Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The room was stifling. Candle wax pooled on the table beside him, the flame flickering with each shifting shadow from the hall beyond. Saint-Just’s pistol sat near his hand, polished, loaded. Familiar. He placed it gently on the table.

“I won’t need it yet,” he murmured, as much to himself as to Robespierre.

“Be nice if you don’t ever need it…” Robespierre mumbled.

Saint-Just rolled his eyes, but he immediately felt bad and was extremely grateful Robespierre didn’t see. Robespierre stood near the window, gazing out at the silent street below, lips pressed into a thin line. He hadn’t spoken much in the last hour. Whatever resolve had kept him upright all day seemed to be fraying. Saint-Just stepped closer.

“You should sit. You haven’t—”

“I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t. Saint-Just could see it. In the tremor in his hand. His cheeks were paler than usual. The way his gaze seemed to search the dark for something that wasn’t there. Saint-Just looked at him for a long moment. 

“We’ll find a way out of this. We always do.”

Robespierre turned, his expression unreadable. “Do we? When did we last find ourselves in a position such as this…?”

Saint-Just didn’t know what to say. So he said nothing. A shout echoed down the hallway. Le Bas was calling for him, his voice agitated.

“I’ll be right back,” Saint-Just said, half-turning. “Stay here. I- I’ll be right back.”

He left the room. Just a moment. Just to check the door. Le Bas looked back at him, his back against the door bracing himself. Then—

The shot.

It cracked through the Hôtel like a thunderclap. Not from the stairwell. Not from the courtyard. Not behind the door. From the room he had just left. Saint-Just spun and ran. It was almost as if the world around him slowed. He shoved the door open and froze. Robespierre was on the ground. His back against the table leg. Blood soaked the front of his shirt. His jaw– 

Oh God, his face

His jaw was torn open, shredded and red and trembling. Saint-Just stumbled forward, falling to his knees.

“No—no, no, Maxime!”

Robespierre’s eyes fluttered open. He tried to speak, but it was all choking and blood. Saint-Just’s hands hovered uselessly. Unable to stop the bleeding or too afraid to do more damage, unable to do anything but look at him, his hands hovering over him shaking.

“Why would you… why would you do this?” he whispered. His voice cracked. “You weren’t supposed to go first. I…”

The pistol lay a few feet away. Saint-Just stared at it. His pistol. The one he’d left behind. He had left it. He had handed Maxime the means. And Maxime had taken it.

—

The room reeked of blood and sweat and burnt powder. Someone had lit a lantern near the wall, its light pale and sickly. Robespierre lay on the table, barely conscious. His jaw wrapped in makeshift bandages, his breath wet and rattling. He hadn't spoken since they dragged him in. Saint-Just sat nearby. He hadn't moved in what felt like hours. His coat was stiff with dried blood, not his own. He hadn’t bothered trying to clean it. The gendarme medic had done what he could, which wasn't much. There was no real effort to save him. Just enough to make him last until morning. Saint-Just reached across the table. For a long time, he didn’t touch him. Just let his hand hover over Robespierre’s, still, cold, and unmoving hand. Finally, he took it. Held it. Fingers slightly curled. His throat burned. But not from smoke.

“You weren’t supposed to do this,” he whispered. “You were supposed to fight. You- oh Maxime…”

Robespierre didn’t respond. His eyelids flickered. A faint tremor passed through his shoulders.

“You said we’d see the Republic through together. That we’d die for it, if we had to. But not like this.” His grip tightened. “Not like this .”

Saint-Just looked away.

“I left you alone for one minute . You looked me in the eye. And you waited until I was gone.”

He leaned forward, voice low, rough.

“Did… did you plan it?”

Robespierre shifted slightly. Whether it was pain or acknowledgement, Saint-Just couldn’t tell.

“I trusted you,” he said. “I followed you. Every speech. Every purge. Every sleepless night! I was there . And when the whole world turned against you, I stayed.” Saint-Just’s voice broke “And you didn’t even let me say goodbye. You- you were just going to leave me…”

He closed his eyes. Silence stretched between them, broken only by Robespierre’s laboured breathing.

Chapter Text

The hallway stank of sweat, soot, and something worse. Gunpowder and rot, maybe. Saint-Just kept his head down as he moved, the stolen coat heavy on his back. He passed one of the dead guards slumped by the stairs. The body's mouth hung open like it had died mid-curse. Saint-Just didn’t flinch. After all, he'd seen worse. The forged pass was damp in his palm, ink blurring from sweat. “Medical transport. Incapacitated prisoner.” Nothing fancy. Official enough to make a tired man wave him through rather than ask questions. Back in the chamber, Robespierre still lay where he’d left him. Breathing, barely. Pale. Jaw bound shut. He was so still, Saint-Just thought for a terrifying moment he’d already lost him.

“Not yet,” he whispered, crouching beside him. “Not now.”

He slid an arm beneath Robespierre’s shoulders and winced at the low hiss that escaped Robespierre’s throat. The sound was weak. But it was sound.

“Forgive me,” he murmured. “I have to hurt you to save you.”

