A/N Important: this ship doesn't get enough love. So I might as well try to popularize it with angst. Other notes: this is modern au, and it is a (inaccurately portrayed) cancer fic. Good luck.

1

He gets the call on May 7th, at precisely 2:46 in the afternoon.

The exact time isn't anything he'd pick up on normally, of course, but he's been watching the clock while trying to boil a pot of damn water for what feels like ages now, with vague abstractions of tea in mind—he's out of coffee, somehow. The truth is that he's procrastinating on the work he's got to get done for his human psychology course, and he's already admitted that to himself, the thought saturated with amusement more than anything else. He can't bring himself to care that much—he's already near-failing the class, and surely passing the next test won't make much of a difference anyways. Guaranteed lack of success is a sort of sour reassurance, and so he finds himself settled into comfortable neutrality towards the studying situation as a whole when the phone decides to ring.

The sound stirs just beneath the radio that he's got blasting, and for a moment he's under the false impression that the whiny jingle is just another part of the heavy, crashing music, before he realizes how it's a bit too obnoxious even for this cringe-worthy station. The next few seconds are an ungraceful rush as he hurries to unplug the stereo—his haste allows no time to actually switch it off—and reach for the phone, blinking in its cradle. He slams it under his ear just before the final buzz terminates.

"Yeah."

"Bahorel, hey, man."

"Courf," he greets in casual response, brightening slightly at the familiar warm tones of his friend. "What's up? If Combeferre said to check up on me again, you can tell him to take his nice little stack of completed essays and shove them right up his—"

A brief laugh, trembling with uncharacteristic nervousness, cuts in from the other end of the line, and Bahorel pauses, scowling towards the simmering teapot. It's bizarre for Courfeyrac to interrupt him, and even more so to sound unsettled. It's around this point that the first tremors of realization begin to thrum through his stomach, though he doesn't notice, of course, subconscious as they render themselves.

"Nah, nothing like that. Listen—I've got news. Are you sitting down?"

Sitting down. The syllables settle like rocks into his gut, and he tenses briefly, the near-boiling water forgotten as air rushes forth from his lungs. He tries to swallow, but his throat sticks. Courfeyrac isn't patronizing—were it Joly or Combeferre on the other line, he'd know not to take the subtle warning of the message's weight too seriously, but if Courfeyrac thinks that something is going to affect him, then there's just about no chance that it won't. He extends a hand, pretending that it doesn't shake, and settles it carefully on the tiling above the sink. The coolness is chilling rather than soothing. His head is on the verge of spinning, but he holds it carefully in place, paying no mind to the nausea surging in his stomach.

"Shit. What happened?" A fight. It must have been another goddamned fight that those idiots got themselves into, and without him, which is frankly both offensive and idiotic. He and Grantaire are probably the only ones out of them all who can actually hold their own in a proper riot, and yet somehow it always seems to be the rest who tangle themselves up in all variety of injuries.

Or worse. Courfeyrac has never called because of an injury before.

"Was it Enjolras?" Bahorel demands, scrambling ahead of himself in an effort to get the truth out. "It was, wasn't it? He never knows how to keep out of trouble, the idiot, doesn't realize that just because he can talk loud doesn't make him invincible—"

"It's not Enjolras," Courfeyrac interjects, and his words are stilted, almost apologetic. He sounds... odd; almost tearful and yet somehow the opposite, painstakingly dry and steady. "Bahorel, it's not Enjolras. Nobody got into... trouble. They've been great, actually. Getting their school crap done, for once."

"What do you mean, nobody got into trouble? Damn it, if you called me and acted like a devastated bitch because of some politician's death or something, I swear to God I will—"

"Jehan's in the hospital."

A paralyzing tremor shoots through his veins all at once, freezing the phone to his shoulder and his fingers to the wall. He inhales sharply, heat rearing behind his eyes and blurring his vision, and then a second later molten blankness is coursing through him, something like adrenaline but not quite. The words echo numbly through his mind—Jehan's in the hospital, Jehan's in the hospital. Jehan. Jehan's in the hospital. Not at the hospital, but in it; the delicate phrasing left no room for misinterpretation, and he can't mistake the meaning.

