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The overwhelming urge is to keep his hands clean, to allow the blood to slip down onto the floor, but somehow it’s getting everywhere and Joly knows he’s just going to have to muddle through. Jehan’s eyes are shut, mouth open slightly, twitching towards at grimace when even the lightest of Joly’s touches come close to the scattered, bleeding wounds along his forearm.
It wasn’t a bullet that hit Jehan, for it has instead hit the corner of a table, sending up an explosions of wooden shards and splinters. Thankfully Jehan had thrown his arm up to protect his eyes and face, causing most of the damage to occur across his forearm. In the short time it took Joly to drag him into the back room of the Musain, a temporary hospital, the splinters had dug in deep, blood oozing out rapidly.
Blood is congealing on the leg of Jehan’s cornflower blue trousers, a blooming red stain to match the colour of his cravat. Surprising, Courfeyrac would say, that Jehan could ever match his colours so. But Joly does not need comic relief at this moment; he needs medical attention.
“You’re bleeding,” Jehan advises, eyes slanted open slightly. Joly looks up from his work bandaging Jehan’s arm briefly.
“It’s fine,” he says. It is a head wound, which are notorious for their superficial bleeding, though still tales of swelling in the brain and infection of the skin run through his mind. Luckily the wound has bled down his temple and not into his eyes, so he can continue to work without the added distraction of blindness.
One hand hovers above Jehan’s wrist, as if holding it in place; the other winds bandages about, applying pressure enough to staunch the flow of blood, though perhaps not quite as tightly as Joly would like. Any attempts to fasten the bandages tighter leads Jehan’s catches of breath to turn into sharp yelps of pain, which sting sharply at Joly’s heart far worse than any illness could.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Jehan,” Joly sighs, looping his fingers gently about the poet’s wrist. The words hang unspoken between them; but I must. Jehan is resting back against his heels, but slides to his feet now frame his hips on the floor. He nods once, sharply, and Joly gives the bandages a sharp tug, quickly winds the final stretch and ties it off, thumb running soothingly over Jehan’s carpal bones. “It’s over,” he breathes. Jehan doesn’t tilt his head upwards, but his eyes turn up to meet Joly’s.
“It’s not over.” This is true. Gunfire still rings outside, shouts from fellow revolutionaries and the national guardsman waging war across the way. The stillness in the backroom feels artificial and unlasting, promised to be broken by another injury or death sooner rather than later.
Joly’s free hand grips Jehan’s other shoulder fiercely. “I promise you Jehan, I will be with you until it is.” Jehan seems to take comfort in that, moving his good arm to cup Joly’s face, smiling affectionately.
“Promise?”
“Promise.” Jehan presses a lingering kiss to his temple – unfortunately the side when is currently covered in blood – and draws away with the side of his mouth tinged red. Joly is prepared with a speech about the dangers of ingesting it, but tucks it away safely, for later, he dares.
Until what’s over, he asks himself later, safe behind the barricade but steadily inching upwards towards what feels like certain death, this rebellion or our lives?
Whatever it is, he will finish neither without Jehan at his side.