Chapter Text
“You’re going back to work?” Enjolras says, looking up sharply from the book he’d been reading. The naps he’s had with Courfeyrac the past few days have played havoc with his sleep schedule, and, though its late, he can’t sleep.
Combeferre is standing in the doorway to his room looking rumpled and half asleep, the call phone held limply in one hand.
Enjolras’s stomach sinks; Combeferre looks shattered. How can it possibly be fair to have to go back to work in the middle of the night after – more than – a full day’s work.
“But...you’ve already done an extra shift today. You’ve only had 2 hours sleep.”
Combeferre scrubs a hand over his face and shrugs.
“I know. The joys of being a junior.”
“You’ll be back soon?” Enjolras can’t keep the edge of anxiety out of his voice. The evening might have been relatively calm, but the worry from earlier in the day is still too near to be easily quashed.
Combeferre looks apologetic, inadvertently adding guilt to the rest of the feelings swirling in Enjolras’s gut.
“No promises. It might just be few hours.” Enjolras nods as he says this, but he knows as well as Combeferre does, that, usually, once he’s been called in he’ll be staying at the hospital for the rest of the night.
“Fey...”
“Fey’s alright. He just feels rubbish, all he wants is cuddles and to feel better. Not much doing on the latter, but the former you can do. You’ll be alright, ‘Jol. You’re better at this than you think.”
Enjolras doesn’t reply, looking down at his fingers, worrying intensively.
“Enjolras.” Combeferre catches his chin and turns his face to look at him directly. “He’s really alright. His temperature’s come down, and he’s asleep. Just keep an eye on him.”
“Sorry. I’m sorry. I just...”
“I hate seeing him ill as well. Keep doing what you’ve been doing.”
“What about you? You’re exhausted...”
“Junior doctor. Not much doing for that either. I’ll be home as soon as I can, and you can put me straight back to bed, I promise.” Combeferre gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Now, I have to go. Lives to save and all.”
And then, he’s gone.
Enjolras blinks, staring at the front door as it closes, wishing he was the one on the other side of it. He’s used to being the one running around, being busy and in control, he doesn’t much like being the one left behind to worry. Despite Combeferre’s reassurances, he cannot help but feel something is wrong. Perhaps it is not a medical thing for Combeferre to worry about, perhaps it is something Enjolras should know; the way that only people who live and work together could know.
On edge, he gets to his feet and wanders to the doorway of Courfeyrac’s darkened bedroom. As Combeferre had said, he seems to be asleep, but after a moment of Enjolras watching from the doorway, the covers shift, and Courfeyrac rolls to face him, squinting.
“Jol?”
“Yeah.”
“C’ferre had to go back to work?”
“Yeah.” Enjolras crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed to hear him better, Courfeyrac’s voice is faint and slurred with sleep, perhaps he’ll drop back off.
“’ll you stay w’me f’r a bit?”
“Of course I will.”
So Enjolras kicks his legs up onto the bed and stretches out on his side next to Courfeyrac, replacing Combeferre. He pillows his head on his bicep so he can stretch his hand across to very gently pet Courfeyrac’s hair.
Courfeyrac hums a contented noise, falling quiet again, and shortly, his breathing evens out as he drifts back to sleep.
Enjolras watches apprehensively; Courfeyrac coughs intermittently, as if his throat is irritating him even asleep, but he doesn’t wake properly.
Even in the low light, he looks awful. Obviously, there’s the spots, unevenly spread across his face, neck and the skin of his chest visible between pyjamas and bedcovers. His skin is ghostly pale, not at all normal for Courfeyrac, with the exception of his cheeks, which are mottled red from his cheek bones almost to his jaw, in a way that could not be confused for a blush.
Enjolras watches long enough, and closely enough, still unable to sleep, that he sees the dampness grow at Courfeyrac’s temples, and creep across his forehead as he begins to sweat. Enjolras peels the duvet back at the first sign, and replaces it with a lighter blanket, but Courfeyrac begins to shiver immediately. Very carefully touching the back of his fingers to a spot-free patch of Courfeyrac’s hot neck supports his growing fear that the fever is getting worse.
…
Courfeyrac wakes up disorientated, sweaty, sticky, soaked through, sheets sticking to his bare chest. It’s extraordinarily uncomfortable.
He tries to sit up, causing twinges of pain to shoot through his back. He feels weak and shaky and so unwell he wants to cry. He doesn’t however, pulling his open pajama shirt tighter around himself as he looks around, thoughts coming in a slow, groggy slog.
Enjolras is beside him on the bed, fast asleep. He’s twisted into what has to be a painful position, with one arm outstretched, a cloth tangled in his limp fingers and his head pillowed on the other, facing Courfeyrac.
He looks tired too, hair a tangled mess, the line between his eyes slightly creased even in sleep so Courfeyrac doesn’t want to wake him, but he’s absolutely bursting for a pee and doubts his ability to make it on his own the way he feels currently.
Enjolras wakes up the instant Courfeyrac touches him, blue eyes flying open with a sharp gasp before blinking up at Courfeyrac. Pain flashes across his face as he pushes himself up with one arm, the other reaching over to Courfeyrac to feel his forehead.
