre had produced the box of medical supplies he kept hidden under a table at the Musain and began to bandage the arm carefully. When an initial layer was complete, he drew his hands back slowly, leaving Feuilly for a moment to support his right arm with his left again.
“Feuilly, I’m so sorry to tell you this, but it’s- it’s broken.”
There was a long, tense silence.
“Fuck,” he said quietly, then, more loudly, “Fuck!”
“It will mend, I promise,” Combeferre said gently. “Six weeks at the most. I know it is- unideal. Believe me, I know. But you will be fully healed next month, and you will work again as you always have. This injury will in no way damage you forever.”
“Six weeks may be long enough to cause damage forever,” Feuilly said grimly.
“Oh, Feuilly,” Joly said softly, and squeezed his shoulder.
“The break, at least, is cleaner than Joly’s was,” Combeferre said as he tightened the bandage. “Even if the situation is worse.”
“Why is it so much worse?” Marius asked, his eyes wide, and in a fit of surprising temper, Bahorel clipped him round the ear.
“Of course Monsieur le Baron wouldn’t understand why a broken wrist might affect somebody who makes his living with the work of his hands,” he said sharply.
Marius flushed crimson. “I- I apologise, Feuilly,” he said quietly.
“Trust me, Marius, I have bigger problems at present than an ill-considered remark,” Feuilly said wearily. “Combeferre, as it is the wrist and not the hand itself which is damaged, will I be able to paint in a few weeks, once the wrist is stable?”
“Paint, no,” Combeferre said, and Feuilly’s face fell, but Combeferre continued, “The movements of painting are too delicate, too much of a strain on your wrist.”
“Can I draw?” Feuilly asked, somewhat desperately.
Combeferre thought for a moment, his lips pursed as he mixed the plaster. “I will monitor it, and tell you in three weeks, but I think yes, drawing should be less stressful on the injury.“ He paused, and Feuilly gave a small exhale of relief. “Yes, in fact, I think you may draw in three weeks if the break heals as it should, but you must give me your word not to do anything with your arm before then. Do not pick anything up, do not so much as take someone’s arm with it. In a sling if at all possible, and bed rest for the first week.”
“Bed rest? Combeferre, surely that is excessive.”
“I insisted upon bed rest for Joly when he broke his arm.”
“His break was worse, as you say, and moreover you put Joly on bed rest because he has a mistress to nurse him. He no doubt enjoyed it.”
“I did not enjoy it! There are considerable constraints upon how much one can enjoy oneself with one arm,” Joly said indignantly.
“Don’t heighten my pain. I don’t even have a mistress,” Feuilly said drily. “But Combeferre, please, even for a dislocated shoulder a week was sufficient. I have no need of it for a wrist.”
Combeferre shook his head. “I know you, Feuilly; you are too hardworking for your own good, and I do not trust that you will not use your wrist before it is fit. Bed rest, I say, and you will be back to work quicker.”
He sighed crossly but did not protest further, and let Combeferre begin to paint the plaster carefully onto the bandage.
“You are lucky indeed that I broke my arm first,” Joly mused. “Combeferre is extremely good at setting limbs in plaster now, after having to re-plaster my arm when it did not set.”
“You do us credit with your manifold services to medical science, Joly,” Combeferre murmured. “I think that’s done. Sit still here for half an hour whilst it dries and then home to bed with you.”
Feuilly nodded slowly, then looked across the room. “My audience may disperse, then?”
Combeferre looked up. “Why did you all stay to watch? I cannot perform under pressure.”
“Because we are anxious to see our friend well,” Enjolras said.
“I didn’t have anything better to do,” Bahorel added, and gave Feuilly a tiny wink. Feuilly looked down, a smile playing on his lips despite himself.
“Can he have alcohol as part of his treatment?” Grantaire asked.
“I think so,” Combeferre said cautiously, and Joly made a sound of outrage.
“I was barred alcohol with my broken arm!”
“When you broke your arm you were on a high enough dose of laudanum to kill a horse,” Bossuet said. “God knows what would have happened if you’d been drinking too.”
“Give Feuilly laudanum too, then, instead of alcohol. It is better for pain in any case,” Joly attempted to reason, but Combeferre shook his head firmly.
“If he wants to go back to work he needs to be as aware as possible of the pain, that I may better monitor the healing. Laudanum will blunt his judgement thereof.”
