Enjolras is a proud man and insists on walking out of the prison under his own power. Combeferre understands Enjolras better than the man himself probably does and knows this. He's half a step behind his brave leader every step of the way, importantly not touching him, but ready, waiting even, for the moment when Enjolras can't continue.

It doesn't take long in coming. They are out of sight of the prison, a few streets away when Enjolras can't suppress the wretched coughing which has plagued him for weeks anymore and has to lean panting for air against the stone wall nearest to them. Combeferre's hands are strong on his shoulders and all but holding him up.

"Can you continue?" Combeferre asks quietly after Enjolras has had a moment to try to catch his breath. It is difficult and largely unsuccessful.

Enjolras nods, and pushes off the wall, walking cripplingly slowly leaning most of his weight on Combeferre. After a few steps he lifts his head and takes in the street they are making slow progress along.

"Where are we going?" he asks. His voice reflects none of its former smoothness or power, it is barely a broken husk of a voice destroyed by the cruelties of prison and illness.

Despite Combeferre's almost overwhelming desire to wrap his arms around his friend and clutch him to his chest as if to protect him from all the injustices and hurts in the world, he doesn't. He understands the importance of control for Enjolras, and equally understands, as Enjolras does, that that control will be abruptly seized from him soon enough as the illness overwhelms him. So, this time between the enforced lack of control imposed on him by prison and the convalescence awaiting him is treasured and respected by them both.

So Combeferre contents himself with taking as much of Enjolras' weight as the other man will let him and holding him as close as is practical as he answers. "Joly and Bossuett's. Their apartment is largest, the others are there, beside themselves with worry and desperation to see you alive. And free." He adds after a moment, watching Enjolras' cracked lips curve into a small, pleased smile. "Also, Joly is going to want you as magnetically aligned as possible and has set up their spare room for just that purpose. Unless , of course, you'd rather your own bed?"

Enjolras sighs a little, and has to pause to cough, but firmly shakes his head, quiet but determined in his desperation to see his friends and accepting the inevitable fussing which is going to descend on him. He can't help but admit to himself, after the horrors of prison, he's actually looking forward to it somewhat. His breathing is becoming laboured now, even between coughs and he knows the time has come to accept the help Combeferre is so desperate to offer. "'Ferre..." he murmurs, coming to a shaky halt.

Combeferre understands immediately and stoops to sweep his arm under Enjolras' knees and pull him up into his arms. Enjolras is worryingly limp in his arms, but so underweight that it is easy for Combeferre to lift him. Ironically, Combeferre is happier now his friend is closer to him, protected in his arms, and their progress is much faster.

Enjolras remains conscious, head a heavy, hot but welcome weight against Combeferre's neck. He stops Combeferre as they reach Joly's building with a squeeze of his shoulder.

"I would walk on my own two feet, please, 'Ferre." He whispers. Combeferre nods, understanding as he always does, and reluctantly eases Enjolras' legs to the floor. Stairs are a challenge, even more so that the slow trudge from the prison gates, and both Combeferre and Enjolras have never been so glad that Joly lives on the first floor.

Combeferre lets Enjolras push away from him, taking a moment to ensure he is steady on his feet, if somewhat precarious, before letting go entirely. To his mild surprise but elation, Enjolras reaches over and takes his free hand as Combeferre opens the door.

As he watches his bruised, battered and barely alive friend walk into that room full of their friends Combeferre thinks he's never looked more beautiful, more admirable than he does at that moment. The assembled amis are frozen for barely a moment as they enter, before bursting into greetings and sentiments. Besides Combeferre, only Courfeyrac and Joly have seen Enjolras since he was incarcerated, and subsequently, as his robust health succumbed to the atrocities of prison and his strong, young body to the abuse of the guards.

For his part, Enjolras feels his heart swell with affection at the site of them all assembled and waiting for him, and feels a small knot of worry for them relax as he is able to see for the first time in months with his own eyes that they are all, as Combeferre promised him and to all appearances, truly whole and well.

"My friends." He begins in a strong a voice as he can muster, and Combeferre worries for a ridiculous moment that Enjolras is planning some speech in his current condition. But Enjolras smiles, tears beading along his lower lashes and finishes with heartfelt relief in his voice, "I'm so glad you are all alright," before his body finally and completely gives up and he crumples. Combeferre, who is closest, easily scoops him back to his arms but Courfeyrac is only inches away. He seizes Enjolras limp arm and folds it onto his chest so Combeferre can manoeuvre him through the door to the bedroom which has been prepared and onto the bed.

