Alexandre Chastain (chirurgien) wrote in angellogs, @ 2014-06-04 11:08:00 |
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Current mood: | worried |
"I do not remember asking for a house call"
Who: Alexandre, Courfeyrac, Combeferre
When: June 2nd, after Combeferre's post
Where: Enj, Courf and Ferre's place
What: A housecall of sorts. Alexandre's worried about how his friend's coping with losing Enjolras, and ends up trying to help both of them through it. (AKA: That thing that happens when Sar has hysterical muses, a lack of internet, and it's a day before the anniversary of the June Rebellion. Fun...)
Warnings: Mentions of death, vague glossed over allusions to mercy killings, angst. Courfeyrac's participle being used. Nothing should be triggery.
Status: Complete
The pair of them may not be a pair anymore, and they had not been one for some time, and, most likely, would never be again. Still, there was something in Alexandre that would always come to Combeferre in times of trouble, and he suspected that there always would be such a thing. As much as he cursed that part of himself sometimes, the part that loved a married man, a man who'd been his past, Alexandre could not keep it from acting up, from pinging his conscience, and pricking at it, until he knew what he must do.
Combeferre had always been so downright lousy with accepting comfort, though he had been quite wonderful at giving it to anyone in need, and when he was in need himself, he often hid it for the longest time, until something broke, and very obviously did so. His rather restrained post on the network was an indication that the breaking point was near, and so, though Combeferre was mourning a currently lost love, and though he had Courfeyrac to provide some kind of support, Alexandre found that he could not hold back from bringing his own brand of that into things, and, without waiting for morning, without a second thought, and almost without changing back into his trousers, he was making his way across Paris, and to their apartment.
When the knock on the door came, Courfeyrac was the one to answer, and there was a frown etched across his face. While he could not say that the last several months with Enjolras had been exactly fun, easy, or anything else, he had loved him, and knew he was loved in return. It hurt so much to think that he had lost it, that Combeferre had lost it, and though they still had each other and Antoine, the adjustment process had been tough to say the least.
He'd hoped for Charles to come, actually, so that he might get advice on what he ought to be doing next, and leave the meeting with a clear head, but, seeing the good doctor there was good enough, considering the other problem he was dealing with just now.
“Chastain.” He greeted, clasping hands with the older man. “I do not remember asking for a house call.” he added, throwing in a smile to show it was a jest, and not some sort of awkward posturing that one did around their husband's ex lover. Sadly, the joke seemed to fall flat, but Courfeyrac was punctuating with a relieved sigh and a bit of a smile. Besides Enjolras, the man standing beside him knew Combeferre most in all the world, having taught him, worked with him, and loved him, and someone who knew him even better than Courfeyrac was definitely needed now. “I will say it's the best surprise I might have hoped for, all the same. Michel is...I presume you saw?”
“His posting, yes.” Alexandre shifted a bit, hesitating. “I've not known exactly how to take things with the three of you, after your marriage, but risking awkwardness is a small enough price if I can be of any help to him. What has he, what have all of you been doing, for that matter, since Enjolras...left?” It seemed as good a word as any to use, subjective as it probably was. And Courfeyrac looked terrible and rather peaked himself when it came down to it.
“I would hope that you are at least eating and sleeping properly.” He kept his voice a little stern, and was not surprised when Courfeyrac flinched a little, and glanced down, as if he wanted to avoid his gaze. The younger man looked so much a chastened schoolboy, Alexandre wanted to smile, had it not been that that was going to ruin the moment.
Instead, he looked his sternest and most disbelieving, giving Courfeyrac the look that'd worked on recalcitrant children in Necker Hospital for years , and worked in the wards where he was doing an internship to pick up on the medical advances he had missed while being dead.
He was a pediatrician, or was going to be. There was no getting certain things past him.
