Chapter Text
“Oh God…Courf…You okay?” Combeferre asked, shaken up, but otherwise unharmed, though his SUV had just been T-boned and sent rolling into a ditch. Courfeyrac, who had been in the passenger seat, laughing and talking not thirty seconds before, was silent.
“Courfeyrac?” Combeferre asked again, panic setting in. Though the car had righted itself, there was a pool of blood on the ceiling.
“Courfeyrac!” he shouted, reaching past the rubble that was once the roof of the car and giving Courfeyrac’s shoulder a shake. His eyes fluttered open, and immediately he screamed, squeezing his eyes shut. Combeferre wished he had left him alone, for he was obviously in excruciating pain.
“You okay?” Combeferre asked, tears in his eyes. Though he knew his boyfriend was most certainly not okay, he just wanted to hear him say something—anything—besides that terrible, blood-curdling scream.
“No. No—” He struggled to find his voice, overtaken by pain. He soon lost consciousness again. Combeferre picked up his cell phone and dialed 112 for the police.
“My car was just T-boned and rolled over and my boyfriend is really hurt. We’re on the exit ramp on A1. Please come fast, he’s really in bad shape.” He looked to Courfeyrac again, shivering, though he was unconscious. Being trained as a paramedic himself, Combeferre recognized shock, and tried to shake Courfeyrac awake again, holding him as best he could, but he did not wake. He was relieved when he heard sirens.
—o0o—
Combeferre held Courfeyrac’s hand for as long as he could, even after the anesthetic kicked in and put him to sleep. He watched, tears in his eyes, as Courfeyrac was hurried into the OR, an IV in his arm, an oxygen mask over his pretty face. A nurse had to guide him back to the waiting room, where Enjolras was waiting for him with open arms.
“He’ll be alright.” Enjolras whispered, giving Combeferre a hug as he sat down. He buried his face in Enjolras’ shirt and sobbed as he rubbed his back. “They’ll take care of him. You know that.” He said, offering Combeferre a smile. Combeferre worked in that same emergency room, and knew better than anyone that Courfeyrac was in good hands; Even with that knowledge, he didn’t feel much better.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Enjolras asked, taking the seat on the sofa next to Combeferre. He shook his head.
“Talk about something else.” He mumbled into his hands, covering his face.
“Grantaire just sold a painting. It was funny, though. René tripped and fell right into the canvas, but Grantaire left it that way, so now somebody has a print of René’s whole body on their wall.” Combeferre chuckled through his tears. “He and Grantaire are making a card for Courf now. They’re going to stop by everyone’s house and have them all sign it.”
“That’s nice of them.” He sniffled. “I hope he’s alright…He looked so bad when they look him out of the car. He was…he was a mess…”
“He’ll pull through. If there’s one thing I know about Courfeyrac, it’s that he never ever gives up. He’s persistent. He’ll get through this.” Combeferre nodded, unconvinced.
—o0o—
Courfeyrac was in a medically induced coma for three days after his emergency brain surgery, and Combeferre hadn’t left his side. In fact, he had hardly released his hand. Though the blood had been cleaned from his face and hair, Courfeyrac still didn’t look the same—not to Combeferre. Though his eyes were closed gently and he was breathing evenly without a respirator, Combeferre could tell he was not sleeping—not naturally, anyway. His face wasn’t the relaxed, contented expression Combeferre saw laying next to him in bed every night. He seemed strained, somehow, almost as if he were in pain.
“Does it hurt, Mon Amour?” he asked quietly, brushing the hair away from Courfeyrac’s eyes, pulling his hand away when Courfeyrac’s face flinched, how it sometimes did in his unconsciousness. Combeferre felt tears sting behind his eyes, and fell into Courfeyrac’s shoulder, sobbing.
“I am so sorry, Courfeyrac…I am so, so sorry.” He took his hand and held it tight, kissing the inner corner of his eye, how he liked. His only wish was to see those bright brown eyes open again.
—o0o—
Two days later, five days after the car accident, Courfeyrac finally opened his eyes, the induced coma dissolving as he came back to life. The first person he set eyes on was Combeferre. He smiled, looking to Combeferre for a long moment, lifting his shaky hand and resting it on his cheek, Combeferre’s swarthy skin contrasting with Courfeyrac’s pale fingers. Combeferre took his hand and held it, simply overjoyed that he had come to, that he was awake.