Joly opened his mouth as if to protest again, and Bossuet laid a hand on his arm. “Joly, you know you would not have borne your arm without it. There is no shame in that. The breaks are different,” he said softly, and Joly nodded, looking a little pacified.
Grantaire unscrewed his flask and slipped it into Feuilly’s good hand. “Brandy, then, as the good doctor permits.” He glanced at Combeferre and received a nod of confirmation. “Savour it, dear boy. It’s the 1826 comet vintage.”
“You brought the finest brandy vintage in the last ten years to a clash with the gendarmerie?” Joly asked.
“I correctly anticipated that we would have need of it.”
Feuilly took a deep, grateful drink. “That’s excellent stuff, Grantaire. Whilst I’m on bed rest you have my open invitation to come and ply me with more.”
“We shall all come,” said Marius surprisingly. “We would not let you fall out of the circle of our comings and goings.“
Feuilly half-smiled, slightly impressed to find himself touched. “Thank you, Marius. That is very kind.”
He shrugged. “Besides, I believe I know the tabac where you buy your European papers, and I insist upon ensuring you have them.”
Feuilly nodded, and Bahorel squeezed Marius’s shoulder: his manner, well known to Feuilly, of apology for his earlier frustration.
Enjolras drew himself up and ran a hand through his golden curls. “Well, now the plaster is drying I regret I must be on my way. Feuilly, I shall visit tomorrow, and I hope to see you following your doctor’s orders.” He half-smiled, and pressed Feuilly’s hand as he left.
“Indeed, speaking of doctor’s orders, someone ought to be in bed at home,” Bahorel said. “Joly, will you ask your mistress to tell my mistress I shan’t be seeing her tonight?”
“Of course. I think Musichetta is dining with her in any case, so when we’re home we’ll give the order.” Joly gave a little ironic salute.
“What? Bahorel, don’t be silly, I shan’t keep you captive at home just because I’ve broken my wrist,” Feuilly protested, but Bahorel tutted.
“And leave you alone stuck in bed? I think not. Rosalie can entertain herself for once. Joly, Bossuet, if you’re going out dancing tonight with your mistress you’re welcome to bring mine to prevent her from sulking when I next see her, and that way you’ll both have a partner.”
“Maybe we shall, if both can be persuaded,” Bossuet said with a smile. “Feuilly, I hope you’re on the mend soon, and we’ll come and see you, of course. Send word via this baffling chain of mistresses if you’d like us to bring you anything to cheer you up.”
“Thank you, boys, that would be most welcome,” Feuilly said with a smile, then pushed himself slowly to his feet, his expression turning to a grimace.
Bahorel was at his side immediately, taking his good arm and arranging himself so most of Feuilly’s weight was supported by his considerable bulk. “Are we to take a fiacre?”
“I think it will jar the arm too badly,” Feuilly said, and Combeferre nodded his approval.
“Safe journey, and I shall see you tomorrow. Please do not forget my instructions. I want you rested.”
“Understood, Herr Doktor,” Feuilly said, and Combeferre gave him a quick bisous then left.
“Oh, Grantaire, here’s your flask,” Feuilly remembered.
“No, no, you’ve more need of it than I, and the brandy seems to have enlivened you somewhat.” Grantaire smiled, arching a brow. “I shall be by to fill it up again. Bahorel, if we are to keep our usual appointment at the boxing gym tomorrow morning I shall come back with you and we can all breakfast together.”
“Breakfast in bed on a weekday, indeed. Feuilly, hanging around these aristocrats has changed your ways,” Bahorel said, and Feuilly laughed, rolling his eyes.
“Certainly I never got into so many scrapes before. Tomorrow will be most agreeable, and thank you again for the brandy.”
Grantaire bowed, then opened the door to let them out.
“Onwards, Christian soldiers,” Bahorel murmured as he and Feuilly began the walk back to their apartment, and Feuilly sighed heavily.
“I’ve had quite enough of playing soldiers for one day.”
“I don’t doubt it. There were other injuries but yours is certainly the most troubling.”
“Oh? Who else?”
“Courfeyrac fell off the podium and I believe will need stitches to his head. And I fear my nose is broken again.” He touched his face lightly, then wrinkled his nose and swore. “Broken.”
“God, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise – you need as much bed rest as I, in that case.” Feuilly squeezed his arm.
