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And There Was That Smile


The ‘hospital’ at the barricade was a terribly lonely and depressing place. People who were injured were constantly being brought in, some on the verge of death, some already dead, some merely scratched, but all the same this was not the place Joly wanted most to be.

But this is what he knew most. When the income of bodies became slow (as it did occasionally), he would sit down and stare at nothing until more came in requiring treatment. This day, the rate of bodies had slowed to a crawl. So, Joly sat. He thought of how things would turn out in the end, he thought of Musichetta, of his friends at the barricade. If they did survive, would they even bother with each other? Would they bother to offer a ‘hello’ or ‘how are you’ when all this was over? Sure they worked together now, but only because they had to. He hoped that the likes of Enjolras, of Combeferre, of Courfeyrac, of Feuilly…that they would keep in touch somehow, still agree to meet as friends do.

Especially Feuilly, he thought, fingering a tongue depressor. He had a certain fondness for the orphan boy, a sort of wonder at how he got by in such unfortunate circumstances. Life had dealt him a bad hand, yet he played his way through with the cards he was given. Joly loved to hear his stories of what he had been through, loved to hear about everyday life from the other side of the social spectrum. But most of all, and Joly knew this sounded odd, he loved that smile.

It didn’t show all the time like his own, but the reason for that was simple and understandable. It wasn’t like he had a lot to smile about or anything, but when he told an amusing story, got into informing someone about any matter of things pertaining to Poland, or if he was just simply in a positive mood, his eyes would just light up and his lips would curl up into a gentle smile. And it was just so pure a smile, so sweet! Joly adored it. Whenever he thought of Feuilly, there was that smile.

But before he could think of anything more, Combeferre and Bossuet’s voices could be heard. When they entered the makeshift hospital, Joly could see that they were carrying an unconscious body. They lay the body on an empty mattress.

“Joly, we need you over here! Hurry!” Bossuet said frantically. As Joly made his way over he added, “He was slashed in the stomach by a bayonet…he was in serious pain, so we covered his mouth and nose with this,” he held up a chloroform-soaked rag, “so he would be knocked out for a bit. ‘Ferre’s idea.”

“I told him I could treat him, but he insisted on being brought to you.” Combeferre noted, sounding slightly irritated. But Joly wasn’t listening; he had gone into a state of panic.

Lying on that mattress, bleeding from the gut, was Feuilly.

“Oh my god…how long ago was he-”

“No idea.” Bossuet replied. “There was a lot of blood on the ground by the time we found him.”

Joly undid the sash around his stomach that was serving as a sort of bandage, laying the completely soaked material aside. The wound wasn’t as big as he thought it would be, but it was deep. The soft skin around it was stained with crimson, dark blood still oozing slowly from it like a scarlet river. Joly’s hands shook as he motioned for Combeferre to bring him a washcloth and some water. As he did, the other medical student raised an eyebrow.

“Joly, you’re shaking.” He remarked, not relinquishing the bowl of water or the washcloth. “If you’re uncomfortable with treating your friend, mon frere...I could always…”

The redhead cut him off sharply, snatching the bowl out of his grasp without even looking him in the eyes. “No. You’ve done your bit here, Combeferre, now….now get back out there and help Enjolras, he…he needs you.”

Combeferre folded his arms, watching the frantic movements of the sort-of medic, but he did not argue that valid point. Beckoning for Bossuet to follow, he stepped back into the ongoing fray outside.

Gently, so as not to irritate already severe wounds, Joly began to wipe the massive amounts of blood away so he could see the exact shape and depth of the wound. He winced as he examined the one laying before him…if he survived this, it would be an absolute miracle.

As horrible as the odds were, he had to try to save Feuilly. He felt obligated, he…

“…J….Joly….” a weak voice whispered to him, as a desperate hand reached out and grabbed a tight hold of his wrist. Joly shrieked and nearly dropped the washcloth onto the ground. His head snapped around, his eyes meeting the gaze of the one under his care.

