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Combeferre had noticed the gamin before anyone else did.
The boy had been singing a ditzy, light-hearted little tune as he pushed aside some broken bits of furniture, slipping through the hole of the barricade and into the open street before Combeferre, or anyone else for that matter, could move to stop him.
The gamin, or rather Gavroche (if we were to address him by his proper name), had heard talk amongst the revolutionaries regarding dampened gunpowder and had bravely taken the quest of gathering ammunition upon himself.
With a sack in hand, Gavroche went about himself, digging through the pockets and coats of fallen national guardsmen and insurgents alike, searching for ammunition, gunpowder horns, and whatever else could be used as an aid to the revolutionaries.
"Gavroche!" Combeferre hissed, stealing a glance quickly at Courfeyrac, making sure he hadn't noticed the street boy. Courfeyrac, thankfully and perhaps with the aid of some divine power, stayed oblivious to what was happening, talking quietly with Joly.
"Gavroche!" Combeferre called out again, trying to keep his voice low. A shot rang out quickly, but did not strike the boy as Combeferre had feared. "Perhaps," thought he, "Gavroche will return to the safety of the barricade after being shot at." Gavroche, however, did no such thing, still carrying his tune loudly, and only laughing at the missed shot.
The gamin turned and flashed a mischievous grin at Combeferre before springing upon some other unfortunate corpse to steal its possessions as well.
The shifting of furniture next to him announced Courfeyrac's presence as he looked to see what exactly the guardsman had shot at. As far as anyone was aware - anyone excluding Combeferre, that is - they were in an agreed stalemate for the moment, and the insurgents were safe on their side of the barricade. Courfeyrac, fortunately or unfortunately, wasn't able to see over the barricade on his hands and knees, and quite possibly would have just given up trying to see what was occurring and ignored the situation, if Combeferre hadn't bothered to call for the boy once more.
An expression of horror crossed Courfeyrac's face at the name that fell from Combeferre's lips, and the young man stood the best he could, trying to see over the barricade.
"Gavroche?" Courfeyrac whispered as if he couldn't quite believe it. He attempted to stand, hoping to see over the wall. Combeferre placed a hand firmly against Courfeyrac's chest, turning to call for Gavroche once more.
His planned words were interrupted as Courfeyrac moved suddenly.
"Gavroche, what are you doing?" He cried and lunged forward, trying to throw himself over the barricade. Combeferre grabbed him quickly by the upper arm, pulling him down with the help of Joly. Both students attempted to pin Courfeyrac’s writing form, the latter remaining desperate to reach Gavroche.
"Let me go, bastards!" Courfeyrac pleaded, and though his words were said nearly weakly, nothing about his actions were. In his desperate bid for freedom, he used tooth and claw alike against Combeferre and Joly, nearing his escape.
As soon as he was free from physical restraints, Courfeyrac slipped to the base of the barricade, shoving past the other insurgents as they tried to grab at him. He managed to get through them, skirting around the edges of the barricade. A stone pillar that stood near the wall provided support for Courfeyrac to lean against as he watched the actions of Gavroche.
Combeferre quickly followed the path Courfeyrac had taken, and nearly stumbled as another loud shot rang out. Could it be the little gamin had been struck at last? He prayed it was not so. Courfeyrac's chosen pillar of support aided Combeferre as well as he, too, seized the opportunity to watch the gamin.
Gavroche was on his hands and knees now, stretching his hand to the next body nearby, his face contorted by what could only be agony, a hand pressed tightly to his abdomen. It would seem as if Combeferre's prayers had gone unanswered, for the boy had been hit, his pale hand turning red as blood sluggishly dripped from his wound, onto his palm
Through gritted teeth, the street gamin continued his ridiculous song, one small, grubby hand closing around a box of ammunition. He appeared to almost drawback (perhaps even preparing to flee to safety once more) when a smattering of grapeshot struck him. Gavroche Thénadier fell back across the earth, and did not move again. That grand little soul had taken its flight.
No words fell from Courfeyrac's lips, but instead he loosed a cry of immense anguish; a wail that shook Combeferre to his very core.
Combeferre erected himself once more, following Courfeyrac as the latter ran towards Gavroche, falling to his knees.
