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It was nearly five in the morning when Combeferre quietly slipped out of his childhood room, wanting to go for a run before meeting up with a high-school teacher. He was only back home for a few days of break, as he was still finishing up his residency year, and interns weren’t given that much time off. He didn’t expect anyone else to be up yet; Enjolras didn’t have to wake up for another hour yet, and his parents were rarely up before the sun.
Enjolras. When his parents had called him at university to talk about adopting the teenager they’d been fostering for a few months, Combeferre hadn’t known what to think. He’d only been twenty at the time, and the selfish part of him thought they were replacing him; three years later, Combeferre knew that was nowhere near the truth. When no one else wanted the poor fourteen-year-old, who’d just been taken from one of the shittiest home situations Combeferre had ever heard about, his parents had taken him in, and now he was a like a little brother to Combeferre. It wasn’t always easy, but Enjolras was a good kid. And incredibly bright.
Just as Combeferre was about to slip down the stairs to start his run, he saw a light coming out of Enjolras’s room, and he bit back a sigh. Mum and Dad had said Enjolras’s insomnia had been really bad lately, and though he tried to hide it, it was obvious to Combeferre. And one glance at his parents’ computer, which had the ability to see when Enjolras turned his off for the night (he could thank Courfeyrac for that bit of coding) had confirmed it. So, silently, he cracked open the door to Enjolras’s room, unsurprised when he saw the seventeen-year-old clutching his phone, dark circles that looked almost like bruises under his eyes extra pronounced in the bright light of the phone.
“Hey, what are you doing up?” Combeferre asked softly, sitting down next to Enjolras, who had silent tears running down his face. Based on the likelihood that this was his fifth or sixth night without sleep, Combeferre knew instinctively that Enjolras was playing Flow. The first two nights he wouldn’t sleep Enjolras tended to either read or just lie there, the third night he usually played Flappy Bird, and by the fourth or fifth night he would play and replay Flow until his brain lacked the ability to solve the puzzles anymore.
“I can’t get the goddamn red ones to meet. If I get the red ones to meet the game’s over,” Enjolras said quietly, still squinting at his phone. His hands were shaking, and Combeferre saw the blonde’s abdominal muscles working as he tried not to cry audibly.
“Can I try?” Again, Combeferre was careful to keep his voice soft, but reached for the phone. Luckily, Enjolras let go, and just watched as Combeferre quickly solved the puzzle, before stowing the phone in the pocket of his sweatpants. Enjolras now positively sagged in a combination of defeat in exhaustion, not willing to look his adoptive brother in the eye.
“How many nights has it been?” Before Enjolras could answer, Combeferre knew he had to lay it out explicably so he wouldn’t find any loopholes in the question. “And if you try to tell me anything less than two hours counts as even a nap…”
“Seven,” Enjolras answered quietly, wringing his hands like he always did when he was nervous.
“Why haven’t you told Mum and Dad? This is the second time this month.” Enjolras just shook his head, threading his hands into his hair. Trying to keep the blond from shutting down, Combeferre wrapped an arm around him, the one with tattooed moths spiraling down to his wrists from his clavicle. “Sorry, that’s the doctor in me talking.”
“They can’t do anything about it. I just have to go the fuck to sleep,” Enjolras admitted, as the tension in his shoulders relaxed at his brother’s one-armed hug. Still unable to force his blue eyes to meet Combeferre’s brown ones, he focused instead on the intricate trail of moths.
“The pills aren’t working?” Enjolras shook his head. “What about the methods you learned?” All Combeferre got was another shake of the head. “What about-“
“I can’t do the sleep-regulating treatment again. The last time I spent two weeks basically asleep in the hospital and there’s too much going on with lessons and university applications to miss school,” Enjolras cut him off.
“Well, I’m at least 3% sure your health comes before school,” Combeferre responded. “I know it’s not fun, but you do realize it’s only going to get worse if you don’t tell Mum and Dad about it?” He knew he needed to logic Enjolras into doing something about it, because otherwise he would let it go until he collapsed in the middle of a lesson. It had happened before. And it had scared everyone to death.
“I don’t want to worry them.” Enjolras’s voice was barely a whisper, and now he forced himself to look up and past Combeferre’s glasses into his eyes. Even though they could barely focus, Enjolras saw the concern and worry in the creases on his face.
“Okay. We can discuss this later. And we will be,” Combeferre said pointedly, giving Enjolras his best ‘I’m a doctor and I’m not dicking around’ look, before pushing Enjolras gently backward so that the boy’s obvious vertigo would cause him to be lying down. “But you’re going to sleep now.”
“I can’t,” he whispered, already struggling to sit up, but it was obvious from Enjolras’s blinking eyes and blank gaze that he was pretty out of it and pretty damn close to being able to sleep.