"Bahorel?—Bahorel!"

"What the hell happened?" He can barely hear his own voice, ablaze as his mind is, but Courfeyrac must, because he's babbling then, dumping out his information all at once now that he's crossed the line.

"Combeferre was the only one there, it was in that lit class that they've got together, so I can't tell you everything—apparently he collapsed in the middle of it, ended up hitting his head pretty hard and they had to cart him out... anyways, Combeferre went with them, and he just texted me, says that something's wrong and he's been in there for too long. The head whack could have been worse, so his best guess is that something worse than fatigue is responsible for the whole fiasco. I'm about to stop by; do you want me to pick you up?"

Collapsed. He can't imagine it, and his lips drift thoughtlessly over the word, as if framing it will somehow give it substance, reality. He can't think. Worse than fatigue. Too long. Shit.

Shit.

"Yeah. Just—just get your ass over here as soon as you can, I—do they really not know? Because if you're keeping something from me just because he's my—" He can't give their relationship a label. Anything sounds too cheap, but Courfeyrac understands him, and responds with emphatic reassurances, his quick warm voice somehow more stupefying than anything else.

"No, honest, that's everything I know. They could be wrong, it might have been anxiety, stress... he's been looking a bit pale lately."

"Don't give me false fucking reassurances, get over here."

"On my way. Hang in there."

The terse words aren't yet finished when the line clicks silent, the final syllable clipped into muteness. Bahorel realizes that his shoulders are heaving, his chest trembling even though it feels as though his breath is frozen. Keep your head, he reminds himself with attempted sternness. False or not, Courfeyrac's words reverberate through his mind, reminding him of their validity—it really could be anything. And even if he's sick... Jehan Prouvaire is tough, way the hell tougher than he's ever given credit for. It's probably some stupid, trivial bug of the month, and surely they'll both be embarrassed later on that such a big deal was ever made of it.

Collapsed, his brain reminds him mockingly. Hit his head, because there was no one there to catch him. And the other nervous mentions that Courfeyrac had thrown in, references to some sort of anxiety or whatever—'he's been looking a bit pale lately;' has he? Of course he's been melancholy, but that's typical of his attitude, and Bahorel hasn't put much any thought to it at all. Jehan's dismalness is part of what makes him Jehan, balanced out as it is by the sunniness of his good days. But, shit, if he's been blind, if he's been neglecting the blonde slip of a man all this time and refusing to see anything but his smile—he'll never be able to forgive himself.

He pretends that his hands aren't shaking by properly switching off the stove, then running his palms briefly over his forehead, breathing—he has to keep breathing. Still, the images are pressing, all the imagined scenarios, Jehan, Jehan, Jehan—did nobody notice if he was looking ill? What about Combeferre? Wouldn't he have been paying attention? Goddamn it, goddamn it, he can't think straight and his thoughts are fragmented and he needs to see him, he needs to see him. Surely his imagination is twisting things beyond their reality, and he hates that, hates having to rely on his own stupid visualization. He bites down furiously into his lip, praying that the pain, small as it is, might erase the aching sights gripping his mind's eye. It's easier, as well, to pretend that it's the sharp cut of his teeth that causes the impossible swell of moisture at the back of his eyes.

He can't fucking see anything. His chest hurts. His chest hurts so fucking badly.

An angry swipe at the liquid that he won't let himself call tears only half-clears his vision, but it's enough for a quick glance towards the clock to reveal it to be 2:49.

Three minutes. His entire life turned around in three goddamned minutes.

But, no, he's being melodramatic, because this is nothing. They'll find out what's wrong, and then they'll take care of it, and, no matter what, Jehan will be alright. That's what matters. It is absolutely all that matters, and therefore it'll be obtained at all costs. He's alright now—Combeferre said that there was nothing more than a head hit, and he trusts the older student's medical opinion, more so than just about anyone's. There's nothing more extreme happening. He won't let there be. It's his goddamned job to protect Jehan, it has been since the beginning, since even before he was accepted as an official stupid boyfriend, and he's not going to give that up now.

