Work Text:
The bunker was quiet despite all of the people that Bahorel knew worked outside, packing up and getting ready to leave. The Thénardiers had been captured, the Princes were secure in their castle, and Bahorel should have been up there.
But after Prince Enjolras had been found and healed, Grantaire had given Bahorel a single look, them said, “Go to them.”
So there he was, in Feuilly’s room under the bunker, laying next to their sleeping form and worrying. What if they did not wake up? Bahorel had only just started to feel things for this brave, strong person, but that did not make his feelings and shallower, did not make them mean any less.
In fact, that they met in times of hardship drew him to them more. Feuilly was funny, and bold, and smart in so many ways that Bahorel could not even begin to understand. Bahorel couldn’t stand to see someone so full of life withering away to nothing in that bed. “We did it,” he whispered to them for what felt like the hundredth time, hoping for a sign of returning to consciousness or life. Or anything. “We’ll get you moved up to the castle where you can be more comfortable, safer...oh, Feuilly.
“Please don’t die on me. Life’s been changing enough, and you’re one good part of that. Please. Don’t leave me now.”
There was no answer.
There never was.
~~~~
Feuilly was moved into the castle infirmary; Bahorel slept in a cot next to them, not wanting to take up any beds for someone who would truly need it. The healers in the castle seemed much less willing to help Feuilly than Bahorel would have liked.
Luckily, Jehan was hired on as Head healer under the new regime, and they gave all they could to keep Feuilly afloat. Bahorel told Feuilly stories in the middle of the night, wondering if they heard. He helped to administer the spells to make sure Feuilly did not suffer from dehydration or malnutrition. He even bathed them, avoiding those scars across their chest. Long Live The Peoples, a phrase that would be on banners, on crests, or armor, on medals...and always on Feuilly’s skin. It broke his heart.
Their legs, at least, were setting. Skin was growing again. Blood was free from clotting. Bone mending, repairing under careful magic, careful hands.
So Bahorel waited. He helped, and he waited.
~~~
Two days before the inauguration of Bahorel’s closest friend as king, he was laying in the cot next to Feuilly, reading through the list of those who wanted to be trained to become guards. The list was hard to see by candlelight, and it was very late, but this was something he had to deal with quickly - the Peraeseans could not stay forever. Even if Bahorel wished that they would; they were extraordinary.
He flipped the thick sheet of parchment around, running through name after name and trying to see if any of them rang any bells. There was shifting and sounds of life all around him, from others that were still being healed, still dying, still hoping. So when the bed to his side made a sound, Bahorel did not notice it right away. After all, Feuilly did move sometimes; it had long ago ceased to be a source of celebration.
But when he heard a groan in a familiar voice, he sat up straight. He almost did not dare to look over at Feuilly, but dragged his eyes over that far too skinny frame anyways.
And those eyes were open. Those beautiful hazel eyes, often so full of light, were staring at him. Dry, tired lips formed something that may have been an attempt at speech, may have been a smile.
“Shh, don’t try to speak. Just stay there, Fee, stay there…” Bahorel scrambled to his feet and pressed his hand to a rune on the wall; it was an alarm system to call the healers on duty. “I’m getting help right now, I’ll get you help, just stay with me…”
But Feuilly was not listening. “Did…” they said, their voice raw after not being used for so long, throat dry. Bahorel helped them to messily drink some water, poured from a pitcher kept by their bed. “...we win?”
“Yes,” Bahorel said.”We won. We’re safe. You’re in the castle.”
“...i-is Enjolras…”
The way they struggled to speak broke Bahorel’s heart. Hopefully a healer would answer his call soon; just in case, he slapped the rune again. He nodded. “Yes, yes. We won. Enjolras and Grantaire will be crowned in two days.”
Another maybe-smile. “I...I want to go. To see.”
“You will,” Bahorel promised. “I’ll bring you myself. I promise.”
There were sounds at the door, a three-tone footstep as Joly came rushing in. “I’m here, I’m he - Feuilly!”
He came over as quickly as possible, and Bahorel stepped off to the side and Joly did whatever it was that he needed to do.
But as long as those eyes were open, Bahorel could wait a lifetime.
~~~
Of course, Feuilly slept again. When they woke again in the morning, it was again to Bahorel’s face. “Good morning,” he said, relief spreading over his face. He had been full of terror that Feuilly would go under for a long time again. “It hasn’t been as long this time - only one night.”
He helped them to drink again, and then settled on the side of their bed. Bahorel took their hand and smiled for them, even though he felt more like crying. “How long...was I gone before…?”
“Just going on a month, about. A little over three weeks, maybe not a month.”
Feuilly looked away, as if they were ashamed. Bahorel pushed that floppy hair from their face. “It’s alright. You’re going to be safe.”
“I can’t feel my legs,” they whispered.
Bahorel had been there last night when they said the same thing to Joly. Last night, it had been reporting things to someone who could help.
This morning, it was an admission of fear.
He leaned forward, unable to help himself. Bahorel kissed his his cheek, the corner of his mouth. They had kissed once before, gentle, alone in the library above the bunker. In fact, they had sort of kissed all night, off and on. But they had never gone past that, never talked about that night or what they were.
Still, Feuilly moved their head just a bit and let Bahorel press a kiss to their lips.
“We all thought you would die,” Bahorel said. “And yet you live. So perhaps the best is waiting for us once more.”
Feuilly smiled and raised their head as best they could, begging another kiss; Bahorel gave it happily. They were still weak, and it showed in how heavily their head hit the pillow. Feuilly closed their eyes, but still spoke. “Waiting for us…?”
“I think...I like the sounds of that.”