“I...yes.” Courfeyrac said quickly, not quite sure where THAT question had come from. Alexandre had been their friend in Paris, yes. Combeferre's mentor in school, and in the art of being a doctor itself, active within the Rights of Man society, and traveled in the same larger crowd surrounding les amis, and he'd shed blood with most of them on the barricades of 1830, Hell, he'd died there, among some of their other dear friends at the time, but Courfeyrac had never thought the doctor had taken much interest in him before. He had been Combeferre's, and much as Courfeyrac had been quite jealous of the fact, it was also, simply the way that things had stood. He'd never anticipated Alexandre's interest in him personally, and certainly had never thought that he would have to lie to him, instead of to Combeferre or Bahorel about his health.
And, Oh, Christ, was he caught? That look might not have been as terrifying as Combeferre's eyebrows and that way Enjolras had pursed his lips, but it was slightly frightening all the same. If Alexandre told Combeferre that he'd just lied about his health...
“Oh, Combeferre's not much better, rather worse than me.” He put in quickly, hoping to divert the conversation where it belonged. “He says he's having one of his headaches, migraines, they call them now, and is not doing much of anything. He...” Actually, considering he had the chance to say it, Courfeyrac just might as well.
“This has been going on for quite some time. With Enjolras, it was...likely far easier for all of us to downplay. Caring for him took so much time and struggle.” Courfeyrac added, relieved when the sound of paws on the wood floor came his way, and he could pick up Aramis and bury his face in the kitten's fur, rather than look directly at Alexandre. If he did that, he might start crying.
“I do not mean that Enjolras...that he did not care for us, or others, or that he begrudged either of us anything. Quite the opposite of that, but he only...what happened to him was much bigger than any of us, including him, could handle. It was so difficult...for all of us. He is not a bad person, Enjolras. He's only been so damaged and so hurt.” He spoke in the first person, not even realizing that he'd switched. “We've been failing him, I think. It is no wonder that we've lost him.”
And then Courfeyrac was certainly crying himself, and while there was no harm in a man crying, or showing much emotion, he hated to expose himself to a relative stranger like that. And his own grief was nothing compared to Combeferre's and he was what this was about.
“I...sorry, that's a bit off track. But, Michel, it's hard for him to know what to do. Harder because he's been a doctor, and I do not think that helpless suits him, ever. When he feels the worst of it, he gets the headaches, he's been in the hospital for them once, though he gets them other times as well. They grow much stronger, and more painful when...I think it's when he thinks he's failed.”
It sounded like the Combeferre Alexandre knew, and he groaned at the description, having seen it many times in practice. “That sounds a great deal like before.” And it would make for a fun evening, certainly, of ferreting out the problem, getting Combeferre to talk it through, and convincing him he did not need to suffer in silence. It was a process that took several hours, though he'd resolved to see it through. But in the meantime, Courfeyrac was plainly functioning no better, and that had to be dealt with.
“Do you know, Andre de Courfeyrac, that you can care for others without causing yourself some great harm in the process?” He asked him now, still making his voice stern, even using the participle that he knew Courfeyrac dreaded so that he might get his point across. “Enjolras may be gone, and I am sorry for that.” It hurt, but in a more abstract way than the others, but he would not be lying to admit that he was feeling the loss too.
“Michel is ill, and he's made himself worse, and I am sorry for that as well, and plan to do my best to repair the damages. But there's no reason you should risk your own self in the process. Caring for others is a good thing, an expression of great love, and you love many people and want to stand by them. Michel has always mentioned that. But there's a danger in it too. Those who forget to take care of themselves as they are taking care of others can become so ill, worn out. Like he has done, I'm nearly sure. And then where does that leave you? Worked to illness yourself and of little use to anyone.”
Alexandre hated saying those last few words of it. True as it was, and much as he knew Courfeyrac must hear, must listen to the words, he thought them a rather harsh way of getting the point across. But the way that Courfeyrac looked, and stubborn as Combeferre had always said he was, the only way to drive things home was beating them into his skull, it seemed.
“And should I, what, ignore others completely, because I am feeling selfish?” Courfeyrac asked, demanded, really, though his voice was soft and muffled by kitten fur, making the whole thing a lot less threatening than he had probably been going for. “I was that man once, Chastain. Spoiled, frivolous, with little time for anything except what involved me. I will never be him again.”
