(AN: This is the sequel to another of my stories entitled A View From a Barricade. That fic is rated a very hard NC-17 and goes into detail from a prompt given to me by a friend that focused on a very severe torture session between Enjolras and a few members of the National Guard on the night of the barricade. It's not romantic in the slightest, and I've been told that it's hard to read. This fic deals with the aftermath and recovery process of a victim of a brutal attack - torturous both physical, sexual and emotional. You needn't read that fic to get the full emphasis of this fic, though it would clear up a few gaps. If you're interested, you can read the main fic on my LJ. And since is a pain about links, feel free to send me a private PM if you're interested.

This fic jumps from differing points of view. To keep anyone from getting confused, the person who will be emphasized within the chapter will be in bold up top. This fic will gradually move into E/R territory. Don't expect any magical healing cock or for things to get much better that quickly.)

Combeferre

August 6, 1832,

It has been precisely one month since our victory. The now deposed king has gone on to relatives in England. Committees are still being elected from the provinces. They will serve-

Combeferre paused in his writings. He had little desire to continue the senseless ramble of words. He knew what had happened. He lived through it. The notes he needed to take weren't supposed to be on the obvious matter of France's timeline but on what to do next.

He sat in his chair, feeling useless, while Enjolras stood behind him, looking out the window.

It had been a month and Combeferre couldn't bring himself to revel in their victory. He had tried. He attended victory celebrations, found himself smiling at the cobbled together jokes, had even drank champagne with the rest of the now free revolutionaries. But his friend's absence in their revelry clung to him like an old, tattered cloak, bringing down his mood until he had ended up in a wholly pensive way of being that brought down the rest of the party-goers, particularly if they were Amis.

He removed his glasses and rubbed his face.

"I am being unhelpful."

Enjolras' voice, now no longer so ragged, so pained, broke through Combeferre's thoughts. Combeferre hastened to replace his glasses. "No, it's not you." He flipped through his note on his previous sessions with Enjolras.

'He isn't eating.'

'He isn't sleeping.'

'Injuries are healing. So much scar tissue.'

And yet very little on Enjolras' mindset. Everything Combeferre could record, he did so, the physical changes as bright as daylight. But in the depths of Enjolras' soul, Combeferre couldn't even begin to guess. Once they had been so close, able to communicate so well. Now, things had changed.

Enjolras had changed, if Combeferre was to be perfectly honest. Enjolras was withdrawing, purposely putting up a distance between himself and the others. Combeferre knew his friend wasn't seeking solace. The distance was laden with shame and apprehension. There was a hesitation whenever Enjolras chose to touch Combeferre. Whenever Combeferre could convince Enjolras to leave his flat, they walked with a few steps in-between them. There were times when Enjolras was speaking that he stumbled upon a word and dismissed it, weighing his thoughts with more precision than he had done previously. Not that Enjolras was ever careless around him, but he was always less guarded, less reserved.

Combeferre felt, perhaps, like the others. Held at arm's length and never any closer.

Worse still, this wasn't an unconscious choice Enjolras was making. This wasn't even due to instinct or fear. This was deliberate and it made Combeferre ache not just from the distance, but because he understood why Enjolras was doing so.

It had nothing to do with trust and everything to do with what Combeferre had seen.

He understood the matter of shame. Of being so exposed to others. Of being nearly ritualistically tormented, beaten, and made to suffer a fate far worse than death. What had happened to Enjolras was not noble. It was a cruelty that Combeferre could not comprehend on the part of his attackers. Whatever had caused that regime to act in such a way, Combeferre couldn't even guess. He was simply left with the remains.

"I'm trying to get my thoughts together," Combeferre said to fill in the silence, his pen still held above the paper, the ink drying. He could envision Enjolras shutting his eyes, wishing that the two of them were anywhere else but here, trying to find solace in the darkness and pushing away of reality both from the window and from inside his flat. Combeferre's grip on the pen tightened. "I should redo the bandages."

There was an inhalation of air as Enjolras took in Combeferre's words, knowing their pragmatism and trying not to give in to the slight tremble that the words entailed. That was an unconscious movement of his body that he hadn't been able to bring under his command.

"As you wish."

They departed for the bedroom and Combeferre helped his friend strip off his shirt. While they were in the privacy of his flat, Enjolras wore loose clothing so as not to put undue pressure on his skin.

Combeferre bid him sit down and made sure to keep his expression carefully neutral. When he had first treated Enjolras, his friend hadn't moved a muscle, not in body, not in face. Combeferre had prayed he hadn't been in shock, but the reality was harder to bear. Enjolras simply did not care.

He would let Combeferre tend to his scars, to his wounds, to the burns and the welts. He would let Combeferre run a clinical hand down his back, then to gently spread his legs in order to assess the damage below. He didn't even bother turning his head away, content to merely stare up at the ceiling while Combeferre did his work.

After all, Combeferre had already seen everything. What use was there in hiding? What point was there at all in dignity and pride? It was ripped out from him in the span of one night, and somehow their victory made it all the worse. Each month that passed, on the day of his violation, the people would celebrate. They would remember the barricades, the mobs of people, the chants, the songs, the gunsmoke. Whereas all Enjolras could remember was the feeling of penetration, of fire, of the hands around his throat, and that sudden instant of his body's ultimate betrayal of himself.

He hated the loud noises most of all. There was the feeling of helplessness, the same feeling he got as Combeferre cut away his bandages to inspect the still healing flesh.

The word that had been carved on him was still there. A fact which Enjolras brought to Combeferre's attention. The unusual fact of Enjolras speaking to him made Combeferre look up. "Did you expect it to be gone?"

"I dreamed last night of the days before it all. That I looked how I did."