He wrapped him in a dusty grey blanket, hiding the blood as best he could, and hauled him upright. To Saint-Just seemed fragile, boneless, dead weight. Robespierre hissed softly through his teeth. Saint-Just didn’t let himself stop. Out the side corridor, down a back stairwell. A clerk with hollow eyes nodded from the shadows.

“Medical?” the man asked, brow creased.

Saint-Just didn’t speak. He only thrust the paper forward with one bloodied hand and adjusted Robespierre’s arm with the other, making him slump just enough to look unconscious. Or dead. The soldier looked down, lips moving silently as he read. Saint-Just's heart was a hammer in his chest. He could hear every tick of it. Could hear Robespierre’s rattling breath against his shoulder.

“Where you taking him?”

“Charenton,” Saint-Just rasped, just above a whisper. “If he makes it.”

The guard grunted. “He won’t.” And stepped aside.

Saint-Just didn’t run. Not yet. He walked, steps measured, deliberate, until the shadows swallowed them whole. Then he turned the corner and bolted for the alley. The cart was waiting. Hidden beneath tarps and damp linen. He lay Robespierre down as gently as he could, brushing tangled hair from his forehead.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Just… stay alive…”

He climbed up, took the reins, and flicked them hard. The horse jerked forward with a reluctant grunt, and Saint-Just didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

The wind whistled through the broken slats of the old mill. Weeds choked the path, growing up through the boards like the land was trying to forget it ever stood here. It hadn’t ground wheat in years. The great wheel was frozen mid-turn, half-sunk in the creek. Useless. Silent. Saint-Just dragged the cart off the road with shaking hands. The horse, too tired to protest, let him guide it into the shadows beneath a collapsed awning. He jumped down, boots thudding in the wet earth. He unhitched the horse, pulled off the harness and gently bumped it to get it to run off. Saint-Just went to the back of the wagon. Robespierre hadn’t moved.

“Still breathing,” Saint-Just murmured. He didn’t know if he was reassuring himself or the man beneath the blanket. “Still breathing. That’s all that matters right?”

He gathered him up again, careful of the shattered jaw, and burned skin. Robespierre gurgled, just once, barely conscious. 

“You know it’s me,” he whispered. “You know I came back.”

The mill was cold. The cracked windows let the wind in, and mice skittered across the stone floor, but there was a dry corner. A pallet. That’s all he needed. He lowered Robespierre down to the pallet and pulled the blanket tight around him. Then the rest was a blur. Water from the creek, boiled over a low fire fed with rotting timber. A threadbare sheet for bandages. Cloth torn from his own shirt to pad the wound. When he finally peeled the blood away from Robespierre’s face, he had to pause. His hands shook. The shot had torn through the lower jaw and out the cheek. The blood had dried in thick black ropes down his neck, clotting in the collar. His lips were swollen, his teeth visible through the ruin. Saint-Just swallowed hard trying not to gag. He reached for the water and began to clean the wound.

“You used my pistol.” The breath caught in his throat, bitter. “I left it. I—” He stopped. There was no point in explaining. Robespierre knew, and he knew. “You didn’t ask. You just… did it. That’s stupid… of course you didn’t ask… who asks for a pistol to kill themselves…”

He wrapped the jaw as best he could. Dried his hands on his breeches. Then sat beside him, leaning his back against the pallet, staring at the last light bleeding through the ruined windowpanes. Robespierre shifted. Just slightly. His eyes fluttered open. Clouded. Confused.

“Shh.” Saint-Just leaned in. “Don’t speak. Hell, I don’t know if you could even if you wanted to.”

Robespierre looked at him. Something flickered there, recognition? Apology? Pain? Saint-Just reached out and, without thinking, took his hand.

“I should be furious with you,” he whispered. “I am. ” His voice broke. “You don’t get to die. Not like this. Not without me. You can’t leave me alone, you hear me?”

Robespierre’s lips moved, but no sound came. Just a breath. His eyes shone in the dark. Saint-Just leaned down, forehead touching his.

“I’m sorry… well… I don’t- Rest, Maxime. I’ll keep you safe...”

Chapter Text

The wind had died. The mill was silent, save for the rhythmic creaking of the rotting wheel as it shifted in the current, evidently no longer frozen, just barely moving. Like a breath. Saint-Just woke with a start. He hadn’t meant to sleep. His head had dropped against the stone wall sometime after dusk, and now his neck ached from the angle. The fire had burned down to embers. Robespierre was moving. Not deliberately though his body jerked beneath the blankets, his limbs twitching, eyes fluttering open and closed. His breath was loud. Ragged. His brow shone with sweat despite the cold. Saint-Just leaned in fast, brushing damp hair from his forehead.

“Maxime?”

The man didn’t respond. His eyes weren’t focused. His lips moved without sound. He touched his face. Skin, burning. His heart dropped.

“No, no, no—” he muttered, fumbling for the water, dipping the last strip of clean cloth into it. He pressed it to Robespierre’s brow. The heat didn’t budge. If anything, it worsened. He checked the jaw. Swollen. The bandage already darkened with blood and pus.