“I do not ask...” Alexandre felt a headache of his own appearing there between his brows, and paused a moment, rubbing at his forehead, hoping he could find a much better example. “Were you and your son lost in a desert with one skin of water, and you found you both were thirsty, I would hope that you would not insist on giving all of it to him. Noble as that may sound, if you did that, you'd certainly die soon enough, and leave him facing it alone. Simply because his needs must be met is no reason yours should go ignored. You are allowed, Courfeyrac, Andre, to drink yourself, and as much as you need. Before I go see to Michel, you're going to eat something. I promise you that doing so will not cause him more pain.”
With that, Alexandre stood, pushing off the sofa he'd been sitting next to Combeferre on, and made his way into the kitchen, which ,thankfully, enough, was rather clean. A few random pieces of music, scattered books and catalogs, but other than that, at least it would be safe to eat in. He'd seen some people who let things get so much worse when they weren't well. Locating a pan, butter, some eggs, and cheese, he set to work, making two portions, one of which he left in the oven to keep warm, Combeferre had obviously not eaten in days either, and the other which he brought to Courfeyrac.
“By the time I've spoken to Michel, I expect to see you've eaten this and lain down for a nap.” He told him, keeping the stern tone of earlier since it had seemed to work so well.
“And should you not?” Truthfully, the eggs smelled good, and Courfeyrac supposed that he was hungry, something he'd forgotten until the food was right in front of him, but all the same, the principle applied. Alexandre Chastain was not Bahorel, or Combeferre, and most certainly was not Enjolras, or even Charles. The man had no right making demands like this, and Courfeyrac was not a child, after all. He was half tempted to call the man's bluff, whatever it was, to prove the point.
That did leave Alexandre rather stumped, he did admit. With his patients, usually, he could offer rewards, or bribes, or some kind of distraction, but with Courfeyrac, he was not certain what would work, or what would push him into refusing anyway.
“Whatever Michel would do with you.” he said at last. “I'll ask, and then he will know as well.” For some reason, Courfeyrac seemed to want to avoid that outcome, so he might as well toss it in there as his trump card, mightn't he? Was it just his imagination now, or did that seem to do the trick?
“No need!” Courfeyrac hated himself for giving in so easily, for paling at the thought in front of Alexandre, but he most certainly did not need Combeferre's suggested...remedies...for refusing to care for himself properly. Instead, he picked up the fork and practically began inhaling the food instead.
“Thank you.” Alexandre answered, rather pleased at whatever it was in the threat that managed to set Courfeyrac behaving, then he made his way toward the bedroom, feeling rather strange about it, too. An intimate space, where Combeferre had presumably been...intimate...with his partners was hardly the place for his past one to enter. Still, he knocked at the door frame, and then, not waiting for a response, pushed his way inside.
“Courfeyrac, I told you, there is no need to knock.” Combeferre answered, tugging the bedcovers tight over his head, and hoping Courfeyrac would go away. While he knew that Courfeyrac was hurting too, there was no chance that he would make it worse by joining him in grief. Courfeyrac had enough on his plate these days. They all did. Combeferre himself would have no right to ruin them because he was a bit unhappy and a little ill. It had happened before, it would happen again, and the world would continue to rotate anyway.
“If you need something, tell me.” Combeferre continued when Courfeyrac failed to answer, and he heard him coming closer. “I can gladly...”
The hand now grasping his shoulder was both smaller and gentler than Courfeyrac's, Antoine would not have bothered, and gone on to do whatever he had asked anyway, and...he knew the touch besides. Combeferre wished to relax into it, and to make this fade away, but he couldn't do that. Not with so much between them, and not when others were in greater need. Simple comforts could wait if there was work to do.
“Should you not be at work?” He asked, tugging his covers up again. “Please, San, let whatever it is wait for the morning. I am entirely exhausted.” That was one way to put it, though Combeferre had not been sleepy in the least, or able to sleep, or to do anything to escape it, that gut clenching burst of pain, worse even than the migraine he was nursing because it would never go away.