“Odd way to charm me into bed with you, dear boy, but if you are certain it’ll make you feel better…”
Feuilly rolled his eyes fondly. “I am on bed rest,” he said. “Are you sure your nose isn’t troubling you too much?”
Bahorel shrugged expansively. “It has been broken so many times now that it is quite literally impossible to set. It shall heal, and mar my good looks no more than they were damaged already.”
“I’m sure you don’t hear Rosalie complaining.”
“About that, no, but about everything else-!” Bahorel unlocked the door to their apartment and gently guided Feuilly up the stairs. “I’ve never met such a girl for whining. Oh, why did we go to this restaurant? It's really not to my taste; oh, this opera’s so dull; honestly, it’s a relief to go back to the boxing ring in the mornings after I’ve taken her out and be knocked out to save me listening to her. For a girl known as my laughing mistress, I don’t see nearly enough of her good humour.”
Feuilly laughed himself as he half-slipped his coat off, then realised he could not remove it. “Bahorel, would you-?”
Bahorel divested him nimbly of his coat. “Do you need my help with the rest?”
“I fear so. Some seduction this is.”
Bahorel waggled his eyebrows suggestively, but started neatly unbuttoning Feuilly’s shirt and waistcoat, then helped him off with the rest. Feuilly slipped on a loose nightshirt over his plastered arm, then flopped bonelessly down atop the bedcovers. “God, being in so much pain is exhausting.”
Bahorel’s brow furrowed. “Can I give you anything for it?”
Feuilly shook his head, waving his good hand dismissively. “Combeferre said no laudanum, which I extrapolate to mean no opium-smoking either, alas.”
“Alas indeed. Still, that must suggest he thinks the severity of the injury is limited.” Bahorel looked about Feuilly’s room, small and monkishly tidy. “Shall I leave you to your rest?”
“No, no, stay a while, if you would, dear boy. Perhaps I am glad you and your mistress are on the outs, that you may better keep me company.”
Bahorel undressed to his shirtsleeves and settled himself in the armchair, stretching his legs out before him and lighting a cigarette.
“Pass it here,” Feuilly mumbled, extending his good hand. “For the foreseeable future I will be unable to light my own, and so must scrounge off you like a street cat.”
“You are no scrounger, that you know,” Bahorel said, getting up and placing the cigarette between Feuilly’s lips. He took a deep drag, then exhaled slowly and balanced it in his good hand, looking up at Bahorel, stood over the bed, from the flat of his back.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Bahorel said.
“I know that nothing well from you.” Feuilly raised an eyebrow.
“Nothing!”
“I ought not to commandeer you in this manner too.”
“I seek only to cheer you up.”
“Aha,” Feuilly said, and ran a hand down Bahorel’s hip, pausing at the fall-fronts of his trousers. Bahorel gently pushed his hand away, but lowered himself to the bed, lying on his stomach with his head between Feuilly’s thighs.
“You, sir, are on bed rest,” he said, a gleam in his eye. “You are to be taken care of as far as I can manage, and not to exert yourself.”
Feuilly chuckled low in his throat as Bahorel pushed his nightshirt up, and he let himself succumb to a very welcome distraction from his pain.
“I’m sure this will improve your relations with Rosalie no end,” he murmured, cutting himself off with a gasp as Bahorel ran his tongue over his cockhead.
Bahorel looked up at him and grinned. “The butcher does not compete with the baker,” he said as he drew Feuilly’s cock fully into his mouth, and Feuilly lost the faculty of speech for a short while.
*
He did sleep, after, slept long and deep, so drained at every level that he passed out lying on the bedcovers. When he woke again, it was getting dark and Bahorel was balancing a bowl of soup at the foot of his bed.
“Our landlady was saddened to hear of you unwell, so prepared a broth for you,” Bahorel explained, reaching forward to help Feuilly prop himself up against the pillows.
“Thank you. We shall see whether her rare attempts at cooking make me feel better or worse,” Feuilly said, and accepted the bowl onto his lap, taking up the spoon with his good hand.
“I am glad to see you rested,” Bahorel said as he ate his own soup. “I know you will never own it, but you were too tired earlier, and it troubled me.”
“I would not see you so easily troubled,” Feuilly said, but his tone was soft. Bahorel’s clumsy tenderness touched him to the quick, and it was not often that Feuilly was shown tenderness.