“Infection,” he said aloud. “Shit.”

He stood and turned in place, pacing the room, hands in his hair. “Shit.”

There was no laudanum. No proper bandages. Nothing clean. Nothing enough . He boiled more water. Cleaned the wound again. Robespierre made a sound that might have been a  sob. Saint-Just apologized under his breath a hundred times, each apology rougher than the last. Then he couldn’t take it anymore. He stood and left. The night outside was black and thick with fog, a pale haze low to the ground. The stars were gone. No moon. The fields stretched like a void around the broken shell of the mill. Saint-Just staggered a few steps from the door and finally let go. He dropped to his knees in the cold grass and clenched his fists in the dirt, his face contorting as the first sob hit him hard in the chest. He didn’t cry pretty, he never had. The noise that tore out of him was choked, strangled, ugly.

“You bastard,” he whispered. “You utter bastard.”

He gasped. His nails dug into the earth.

“You don’t get to leave me. Not like this. Not after everything .”

He rocked forward, forehead against the damp ground, shoulders heaving. He went silent. Just the night wind answered him. Then, slowly, he sat back up. His hands were shaking. His face was soaked with tears. He stood. Steadied himself. Wiped his cheeks on his sleeve. Then went back inside. Robespierre was shivering violently now. Saint-Just threw more wood on the fire. It was wet, mossy stuff that hissed and smoked, then he sat down at Robespierre's side again. He unwrapped the bandage, cleaned the wound a second time, then a third. He soaked the cloth and wiped every inch of him down, whispering whatever he could think of. Something that could sooth him. Fragments of speeches, lines from Rousseau, said aloud like some strange prayer. When Robespierre whimpered faintly and turned his face toward the sound of his voice, Saint-Just leaned down moving the stray hairs from his forehead.

“You are not dying,” he said. “You hear me, Maxime? You do not get to leave me. Not yet.”

—

The fever worsened. By morning, Maxime was soaked through with sweat. The bandage was useless now, completely dark, almost black, the wound beneath slick and swollen. The stench was unmistakable. Saint-Just sat back on his heels, staring at it with bloodshot eyes. It was festering. No matter how many times he cleaned it, no matter how many cloths he soaked and pressed against the broken skin, it didn’t matter. The infection was deeper than the surface now. Eating him from the inside. There was no laudanum. No tincture. No surgeon. But he had a knife. Saint-Just turned slowly toward the hearth. The embers still glowed faint red, faint enough that they seemed to blink when he looked too long. He drew his dagger and held it in his lap. For a long time, he just sat there. The fire popped softly. Maxime gurgled in his fever sleep, thrashing against the blanket. Saint-Just stood and walked to him. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “This is going to hurt.”

Then he went back to the fire. He sunk the blade into the coals. It took longer than he expected. The steel had to turn red-hot, glowing. When he pulled it free, the light reflected in his wide, wild eyes. He didn’t hesitate. He went to Maxime, pinned him again with one forearm, pulled the bandage loose, and pressed the flat of the glowing dagger directly to the infected wound. The noise that tore from Maxime’s throat was horrifying. A strangled, gurgling cry like nothing human. It broke midway through and turned into a choked gasp. His back arched, his body convulsed. But Saint-Just didn’t stop. He held the blade there until the searing hiss of burning flesh filled the air. Then he pulled it away and threw it to the ground. Maxime fell limp. Saint-Just dropped beside him, pressing his head to his chest.

Still breathing.

Still there.

He didn’t move for minutes. Just lay beside him, gripping the edge of the blanket like a child. His hands shook violently. His own chest rose and fell in sharp, desperate gulps.

“…Maxime? I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’m so, so sorry…”

He wrapped his arms around him. Held him as gently as he could, afraid to hurt him more. Saint-Just stayed there like that for what could have been five minutes or five hours. Something bruised faintly against Saint-Just’s arm. Maxime’s hand.

Chapter Text

The night dragged on like something wounded. Slow, limping, and full of dread. Antoine didn't dare look away from Maxime. He had already checked his pulse more times than he could count, had pressed the back of his hand to Maxime's flushed again and again, waiting for the burning cheek to recede. And then, somewhere between the last bandage change and the slow blue creep of dawn, it happened. The fire was dying again, and Antoine was kneeling beside it, feeding the last of the dry wood to the embers. Behind him, Maxime Stirred. A shift of cloth. A low sound. Barely whispered. Antoine turned so fast he scraped his knees on the stone floor. Maxime's forehead was slick with sweat, his breaths shallow but even. And when Antoine bent closed, he saw it: the fever had broken. His skin was no longer burning to the touch. Pale now, deathly pale, but cooler. Alive. Antoine let out a breath like a man resurfacing from beneath ice. He sat back, hard, covering his face with both hands. Then he laughed. 

“You stubborn, impossible bastard,” he whispered hoarsely. “You’re not done yet.”

