A/N: 'Where you go, I go'

Amid the carnage of the sinking of RMS Titanic on the fateful night of 15th April 1912, two young medical students are ripped apart from each other; their lives and hopes plunging into the icy North Atlantic.

This oneshot was written for a friend over on Tumblr and also in honour of the fact that I will be performing in the ensemble of this amazing show in just over two weeks.

Disclaimer: As I am not male, French or living in C19th Paris, how can I possibly own Les Miserables? Neither am I Maury Yeston or Peter Stone, so I cannot lay claim to the any references to the musical either!

We'll Meet Tomorrow

A Titanic AU (not the film, more like the musical) featuring Joly and Combeferre

'Women and children first! I repeat women and children first!' First Officer Murdoch's voice seems to crack across the mass of terrified, frozen faces all scrabbling towards the lifeboats. Caught in the rolling, seething mass of panicked humanity Joly feels the hand that is clutching his, that rough, calloused hand slip away from his; his fingers feeling bitterly naked at the loss of another's touch.

'Combeferre!'

The name is shouted before he can stop himself; the soft, sweet syllables that had so often been whispered in rhythmic unison to the soft splash of the waves lapping against the side of the ship; now harsh and unfamiliar in the icy Atlantic air. The greatest ship ever built was sinking fast, struck headlong on a 'berg that could have so easily been avoided if the warnings had been heeded, if the headlines had been ignored; he had heard shouted across Cherbourg dock as he had pushed his way towards the gangway; his brother in arms close behind; faces aglow with new hope, new dreams, new lives far away from the poverty stricken streets of their homeland.

There is no response. Instead the shouts, the screams; the desperate panicked pleas of terrified women as they are forced from the loving grasps of their husbands, fathers, brothers and bundled towards the lifeboats; bobbing perilously in the inky ocean below seems to fill his ears and try as he might, he can't get rid of it. The sound seems to consume him, pull at him, drown him in a grotesque requiem of the panicked cries of women clinging to their husbands for what would be the final time, of the high, desolate wail of lost children bleating pitifully for their parents, of the scrape and rush of the deck and above all of it, above the carnage; the high keening cry of the violins as Hartley and his band continue to serenade their fellow passengers to their Atlantic graves.

Where is he?

The deck is listing fast now; icy water spilling over the floor in torrents; swirling through round him; its icy roar making it impossible to think. Impossible to breathe, impossible to do anything except stand there; frozen, eyes roving wildly over his fellow panicked passengers.

From somewhere towards the railings, he hears Murdoch's bark; now clipped with frozen fear forcing the men back onto the tipping, listing deck.

'Men will please stand back!'

Out of the corner of his eye, he spies a shock of dark hair; his heart swelling with sudden, desperate hope; hope that thuds against his chest as he shoves his way towards the railing; the stinking crush of bodies making him want to gag.

Salt spray stings his eyes as he tries to move forward, tries to think of nothing other than the act of placing one foot in front of the other as he sees an elderly lady; resplendent in soft grey furs; the glint of her diamonds sparkling against the midnight chill clutching at the arm of an elderly gentleman, whom in the chaos, Joly takes to be her husband; dark eyes sparkling with tears.

'Where you go, I go', he hears being whispered as an unknown body is shoved past him and hurtles off into the night.

Where you go, I go.

The words remind him forcibly of Muschietta; Muschietta whose very name sends a sudden, violent stab of pain at his heart; Muschietta with laughter dripping through her wide, liqueur coloured eyes and mane of chocolate coloured curls. Muschietta, to whom he had sent a telegram to that morning courtesy of the tall, lanky wireless operator whom, in a snatched moment of silence had said that his name was Bride. He wonders desperately when the telegram; telling her in its' short, blunt way that he was in good health, that he had met up with Combeferre, that he sent his love to her and Bossuet back in Amiens and that he would send for them as soon as it was possible; would get to her.

'Joly! Joly!' A hand on his shoulder; a rough hand calloused from years of harsh chemicals and doctors instruments spinning him round and pulling him into a sudden, desperate embrace.

The silence seems to stretch on for what feels like an eternity; a perpetual sense of nothingness that seems to spiral itself around them; choking them, encaging them together as the guide buries his head into the medic's chest and chokes back a sudden, unbidden sob.

'We'll meet again my friend?' The words are barely audible through the rush of the water lapping at their knees, but the medic can taste the salt soaked smile on Combeferre's lips as together they face the final plunge of the hopes and dreams of so many gone before them.

Fin

A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, constructive criticism etc are like chocolate to my brain!

Much love and enjoy x

P.S The elderly couple mentioned are Isidor and Ida Strauss, real passengers who sailed on the Titanic on her fateful maiden voyage. After refusing to get into lifeboat 8, she and her husband went and sat together on a pair of deck chairs, determined to spend their last few moments together.