Courfeyrac isn’t with it enough to work out what Enjolras’ expression means exactly, it’s not relief and the worried set to his features stays, ever present as it has been much of the day.
“You okay?” he asks, voice soft with sleep.
Courfeyrac shrugs, because he honestly doesn’t know. Words form slowly in his mind, sitting thickly in his throat as he speaks. “Feel….” He says, and can’t find the words, “…weird. Sh-shaky,” even his voice trembles over the words.
He moves to take the glass of water Enjolras has picked up from him, but Enjolras shakes his head and tips the glass to his lips for him. The water is heaven regardless and words come easier for it.
“I feel…disgusting. And I have to pee, can you…” Courfeyrac isn’t Enjolras, he will ask for help when he needs it, but to ask for help with this, to even go to the bathroom, galls him.
Enjolras nods and climbs off the bed with a frankly alarming series of cracks from his spine and joints.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” He says to Courfeyrac’s sympathetic wince. “Was only going to lie with you for just a minute.”
Courfeyrac doesn’t like words and speaking right now, and the abysmal throb in his throat doesn’t help matters, so he reverts to what he prefers and reaches over to squeeze Enjolras’ hand in thanks.
Enjolras stills for a moment, then smiles at him. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up. You’re wet through.”
Courfeyrac’s legs quake when he stands and his head spins sickeningly for a minute before it clears. Enjolras deposits him on the toilet seat and regards him carefully.
“You’ll be alright if I leave you to it for a minute?” He asks, biting his lip.
“Yeah.” Courfeyrac replies, nodding slowly.
“I’ll be right outside, and don’t lock the door…just…you know, in case.”
In case I pass out. Wonderful.
Enjolras stands awkwardly for a second, scrutinising Courfeyrac, before stepping outside and pulling the door to behind him.
He manages to get his pajamas off without too much effort or fuss and does what he has to sitting down. The shower seems like a bigger challenge. He climbs into the bath by holding tightly to the side of it and ends up leaning against the cold tiled wall. The water is equally cold when he flicks it on but it feels nice against his fevered skin.
The water warms up after a minute and Courfeyrac is careful to not let it get too hot, hearing a voice which sounds much like Combeferre sound a warning in the back of his mind. Showering feels wonderful, but he finds lifting his arms above his head makes them shake and his vision dim a little so he soon stops trying, giving up on any hope of getting his hair clean. His legs begin to shake again, so he slides down the shower wall to sit on the floor of the bath, letting the water cascade over his back and loosen the knots and aches there. He is also aware that, now he is down, there is no way he’ll be able to get back up.
He laughs, because it’s either that or cry.
“Enjolras?” He calls. Enjolras must have been just outside, as good as his word, because he appears within seconds despite how little sound Courfeyrac can coax from his battered voice box.
“Fey? You alright?”
“Um…” is all Courfeyrac can think to respond for a minute, and chuckles again. I appear to be stuck. “M’stuck,” is what he manages to say.
And naked. Even better. But this, he feels, is the least of his problems just then and, besides, Combeferre saw everything he has to offer the other day and Enjolras has probably seen just as much of him in their long years of friendship. He’s not normally shy, the opposite even, he knows these feelings are largely a downfall of his vanity, exacerbated by vulnerability he is not accustomed to.
Enjolras blinks, then half smiles with him. “Oh. Oh dear.” He opens the shower screen door and sits on the side of the bath, half in the spray though he seems to pay no mind to it soaking his clothes or hair. “Come here.” He says and reaches for the shampoo. “I take it you never got to actually getting clean then?”
Courfeyrac stares at him before scooting around so his back is to Enjolras and hugging his knees. “No. Not quite.”
By the time Enjolras has worked Courfeyrac’s hair into a lather and rinsed it for him both he and the bathroom are entirely soaked. Courfeyrac is left, wrapped in a towel to sit on the toilet seat whilst Enjolras brings him warm, dry pyjamas. He’s horribly shaky and has to lean on Enjolras to get his feet into his pyjama bottoms, and lets Enjolras pull them up, too exhausted and weak to bother with further embarrassment given his predicament and lack of alternative. In any case, he doesn’t want to have to look down at himself.
“Feel a bit better to be nice and clean?” Enjolras asks, eyes flicking from the buttons on Courfeyrac’s pyjama top to Courfeyrac’s face and back as he does them up.
“Yeah,” Courfeyrac replies, softly, “But m’exhausted now.”
“That’s ok, it’s very late, time to go back to bed.”
Courfeyrac meekly allows himself to be led back to bed, leaning heavily on Enjolras. Enjolras makes him drink half a glass of water before he’s allowed to curl up against his pillows, and fall, blissfully, quickly, back to sleep.
…
The clock on the bedside table is now glowing 01:00. He’s been lying, wide awake, beside Courfeyrac since he fell asleep after their adventure with the shower.
Despite being awake, he startles violently at the sound of harsh coughing suddenly erupting next to him. The bed shakes as Courfeyrac curls into himself, his back to Enjolras.
