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Joly could always feel it coming. It began, simply, as tension, traveling outward from his gut to his limbs, seizing his shoulders up around his ears. Unease would tingle through his fingers, his toes. His surroundings would feel wrong somehow, his friends strange, his world tilted slightly off kilter. Then the shivering, the cold sweat, the feverish flush in his face, and that’s when Joly knew he needed to leave, get outside, put his head between his knees and count his breathing like he’d taught himself to the first time this occurred. Five seconds in through the nose, five seconds out through the mouth. As long as he could do that, he’d be fine. As long as he could be out in the open, with air, lots of air, enough that he could take his time inhaling, he’d be fine.
“Joly.” Enjolras’s terse voice forced Joly’s eyes to snap open, his breath stuttering out through his mouth. Only three seconds that time, and the air in the Musain was getting stuffier by the second, thicker and harder to pull through his nose. “Did you visit the clinics today?”
Joly nodded, his gaze flickering toward the door. He wanted to leave. He needed to leave. And any other day he’d have done so, packing his bag and citing some medical school examination or feigned illness. It’s what he usually did. Better to come up with something concrete – cholera, smallpox, consumption, something with symptoms, with causes – than to try and put a name to this abstract fear that occasionally swallowed him whole. But lately, Enjolras had been particularly on edge from a streak of bad luck Bossuet would envy – the arrest of one of their best printers, a quarrel with a group of workers on the Boulevard du Temple that resulted in a sprained wrist, an unexpected downpour soaking half his pamphlets on a walk home the previous evening. He’d already snapped at Courfeyrac for suggesting they might adjourn early that night. Even Grantaire was more subdued that usual. Joly's early departure would only add fuel to their chief's ire.
“And?”
“I couldn’t gauge much of a response.” Joly noticed Combeferre looking at him quizzically, seemingly eyeing the sheen of sweat on his face, the way his hand shook as he adjusted his glasses.
“The med students remain lukewarm to our proposal, then?”
“I…” Joly took a shuddering breath, trying to dislodge the lump building in his throat. He coughed and rubbed at his neck. “My rounds were hectic today. There wasn't much of a chance for private conversation.”
Enjolras closed his eyes in irritation, and Joly’s stomach roiled. He half expected Enjolras to send him on his way, and felt his breath quicken in response. He didn't want to be alone. But he didn't want to be here. He put two fingers on his wrist, taking his own pulse, though the pounding in his ears alone told him his heart rate was elevated. He needed to calm down. He closed his eyes, gripped the chair beneath him, and started counting. One…two…three…
“Tired, Jolllly?” Bahorel’s voice rumbled close to his ear, his hand heavy on Joly’s shoulders. Joly stifled a gasp. “You’ll need your L’s to carry you home tonight, at this rate.”
Joly tried to throw a smile over his shoulder, but couldn’t stop himself from flinching at Bahorel’s touch, curling forward and into himself. The lump in his throat was growing. His head felt like it was floating ten or fifteen feet above his neck.
“Let’s discuss Feuilly’s progress with the fan-makers,” Combeferre said, and Joly could still feel Combeferre’s gaze on him. Though he was grateful for Combeferre’s change of subject, he wanted his attention diverted elsewhere. He wanted everyone to stop looking at him. He began inhaling and counting again as Enjolras and Feuilly conversed. One…two…
“Are you well?” Now Jehan’s voice on his left side, a tentative, worried whisper, and Joly squeezed his eyes tighter.
“Our happy hypochondriac seems a little ill-spirited as of late.” Joly heard the dragging of a chair, and felt Courfeyrac’s presence near him. Too near. There wasn’t enough space for him. There wasn’t enough air for any of them. “What, ahem, ailes you this time, Jolllly?”
Joly shook his head. The lump in his throat was a stone, now, heavy and constricting. He felt his lungs seizing in his chest, protesting the lack of air. He feared if he stood up, he’d faint.
“Joly?” Courfeyrac’s voice was lower, apprehensive. “Is everything alright?”
Joly almost laughed. Couldn’t Courfeyrac see how not alright he was? Couldn’t they feel the lack of air in the room? Couldn’t they tell he was choking?
“Bossuet,” Joly sputtered, clutching fistfuls of his own hair. He wanted his eagle, the calm presence always at his side. Bossuet was proof the world wasn’t ending, that no matter how bad things got, there was a light, a way out. Bossuet was across town, though, taking Musichetta out for a nice birthday dinner (Joly’s treat), while Joly was supposed to be taking notes at the meeting. A sob pushed its way past the stone in his throat.
“Joly.” There was a hand on his knee, insistent, and he shuddered. “What’s wrong?”
And that was what wrecked Joly, why he’d spent the past few weeks since his first attack (and Joly thought that was a terribly accurate word, attack, some ominous force challenging him) coiled with tension, waiting for his breath to shorten again without warning. Because there was no cause Joly could identify, no reason for the sudden, overwhelming feeling that he was dying except that his body told him so. He’d been taught to trust the body, and this betrayal left him reeling. The cholera outbreak had them all on alert, but Joly feared cholera as equally as he feared any of the rampant diseases he was in daily contact with. What he feared now wasn’t something he could name. It was something in the shadows, in the corner of his eye, faceless dread, and how could he explain to his friends that what he feared was fear, this onslaught of terror that swept over him without explanation? They’d think him insane.
Another hand landed on his knee, and he pushed himself as far back against his chair as possible. “Don’t,” he wheezed.