“I went out to see Combeferre whilst you slept,” Bahorel said. “He said to let my nose mend as well as it can, and no sparring until the bruising goes down. He has been generous enough to permit me opium, but I will not tease you by smoking a pipe when you are forbidden.” He grinned. “And Courfeyrac has had stitches to his chin, and is extremely melancholy about the prospect of a scar damaging his pretty face.”
Feuilly snorted. “Trust Courfeyrac. But I am glad everyone is well and tended to. We were lucky, indeed, to get away with so few injuries.”
“I know. Privately I worry whether Enjolras’s judgement is becoming a little reckless, although I could never say so. I like a good fight as much as the next man and indeed probably more, but things are taking off at a quicker pace than I really anticipated.”
“I know. Perhaps it is all to the good that we were injured, because this will stall him a little.”
“Enjolras may be stalled but he will never be stopped. I’ve never met anybody so single-minded.”
Feuilly shrugged. “It is well that one of us is.”
“True enough. Are you finished?”
Feuilly nodded and Bahorel took the bowls into the kitchen, then came back and settled back in his armchair.
“What time is it?” Feuilly asked.
Bahorel flicked open Feuilly’s watch, resting on the worktable. “Nearly nine.”
“Hmm. It feels ridiculous to go back to sleep at such an hour, but I’m wrung out.”
“Is the pain still as bad as it was?”
Feuilly shrugged. “I’m too tired to tell, I think.”
Bahorel nodded, and Feuilly shuffled under the covers, settling back against the pillow and flinging his good arm over his eyes.
“Sleep well,” Bahorel said softly.
*
When Feuilly woke it was to a deep, crushing ache in his arm. It was throbbing dully, with the pain of a repeated steady beating. He flexed the fingers and bit down hard on his lip to keep from crying out. His breath hissed out between his teeth in a slow, tight stream. The pain was tearing at him, but so too was the full reality of his situation as his inability to work dawned on him. He would lose his place at the atelier. He did well enough for himself when he was working there, with one or two little jobs on the side, but he saw no path for how he could manage so long away. All his life he had lived and even, at times, thrived, only thanks to the good work of his hands, and to lose that ability frightened him beyond belief. He felt hot tears filling his eyes, tears of frustration and anger and simple, thudding pain, and was horrified at himself. He never cried. He never cried, but his breath was coming faster and faster and a tear rolled down his cheek.
“Hmm?” Bahorel stirred in the armchair. Feuilly started, shocked to see him still there. It was fully dark now, and though Bahorel had a book on his lap, he seemed to have been dozing for some time. “Feuilly?”
“No, it’s- I’m fine,” he managed to choke out, but Bahorel was waking fully now, blinking in the dark.
“Feuilly, are you-?”
“I’m fine,” he said again, gritting his teeth. “Just- hurts-”
Bahorel stood and moved over to the bed, his face softening with concern. “Oh, God, it must be so painful.”
Feuilly took in a shuddering breath. “I know it will mend, it will stop being so painful very soon, but it hurts- and I- I can’t work, I have no way of knowing when I will again, I don’t know what to do-” He felt his chin tremble, and clenched his jaw tightly, wiping angrily at his face with his good hand.
“Feuilly,” Bahorel said gently, and he looked up at him. “All will be well, I promise.”
“How?”
“There will be a way. We will find a way.”
”I won’t be kept by the generosity of our friends. I have my pride,” he said, his voice ragged.
“I know. I know. Come, now, this is not the time for such a discussion. It is the middle of the night and you are in pain,” he said, his voice soft, and Feuilly took a shuddering breath.
“Wait a moment,” Bahorel said, then dipped out of the room. Feuilly dimly heard the door to Bahorel’s room open, then after a moment he reappeared in a nightshirt with Grantaire’s flask of brandy, which Feuilly had forgotten on the kitchen table.
“Here,” he said, carefully helping him sit up and take a deep swig.
Feuilly exhaled heavily. “Thank you.”
Bahorel half-smiled, then climbed into bed beside him.
“You don’t have to- God, I’m already making you do so much for me-”
“None of that, please,” he said lightly. “We all need our creature comforts now and again.” He propped himself up on an elbow. “Turn onto your side, and prop your arm on the pillows to keep it raised.”
Feuilly nodded, taking another nip of brandy then doing as he was bid. The elevation did seem to ease the pain a little, and he closed his eyes again. Bahorel wrapped an arm around his chest from behind, and a small smile passed over Feuilly’s face.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“It is no matter,” Bahorel said in return, his broad chest against Feuilly’s back.
