(A/N: I'm actually relatively proud of this one. There are spoilers, but...oh well. IT'S NOT LIKE ANYONE'S GONNA READ IT. CAUSE YANNO, IT'S NOT F*CKING CONTESTSHIPPING OR POKESHIPPING OR ANYTHING. :/ *bitter*)
Joly leaned into the touch he knew so well, the warm embrace of his sweet lover. He always felt so comfortable and safe around him, and tonight he needed to feel comfortable and safe. It was June 5th, nighttime, the insurrection would continue on the morrow. Although in battle he was fiercely loyal and helped out with the wounded however he could, he still felt frightened. Two had already died on the barricades, Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire, and he was afraid that the same would happen to his lover or himself.
"Feuilly..." he whispered, barely audible even through the silence, placing a hand on Feuilly's arm. "Do you think that...tomorrow..." His worrying was interrupted by delicate painter's fingers running through his hair comfortingly. He sighed, resting the back of his head against his love's chest.
"What will be will be." Feuilly replied, just as softly. "I'm not sure what's in store for us, to be honest..."
Again, Joly tensed. "I don't want to lose you." he said, his voice faltering a little as tears became visible in his eyes. He turned to face the raven-haired boy, tears trickling down the sides of his face. "If something were to happen to you-"
Feuilly brought him closer, embracing him tightly and once more stroking the silky red hair. He loved Joly's hair; so bouncy and red and it framed his face beautifully. "Don't worry about me, Joly, please. You look absolutely tragic when you cry and I'd much rather see you smiling." The boy in his arms sniffled, and Feuilly rubbed his back. "It will be okay. I promise."
Joly pulled away again. "You can't promise me that. You...you don't know."
"But I can do everything in my power to come back to you. I love you more than anything in the world and you know that." came the reply. "No, look at me, look at me," he said, lifting Joly's chin and looking him straight in the eyes. "I will be okay. I promise you that."
Although his eyes were tearing up again, Joly nodded. To seal his promise, Feuilly pulled him into a deep kiss, holding him close as he always did and stroking his hair.
From the top of the barricade Enjolras waved the red flag of the insurrection, crying out curse words that no one could quite hear. Musket shots, cannon fire, gunpowder filled the air as well as the smell of dead bodies baking in the torrid sun. Joly was bustling around, looking for any wounded soldiers that he could assist. There weren't many; a good number of the wounded had already died from severe wounds or infection, and nineteeth-century medicine was not all that advanced. There was really nothing to stop the infections that would set into exposed wounds, primitive methods of surgery, but Joly did all that he could with what he knew.
He missed Feuilly; he had no idea where he was, most likely leading insurgents but where exactly Joly did not know. Hopefully he had not joined the likes of Bahorel, Jean Prouvaire, and more recently Lesgle and Courfeyrac. He wished there were something he could do to help other than treat the wounded, but he was not given a rifle or saber or anything really in the way of weaponry. It was frustrating.
On the other side of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, Feuilly was leading his insurgents with saber held high. Although his focus was supposed to be on the insurrection, he could not help but worry about Joly. He hadn't seen him since the morning when he was in his arms, still sleeping peacefully. He wished he could see that calm expression once more, his bespectacled face smiling even in sleep.
"Monsieur Feuilly! Your left!" a voice cried out, jarring him from his daydream. Without even thinking he stabbed to the left and caught a national guardsman in the stomach. He'd always been good with a saber. He looked down at the body of the man he'd just killed, wondering when all the senseless but necessary violence would end. Here they were, killing fellow Frenchmen, only because some stupid bourgoise wouldn't let the poor have their way. He, of course, was one of those poor, but this was going way too far. Anything that would put his Joly in danger was already going way too far.
"Monsieur Feuilly, behind you!" another voice called out. But he could not turn around in time; he felt a blow to the back of the head, and his last thought before everything went black was the thought that he had broken his promise.
Slowly, slowly, everything began coming back into focus again. Was he in heaven? He'd imagined heaven to have white fluffy clouds and big pearly gates...not cobblestone streets soaked with blood and the ruins of once prosperous buildings. This looked more like hell, or at least the streets of a revolutionary Paris. There was no more gunfire; it was mostly silent. The back of his head hurt like a bitch, but he was still alive. He looked to the barricade, staggering towards it.
It was a disatrous mess. There were bodies all over, blood ran down from where bodies had fallen into grotesque positions and the smell of rotting flesh and blood was prominent. It looked so surreal...
He saw the body of Combeferre, one of his fellow lieutenants, pierced through the chest thrice.
He saw the familiar forms of Grantaire and Enjolras, lying together as though someone had thrown them there.
He saw a familiar mop of red hair, matted with blood.
Disregarding the pain in favor of agony of a different sort, he sprinted towards the familiar body he had loved so much and knelt by him.
"...tell me this isn't happening..." he murmured to himself, reaching out to touch his lover's cold face. "This isn't real...this can't be real..."
He ran his fingers over a slash wound in Joly's throat, as if he believed it was only an illusion. But it was real; warm blood coated his fingers, which immediately began to shake.
"Joly...." he said through his tears, "Joly, darling...I've come back...! I've...I've fulfilled my promise to you Joly...I did what you wanted...I've come back to you..." he paused. "...but what's the use now...? You worried about me dying on the barricades, but look at me. I survived, and you're..."
He broke down into sobs, holding the lifeless form close to him and stroking his hair once more.