Combeferre manages to slip up enough to
prop himself against the pillow, eyes closed
for a moment and breathing rough from that
small exertion. When Enjolras speaks he
opens his eyes, reaching out to take the glass
from him and take a grateful sip of it— his throat
was bone dry, he couldn’t remember when he’d
last had something to drink.“Starving.”
He’s grateful for the hand on his arm, the familiar
touch soothing the frayed edges of his psyche.
“That’s good, I’m glad they’re all okay,” he let out
a soft, relieved breath. At his question he shook
his head. “Not yet. I don’t need fussed over at the
moment.”
:: { ℑ⋅ℇ } ─ ─ ─ ::
It’s a lucky thing their friends are
predictable because had there not been
a thermos of soup by the end of the bed,
Enjolras would have to leave the room–
that’s not something anyone wants right
now. He stretches for it, pours the clear
broth into the cup and exchanges glass
for soup.
"Don’t want to upset your stomach,
I guess. I’ll bring in solids next time you’re
awake.“ There’s still anxiety lingering on the
edges of his words, the corners of his eyes.
”Eat up. You can have a painkiller
after.“ Just one because they’re running
low and the next supply raid isn’t in eight
days. Enjolras keeps his hand close, his
thumb unconsciously running across the
blue vein on the underside of Combeferre’s
wrist. ”Joly says you shouldn’t be feeling
too much damage. It’ll take a while to be
mobile–“ and there’s more but it haunts
Enjolras and he can’t quite say it.