You'll be fine. I won't let anything else happen. I promise.

He takes another breath and runs his fingers through his hair, causing the gingery fringe to stand up even more so than usual. Calm. He's calm. His throat is still scorched, but he forces himself to ignore it and straighten his back, pacing through the hallway before throwing open his apartment door and greeting the fresh air that buffets his face. It's cool, uncomfortably cool for mid-spring, but he doesn't let it penetrate him.

You will be fine.

Courfeyrac's car, a rusty old red dump, pulls up a couple of minutes later, and he's at its side in seconds, pulling the door open and letting himself in. A battered green air freshener dangles from the rearview mirror, and Courfeyrac's arm is thrown absentmindedly over the passenger seat as he revs the engine and starts them briskly towards the hospital.

"How are you doing?" Courfeyrac checks, slanting a glance in his direction.

"Fuck, I don't—" He doesn't let himself finish. "Just get us to the hospital, okay?"

"Yeah." The street unrolls itself before them, backed by only the purr of the engine for a few terse seconds. The radio, so often tuned to noisy pop stations in this particular vehicle, is perfectly silent. He hates that silence, hates the unusual quality of it, but he supposes it's meant to be respectful of his own feelings or what the hell ever, and suffices to remain wordless, focusing on the myriad tired-looking pedestrians outside of the windows so that his mind can't flee back to Jehan.

"Do you think they'll let us see him?" He doesn't realize he's saying the words until they're out of his mouth, and then hates himself for the slip—he's afraid of the answer, of what it might entail.

"Shit, I don't know. I'm worried, man. Not that—"

"No." He settles back, drowns himself in the creak and stench of faux leather. "Don't try and hide shit from me. I want to hear it how it is, right? I know you care about him, and—and if you think that something could be up, don't you dare keep it from me."

"Right." Exhalation. "Sorry."

"What do you think is wrong?"

"I think he's sick. Really sick, not just the flu or something. He's been losing weight lately, have you noticed that? I don't know if it's intentional, I hope to hell it's not, but it's hurting him either way. He's... God, yeah. Just really sick."

Bahorel can't say anything. His voice has vanished.

"...Hi."

He looks embarrassed. Embarrassed. There are a million expressions that he could be assuming—pained, anxious, frightened, relieved; but he's opted for this. Lower lip half-trapped under his teeth, wide eyes lowered, a patchy flush contrasting horribly with the waxen pallor of his usually clear skin. Courfeyrac's comments cause Bahorel's eyes to skate briefly over the form swaddled beneath the thin, starchy sheets, and it really is absurdly thin, but he can't bring himself to dwell on it. He's too drawn to the face, to the half-smile gracing those delicate lips. He's here, he's alright, and surely that's all that matters for the time being.

"Hey, you. How's my favorite swooning princess?" Somehow, his voice doesn't crack. He wraps his fingers around the metal of the bed's frame, and an almost natural smile tilts his mouth, a pleasant surprise when he expected any sort of positive expression to be forced.

Jehan laughs, his teeth glinting briefly with a genuine grin, and Bahorel's chest only twists tighter. He looks so out of place here, stranded in this sea of crisp whiteness. It's foreign, and he feels distanced, as though the thin mattress separating from them is really miles in length. "I know I look bad," he mumbles.

"Of course you don't," Bahorel lies easily. "Sound pretty awful, though. What happened to you in there? I didn't get much of a chance to talk to Combeferre."

"Oh, it was... nothing, they're overreacting. It's really just... humiliating, more than anything. I mean, a lot of people already think that I'm... weak, and then..."