Feuilly took a last deep breath, a shield against the pain, then let himself drift back to sleep, and as he did so he found himself thinking idly that if he were Rosalie, he certainly wouldn’t find so much to complain about.
*
This time, when Feuilly woke it was to bright sunlight streaming through the gap in the curtains, and to Bahorel’s arms around him, holding him close. His arm was still aching dully, but he found he was better able to cope with it rested, and the elevation on the pillows seemed to have soothed some of the bruising.
He shifted around to face Bahorel, careful not to jar his arm. In sleep he looked younger and softer, despite his broken nose and the black eye that had emerged overnight. Without its daytime pomade his dark hair spilled over his forehead, and Feuilly resisted the urge to brush it back with his good hand. Not for the first time, Feuilly thought that despite his imposing size and rakish manners, Bahorel was one of the softest-hearted men he knew. To have held him all night, comforted him, made every effort to keep him comfortable – even broken off his evening with his mistress – was the mark of a deep and abiding kindness.
After a moment, Bahorel stirred and his eyes fluttered open. He stretched sleepily and pushed his hair back off his forehead with the span of his hand, then looked over at Feuilly.
“Oh, good morning, dear boy. How are you feeling? Is the arm any better?”
“A little, I think,” he said, and Bahorel smiled, then pushed himself up out of bed.
“Good. Rest, again, is the order of the day, and by the end of the week we’ll hardly recognise you.”
Feuilly half-smiled. “Are you still boxing with Grantaire this morning?”
“Yes, insofar as I can without being allowed to re-injure my face.” He rolled his eyes. “Still, it is always worth an attempt, and Grantaire promised to breakfast with us after.”
Feuilly nodded, then after a pause, said, “Bahorel, on your way, could I ask a favour of you?”
“Of course.”
Feuilly swallowed. “Could you stop into my atelier and tell them I’ll be ill this week?”
Bahorel’s brow furrowed. “It will be longer than a week.”
“I know, but- I fear that it I tell them that I’ll lose my position. Even I understand that I won’t be back to work after a week, but I can’t let them think it’ll be indefinite.”
Bahorel nodded slowly. “I understand.”
“Thank you.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand, shame and discomfort still roiling in his stomach.
“All will be well,” Bahorel said softly, and squeezed his shoulder. Then, more cheerfully, “Back to sleep with you, and when you wake Grantaire and I shall return bearing the great gift of pastries.”
Feuilly smiled. “I shall look forward to it.”
Bahorel left to change. Feuilly shifted back under the covers, shuffling into the patch of warmth, like a ghost imprint of Bahorel’s embrace, and closed his eyes again.
*
“Feuilly!”
Feuilly marked his page in his book and straightened up a little in bed, smiling as Grantaire and Bahorel bounded in, both rosy from exercise and Grantaire clutching a bag fresh from the patisserie. He had slept again after Bahorel had left, but stirred eventually. He was unused to being still abed when the sun was fully up, and he found it impossible to sleep through it.
“You poor thing,” Grantaire said sympathetically, sitting on the end of Feuilly’s bed and shrugging his jacket off. “Bahorel said you were looking terrible, and he told me true.”
“Thank you for your tact, Grantaire, but I shall be fine,” Feuilly said drily. “How are you? You escaped any injury, I take it?”
“Indeed so, and I was lucky again today because Bahorel’s broken nose reduced us to simply training rather than sparring.”
“Give me a week and we’ll see how lucky you feel then,” Bahorel said with a grin.
“I shan’t even begin to consider. Come, now, we have tortured Feuilly long enough. Let him at the pastries.”
Feuilly grinned and accepted the proffered pain aux raisins, taking a grateful bite. “Thank you, boys.” He swallowed, then couldn’t help himself: “My last such luxury for some time, I fear, given that I cannot work.”
Bahorel touched his arm gently, and Feuilly looked down at his lap, a bitterness growing in his chest.
However, Grantaire smiled, tearing apart a pastry of his own. “Ah, not so, dear boy. I have been thinking-”
“Dangerous thing for you to do,” Bahorel remarked.
“Indeed! But I have found a solution, Feuilly, to your, shall we say, professional predicament.”
“Nothing hair-brained, please, Grantaire,” Feuilly said tiredly. “My position is precarious enough as it is.”
“I know, hence this as a proposal: instruct me as to how, and I shall make and paint your fans.”