Maxime didn't open his eyes. But he was breathing. The worst, it seemed, had passed. The fire cracked behind him. Dawn began to look into the world outside, casting a dull gray light through the gaps in the shutters. It washed the room in a soft, muted glow. Antoine’s body suddenly felt as though it was made of lead. Every muscle ached with fatigue. He reached out, took Maxime's hand again.

“You almost left me,” he said, voice low, tight. “And I still don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you for that.”

He traced the bones of Maxime's fingers with his thumb.

“But I think I'd forgive you anything if you'd just stay.”

There was no answer. Maxime slept, still and silent. But something in his face had eased. Less drawn, less pained. Antoine leaned forward, folded his arms on the edge of the side, and laid his head down beside Maxime's hand. He let himself really cry this time.

Chapter Text

It was hours  before Maxime opened his eyes. Antoine had fallen asleep at the edge of the pallet, arms still folded, cheek resting near Maxime's hand. The fire had died down again. The shutters let in only a sliver of pale light. It cut a line across Maxime's chest like a blade. Maxime didn't move. Couldn't. Every breath came slowly and shallowly. His throat burned, dry and clotted with silence. He tried to speak, but no sound came. Antoine stirred. His head lifted groggily, hair tousled, face lined from sleep and strain. His eyes blinked, unfocused at first, until they landed on Maxime's open gaze. He froze. For a long time, neither of them moved. Antoine's breath caught in his throat.

"…Maxime?" he asked, the name small, unbelieving.

Maxime blinked again, just once. It was all he could do. Antoine sat up so quickly his head spun. He leaned forward, eyes wide, hands hovering as if afraid to touch.

“You're awake,” he breathed. “You… God… Maxime…”

“I didn't think- I didn’t know-” He broke off, voice catching. Maxime blinked again, slower this time. Antoine sank back down. His fingers found Maxime's, hesitantly at first, then more firmly, grounding himself in the proof that this man, his friend, his- well anyway… he was still here.

“You can't speak,” he said after a moment. “The wound… it might be permanent.”

Maxime didn't flinch. But something flickered in his eyes. Antoine exhaled and looked down at their hands. 

“You used my pistol.”

Maxime's fingers twitched.

“I left it on the table,” Antoine continued quietly. “I knew it was there. I just… I didn’t think. Or maybe I did. Maybe I knew you might. Maybe I let you-”

Maxime's hand squeezed his. Not hard, just enough to say stop.

Antoine ignored it.

“You planned it,” he said, voice rising slightly. “Don't lie with your eyes, Maxime. You waited until we were all looking the other way. Like you thought it was noble!” His jaw clenched. “But it wasn’t. It was cowardice.” His voice cracked. “It was cruel.”

Maxime blinked again, slower this time. His lips parted like he wanted to speak, but only a rasp came out. Dry air over broken flesh. Antoine leaned in closer, his voice breaking. 

“You left me alone.”

A long silence followed. Maxime looked at him, not pleading, not denying. Just watching. Enduring. Antoine shook his head slowly. “I didn't think I could love someone more than I hated them in the same moment.” He swallowed hard. “But I do. Somehow, I do.”

Maxime's fingers squeezed his again, this time stronger, purposeful. His eyes were glassy now. He couldn't say I know, or I'm sorry, or me too. But Antoine understood him all the same. He pressed Maxime's hand to his lips, the contact brief and trembling.

“Rest,” he murmured, voice barely there. “Just rest. Get better, you hear me?”

Maxime gave his hand one last squeeze before closing his eyes to sleep.

Chapter Text

It had been four days since Maxime opened his eyes. The fever hadn’t returned, and the wound had begun to scab. He could move more easily now, though not without pain. Still, he did not speak. Antoine had tried once, just once, to coax a word from him, but the sound Maxime made in reply was so raw and strangled it had frightened them both. Since then, they had only exchanged what little they could with glances, gestures, the occasional furrow of a brow. That morning, they sat together in the circle of sunlight that filtered through the mill’s broken slats. Antoine had pulled a rickety chair up to the pallet, facing him. A bowl of broth sat untouched at Maxime’s side. The silence between them wasn’t cold, but it was heavy. Antoine toyed with a strip of fabric, twisting it in his hands.

“I wanted to die with you…” he muttered.

Maxime blinked, slow and deliberate. He gave a small shake of the head. No.

Antoine huffed softly. “Don’t argue. You can’t even speak. ”

Maxime tilted his head, just slightly, something between exasperation and affection. His hand lifted, trembling, and he reached toward Antoine’s chest. His fingers brushed lightly against the front of Antoine’s shirt, just above his heart. Then he pressed his palm there, slow and steady. His gaze was soft, steady. Antoine swallowed, staring at that hand. At the pale, battered face behind it. Maxime tapped his chest with two fingers. Then, with effort, he tapped Antoine’s again.

Antoine looked confused. “You… me?”

Maxime gave a faint, solemn nod. Maxime squeezed his fingers against Antoine’s chest. Maxime lowered his hand but didn’t let go. His thumb brushed the fabric beneath his palm.

“I thought I hated you for what you tried to do.” Antoine’s voice cracked. “But I think I hated you more for not telling me. Or maybe I hated me for not seeing…”

Maxime looked down. Antoine reached out and gently lifted his chin. “Did you mean to die?” 