It is only Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Joly who enter at first. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are unquestionably Enjolras' closest companions in this world and not about to now be separated from their chief, nor each other, for the foreseeable future. Joly is overwhelmingly glad his medical qualifications grant him access to this sacred reuniting and gift him with the opportunity to be close to Enjolras and reassure his own soul their chief is alive and there is hope will soon be well. Joly watches, a lump of emotion in his throat as Combeferre and Courfeyrac calmly, affectionately and tenderly strip Enjolras of the prison rags he wears; the clothes he was arrested in, the blood soaked vest, shirt and trousers he had worn on the barricade of months ago. Tears stream silently down Courfeyrac's face as Enjolras' broken, wasted body is revealed, relief and horror overwhelming the usually irrepressible and cheerful Courfeyrac. Joly is equally gentle and tender as he examines Enjolras as best he can with his patient unconscious, and helps the other two redress him in the softest bed clothes they've been able to source.

Joly and Bossuett's apartment might be generously proportioned, as is the room in which they lay Enjolras, but once the rest of the friends have arranged themselves around the bed in some sort of silently agreed upon communal vigil for this first night reunited, the room is undeniably cramped.

Enjolras is filthy, and covered in blood, some of which may be months old and some of which is clearly and horrifyingly new. But sleep is the best medicine at the moment, bathing can come later. The room is quiet and peaceful with the rhythmic breathing of eight young men watching the erratic and jerky breathing of the ninth in the bed. Combeferre can hear the wheeze in Enjolras' chest, the crackle of fluid clearly audible in the quiet. He hopes the others don't realise what the sound means, but knows they probably do. He has known for weeks that Enjolras almost certainly has pneumonia since he heard the coughing during one of his seldom allowed prison visits. He and Joly share a wince as they listen to Enjolras' cough in his sleep without waking.

Through the night Enjolras wakes occasionally, very briefly, barely opening his eyes as a water glass is pressed to his parched lips and cold clothes are laid across his burning forehead. Each time he does, he realises he is surrounded by his friends and smiles as he slips almost instantly back into to sleep. He wakes to a series of kisses against his forehead as dawn breaks and several of les amis take their leave. It is dark once again the next time he fully awakes and registers both of his hands are firmly captured between someone else's. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, he knows, before he opens his eyes.

Sure enough, they are both there, both look exhausted. Enjolras is immensely grateful for their presence and squeezes both of their hands. Courfeyrac jumps a little, mind in some reverie far away. Combeferre doesn't, but looks almost expectant as if he had predicted Enjolras' return to conciousness.

"Ah, welcome back." He says.

"'Ferre, 'Fey." Enjolras whispers. There is so little voice behind his words he mouths them more than anything. His chest is sore and heavy and he is disgusted when he rolls as much as he can onto his side to cough and coughs up sputum. Combeferre is there with a cloth and wipes his mouth gently as Enjolras pants for air and attempts to sit up. Sitting up feels better, he can breathe easier, and is grateful for the water glass Courfeyrac presses to his lips. His voice is stronger after he swallows, if not what it once was, and he feels a little more human than disjointed moments of consciousness. "Thank you." He says, but is shushed by Courfeyrac's kiss to his temple.

"We have a little surprise for you." Courfeyrac says.

Enjolras is quiet and observant as they help him sit up, pulling the covers back from his bare legs. Par dieu, they are black and blue, covered with grime and much thinner than he recalls them being. Between them they pull him to his feet and support him between them; Enjolras is shaky and weak beyond all reason and his legs are clearly not going to do the job of supporting weight and walking at the same time, so he holds on to them tightly with shaking arms, grateful for and secured by their arms entwined around his thin waist.

In the living room Joly, Jehan and Bahorel are standing in their shirt sleeves around the fireplace, in front of which sits a bath.

"No offence, my dear Enjolras, but you are in need of a bit of a bath." Courfeyrac whispers in his ear.

Enjolras laughs, and although it makes him cough seconds later, it feels wonderful.

In all his time in prison he'd never given much thought to the filth which surrounded him beyond how horrendous conditions were for the other citizens imprisoned there, without much thought to himself. After a while, after it became apparent release wasn't going to come in days or even weeks, there'd been more pressing things than worrying over cleanliness, and even the fight for freedom had eventually been consumed by the fight to just survive. So for the first time in months Enjolras was aware of quite how filthy he was and here his friends were, immediately offering the solution. Quite suddenly overwhelmed and with a lump in his throat and blinking back tears Enjolras could only whisper a weak "Thank you."

