It was the darkness on the tiny street, the lonely streetlight at the end of the road not quite casting enough light to see by. It was the rain, hazing the view on the street as the skies opened up. It was Montparnasse's recognizable coat thrown over Jehan's shoulders as the cold sunk in. It was stupid mistakes, too many crimes, too many enemies, too hard to see, too hard to distinguish between the two of them in the dark. It could have been any of it. But the bottom line was, they had wanted him and they had gotten Jehan instead. And now the poet was the one bleeding on the slick pavement, his dark blood mingling with the dark rain in the gutter instead of Montparnasse's. It should've been him, lying there dying, but instead it was the poet. The sentimental poet with a love of flowers and kittens and walks in the rain at night with thieves. It was him who the bullet had hit, the faceless killer behind it disappearing before the thief could give chase.
Whispered apologies could not take the bullet back. Whispered reassurances could not keep the boy from dying. He couldn't even stay by his side as the police sirens were heard in the distance. He let go of the rain-chilled, death-frozen hand and he ran.
The killer was gone, the poet was dead, and thief might as well have been.