“Oh my god…Feuilly! You…you scared me, I…I thought you’d be out a lot longer than that…I was cleaning your wound and….well…..god dammit, Feuilly, why the hell did you have to go out and get yourself hurt like this?!” Joly snapped, his hands shaking again.

Feuilly chuckled lightly, making Joly’s heart skip a beat. There was that smile again…even when he was at death’s door, he still grinned.

“Hey, it wasn’t my idea to…. nearly get myself gutted… You can…can… blame the National Guardsmen… for that one…. I never consented to it....”

Joly puffed out his cheeks a little bit. “That’s not funny! You know you’ll probably die, right?! I…I have to work against the clock and against the odds here to save you. And I’ll have you know, M. de Pologne, I’m rather fond of you and would rather not have you die before your time!”

The smile disappeared and was replaced with a hybrid look of shock and curiosity. “Rather… fond of me? Fond in… what way, may I ask…?” The hand around Joly’s wrist slowly relaxed its grip, gently stroking the side of the redhead’s hand as Joly blushed furiously.

“Fond in….that sort of way, Feuilly. If you must know. In fact, I kind of…um….love you. So if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to try my best to keep you alive.”

What happened next was nearly a blur to poor Joly. He found himself pulled down by his cravat into a deep kiss, a tongue tasting faintly of blood being thrust into his mouth very quickly and roughly. When he finally realized what was going on he jolted back, grabbing hold of the washcloth again.

“…love you too, Joly…” Feuilly mused. “S’why I wanted you….treating me, you know…I wouldn’t trust anyone….anyone else touching me…and if there’s anyone I’d…I’d rather die in the arms of it’s….y-you, Joly…”

Joly felt his eyes water a little. “Feuilly…”

Feuilly opened his mouth as if to respond, but instantly closed it as a wave of pain shot through his body. He shook violently, tightly grasping Joly’s wrists once more. When the medical student looked down at the wound, he nearly gagged; it was as though he hadn’t cleaned it at all. So much blood was flowing from the wound, dark blood…and Joly hung his head. He could fool himself no longer. He knew it was too late. Feuilly had lost so much blood in this short expanse of time…his skin had grown so much paler…he was almost sheet-white, a stark contrast to the dark, almost burgundy blood that flowed from the gash in his stomach.

He nearly broke down as he took the Polish boy into an embrace. “I’m sorry…” he whispered, barely discernable through sobs. “I’m so sorry, I…”

“You can’t save me…can you, Joly…”

Joly nodded, barely a nod but Feuilly felt it as he rested his head on his shoulder. Again the orphan smiled.

“…to be honest, this is what I wanted. I would not have had….much of a…a life to get b-back to…I wanted to…to die here…”

“No, don’t say that….” Joly whispered, his voice cracking and faltering nearly every other word. He resisted the urge to tighten his grip, settling instead for stroking soft black hair. “I…don’t want you to die, but….but I can’t…”

Again Feuilly shuddered violently, hissing in pain. When the pain subsided again, he resumed speaking. “Don’t…don’t kick yourself over it, mon ami…” he sighed, mirroring what Joly had done with his hair right back, in an attempt to calm him. “It won’t be too long…I can feel my…my energy draining…I feel weak…” Once more he smiled, though Joly could not see it. “I don’t know whether I was….was meant to survive, but…I know that I was…was always meant to…to love you…Joly…”

Biting his lip, Joly nodded. “I…I feel the same…”

But Feuilly would not hear that response, for a moment or so later he fell limp against Joly’s chest, blood still leaking steadily from the wound in his gut, much akin to the way Joly’s tears fell at the loss of the one he so loved. No longer would he feel that pulse, hear that voice, kiss those lips…

He nuzzled the cold, clammy neck his face was buried in and sniffled.

When he moved to lay the unresponsive body of his Feuilly back down on the table, he saw the expression that Feuilly had on his face when he’d died, and froze. He had to fight back an all-out sob.

There was that smile.

X3! Thank you so much! *bows in return*

I tend to convert most people I find. X3 It's got such a cute factor innit.

*would make a whole topic for it, but there's already a Joly pairs topic*