“Grantaire-” He was at a loss as to how to stop him, to protect his own pride, and made the first protest he could think of. “You do not know how.”
Grantaire shrugged. “I am a painter, of canvases, of wood and of walls. If you teach me, I can learn to paint a fan too.”
“I cannot teach you with no hands of my own.”
“Your instructions will be sufficient, I trust.”
“What about your own work?”
“My biggest current commission is not due until the end of next month; I have barely begun to sketch it out. It is a nature scene, quite the classic pastoral, and not at all dissimilar to some of the designs I have seen on your fans. Combeferre said after three weeks you may draw, but not paint, so if you draw the initial sketches and the base for my commission, I will go to the atelier and paint your fans.”
Feuilly was stunned into silence. The idea was a good one, and a fair one. He should have known to trust Grantaire to know how to present a sensitive solution which pleased all parties; despite the louche attitudes he struck he was perceptive, and almost as soft-hearted, beneath his cynicism, as Bahorel.
“Well, now, here we have a solution better than any I could have engineered,” Bahorel said, squeezing Feuilly’s shoulder. “Grantaire, I look forward to your attempts at fans.”
“Try not to make them as morbid as some of your more classical works,” Feuilly said, and a grin passed over Grantaire’s face.
“Understood.” He finished the coffee to his right, then straightened up and pulled his jacket on. “In that case, we are agreed and I shall be off. And before I forget-” He pulled a half-filled bottle of brandy from his coat pocket and placed it on the desk with a flourish. “Your sustenance. See you soon, dear boy. Take care of your arm.”
*
“Enjolras, good afternoon!” Bahorel said from the hall, and Feuilly straightened up in bed.
“Good afternoon,” Enjolras returned, immediately crossing to Feuilly’s room and peeping around the open door. “Feuilly! You look better than you did. How are you feeling?”
“Better than I was, thank you,” he said, adjusting his arm on its stack of pillows. “The plaster has set well. Combeferre will be top of any limb-related exam.”
Enjolras smiled and settled into the chair by Feuilly’s bed. “And I hope you are kept well occupied on your bed rest. I ran into Grantaire on the stairs.”
“Yes, he has kindly volunteered to paint my fans for me whilst I am incapacitated. It is not a permanent solution, but it is a very good temporary one.”
Enjolras nodded slowly, his brow furrowed thoughtfully. His moments of abstraction always amused Feuilly as much as they impressed him, and their frequency was only growing of late, as the political situation they were stoking grew troublingly hotter.
Another knock sounded at the door, and Enjolras was stirred from his reverie, raising an eyebrow. “You are well visited indeed,” he said.
However, when Bahorel went to open the door, a shout of, “Aha, hello, my darling girl!” was heard, followed by several smacking kisses.
“The famous laughing mistress?” Enjolras asked.
“They’ve been on the outs,” Feuilly explained. “I think Bahorel is condemned to best behaviour for the foreseeable future.”
“If she complains about the broken nose, I consider it my duty to take full responsibility,” Enjolras said.
“Noble indeed, especially as it is the fault of the state that we are all injured so. My arm was the direct gift of a gendarme’s truncheon,” Feuilly said, and Enjolras tutted.
“Typical of them too to single you out, when you were in your workingman’s attire. They always know who will be most affected.”
“No wonder they pushed Courfeyrac, when he frets the most of us all about his pretty face.” Feuilly gave an ironic half-smile. “I would not be surprised if it were so.” He paused, then considered that if anyone would understand, at least on a theoretical and moral level, it was Enjolras. “It is- it is very frightening to me to be unable to work, especially without knowing how long.”
Enjolras nodded slowly. “That our social system sets the workingman up to lose everything so quickly and so easily is a disgrace. I would say it was a gross failure of the social contract, but no such social contract has ever been implemented by our wretched government.”
“Just so. And then they decry a shortage of workers, not being willing to admit that shortages are created by their own hand.”
“Whilst everything they have is created by your hand,” Enjolras said.
Feuilly smiled again. “After the revolution…” he invoked, a turn of phrase heard daily amongst Les Amis de l’ABC.
Enjolras smiled too, and pressed Feuilly’s hand momentarily, a quiet gesture of solidarity.
