When tomorrow came

It is evening when they come. Early evening; the sky slowly slipping into a cold, dove grey from behind the slashed windows of the room where seven bodies slump in chairs, slouch against the walls or in the case of one; lie in a bed made up with fresh, starched sheets smelling of lavender. His face is pale, but alive as he sleeps; his eyelids fluttering slightly as a shaking hand gropes to grasp that of another who sits as close to the bed as he dares; wire framed spectacles balanced perilously on the bridge of his nose. The hands touch, the space between bed and chair momentarily closed as fingers grope and grasp; desperate for the comfort that only another's touch can bring. The yellow, waning flame from the candles that stand on the bookshelf dance across the room casting huge shadows on the ceiling; guttering and leaping with life in equal measure. The boy who is curled like a cat in the lap of his guardian shifts slightly; his mop of dirty blond air tumbling carelessly over a pale, oval shaped face, the sharp cheekbones adorned with a smattering of freckles. Outside the room, wooden floorboards creak with the weight of unknown footsteps. A distant cat yowls a screeching lullaby to the sliver of silver suspended in the velvety, indigo darkness and the sound of distant fiacre wheels rumble over the cobbled street; coming closer to a house with a green door and a brass knocker in the shape of an eagle.

A short, sharp knock shatters the silence of the night. Brisk, frigid words are exchanged; cold and clear in the June darkness that is heavy with sleep. A woman answers, her voice tense and just as sharp; but she does not know anything, not yet. Another voice calls out softly to her and there is the sound of footsteps on the stairs. The boys in the upstairs room with the bed and the candlesticks however, sleep on.

He doesn't know what awakes him, as he lies in the bed with the pillows and Combeferre's hand clutching at his own. He only knows that something is wrong, but what; he can't tell. Something has changed though, something in the heady mixture of fear and relief that shroud this chamber that has become their home. Tentatively he glances over at the door and sees a sliver of dancing, yellow light illuminating the crack between that separates it from the floor. A light that wasn't there before. Why is it there now? He doesn't know. Unheeded, unwanted panic rises in his parched throat as his eyes slowly become accustomed to the darkness. From his bed, he can make out shapes slumped in sleep; shapes he knows, so why is he so suddenly afraid? He doesn't know and that frightens him. A muttered cry shatters the silence as a shadow sits bolt up and looks across at him; eyes huge in the dancing light. Feuilly. They stare at each other from across the room and still the light refuses to go away. 'What is it?' He knows as much as Feuilly; that is, nothing. 'Does 'Ferre know?' No. He doesn't want to wake his companion; not after everything that he put him through earlier. The pain, the heartbreak, the constant, agonising worry that the fever might carry the blond haired angel back to heaven. A fever brought on by men whose sole purpose was to knock an angel off its perch; or so Grantaire would say without a hint of irony. Instinctively he glances over at Combeferre, whose hand now rests on the bed frame, fingers still clenched in an empty embrace. From the other side of the room, by the door, Grantaire lets out a slow, rumbling snore. Then, silence.

He hears it then. Footsteps, quick and hurried on the wooden floor outside the room. Urgent, whispered voices and the sound of a knob being grasped. Who? He doesn't know. A girl's voice filters through the crack; a voice that makes him think of Marius and the concern in those large, dark blue eyes as they told him what Grantaire had heard about Monsieur Frauchlevent in the sewers. Sweat erupts suddenly on the back of his hands; icy cold and yet burning the tender flesh that had so recently been succumbed to the mercy of the fever. He doesn't like it, whatever it is and knows that the others need to know. Now. 'Combeferre? Combeferre, wake up!' His voice cracks slightly as he leans over the edge of the bed to shake the body of his sleeping friend. His hand is trembling uncontrollably as he clutches the thin fabric of the jacket; the fear rising palpably in his throat with every passing second. What is going on?