Maxime didn’t move for a moment. Then, slowly, steadily, he nodded. A silence followed that was worse than shouting or crying or any outburst. Antoine’s hand dropped. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice raw. “Why?”

Maxime made a helpless motion with both hands, palms open. Knowing he couldn't convey all that with hand gestures. 

“I would have followed you,” Antoine said. “You knew that.”

Maxime nodded . Antoine pressed a hand to his forehead, then let out a strangled laugh. “You magnificent, maddening fool.”

When he looked back up, Maxime was watching him with something like sorrow and something else. Tenderness, perhaps? Regret? Maxime reached again. This time, not for his chest, but for his hand. Their fingers twined, slowly, quietly. Antoine didn’t resist. Maxime looked at him. Really looked.

Then, with care, he brought Antoine’s hand up and pressed it against his own cheek. Just for a moment. He closed his eyes. Antoine stared at him, stunned. When Maxime opened his eyes again, Antoine whispered, “Don’t leave me.”

Maxime shook his head, barely.

“Not again,” Antoine added.Maxime pressed their foreheads together. Wordless. Shaking. Alive. They stayed like that a long time.

–

The fire had burned low, casting gold and shadow across the walls of the mill. Outside, the wind whispered in the trees, restless, but distant. Safe. Antoine sat on the edge of the pallet, watching Maxime doze. Maxime had gained strength in the past days, but his voice had not returned. The wound on his jaw and neck had healed poorly, a raised, angry scab that tightened when he tried to speak. He’d stopped trying. But his eyes spoke more now. His hands. His silences. Antoine had grown used to the quiet between them, but sometimes, in the dark, he could feel Maxime watching him, like there was something he needed to say but didn’t know how. Tonight was one of those nights. Maxime stirred, opening his eyes slowly. He looked at Antoine not in the vague, unfocused way of the fevered, but sharply, with intention.

“What is it?” Antoine asked softly.

Maxime didn’t answer, of course. But he reached for him, fumbling a little, weak still, and brushed his fingers against Antoine’s sleeve. He tapped Antoine’s hand. Once. Then again. A soft rhythm.

“Do you need something?” Antoine asked. “Water? More blankets?”

A shake of the head. Maxime held his hand up, flat. Then curled his fingers slowly into a fist over his heart. Antoine frowned slightly, trying to follow. “You… feel something?”

Maxime nodded. Then, slowly, he reached out again and placed his palm, open, trembling, against Antoine’s chest, over his heart.

Antoine’s breath hitched. “You mean…?”

Maxime swallowed. Then, with effort, tapped twice against Antoine’s chest. Once more against his own. Then again between them. Back and forth. You. Me. You. Me. You. Me.

Antoine stared at him. “You… Maxime, are you trying to tell me that…?”

Maxime held his gaze.

There was nothing casual in his touch, nothing confused. His fingers slid up, brushed against Antoine’s jaw. 

Antoine trembled. “I—”

Maxime pressed his forehead gently to Antoine’s but this time, he lingered. 

“I thought…” Antoine whispered. “I thought it was just me. No- no… that’s a lie… I… I think I did know…”

Maxime pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. He tapped his fingers gently at his throat. A pause. Then, faintly, he traced the shape of Antoine’s name in the air— A … N … T … His hand fell. Antoine took it in both of his, holding it like something precious. “Don’t try to speak. You don’t have to.”

There was so much they couldn’t say. So much neither had dared to. He had wanted to die rather than confess this. Or had died because he hadn’t. Because the weight of loving in silence had been one more stone around his neck. Antoine leaned in, brushing his lips, not a kiss per say, against Maxime’s temple. Antoine didn’t dare do more for fear of hurting him. But Maxime smiled as much as his injury would allow, and held his hand tighter.

Chapter Text

The mill was quiet now. The countryside stretched in muted greens and golds beyond. Antoine helped Maxime to his feet. It wasn’t easy. Maxime’s body was frail, thin with fever and hunger, trembling under its own weight. But he didn’t protest. He let Antoine wrap an arm around his waist, let himself be guided carefully toward the door.

“You need air… It might help…” Antoine said hesitantly as though afraid his words would somehow shatter Maxime. The air outside was crisp and bright. Maxime’s eyes fluttered shut as it hit his face, wind threading gently through his disheveled hair. He breath was shallow. They settled near the old stone wall at the edge of the mill’s ruined garden, where wild mint and overgrown clover clung to life. Maxime leaned against him, silent, eyes half-closed. Antoine stayed quiet too, just watching the breeze stir Maxime's curls. For all his sharpness in the Convention, Saint-Just's fingers were careful, reverent now as they brushed the hair from Maxime's temple. A cooing sound made Maxime look up. His eyes lit up. Two pigeons nestled on the ledge beneath the broken wheel. One pale grey, one soft brown. The brown one limped awkwardly, wings twitching. Its companion stayed close, cooing lowly, brushing its beak gently along the injured one’s neck.