Courfeyrac pulled Gavroche into his arms, bowing over the younger boy, weeping bitterly. Combeferre dropped a hand to Courfeyrac's shoulder, glancing to the opposing soldiers warily. One revolutionary had already fallen, no more must follow.
Courfeyrac seemed to recognize the danger they were in, and stood with Gavroche cradled gently in his arms.
He stumbled forward slightly as he walked, nearly dropping the dear child. The little angel was taken from Courfeyrac by someone - the older man who had saved the insurgents only moment's prior - and desperately Courfeyrac tried to take Gavroche back, reaching out as if to grab him once more.
Combeferre stepped between Courfeyrac and the old man, taking his dear friend by his shoulders gently.
"Courfeyrac," Combeferre said softly. Courfeyrac didn't seem to hear him and instead continued to stare quietly ahead at the retreating man carrying Gavroche.
"Courfeyrac," Combeferre repeated, shaking him to get his attention. This time, Courfeyrac deemed it proper to give Combeferre a response.
With an anguished look upon his face, he raised his gaze to meet Combeferre’s. If he had looked broken when he had clutched the gamin's limp body, he now looked shattered.
"Combeferre," he whispered and his knees buckled.
Combeferre caught Courfeyrac in his arms easily, sinking to the ground slowly with him as the other insurgent weeped.
"I have you, Courf, I have you," Combeferre said quietly, on his knees now. Courfeyrac didn't seem to hear, his head resting against the inside of Combeferre's shoulder, his eyes - that had reflected joy and passion only seconds prior - clouded and blank. He clung tightly to Combeferre, his full weight resting against him, for in this moment supporting himself was presented as a challenge.
"I was going to take him home with me," Courfeyrac said softly, hiccuping slightly. "I was going to take him and he was going to be happy. We were to-" he continued and was cut off by a harsh choking sound, gasping for breath between his heavy sobs.
"Shh, Courfeyrac, hush now," Combeferre murmured, holding him tighter (if of course, that was even possible.)
Courfeyrac once more looked to Combeferre, hiccoughing as tears continued to roll unchecked down his cheeks.
"He was only a boy, Combeferre," Courfeyrac whispered. "He was only a child!"
"I know," Combeferre said gently as Courfeyrac once more buried his face in the latter's shoulder, his hands twisting knots into the back of Combeferre's shirt as he continued his fit of grief.
"Come, Courfeyrac, on your feet," Combeferre encouraged him gently, helping Courfeyrac to stand.
Courfeyrac stood as he was willed to, but remained as rubber, leaning against Combeferre still.
"Are you steady?" Combeferre inquired softly, not preparing to move until Courfeyrac was prepared as well. At the nod, Combeferre put an arm around Courfeyrac's waist to help support him, the other putting his arm around Combeferre's shoulder.
Combeferre, now trusting Courfeyrac's words, posed his next inquiry: "Do you believe you can walk?" Another nod served as silent confirmation. Was this all the answer he would receive? Silent nods and hollow looks? Combeferre swore softly, pressing his forehead against Courfeyrac's cheek. Courfeyrac did not startle at the expected touch,
"I am the guide, Courfeyrac. We- or perhaps it is only I- remain in need of the center. Do not grow lost now."
Courfeyrac, though his tears flowed still, turned to face Combeferre once more, hugging him tightly.
"Do not let me go, please," he spoke then, a simple, soft plea.
And Combeferre embraced the man who possessed such a jubilant soul that, after holding strong for so long, finally had broken. He, too, wept.
As the national guardsmen remained in their lines and charged forward with their bayonets lowered and weapons firing, Combeferre merely tightened his hold on Courfeyrac: he would not abandon him.
Courfeyrac seemed to be in compliance with whatever Combeferre wished. He looked once to the guardsmen, and with a somber expression, turned back to peer at Combeferre once more. "I wouldn't like to see him when he collects my soul," he murmured softly against the crook of Combeferre's neck.
"Then I will hide your gaze," Combeferre replied with an equal dynamic as Courfeyrac closed his eyes, a soft smile flitting across his lips.
"It is well."
The national guardsmen reached the insurgents.