Just then, Bahorel trotted back in, evidently dressed to go out in his dashing claret waistcoat and best cravat. “What are you two discoursing about? Never mind, I’m sure I won’t understand it. Listen, Feuilly, Rosalie’s come over, forgiveness personified, wants me to take her out…” He rolled his eyes. “Would you mind terribly? I won’t be late, I’m sure, but I don’t want you stuck in on your own, and you’ve not eaten-”
“Don’t worry,” Feuilly said. “Knock for the landlady on your way out and get her to bring me something up, and stay out as late as you please. I am not your keeper, and regardless I will be in bed.”
“And I shall stay as long as I am welcome to, and certainly until you’ve eaten,” Enjolras added.
Bahorel smiled, clapping Enjolras on the shoulder. “I am grateful indeed, my friend.”
Enjolras smiled, and Bahorel turned to Feuilly, saying more softly, “I know I’ve been complaining, but I suppose it’s worthwhile, don’t you think? I don’t want you to-” He broke off, clearly unsure how to phrase what he wanted to say, but Feuilly knew him well enough that words were hardly necessary.
“Don’t be silly,” he said softly. “Of course.”
Bahorel smiled. “I won’t bring her back, probably, and if I do she’ll be off when I go boxing in the morning. Not worth keeping around beyond that – well, not when…” he said with a smirk.
“I know, I know, the butcher, the baker, and so on,” Feuilly grinned, and slapped Bahorel’s cheek lightly. “Enjoy yourselves.”
*
Feuilly stretched out on the sofa, his back against the arm and his feet in Bahorel’s lap. His arm was propped on a pillow on his stomach, and the dull pain, though still noticeable, had become a constant. Bahorel was in his usual sprawl, legs akimbo and one arm folded behind his head, the other balancing his cigarette. They were Turkish cigarettes, acquired by Bahorel’s mistress through a friend of Eastern origin, and though they contained opium, and a very pleasing amount of it too, it was a mixture such that Feuilly felt he wasn’t truly disobeying Combeferre’s orders. The sofa, too, seemed close enough to bed rest to be permissible, and he was going distracted spending so much time flat on his back.
“Give Rosalie my thanks for these,” Feuilly said, exhaling slowly. “Very kind of her to bring something to cheer me up. The butcher tips his hat to the baker, and so on.”
“You have quite taken to this analogy,” Bahorel said with a chuckle.
“I have no better alternative regarding what to call it. Much less a word for you, dear boy. Compatriot is insufficient. Friend more so.”
“Combeferre always calls Enjolras his friend, in a tone reserved only for him, and so with friend we stray into the rather frightening territory of romantic friendship.”
“Now, then, the romantic friendship is a great hallmark of our era.”
“Terminology apart, do you think we have a romantic friendship?” Bahorel asked, taking a contemplative drag from his cigarette.
Feuilly snorted. “No, we do not. Workingmen don’t have romantic friendships. Save that for the noble likes of Enjolras and Combeferre.”
“That’s a true romantic friendship, I grant you.”
“See? We’re not remotely high-minded enough for that. A modicum of intellectual communion is required, not just occasionally sucking one another off.”
“I’d wager good money that Combeferre sucks Enjolras off.” Bahorel raised an eyebrow.
“Well, it would hardly be the other way round, would it? Difficult to imagine a marble statue kneeling.”
“True enough. In any case, I doubt Enjolras could bring himself to stop talking for long enough to perform that particular service.” Bahorel blew a neat smoke ring and smirked to himself. “Erotically discoursing on the social contract or some such nonsense.”
“Stop it, you’re sending me into veritable throes of lust.” Feuilly ashed his own cigarette into the empty cup on the table, then settled back against the cushions again. “Oblige me and move on from this topic of conversation; it is terribly base and we will never achieve a romantic friendship if we carry on in this fashion.”
“He has no excuse either,” Bahorel mused, plainly ignoring Feuilly’s request. “At least you have a broken arm, and need assistance in that…department.”
“Somehow, Bahorel, my boy, you are always able to think of an excuse, broken arm or no.”
“High-minded and imaginative of me, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
Feuilly harrumphed good-humouredly and stubbed out the end of his cigarette, then shifted so he was kneeling beside Bahorel. He was feeling pleasantly light-headed. “Go on, then, I give in to your excuses.”
“Aha.” Bahorel gave a slow, knowing grin. “I wondered if you might.”
“If I am to take my mind off my inability to work I may as well do something which truly rests my arm.”
“Understood,” Bahorel murmured, running a hand down his chest, and Feuilly closed his eyes with a sigh.