“I’m so happy you’re alright, Courfeyrac.” He said, tears in his eyes.
“Courfeyrac…” he replied slowly, carefully, almost as if he had never heard his name before. “You say it so nicely.” He continued with a small smile that quickly faded into despair. “But you…I love you, I know I do, I remember we…” he struggled to find the word for a moment before continuing, “…lived together… but I don’t remember your name.” Combeferre looked horrified.
“Combeferre.” He said, his voice wavering. “You called me ‘Ferre’, remember? I’m your Ferre.” Courfeyrac nodded with a smile
“I remember you.” he grinned meekly. “I remember…we…we’re dating, me and you.”
“That’s right.” Combeferre said with a meek smile. “Do you remember Marius? He’s you’re best friend. Or Enjolras? Or Grantaire? They live in the apartment above us. Or René, their little boy?” Courfeyrac shook his head, and Combeferre looked up to the doctor, who had observed his awakening and was taking notes on his current condition. “You’ll remember soon.” He continued, though he was looking at the doctor, who shook his head. Combeferre felt tears stinging behind his eyes again.
“I want to…um…what?—I want to…” he tried to say, stumbling over his words, at a loss, the phrase simply not making its way from his brain to his mouth. Combeferre could see the frustration in his face, his eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong with me?” he asked, becoming suddenly panicked. He tried to sit up, but the doctor forbid it, laying him back down carefully by the shoulder. Courfeyrac looked around franticly, as if only just realizing he was in a hospital.
“Do you remember the car accident?” Combeferre asked, taking his hand soothingly, rubbing his knuckles with his thumb. Courfeyrac’s eyes widened. It was then that Combeferre—and the doctor—realized that Courfeyrac’s pupils were two wildly different sizes.
“A car accident—Are you alright? Are you hurt?” he asked. Combeferre squeezed his hand reassuringly.
“No, Mon Amour, but you were hurt very badly…Your head…you needed brain surgery to bring the swelling down.” he explained. As a doctor himself, Combeferre knew Courfeyrac would wake with a traumatic brain injury, but he was unsure of the extent. Though Courfeyrac was having obvious memory problems, he may also exhibit physical effects as well, but nobody could be sure before he was well enough to get up from his bed.
Courfeyrac sighed heavily, finally relaxing into the bed.
“I’m going to have to run a few tests, Combeferre.” The doctor said after a long moment. “You’ll have to leave.” Combeferre understood. He had been on the other side of the situation many times, having to ask a concerned parent or friend to leave the room, and did not protest. Courfeyrac, however, did.
“No. No please let him stay.” He said.
“I can’t, Mon Amour, but I will be right out in the waiting room, I promise you.” Combeferre explained with a smile. Courfeyrac nodded, and Combeferre headed for the door. The moment it was shut, he fell into Enjolras, who was waiting just outside for him. He, too, had been at the hospital for the past five days. He had sat with Combeferre for hours when Courfeyrac was in surgery, took him for coffee after sleepless nights, let him sleep on his shoulder in the waiting room. Now, Enjolras simply held him, letting Combeferre cry into his shoulder. It was awkward for Enjolras, who had to stand on his toes and reach up to drape his arm over Combeferre’s back, for he was almost a head taller than he, but he did it none the less, rubbing circles into his back.
“It’s alright.” He cooed. “Everything will be alright.”
“He doesn’t remember…He doesn’t remember. He can’t talk right, he’s…he’s…”
“I know.” Enjolras said in an effort to stop Combeferre’s babbling, hoping to calm him down. “I know, Ferre, It’s alright. It’s okay.”
“He doesn’t remember you. Or Grantaire. He can’t even remember Marius. Marius is his best friend, and he doesn’t remember…”
“What did the doctor say?” Enjolras asked, sitting Combeferre down on the bench out in the hallway, taking a seat next to him.
“He said…He said he might never remember…And I’m so afraid he’ll have cognitive and physical disabilities…Enjolras, what if he can’t walk?”
“Then you’ll love him just as much as you do right now. Just as much as you did before.”
“But…But what if he never remembers, Enjolras? He’s forgotten everything…He’s forgotten René, even though they spent every Monday together…” Courfeyrac had, in fact, babysat René every Monday when Enjolras went into court and Grantaire met clients for his illustrations. Enjolras was sad, of course. René was not easily forgettable, with his dreamy personality and crash of golden curls, but he tried not to let his disappointment show.