He is quiet as Combeferre and Courfeyrac lower him to a towel on the floor and calmly strip him down to his underwear, then step back allowing Joly to do something to his hair and then his skin with what he, after a moment, realises is lice powder. Strangely, he is not embarrassed but touched at the silent, efficent pragmatism of his friends and their utterly respectful touches and handling of the whole situation. Tears threaten again, but Enjolras swallows convulsively to ward them away.

It is Bahorel who kneels next to him and lifts him into the bath with strong, solid arms. Enjolras thanks him with a touch, Bahorel returns his own thanks, thank you for letting us help, with a smile and steps back.

The tears which have been on the verge of spilling down his cheeks do so now as he is able to take in just how wonderful the water feels, as do his friends' hands and clothes against every inch of his sore and undeniably itchy skin. He can see Courfeyrac and Combeferre in front of him, and Joly out of the corner of his eye working on his back. Bahorel has disappeared, leaving this most intimate of procedures to those best suited to carry it out; his job is done for the moment.

Fingers in his hair startle him for the barest moment before he realises, Jehan, and hears the poet's quiet voice gently murmuring poems and verses as he combs through Enjolras' matted blond hair. As the pads of his fingers massage his scalp it's all Enjolras can do to keep from becoming utterly limp and lax.

Joly has finished whatever he was doing to Enjolras' back and eases him back to lean against Jehan's knees and lie his head in the poet's lap. Enjolras has just enough wits about him to realise his sopping wet hair is going to soak Jehan and makes a faint noise to indicate his objection. Jehan, as if reading Enjolras'mind, is having none of it and his fingers grip Enjolras' temples firmly, placing his head in the cradle between his knees. Enjolras flicks his eyes up to look at Jehan, the poet simply smiles, continues to murmur poetry as he works and begins to tease the tangles out of Enjolras' blond hair, strand by strand. Armed with a comb and scissors for knots which won't yield even to Jehan's nimble fingers, Enjolras feels not one tug or pulled hair and loses the battle with limpness entirely and sighs, more at peace with his complete loss of control of his limbs than he thinks he's ever been in his life. Enveloped by friends, and their love and tender care, he is so far gone he's entirely unaware of the pain of bruises and the dismal ache in his chest as the others' hands ghost over him.

Bahorel reappears, an enormous bucket in each hand and Enjolras realises he has slipped off to sleep a little and wonders where they've sourced this amount of hot water, enough to change the filthy water in the tub for fresh, clean water. Jehan's tender ministrations have moved back from his hairline to his crown now, the poet's hands occasionally tipping Enjolras' head from one side to the other so he can access the worst of the matting. Combeferre, Joly and Courfeyrac go back to work once again, and now the sharp tang of carbolic soap stings Enjolras' sensitive nasal passages, and although it makes him sneeze, the familiar, but long missed smell, makes him feel wonderfully clean. Jehan has finished his work on the mess which was his hair and is combing it through gently. Water cascades over his head, rinsing through hair which once again looks blond, not red and brown from blood and filth. Enjolras doesn't even realise his eyes have drifted closed again until he opens them when a cloth gently touches his cheek. Combeferre is hovering in front of him, gently wiping over Enjolras' forehead, cheeks, lips. Enjolras manages to smile at him, head still supported by Jehan's knees because his neck is doing a really poor job of it, but Enjolras is remarkably sanguine about it. Combeferre looks vaguely amused, and incredibly fond of him as he returns the smile and kisses Enjolras on the forehead. They have all developed this habit, he muses, of kissing him when they leave the room or tend to him in some way. Enjolras can't say he minds, and makes a note to himself that he has a lot of kisses to return at some point. He almost giggles at that thought, but suppresses the urge. A cool hand against his forehead tells him he did a poor job of keeping his drifting thoughts from showing on his face and they suspect his fever might be rising. This is true and Joly announces as much.

Bahorel reappears to lift Enjolras from the bath, with little regard to getting himself wet. He is quietly and efficiently wrapped in towels, and dried with more care than given to even the smallest baby. He is most of the way to sleep before Bahorel is able to put him down on the bed, absently noting the sheets have been changed, and burnt, he hopes, considering the state of him. Before sleep entirely claims him once more he murmurs, "Thank you," and is shushed by 6 kisses to his temples, hands, forehead and cheek. As he sinks down into oblivion and comfortable pillows he is surrounded by bodies curling up to him in the centre of the bed.