Enjolras was not one to put stock in his appearance. Combeferre thought that his words went deeper than something so shallow as unmarred flesh.

"Hand me a mirror, please."

Combeferre didn't think this was the best idea. He would have refused had Enjolras' tone been a bit more wavering, just a touch more afraid. As it was, it was the same tone in which he ordered more guns, more phamphlets, more audacity, more people to fill in the holes of the barricade. It was a voice that could still command and Combeferre would do anything right now to indulge that part of Enjolras, even if it meant going onto another damn barricade.

He rushed out of the room and returned a few short seconds later with a small hand mirror he retrieved from the bathroom. "I didn't know you owned one."

"Courfeyrac must have left it here," Enjolras said, long fingers taking hold of the mirror and moving it up so that he could see the damage done to him.

"Courfeyrac was here?" Combeferre rebuked himself immediately for the question. Of course Courfeyrac would come by. He was their friend and had been more worried about Enjolras than perhaps even Combeferre had been, and yet…

And yet the fact that Enjolras had not only let him inside, had possibly spoken to him, and made Courfeyrac comfortable enough to accidentally leave a personal item in the bathroom when Combeferre had to strain to get words out of his friend left him a bit cold.

"He was asking about classes. I believe I will attend."

Combeferre took out a bit of ointment for the scars. "You don't think it's too soon?"

"I have no problems sitting anymore." The bluntness in Enjolras' tone nearly made Combeferre utterly despondent. "There is no reason to not pursue a degree so I can finish with school, sit for the bar, and be on my way."

Combeferre saw the sense in this, but the strain in Enjolras' voice was showing and he made to take away the mirror.

"Don't."

Combeferre stopped at once, his hand still reaching out. Far as he knew, Enjolras had never looked down at himself, never chose to see the discoloration of the bruises and marks upon his skin. He had tried to never acknowledge the discomfort of the wounds, either on his chest or elsewhere. Combeferre was of plenty minds about this, but he kept his theories to himself and tended to Enjolras however he could. Now, Enjolras staring at the mirror with something akin to puzzlement.

"What is it?" Combeferre couldn't resist asking, abandoning his idea to just wait for Enjolras to explain to him when he felt ready.

"I don't remember."

"Remember what?"

Enjolras finally moved the mirror down. "What I looked like before this. Was my skin perfect? Was there a beauty mark? Was there the usual dusting of hair on this section? Things like that, Combeferre. Now it's just this."

There was no self-pity in his voice. Enjolras never had the time for such things. There was a detachment instead that worried Combeferre.

"You were beautiful. You are beautiful," he said, as though that would make Enjolras feel better. It didn't. Combeferre couldn't even bring himself to feel the impact of the words. They felt shallow, as though Enjolras was speaking on another plane of existence and he was still stuck having to tell him that yes, he looked beautiful and that was all he was allowed.

Once, they had conversations aplenty about the metaphorical and how to make it literal. Their discussions could have stood the test of time as they used the knowledge that both held to their strengths. Enjolras would speak of history and despots. Combeferre would speak of significant events and fact. Enjolras would utilize Combeferre's knack for detail in comparing the monarchies of old while adopting the adage for absolute power. Combeferre would would add to his friend's strengths by granting him knowledge on the homefront situation. They would spend hours, speaking as though they were one person, merely split in two.

This was yet another way in which Combeferre felt left behind, struggling to figure out which peak Enjolras was on so that he could somehow retrieve him or stand with him if aiding him wasn't an option.

Enjolras handed him back the mirror. Combeferre took hold of it, his fingers turning it over in the palm of his hand.

"Beautiful then and now," Enjolras repeated. "Thank you." He smiled but it wasn't genuine. It barely reached his eyes and it was gone before Combeferre could even fully register it.

In a fit of panic and desperation, Combeferre set to undoing the buttons of his waistcoat. His plan was hatched on impulse instead of being cultivated over time. He so rarely acted in such a manner, but he felt a sickly hand of terror working its way through his gut. He feared losing Enjolras in a completely different manner.

Enjolras watched Combeferre as the waistcoat fell to the floor and the buttons of his shirt were worked upon next. He did not ask what this was about, and Combeferre hoped he would understand.

"This," Combeferre said, standing before Enjolras now bare-chested, his shirt on the floor. "This is what you looked like before."

For a long time, Enjolras merely stared at his friend. Combeferre dared not waver or fidget. He stood, almost proudly, feeling that something even beyond his friendship with Enjolras was at stake here.

And then Enjolras was reaching for him and still Combeferre stood, letting the slender digits of his friend's hand touch his chest, moving along his sides and almost tickling him with feather-light touches and strokes.

"Like this?" Enjolras asked, his hand moving down Combeferre's unmarked chest to his stomach. Combeferre did not look as though he was sculpted from marble, but he was strong and limber. Jehan would have made more of an Enjolras-esque statue, but Jehan wasn't here and Combeferre wouldn't have let just anyone do this with Enjolras, especially not now.

"Like this," he confirmed, swallowing the urge to touch Enjolras' hand, to entwine their fingers together and show him that he was not leaving, that he could never leave.

Enjolras slowly pulled his hand back and allowed Combeferre to re-bandage his chest after the ointment had been applied. There was a bit of a relaxation to his shoulders that hadn't been there before, and Combeferre couldn't help but think that they had made progress.

He would strip naked and tend to Enjolras that way if he thought it could help, but Enjolras seemed fine enough with Combeferre minus a shirt. All the same, once Combeferre had finished helping Enjolras dress, he nodded at the garments on his floor.

"Your display was admirable," was all he said, but the tone he used was lighter than before and Combeferre's heart lifted.

He took no notes that day on the status of his friend, but he left Enjolras' flat feeling better than any time previous.