“Pigeons, your favorite.” Antoine whispered, unsure why he was even whispering. “They've been here the past few days. I think the brown was attaked by a fox or something… got hurt... But the other won't leave it.”

Maxime leaned against Antoine, his fingers tightening faintly in the fabric of Antoine’s coat. His lips parted slightly, but no words came, only a quiet sound, almost a sigh. Antoine followed his gaze. Then smiled, just a little.

“They mate for life, pigeons,” he murmured. “You told me that once…”

Maxime blinked once. Slowly. His gaze never left the pair.

“One’s hurt,” Antoine continued. “But the other stays with it. Doesn’t leave it behind.”

A breath escaped Maxime, not a sigh this time, but something softer. His hand moved, uncertain, then rested on Antoine’s wrist. The sunlight glinted on Maxime’s lashes as his eyes turned toward him—wet, fever-bright, but clear. He lifted his hand again, fingers shaking, and pressed them to Antoine’s chest. Then to his own. Then gently, back to Antoine’s. Antoine went still.

“…I know,” he whispered again, this time brokenly.

Maxime’s hand lingered.

“I’m here,” Antoine said, voice rough. “Even now. Even after—” He broke off, closed his eyes. “None of that matters now does it…? I’m here… you're here…"

Maxime looked down, shame flickering in the curve of his brow.

“No,” Antoine whispered. “Don’t look away. Please…”

He reached out, cupped Maxime’s cheek in his hand.

“You… you don’t know what you are to me. I didn’t know, not really… not until I almost lost you…”

Maxime leaned into the touch. The pigeons cooed again behind them. One tucked itself tighter to the other’s side. A small smile played on Maxime’s lips. Antoine looked at them too.

“…They’re both male,” he said quietly. “I think… they're supposed to have bigger foreheads right…?" 

Maxime gave a huff of breath, something almost like laughter, almost like grief. Then leaned forward, resting his brow against Antoine’s shoulder.

Chapter Text

Dr. Armand Vauclerc was used to the silence. The years of the revolution had been kind to him, relatively speaking. He had chosen discretion over loyalty, had said little and treated all, Jacobin or royalist, who needed tending. Silence was normal. His wife was already asleep, curled on her side beneath the heavy blanket. He leaned to kiss her temple, then extinguished the lamp by the bed. The fire was dying down. The wind outside had the promise of rain. He was just drifting into sleep when something shifted. A creak. Floorboards. Not the kind a house made on its own. Before he could move, breathe, call out, he felt it. Cold and hard. Metal, against his throat.

“Don’t move.” The voice was low, hoarse with exhaustion. Measured, but only just. It trembled faintly under the surface, not from fear, but restraint. His wife stirred. A gasp.

“Stay quiet,” the voice snapped. “No one needs to be hurt.”

Dr. Vauclerc’s heart pounded. Slowly, he opened his eyes. A figure loomed above him, half-shadowed by the moonlight. Young, pale, wild-eyed. Dirt stained the cuffs of his coat, blood on his sleeves. His hair was damp with sweat. His face was drawn, unshaven. But the eyes… Vauclerc recognized them. He had seen them once in Paris, in the hall of the Convention. And then the stranger confirmed it.

“I am Louis Antoine de Saint-Just,” he said, voice steady now. “You know that name. You know what they call me. What they say I’ve done.”

His wife let out a strangled sound. Saint-Just didn’t flinch. “You’re a doctor. I need you.”

Vauclerc tried to nod. The blade didn’t move.

“My… friend. He’s dying. I won’t lose him. You will come with me. Now.”

“I-” Vauclerc swallowed. “I will come. I swear it. But please… my wife-”

“She will remain here. You will not speak a word of this to anyone. You will not betray us. If you do, I will return. And I will not be merciful.”

Saint-Just stepped back. The knife lowered. Vauclerc sat up slowly. His hands trembled, but he nodded.

“I’ll get my bag.”

Saint-Just’s shoulders sagged slightly, just for a moment, like the fire inside him flickered. But when he looked up again, his eyes were just as sharp. Vauclerc looked into the face of the man the people had once called the Angel of Death and saw no angel there, only a man on the edge of something vast and final. A man who had already lost too much.

Chapter Text

The mill was cold. The fire had long since died to embers, and the air smelled of damp wood and dried blood. Dr. Vauclerc stood just inside the threshold, his eyes adjusting slowly. Saint-Just stood beside him, taut and silent, like a man wound too tightly to move. One hand still hovered near his dagger. He hadn’t spoken since they left the village. He’d barely breathed. Maximilien Robespierre lay curled on a pallet and blankets. His shirt was soaked with sweat, lips parted, eyes fluttering beneath half-lowered lids. Even from across the room, Vauclerc could hear the shallow, wet rasp of each breath. He dropped to his knees beside the pallet, already reaching for his bag.

“I need light,” he said.