“I read your post.” Was all that Alexandre deemed he had to say. “And I am here to...”
“Yes, I ought to have deleted it.” Combeferre's cheeks felt warm as he remembered vaguely saying something, and that the something was far more like whining than he would have liked. He ought to have erased it, or to erase it now, or..anything at that, really. If he had gotten others concerned, or made someone who'd lost another person sad, then it had no place anywhere.
“I should delete it, in fact. “ Combeferre frowned, reaching for his device, only to find it swiped away by Alexandre. “San, please. If it's made somebody feel bad for me, false pity...you ought to know by now, I do not want it.”
“You ought to know by now that if I see you suffering, I will still be there to help you.” Alexandre frowned right back at him. “I came so we might speak. It seems to me you need a shoulder.”
“I need a...what a ghastly expression.” Combeferre muttered, shaking his head a little at it. “As if I were going to, I've got no idea, gnaw yours off or something of the like.” Humor would work well just now. Humor kept him from thinking more of Enjolras and then breaking down completely.
It was not that he regretted that he might break down, or feared it, but that he would rather not have done so in front of anyone if it might be helped. Courfeyrac may be able to be free with his emotions as he liked, but Combeferre had never been much for the Romantics. Some things ought to be kept to yourself, and some you did not want to burden others with.
Standing right before him was a man who Combeferre would certainly not burden. He had brought Alexandre to the July barricades himself, had seen him struck down in the fight, and done his best to treat the injuries the other man sustained. That he had not been able to do so, that he had been forced to wield the tiny knife that put an end to Alexandre's pain instead, and not even given him Notre Dame to look on as he died, as he'd requested, but instead, a patched together description of how the windows must be shining, well. He'd done enough to Alexandre, and failed him enough as he'd failed Enjolras enough to lose him here. There was no sense in denying that, or that Combeferre had burdened them both enough with all his...
“Failures.” Combeferre muttered, still perfectly calm, or trying to be, because the last he needed was Alexandre patting him like some sort of child or sick pet. “I've chalked up a great many of those, have I not?” It could, at least, serve as a conversation, he supposed. “I failed to give you Notre Dame, to look on as you died, and I failed to guide Enjolras...”
Alexandre had expected something like this, though he'd thought it may be harder to get Combeferre to this point. The medication for his headache, perhaps? If only he'd accept one for the heartache. Still, he reached out anyway, tugging down Combeferre's quilt, trying to run a hand though his hair, in one of the gestures that had worked before.
“I was meant to...damn, stop that, San.” Combeferre ordered, flinching at the touch. The last thing that he wanted, the last thing he needed now was some gesture of comfort. It was undeserved, unnecessary, and the last thing that he wanted was to bother someone else.
“You ought to be with someone who needs help, or sleeping yourself.” He continued, “Not listening to me carry on like this. I hardly need...” He tugged away quite sharply now. While the gesture may feel good, he did not require, and did not deserve, it in the least. The one thing he deserved, the one thing Combeferre needed was silence. With that, he could get his thoughts into control, and could make sense of things enough to carry on. It may take him a little while, but at least he'd do it with no interruptions and no wasted...
Alexandre moved his hand to Combeferre's neck, rubbing at it a little, frowning as he noted the tension in the younger doctor's muscles. Taut, extremely so, and feeling like they may snap any minute. It was enough to make anyone ill, that built up pressure, and especially someone who had denied it for too long.
“If you are in pain, Michel, you know you ought to tell someone, that they can make it better.” He urged, trying to be gentler than he had done with Courfeyrac. With Combeferre, it was more a matter of convincing, urging him to giving in, as he had learned several lifetimes ago. Combeferre may feel that he was bothered someone, but even he could not resist how the release of tension felt, how good it was to have someone rubbing your back. If Alexandre did this right, by the time he had worked in a few drops of oil, lavender, to be exact, and known to help one fall asleep, Combeferre may have given up on resistance entirely.