Courfeyrac jerks in surprise himself when Enjolras places a hand between his shoulder blades, intending to offer comfort. He twists to look at Enjolras, continuing to cough uncomfortably. Enjolras perseveres and wraps an arm around Courfeyrac’s shoulder to pull him upright, and into his side. Courfeyrac leans against him, panting as the coughing subsides.
“Oh dear,” Enjolras murmurs into the dark, “that doesn’t sound very fun.”
Courfeyrac replies with a shake of his head, shuddering against Enjolras’s side. “Nmmn.”
“I know, poor thing.” Enjolras offers, “Shall I get you a drink? Might help.”
Courfeyrac gives a nod and relinquishes Enjolras enough so he can reach the glass on the bedside table, and help Courfeyrac take a few sips.
“Better?”
“Yeah,” he breathes, leaning once more against Enjolras for support.
Courfeyrac seems limp as Enjolras settles them back against the pillows, as if his limbs are too heavy and have no bones. He blinks slowly, languorously, at Enjolras’s frown.
“M’really tired.”
“I’m sure. Do you think you can go back to sleep? It’s still the middle of the night?”
Courfeyrac nods a little, turning away to cough weakly for a moment.
When he turns back his forehead comes to rest against Enjolras’s cheek as he nuzzles into the crook of Enjolras’s neck.
He’s hot, so much hotter than he’s felt before, or so Enjolras believes. Angling his head a little he’s able to press his lips to Courfeyrac’s forehead, and they register the fierce heat as much as his cheek had.
“C’n I have s’more medicine?” Courfeyrac mumbles against his collar bone.
Enjolras counts the hours back, tapping it out with his fingers against the duvet, and finds, to his relief, four hours have passed since Combeferre last gave Courfeyrac medicine. He can have another dose now.
He reaches over Courfeyrac, intending to pick up the box of paracetamol next to his bed, when his fingers brush over the thermometer.
Understandably, Courfeyrac has been resisting this increasingly since he fell ill. Fed up of it, no doubt, and feeling so unwell and uncomfortable didn’t help matters. He’s so sleepy now, Enjolras almost wonders if it is better to just let him sleep, unhappy with the prospect of putting Courfeyrac through anything he doesn’t want to do.
He knows he must; Courfeyrac is far too hot. However unpleasant he, Enjolras, might find a task does not mean it does not have to be done. That it is unpleasant for someone else, for Courfeyrac, makes it so much worse.
Keeping Courfeyrac’s head on his shoulder, he presses another kiss to his hair in apology, “Before that, lets-“ he breaks off, surprised when Courfeyrac takes the end of the thermometer willingly without a word of objection.
Enjolras’s concern mounts.
He keeps an eye on his watch as Courfeyrac nestles into his neck, trying to convince himself that Courfeyrac’s compliance is an improvement, and not something to worry about.
It’s a futile effort. Two minutes drags for an eternity for Enjolras. There is no relief once he checks the thermometer.
103.
His concern escalates instantaneously to alarm.
Enjolras is not prone to panic. He can separate himself from the situation, or rather, he can keep emotion distinct from reaction. He can, usually, he doesn’t always. It is not always easy. It is not easy now.
Courfeyrac hasn’t taken anything for the fever for hours. That’s first.
Courfeyrac takes the two tablets from Enjolras’s hand to fumble between his lips with clumsy fingers, and lets Enjolras hold the glass of water whilst he takes another few sips.
As part of him rallies round, thinking of solutions, actions and ways to resolve the problem, another part of him understands he cannot only be practical here.
One aspect of Courfeyrac’s nature he has always admired is his ability to switch, apparently seamlessly, between business and pleasure. He knows what to say, what to do in almost any circumstance. Enjolras aspires to emulate this, to soften his edges with elements of Courfeyrac. Beyond the practical, Enjolras isn’t sure what to say or do now. So he reversed their positions, what would Courfeyrac do.
“Oh dear,” Enjolras tuts against Courfeyrac’s hair, “How rotten. That’s a bit high. Can’t be making you feel very well, poor thing.”
“S’awful,” Courfeyrac mumbles, in agreement, curling himself into Enjolras’s lap.
“Oh it is,” Enjolras murmurs back, “Poor you. It’s ok though, you’ve got me here, so you don’t need to worry. I’ll sort it out, you just close your eyes and drift back to sleep. That’s right…it’s ok, I’m staying right here…”
It is surprisingly easy to keep up a patter of words once he lets his mind focus elsewhere – what else can he do, should he call someone for advice.
Sleep is the best thing, he hears Combeferre saying, earlier that day. Courfeyrac has had medicine, and water, and now if he can sleep, that will help. Enjolras can check his temperature again in – an hour, maybe. An hour. To give the medicine time to work. Fevers often get worse in the night, he hears Joly saying, at some earlier juncture. That’s what this is.
Once Courfeyrac is soundly asleep he can get up, get a cool washcloth for Courfeyrac’s forehead, he remembers Combeferre doing this for head aches and temperatures.
Until then, there is little else Enjolras can do but hold Courfeyrac, and let him fall asleep, nestled against his chest.