Saint-Just moved at once, feeding the embers, coaxing a faint, flickering glow back to life. The light made it worse. Robespierre’s skin was waxen and pale, broken only by the angry red flush across his cheek and neck. The bandages around his jaw were dark and stiff with dried blood. The smell was unmistakable: rot, and fever, and festering flesh. Vauclerc’s fingers trembled slightly as he peeled the cloth back. The wound had been cauterized, poorly. Burned through the flesh, not cleaned properly with any spirits. The blackened edges were crusted with pus. Swelling ran down the neck and up behind the ear. Infection. Deep. It had spread. Saint-Just hovered above them both, his breathing louder now.

“Well?” he said.

Vauclerc didn’t answer right away. He pressed gently along the throat. Robespierre moaned, flinched. His pulse was thready, barely there. His skin was hot, but his extremities, Vauclerc touched one wrist, were cold. He sat back slowly.

“It’s too late.”

Saint-Just’s entire body stiffened. “What?”

Vauclerc swallowed. “He’s septic. The infection’s spread. I could have tried to drain it days ago, if I’d been called sooner, but now? There’s nothing to be done. His organs are already-”

“You’re lying.” Saint-Just’s voice was flat. “You don’t understand. He was getting better. He was lucid yesterday. He ate something. He saw the birds.”

“Sometimes the body rallies before the end,” Vauclerc said gently. “It’s not improvement. It’s a final push. I’ve seen it before.”

“No.” Saint-Just stepped closer, fists clenched. “No, you don’t understand. He was better. I’ve done everything. I fed him, cleaned the wound, I even cauterized it-”

“With a dagger?” Vauclerc said, eyes flicking to the weapon at Saint-Just’s hip.

“What else was I meant to do?!” Saint-Just screams.

The mill echoed with the sound. Outside, a pigeon startled from the rafters and flaps agitatedly. Saint-Just stood over him now, every line of his body tense. The dagger was drawn.

“You will help him.”

“I can’t.”

“You will! ”

“He’s dying, monsieur.”

Saint-Just faltered. His chest heaved. The dagger trembled in his hand. Vauclerc didn’t move.

“You think I haven’t seen death?” Saint-Just whispered.

“I know who you are,” Vauclerc said quietly. “And I know what this man is to you.”

Saint-Just flinched like he’d been struck. But Vauclerc continued. “You think I haven’t seen desperation before? In the war? You must have too. You think I don’t know the look of someone who’d do anything, burn anything, become anything, to keep someone alive?”

Silence. Saint-Just’s grip slackened. “Then do something,” he said. It was no longer a command, but a plea.

“I can ease his pain,” Vauclerc said. “I have laudanum. It will numb him. That’s all I can offer.”

Saint-Just lowered the dagger. He turned away, hand dragging across his mouth. For a moment he was silent, motionless, then he sank down beside the pallet. His head bowed until his forehead touched the edge of the blanket. One hand reached blindly for Robespierre’s.

“I thought I’d saved him,” he whispered.

Vauclerc said nothing. He opened his satchel and withdrew a small vial.

Behind him, Saint-Just’s voice broke again, softer this time. “He looked at me. He saw me. He was… grateful. He tried to tell me he—” He broke off. “And now I have to watch him go. Again.”

Vauclerc moved gently to the bedside. Measured into a syringe. Saint-Just curled around Robespierre’s pale fingers and held them tight.

When Vauclerc offered the syringe, Saint-Just helped lift Robespierre’s head. Robespierre made a faint sound, half-conscious, but swallowed the laudanum. They eased him back down. And then Saint-Just sat there, silently holding his hand, as the drug slowly numbed Robespierre. His body awake, but relaxed now.

Saint-Just squeezed Robespierre’s tighter. "Stay with me a bit longer... please..."

Chapter Text

The fire had burned down again. Ash and cinders glowed faintly in the hearth, casting pale orange shadows across the stone walls of the mill. Outside, the world was still and dark. Somewhere in the woods, a night bird called once, then fell silent. Dr. Vauclerc stood at the door with his bag in hand. He hesitated, glancing once over his shoulder at the sleeping forms on the pallet. Antoine sat with his head bowed, still upright, still holding Maxime’s hand, his chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of sleep. Maxime’s face was turned toward him, calm, distant, barely touched by the dying light. The doctor said nothing. He let himself out quietly and disappeared into the woods. Inside the mill, nothing moved. Then the sky began to pale. It was dawn, just barely. The faintest blush of gray crept through the cracks in the walls. Antoine woke with a start. His neck ached from where he’d slumped forward. His hand was stiff from where it had remained wrapped around Maxime’s. But none of that registered. Something was wrong.

He turned to Maxime immediately, gently, almost with reverence. “...Maxime…?”

The name barely left his lips. Maxime’s skin was cold. His chest did not rise. His lips were still parted, but no breath came. His fingers so recently curled around Antoine’s now lay limp, motionless in his palm. Antoine froze.

“No.” His voice cracked. He leaned closer. “Maxime- Maxime, no, wake up please! Wake up, you—don’t—”

He pressed two fingers to Maxime’s neck. No pulse.

“No.” His voice rose. “ No. ”

He clutched at him now—grabbing his shoulders, shaking him gently, then harder.

