Combeferre leans heavily against Enjolras once
his friend is supporting him, breathing ragged and
spots flashing across his vision for a few moments
as he blinks in an attempt to clear them. It doesn’t
make much difference since his glasses were broken
long ago and everything is blurry to begin with.But then they’re slowly making their way out of that
cursed room and down the hall, Combeferre keeping
his gaze focused on his feet and his thoughts on
remaining conscious and upright as they walked.
Anything but the bodies they pass.It takes a few moments before he comprehends Enjolras’
words sink in, and he shakes his head slightly. “I don’t think
there is anything that serious— as much as they did they
wanted me to live through it as well…”Nothing that would kill him before they would send him
back— because he was certain that was their plan. To
break him and then return him. But everything they had
done would simply heal slowly and scar. A permanent
reminder to them all what they could do to them.Once they were out of the building Combeferre sucked
in as deep a breath as he could of the fresh air, shakily
lifting his head to look around as he followed Enjolras
away from the building and towards the car.
:: { ℑ⋅ℇ } ─ ─ ─ ::
It comes as a small surprise that
Combeferre thinks he would have been
returned to them. The possibility hadn’t
even crossed Enjolras’ mind. It seems
like to wait around, to dally whilst his
right hand man was being tortured, just
isn’t something Enjolras is capable of
doing. He will run in, foolhardy and so
so angry, and he will shoot them down
where they stand. That’s the narrative.
That’s the only way to get combeferre
back.
“We think we know who sent them,”
Enjolras tells him, letting the darkness
of the night blanket them as they walk
towards the idling car with Bossuet in
the driver’s seat. See, foolhardy.
It takes a little bit of maneuvering
for Enjolras to pour Combeferre into
his seat and it’s only when he gets in
and the car’s driving away and he’s
looking Combeferre over with a critical
eye does he see the mess that’s only
partially covered up. Without saying
anything, determined fingers push
the shirt, the sluggish flow of blood not
yet stemmed before bright eyes turn
up, horrified and full of pain he doesn’t
feel– but imagines anyway. “What–”