Combeferre could feel the shaking in his limbs
growing stronger as they walked, the exhaustion
from his injuries making it difficult to keep moving.
Every step felt like his feet were weighed down by bricks.He let out a sigh of relief when they were in the car,
dropping his head back against the seat as he tried
to push himself to sit up straight. But then Enjolras
was pushing up his shirt before he could stop him,
wrenching his eyes back open to follow his gaze
down to the words on his chest, the tight feeling in
his chest at the remembrance of the pain when
they were being carved.Vive la France.
The words carved sharp and clear into his skin.
“They said it was a message for you,” he said,
voice hoarse and quiet, “To get you to cease your
actions. I told them they were fools, that you would never.”
:: { ℑ⋅ℇ } ─ ─ ─ ::
“Motherfu–” the curse is muffled between
his teeth as Bossuet makes a sharp turn and
Enjolras braces himself against the back of
the driver’s seat. He feels the toxic bubble of
emotion, feels it build up, feels the pressure
reach to just under his skin and OUT, a punch
to the door as if it can stitch back broken skin.
Ｈ Ｏ Ｗ Ｄ Ａ Ｒ Ｅ Ｔ Ｈ Ｅ Ｙ.
France. Enjolras remembers France before
the wars, the viruses and death, before the rise
of the ADMINISTRATION. The France they live
in now is nothing like the France he knew. How
dare they mock him, how dare they t w i s t the
sentiments of the resistance– His chest heaves.
"We will get back at them. At A L L of them,
'Ferre, I swear to GOD–“ He’s not even religious.
It’s a personal failing, he thinks, that his right
hand man is scarred this way. It’s grotesque.
Enjolras reaches under a seat, fumbling for a
rudimentary first aid kid. Surely they’d have one
of those plaster bandages to cover the words
from any settling infections. He cannot look at
his friend in the eye. It’s impossible. Painful.
⟪ ”ɪ'ᴍ ꜱᴏʀʀy.“ ⟫