Chapter 1

Courfeyrac didn’t cry. He didn’t cry while they were crawling over the rooftops, trying to be as quiet and quick as possible, supporting a badly injured Feuilly. He didn’t cry while they met up with Gavroche. He didn’t cry while the young boy led them through the woods, to get as much space between them and Nassau as possible.
He didn’t cry while they rested with their backs against the trees, while they tried to collect as much berries as possible, while they patched Feuilly up - as far as possible. He couldn’t cry, of course he couldn’t. He wanted to, but there was no time for things like that. He couldn’t mourn his late husband, could not even allow himself to think about Combeferre's end, about his body lying in the mud. Without Combeferre, without Enjolras to lead them, somebody had to step up and lead the others to safety. They had lost people, god, they had lost too many people. But there were still others who were breathing. Who needed someone to guard them.
Feuilly, Bahorel, Jehan, Éponine, Marius, Musichetta. They needed him right now. And without the captain, without the first mate around, who would be better suited for the position than the first mate's husband?
At least that's what he told himself. Maybe he just needed the distraction to stop himself from spiraling. It was easier to take care of his friends than to stop and think about why breathing was so damn hard.
Gavroche was a godsend gift, with his ability to lead them through the woods. Courfeyrac was sure the soldiers were searching Nassau at this moment, were probably searching the compounds, the beach, the forest. Were trying their best to find those bloody pirates and end them once and for all. Javert would be known as the man able to stop Les Amis.
But really, without their captain, the infamous Enjolras, what was still left of the crew of the Mussain?
“We need to stop,” Bahorel said. The man was sweating while carrying the weight of Feuilly. “I don’t think he can go on.”
Courfeyrac wanted to tell him they couldn’t stop. It wasn’t safe to rest. The more distance they put between them and Nassau, the better. But Feuilly was sweating even more than Bahorel, his face was pale and he was shivering. They had to stop, to refresh the bandages and to give the man some rest. Asking Gavroche to find them a place to stay the night still felt wrong for Courfeyrac. He knew they were all exhausted, but a voice inside his head kept telling him the soldiers were merely a few miles behind them. They were going to find them. What would become of them if they were found?
Courfeyrac hadn’t been able to keep Combeferre safe. Or multiple of his friends. What if he couldn’t keep the rest safe either? He had to keep them safe.

They couldn’t light a fire without risking exposure, so they just sat down in a circle pretending to sit around a fire. Gavroche had found them a place near a creek, and Jehan was busy stroking Feuilly’s forehead with a wet rag. Courfeyrac looked at every single one of them. On Musichetta’s face were tears streaming down. She had not lost one, but two partners today. She barely seemed to notice the tears, as she was staring at some small rock on the ground. Éponine reached out to take Musichetta’s hand in hers.
They had known they could die. Starting a revolution wasn’t risk-free and they had all been aware of the risks. But like this? Joly’s scream right before he was shot was still embedded inside Courfeyrac’s brain. The image of Enjolras and Grantaire standing there, flag held high. The gunshots following right after, how Jehan had bitten in their own hand to stop themselves from screaming. The silence after, the last indicator that it was all over. That it wasn’t a bad dream. Courfeyrac hadn’t been able to look at the ground. He had wanted his last memory of his husband to be their kiss right before all hell broke loose. He hadn’t wanted to see his body on the ground, lying in a puddle of his own blood.
The people hadn’t risen. And by doing that, they had condemned Les Amis. They had condemned themselves.
“I’ll take first watch,” he said. He was exhausted, but they all were. And really? Courfeyrac doubted he would sleep at all that night. Then he better made himself useful. The others could use their sleep.