“Back up,” a voice said, calmly, evenly, and he felt a slight breeze stirred by bodies moving away, saw shadows dance across his eyelids. His ragged gasps echoed in the room’s sudden quiet. “Joly?”
“Don’t touch me,” he begged. He needed space. He needed air.
“I won’t. Can you open your eyes, though?”
Joly blinked. Combeferre was kneeing in front of him, but at a distance, his hands braced on his knees, his brow furrowed. Joly was certain the others were around, but his vision was starting to dim around the edges, fuzzy spots materializing in his view. “’Ferre,” he whined.
“What do you need?”
“Out.”
“Let me help you?” Joly nodded frantically, and Combeferre took his arm gently, lead him out of the Musian’s back door, braced him against the outside wall, and took a step back. Joly tried to let the cool night air calm him, but he was too far gone. The stone in his throat was becoming part of him, melding with the soft flesh of his esophagus. His lungs were shriveling into husks. His heart, oh God, his heart –
“Help,” he choked, dropping to his knees. He tugged wildly at his cravat, clawed at his neck.
Combeferre dropped beside him. His eyes flashed with worry, but his voice remained steady. “May I see your hand?” He held out his palm.
“I can’t feel it,” Joly said, placing his shaking hand in Combeferre’s.
“It’s alright.” Combeferre gently kneaded his fingers. “You’re alright.”
“No,” Joly panted, “no, my heart.” He gripped Combeferre’s hand and pulled it to his chest, covered Combeferre’s with his own. “Feel.”
“It’s beating fast,” Combeferre said, “but not dangerously so.”
“It hurts. My chest – ”
“Hurts because you’re hyperventilating. There’s enough air, Joly. You just need to slow down and catch it.”
Joly’s breath was coming in panicked sobs now. “Count,” he breathed. “Please.”
“To what?”
“Five. Slow.”
“Alright.” Combeferre counted, and Joly tried to inhale along, got to two before he started trying to suck in air greedily. His chest was on fire. Suddenly, Combeferre pulled his hand from Joly’s grasp and flattened Joly’s palm against his own chest, pressed his own larger hands over Joly’s small one.
“Slower. Like me.” Combeferre took a deep breath, and Joly tried to follow suit. He stuttered through his first inhale, but Combeferre’s warm chest, his solid heartbeat, was calming Joly more than any rote recitation of numbers could. He pressed his fingertips into Combeferre’s shirt, tried to memorize the rise and fall of his every breath.
“Good,” Combeferre murmured. “Another.”
Joly closed his eyes, let his world become Combeferre – his breath, his slow words of encouragement, the softness of his waistcoat under Joly’s hand, the movement of his chest, his heart, his blood – his life – warm in his veins.
When the first full breath of air shattered his throat’s stone and hit his lungs, Joly sobbed in relief. He was so grateful to Combeferre, for staying calm, for not asking what was wrong, for somehow knowing just what he’d needed –
“Shhh,” Combeferre said. “Stay calm. Breathe slowly.”
The wind ruffled Joly’s hair, making him shiver, and he noticed for the first time that his face was damp, sticky with tears. He pulled his hand from Combeferre’s chest and rubbed his face. “Sorry,” he said, his throat sore, his voice gravel-rough. “I’m sorry.”
Combeferre ignored his apology. “How long has this been happening?”
Joly shrugged. “A few weeks.” His sinuses felt tight, his head pulsing, his chest hollow.
“What triggers it?”
Joly flushed. If he said nothing, Combeferre would think his mind was addled, that this was another instance of hypochondria, that he was unfit to diagnose himself and therefore unfit to be a doctor…
“I don’t think that,” Combeferre said, and Joly blushed even more, realizing he’d been babbling. “I think you have an undiagnosed medical condition agitated by stress.”
“A condition?”
“I’ve read about such things.” Combeferre pushed his glasses further up on his nose. “The unexplained onslaught of fear that acts as a…paralysis of sorts, to your body’s intrinsic functions. Perhaps with you since childhood, or perhaps appearing later in life. Inflamed by stressful social conditions, such as an impending revolution,” Combeferre smiled wryly, “but not triggered by anything that can necessarily be pinpointed.” His eyes softened. “Often agitated by the anticipation of future instances.”
Joly nodded weakly. He should’ve trusted Combeferre, should’ve known he’d understand, or if not, he’d find the reading material to help him understand. “It’s exhausting.”
“How have you been handling such onslaughts?”
“Magnets do no good. Counting helps, though. Sitting in a dark room, or being outside.”
“Alone?”
“Mostly.” Combeferre’s head tilted slightly, and he took Joly’s hand again, placing it over his heart. “Did this help?”
“Yes.”
“Then why hide this from us? Why shy away from what gives you comfort?”
Joly hung his head. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d all think I was losing my mind. Or that I was making it up.”
“If you’re hurting, Joly,” Combeferre cupped Joly’s hand between his and chafed it gently, “we want to help you.”
Joly nodded. He would have to tell the others, after the spectacle he must’ve caused. He would have to tell Bossuet, though he couldn’t imagine Bossuet reacting with anything but tenderness, talking Joly through his panic, letting Joly feel his chest, mimic his breaths, as Combeferre did.
“You’ll tell us, then, next time? You’ll let me, or Bossuet, help you through this?”
“I will.”
Combeferre smiled and pulled Joly to his feet. Joly swayed, drained and dizzy, and Combeferre caught him by the shoulders. “Shall I escort you back to your eagle and your mistress, then?” The corner of Joly’s mouth rose in a small smile, and Combeferre gave his forehead a quick kiss before taking his arm and leading him home.