“You said you’d stay! you promised! You looked at me and- Maxime, I- I brought you back… ”

Stillness. Antoine gripped Maxime’s body and curled around him, forehead pressed to his cold shoulder. A sound tore from him then, an awful, broken thing, half-scream, half-sob. He bit it back, fists clenched in the bloodstained blankets, whole body trembling.

“You can’t,” he whispered. “ You can’t leave me again. I thought we had time. I was going to make you better… we were going to run away…” His breath caught on a sob. “I thought we had time.”

He looked down at Maxime’s face, so pale now, mouth slightly parted, the tension finally gone from his brow. He looked peaceful. Too peaceful. Antoine reached out, hands shaking, and gently closed his eyes. Then he buried his face in Maxime’s chest and wept. He gasped and choked and sobbed like something had been ripped out of him. When finally the noise stopped, when he could no longer summon tears or breath, he sat there motionless, arms wrapped around Maxime’s lifeless frame.

Chapter Text

The earth was still damp from the rain the night before, soft beneath his boots as he dug. The meadow near the mill was a gentle place, tall grass swaying with the morning breeze, yellow wildflowers peppered through green. The kind of place Maxime would have called tranquil . Antoine dug with his bare hands at first. His nails cracked. Dirt caked his palms. His body ached from the strain and the cold, but he didn’t stop. Not when his arms trembled. Not when his breath came ragged. He’d wrapped Maxime in his own coat, carefully, too carefully, like reverence could undo the finality. He carried him like something holy, arms cradling him. He laid him in the grave the way someone places a glass figurine on a mantelpiece or a high shelf. Then he sat beside him. Just for a moment. Just to speak.

“I didn’t mean for it to end this way. I—I thought we’d have time. I thought I’d fix it. Steal you away. Keep you safe.”

His throat tightened.

“You were always trying to save everyone, Maxime. You carried the weight of the world like it belonged to you.”

He ran his fingers through his own hair, pulling hard at the roots. A pigeon called in the distance soft and lonely.

“You liked pigeons…” he murmured. “Said they mated for life...”

He looked down again. “So did I…”

Then, slowly, he began to cover him.

Handful by handful. The soil was cold and clean. It didn’t seem fair, how peaceful it was.

When the grave was filled, Antoine gathered the wildflowers growing nearby, yellow, white, a few soft pinks, and laid them over the fresh earth. No marker. No name. Just the wind. The flowers. The birds. He stood for a long time in silence.

Then he whispered, “Goodbye, Maxime.”

And turned back toward the mill.

Chapter Text

The mill was colder without him. It wasn’t the weather, though the fire had burned down to embers and the wind slid easily through the cracked boards. It was the silence. The absence. The emptiness of a room that had once held another heartbeat. Antoine stepped inside and shut the door behind him. The latch clicked too loudly in the hush. For a moment, he just stood there. Listening. Hoping. He half expected Maxime to be sitting by the fire, wrapped in that heavy coat, hands curled in his lap, eyes half-lidded as he dozed or watched the shadows play across the stone floor. His silhouette had once been a constant fixture in this room, so still, so familiar, that even now, Antoine's mind painted it against the hearth before cruelly peeling it away. He looked up toward the rafters. The gray pigeon was still there, alone now. Its feathers looked rumpled. Dull in the light. The brown one, the injured one, was gone. Whether it had flown off in the night to die alone or been taken by a fox Antoine didn’t know. He searched the surrounding eaves with tired eyes, hoping, stupidly, stubbornly, for a flutter of wings. Nothing. He sat down on the floor beside the cold hearth, arms resting loosely on his knees. His bones ached. His breath came shallow. The gray pigeon shifted overhead, cooing low. A plaintive sound. Mournful. It reminded him of Maxime’s voice when the pain was too much to bear, when he tried to whisper something but couldn’t form the words. When he’d reached for Antoine’s hand in the dark and held it like an anchor. Antoine closed his eyes. He could still feel the weight of that hand. Still hear the rasp of breath in his ear. Still see Maxime’s eyes, clouded with fever, but searching his face like it was the only steady thing left in the world. It was foolish, perhaps, to take comfort in the company of a bird. But he was alone now. And this quiet creature above him, this widowed little thing, seemed to understand in ways no one else could.

“I know,” he said aloud, softly. “I miss him too.”

The pigeon cooed again. Its wings fluffed, chest rising in a slow, shaky rhythm.

Antoine looked up at it and gave a broken laugh, tears stinging the corners of his eyes. “You and I… we tried, didn’t we?”

The pigeon blinked down at him. It didn’t fly away. He rested his head back against the stone wall, throat raw with unshed sobs, and finally let the tears fall. No speeches. No eloquent grief. Just him, and the pigeon, and the lingering scent of ash and earth and fading warmth. Maxime was gone. He hadn’t even said goodbye. Couldn’t. But Antoine had heard enough in that final, uneven breath. Had felt enough in the way Maxime had leaned into his touch. The pigeon flapped down to the ground, landing on Antoine’s knee. The pigeon cooed mournfully and Antione cried with it.