“That’s alright. He might remember as soon as he sees us. Memory is a funny thing. You know that. You’ve treated hundreds of people with traumatic brain injuries.” Combeferre nodded, leaning back and letting the back of his head flop against the wall with a small thud.
—o0o—
Two days later, the extent of Courfeyrac’s brain trauma became evident. As it turned out, he could not walk on his own, nor could he lift anything small or heavy in his hands. Combeferre sat with him in the physical rehabilitation room, keeping him company, offering support when he was frustrated, which was often. He had great difficulty expressing himself and his feelings, and he couldn’t stand it.
“Courfeyrac, try to lift the weight into the container. Grab it by the hook on the top, please.” the physical therapist instructed. Courfeyrac slowly moved his shaking hand to the 50 gram weight, carefully placing his fingers around the small hook. His trouble seemed to be with applying appropriate pressure into his fingertips. He couldn’t quite hold it tightly enough to lift it without dropping it shortly after picking it up. This frustrated him beyond belief. It’s so simple! He told himself. Why can’t I do this? Whenever Combeferre saw him becoming distressed, he would take his hand.
Walking was far more frustrating for Courfeyrac than lifting a small weight, though. At first, the doctor had tried to let him walk on his own, using a pair of bars to support himself. It worked for a few steps, but Courfeyrac’s arms were not coordinated enough to move along with his legs, and his wrists would give out, causing him to fall or stumble. Combeferre was always there to catch him.
One day, after a particularly rough round of physical therapy, he sat with Combeferre in his hospital room, tears in his eyes.
“Please don’t cry, Mon Amour.” Combeferre cooed, wiping his eyes. Courfeyrac leaned over in his bed, resting his head on Combeferre’s shoulder. A layer of fuzz had begin to grow back over the portion of his head that had been shaved for surgery, and it felt strange against Combeferre’s skin.
“I’m sorry…You can…um…you can go…leave…If you want to.” Courfeyrac said with some difficulty.
“It’s alright. I don’t mind staying here, as long as I can be with you.” Combeferre replied with a smile.
“No, not leave here…I meant…It’s okay if you want to leave me.” Combeferre’s mouth went dry.
“Why would I ever want to leave you?” he asked, resting his head on top of Courfeyrac’s. He took his hand.
“I can’t…I can’t think right.” He replied, tears rolling down his pasty cheeks—natural color had not yet returned to Courfeyrac’s face. “I can’t…um…walk. I’d be…like…a problem for you. A burden.” He admitted, pulling away from Combeferre and laying down, dizzy.
“Never.” Combeferre replied. “Never ever. I would never leave you. I love you, and I’ll love you in a wheelchair, and I’ll love you when you’re here in the hospital, and I’ll love you when you’re upset at physical therapy, and I’ll love you even if I have to take care of you all on my own. I will never ever leave you, Courfeyrac.” He smiled, leaning over and kissing the inner corner of his eye—his favorite place to be kissed.
“You say so now…” Courfeyrac continued, distress still evident in his face. “But when you…um…when you want to talk politics, and I’m…like…uh…not smart enough…”
“Courfeyrac, you’re still intelligent. You haven’t lost your wit. You just have a cognitive problem, but perhaps it will go away. I know you’re intelligent.” He smiled again.
“I can’t talk right…like…correctly, I mean.”
“But you’re doing so well. You’re getting better every day.”
“I can’t…um…walk.”
“That’s alright. The doctor says you’ll be up on your feet again. We just have to keep working at it. Be persistent. I know it’s hard…”
“No, Combeferre! You don’t understand!” Courfeyrac suddenly wailed, his voice sharp, thick with pain and frustration. “You say you want to stay now, but what about…uh…about when I need help eating? Or when…um…I need a shower, or to get changed…What if I—uh—can’t do it?! What then?!”
“Then I will be right there with you. And I’ll help you.”
“You will get bored…er…tired of it. You might be alright at first, but…you’ll…um…you’ll tire of it.”
“I will never tire of loving you.”
“You won’t be able to…like…g-go to work. You’d have to stay home with me.”
“Maybe at first…But you’ll get better. I know it, Mon Amour. You are persistent. You will get better.”
“What if I can’t? What if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll love you anyway. But that won’t happen. You’ll get better.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.” Courfeyrac replied, sitting up in bed and kissing Combeferre deeply. “I’ll get better. I’ll get better for you.”
“I know you will. I know you will.”
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