“Do you have any exams today?” When Enjolras shook his head, Combeferre smiled.
“Good, because you’re going to sleep and no one is going to wake you up until your body can wake itself up, which shouldn’t be for-“ Combeferre paused to check his watch “seventeen or so hours, knowing you.”
“Combeferre-“ Enjolras started to argue, but one look from Combeferre stopped him in his tracks. There was a moment of silence before Enjolras took a deep breath, before looking at Combeferre, his fear of sleep evident. “Will you stay with me? At least until I’m asleep?”
“Of course,” Combeferre said, as it was not the first time this had happened (he believed it was the fifth or sixth). Crawling next to Enjolras under the duvet, he put his arms behind his head, praying his presence would be enough to send him quickly into sleep.
Of course, nothing was ever that easy, and it took almost an hour of Combeferre just lying there before Enjolras felt safe enough for his brain to give in and let his body fall asleep. Just before he was out, though, Enjolras slurred, voice rough and low:
“’M tired. Think ‘ma go to sleep now. Thank you, Ferre.” The last part was so quiet Combeferre almost didn’t catch it, but he did, and smiled a little bit at his brother before his worry got him to leave Enjolras in order to talk with their parents.
Luckily (or unluckily, depending on how Combeferre looked at it) they were both already awake and downstairs in the kitchen, with a mug of tea waiting for their older son.
“Did he finally go down for the count?” his mother asked, clutching a mug of coffee in both of her hands. When Combeferre nodded, both of them sighed in relief. “Thank you, for whatever you did.”
“It had been seven days,” Combeferre said quietly, locking gazes with both of his parents. He knew they were just as worried as he was, and as much as Enjolras didn’t want it, he needed to have is sleep schedule reset, school be damned. The kid was already on his way to four A*’s, and Combeferre was certain this wouldn’t change anything.
“We need to make an appointment with his doctor,” Combeferre’s father said quietly, and his wife nodded silently. “He’s going to hate us for it, but it’s gone too far.”
“Thank you,” Combeferre said quietly. “Let me know if they’re doing it soon—I’ll try to be around for the beginning and the end of it.”
“They will be. They might admit him tomorrow; he’s on a red card,” his mother explained, and Combeferre just nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. Enjolras didn’t deserve this insomnia, which was so bad there was always a bed at the hospital open for him in case it got as bad as it did.
“He’ll be okay.” Combeferre’s voice cracked, and he let his mother, who was a good half a foot shorter than him, hug him tightly as he tried to keep his emotions in control.
*
“Yours is in the fridge,” Combeferre said when he saw Enjolras, who quietly found it and microwaved it before sitting down next to his brother on the couch, eyes half-open as he picked at his food.
“They called the doctor, didn’t they?” Enjolras asked after taking a few bites, glancing at Combeferre nervously, trying to read his face. Silently, Combeferre flicked off the documentary and turned to Enjolras.
“Yeah, they did,” he responded, running his hand through his hair.
“And?” There was a hint of desperation in his voice, and Combeferre felt his heart tear itself apart.
“They’re going to do the reset; we’re going to take you to the hospital tomorrow.” Combeferre did what he could to break the news lightly, but from the way Enjolras’s shoulders shook Combeferre could tell he was trying not to cry.
“For how long?” Even looking down couldn’t hide Enjolras’s shaking lip from his brother.
“Hopefully two weeks. Your body needs a lot of rest,” Combeferre explained, and that was all it took for Enjolras to break down completely. Still, he couldn’t make any noise… Enjolras’s stomach hurt with the effort it took to cry silently, and when Combeferre wrapped his arms tightly around Enjolras, his muscular and warm embrace calming some of the anxiety building in Enjolras’s gut.
“I’m sorry,” he managed to get out, before a wretched sound escaped his mouth and Enjolras had to focus all of his energy on not sobbing. “I’m sorry, Ferre.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for. It’s going to be okay,” he consoled Enjolras, who had buried his head into Combeferre’s neck, and was gripping him like a lifeline. “I swear you’re going to be okay again.”
“I fucked up again. I’m sorry I keep fucking up.” That was the last thing Enjolras could say, before his stomach hurt too much and he started properly crying—the ugly kind of sobbing that was loud and ugly and was so much easier to let out than hold in. But Combeferre didn’t flinch away; he just held Enjolras there until he calmed down enough to stop shaking so violently in Combeferre’s arms.
“Stay, please,” Enjolras said, his arms still shaking as he looked up fearfully at the older doctor.
“Just go to sleep. I’m right here,” Combeferre whispered, and it took a while, but Enjolras slowly fell asleep in his arms, his fists balled up in Combeferre’s shirt tightly even when his breathing evened out. Combeferre didn’t have the heart to move him, and he didn’t want to wake Enjolras up, so he just flicked on the documentary quietly and let Enjolras sleep on top of him.