“I've talked to Courfeyrac, you know.” Alexandre pressed on, smiling a little as Combeferre continued to relax beneath him. “The pair of you are different, in how you mean to deal with this. He'd make the world better before he paid much attention to himself, or noticed that he needed help. You know you ought to take help, to give in to the treatment, but you hold yourself back. Do you think you do not deserve it?”
At least some of the tension was released, true, physically, but the main bulk of it, what Alexandre hoped to dissolve was still hidden and pressing his hands lower, to the small of Combeferre's back, which he had always seemed to enjoy the most, he thought that perhaps...
“No.” Combeferre jerked away, bolting up quickly, as the touch went deeper, and he felt himself unable to keep tears from falling from his eyes. Involuntary though they were, the release that they signaled, the release of all those tensions, was not wanted now.
He could not have it now. If he released them, if he let them go, and if he let them go, then all he had of Enjolras, all that he had of Paris in the years before, Alexandre himself, and all those things he had been forced to do, those terrible acts of mercy for the dying when no other treatment could be found to ease their way, would all be gone, forever. And he did not deserve in many cases, did not want in others, to let go.
“Is it not bad enough I lost all of them once?” Combeferre whispered through the tears to Alexandre's stunned look at what he'd done. “Those who fought with us, my dearest friends, everything I swore to in the Oath and thus, my soul itself, Enjolras, You? You're asking me to say goodbye to all of that, when I've already lost you once, and Enjolras...when I was meant to guide him? He is not supposed to strike out like this, do you know? They all decided long ago, at one of our first meetings that I was something like a guide. That I was meant to look ahead, and to direct the others down as many paths as I might, but especially Enjolras. Have you read The Lord of the Rings yet?” he added, choking on the words a little still.
“There's a part of it where Frodo is leaving and Sam begs him not to go where he can't follow. Enjolras is never meant to go where I can't guide him. You were never meant to hurt where I couldn't save you. I was never meant to cast such severe failures as all of the deaths I caused our own to the side, as though those things meant nothing, as though I am allowed to so much as exist without carrying them always. As though it is right, or fair, or anything like just that I have been given a second life, and that I stay in it, when those who were the most deserving...”
That was around the time that Combeferre lost his words, and before he could protest it, himself, before he could remind himself that he was undeserving, that he could not let this go, and certainly deserved no comfort from it, he felt Alexandre's arms wrapping around him, and holding on tighter than he had been held, than he'd allowed himself to be, in quite some time. He wanted to say more, to try and stop it, but all that managed to come out now as his traitor body clung to his dear sometimes lover, sometimes teacher, always friend, were sobs that he had not allowed himself since he was very small and clinging to his mother, or his uncle, or an older cousin in the days after his father's death. And worst of all, scientifically impossible as it all was, he could not bring himself to stop.
“Combeferre, is there something...” Courfeyrac's own voice was muffled as he stepped into the doorway of the bedroom, and he sniffled loudly, then glared at Alexandre as the furious crying jag continued. “What in hell did you DO to him?” He asked, slipping into the room to join then, climbing onto the bed from the other side, wrapping his arms around Combeferre as well, then burying his face against his shoulder. Christ, but he felt awful too, and like doing nothing more than joining Combeferre for now.
“It is going to be all right.” Alexandre tried to soothe, rubbing circles down Combeferre's back, and sliding a cautious hand through Courfeyrac's hair, guessing at his most favored method of being soothed. Damned if he knew how it was going to be all right, but for the moment, he would try and make it so.
Feeling much more like the big brother to the both of them than lover, friend, or anything else, he kept up the soothing tone, the stroking, and the cuddling (Courfeyrac, as he had heard, was clingy as anything, even more so than Combeferre just now) for as long as it took the both of them to fall asleep, their arms around each other, Aramis curled protectively around Courfeyrac's head. At least sleep would be good for them, he thought, dimly recalling the threat he'd given Courfeyrac, and biting back a smile.
Shattered as this family was, and as much as Alexandre was no Enjolras and had no interest in trying to 'fill' his role or anything of that sort, they were going to heal, and closing his eyes, he muttered a quick prayer to the Virgin, asking that she'd help him see it so. Now if he only had some idea of what the hell to do here, really.