"Anyone who thinks you're weak is an idiot," he scoffs. There's another light laugh, and, somehow, he finds himself releasing the bed's metal bars, moving around its side so that he can crouch properly next to Jehan, lean in close enough to see the violet shadows under his sunken blue eyes. His fingers curl around the thin hands clasped over the blanket, and he's alarmed to discover that they're frigid, extremely so. He rubs his thumb gently along Jehan's wrist in a futile effort to warm it, making sure to maintain his slight smile. "And whatever's up with you now, you're just going to pull right through, aren't you? Prove them all wrong."

Do that for me.

Please.

"I don't..."

"Hey." Unwilling to hear any other words, he lifts their entwined hands, brings them to his lips and murmurs his next words into them. "Let's not be negative, alright? Chances are that the worst thing you've got going on is that bump on your head." It's also a lie, or at least a partial one. He hates himself more and more with every word that he utters, and yet it's somehow bitterly rewarding to see the way that his murmurings make Jehan smile, if only the slightest little bit. God, he's so gorgeous—even now, pale and skinny and done up in hospital blankets. So, so beautiful.

"...Alright." He sighs, a delicate motion thrumming down the length of his slender chest, then shakes his head slightly. Golden strands of hair tumble against his sallow cheeks. "It was... really horribly embarrassing, you know—they brought in a wheelchair and everything."

"From the way Courfeyrac described it, it sounded like you needed a wheelchair," he half-teases. It's becoming clear that Jehan is more than a little anxious over his experience, and probably for reasons more than peer pressure. His fingers twitch within Bahorel's grip, and Bahorel thinks for a moment that he's trying to pull away, before they thread more firmly through his own, squeezing tight like a hand to an anchor as Jehan's next words continue to spill out.

"I didn't! I just—okay." He straightens up slightly, his mouth twisting into half a scowl and half a grimace. "I got dizzy, and... fell out of my chair, sort of, I guess. I can't actually, um, remember much. Then I guess I hit my head, I... was in a wheelchair, next thing I knew? It sounds stupid, it—I'm sorry, it was just... it felt wrong, I don't know where it came from, it—" He bites against his lip again, running it between his teeth.

"It doesn't sound stupid," Bahorel replies, his voice as soft as he can possibly render it. He can't look away from the light, feminine face before him. "It doesn't sound stupid at all. It sounds... scary."

"It was terrifying. I hate it here, I just want to go back, I want to know what's going on—they're overreacting, but they're doctors, so they must know that something's wrong, really wrong, and I don't feel wrong, but shouldn't they have let me out by now? They're talking about tests, and murmuring to each other, and I shouldn't be here at all, I—"

Jehan's voice, escalating rapidly, is cut off all at once as the door opens and a bespectacled, clipboard-bearing man pokes his balding head in.

"Jean, is it?" he questions.

"Oh—yes?"

"He goes by Jehan," Bahorel interjects, vague irritation prickling his tone. He straightens up and reluctantly pulls his hands away, tucking them into his pockets as he throws his shoulders back.

"Jehan," the man, presumably a doctor, notes as he lets himself fully into the room. "Of course. Well, if you wouldn't mind, Jehan has a few tests on the next floor up that we have prepared for him now, and I'm afraid we can't allow any visitors in an unoccupied ward. We have a waiting room, if you don't mind holding on a few hours until we get what we need."

"Waiting room. Sure." To hell with psych work. "Hang in there, yeah?" he adds over his shoulder, passing the doctor and heading into the hallway. The words come out less casual than he originally planned, permeated instead with unconscious tenderness.

"'Course," Jehan agrees, and Bahorel's still staring after his wide blue eyes when the door closes between them.

The results come two days later.

He doesn't know how many scans have gone through. He does know that he hasn't been allowed back in Jehan's room since the first day, and that he hasn't attended a single class during that time, either. Most of his hours are spent in the hospital waiting room, staring at the wall or flipping blindly through one of the sickly sweet pop culture magazines arrayed there. It's during one of his rare visits home to his apartment, however, that he gets the text message.

It's from Combeferre. The letters are as brief and terse as his spoken words would be.

They think it's cancer.

His phone shatters against the wall.