2

He doesn't want to be around the rest of them. He doesn't want to be around any of them. He doesn't want to see anyone but Jehan, and Jehan's the one he can't see, barred as he is behind the walls of the goddamned hospital, alone and probably terrified, isolated amidst corridors of merciless white and shoved under a heavy blanket likely to be suffocating him. The more Bahorel thinks of the situation that his boyfriend might be in, the sicker he feels, and it spreads like a virus, dominating his mind until studying is a joke and even the Amis seem unimportant. Jehan is the first thing on his mind when he wakes up in the morning and stays there consistently, haunting him late into the night so that he's lucky to scrape three or four hours of sleep. It's taking a toll on him, the insomnia, and it shows in his scowl and his eyes, weighing down his limbs, resulting in yet more worrying and lethargy and beating itself into an endless cycle, until there's no way out at all.

After Combeferre told him, he couldn't think for a good hour. He was crying again, and wondering how long it had been since he'd felt so many tears, pouring ceaselessly down his face as if emerging from some detestably infinite source. He'd pause, choke, ram his forehead into the heel of his hand and try to pull himself together, but it refused to work, and every time reality established itself once more he'd find that he couldn't breathe, that there was nothing but hopelessness aching ferociously at his very being. It stung, everything about it, because Jehan didn't deserve this, because nobody deserved this, but Jean Prouvaire was young and alive and gorgeous and Bahorel couldn't possibly imagine him any other way.

It was after his eyes throbbed and no more tears could possibly emerge that he rose, shaking, gasping, making his way over to the laptop shoved in the corner of the kitchen table and flipping it open so sharply he nearly broke the screen. Hours passed, then, searching everything he possibly could—Combeferre hadn't specified what type of cancer or what stage, but rather than allowing that to deter him, he instead took it upon himself to absorb all the information he could, not pausing to eat or drink or sleep, whiling away the hours as night came and went, forcing himself to accept the bitter truths that the web pages were far too eager to provide. The landline rang seven times, and he ignored it, seeing absolutely no point to behaving as if he cared.

The first night was hard, felt like it nearly killed him, and yet, in reflection, it turns out to be far from the worst. Because the spiked missing only increases, and as the time between their last meeting extends, as Courfeyrac drops by and silently hands him a new mobile phone with no mention of debt, as he realizes that he hasn't eaten for half a week, as the days of his course tests fly by and he finds that he couldn't care less, he only falls further apart. Combeferre texts him, presumably given his new number by Courfeyrac, this time to tell him that it's pancreatic, that they don't know how far it's spread but they're hopeful they might be able to operate. This time, he doesn't break the stupid device—it's only the messenger, after all, and he has no feud with it. No feud with Combeferre, either, or even with the damn doctors—the only thing that his boundless anger can be properly directed at is the cancer itself, the ugly, fucked-up, deformed little disease that dares to work its grotesque curses on his Jehan, his flower.

On the fourth day, he's in his room, tangled in the sheets of his bed, wondering how fast and hard he can breathe before something inside of him shatters. His fingers twine with nothing, and he can too easily remember the nights that Jehan was here, curled beside him, forehead pressed into Bahorel's collarbone and long pale hair silken over both of their shoulders. The nights when they felt each other, and the nights when they kissed, and the nights when they only whispered moonlit words into each other's lips or did nothing at all, sufficing to listen to the way their breathing pulsed together. Warmth is what he remembers most vividly, and warmth is what he's lacking in now, stranded in a sea of emptiness, staring at the wall and wondering how the hell this could have happened.

He barely moves all day, and in the late evening, his phone trills. It's the default jingle of an incoming text, bracingly different from the quartet of musical notes that he'd had his old one set to, and it unsettles him, but he wastes no time in scooping it up from the bedside table and glancing at the name flashed across the screen.

It's from Enjolras, sent to all of them. Musain 10.

He clenches his teeth until they strain.

Instants later, before he has the chance to set the device down, its screen is illuminated with a second message, this one with him as the only recipient. Courfeyrac is the sender this time.

Sry about enj—ill talk to him—pls come.

He's got no idea why they want him to come, wreck that he is, but he sees no reason to stay. Despite the utter weight of his mind, he's still capable of logic, and he knows that the longer he remains here, the worse he's going to feel. He's had long, too long to absorb every facet of the truth that Jehan's diagnosis confronted him with, and the next step, surely, is to test his altered outlook in the real world. See just how compatible his sobered attitude is with the Amis as a whole. Besides, he misses them—not as much as he misses Jehan, but all of this, being alone, isn't good for him.

He'll go. Maybe it will be a mistake, but this time, he'll go.

He arrives early, and Enjolras is the only one there, back to the door as he straightens the chairs arranged around the back room. The red-clothed shoulders stiffen at the noise of entry, and he glances back tersely, blue eyes solemn as they meet Bahorel's hard green ones.

The sapphire gaze is cast down briefly. "I heard. Thank you for coming."

"Don't thank me. I didn't do it for you."

"Of course not."

They say nothing more, and Bahorel settles at a small table near the back, far from the bright-lit center he usually occupies. A few minutes pass, then Courfeyrac's dark-curled head pokes through the door. He catches sight of Bahorel and vanishes again; instants later, an amber bottle settles onto the wooden tabletop before him.

"On me," Courfeyrac promises. "You deserve it."

"Whatever." He wastes no time, but instead uncaps it in a swift movement that burns his palm, and he's drinking steadily as the rest begin to filter in. First Combeferre, accompanied by Feuilly, and then Grantaire, with Bossuet and Joly rounding up the back. The latter hurries over to him immediately, eyes wide with concern.

"Combeferre told me what happened—I'm so sorry, Bahorel, it's awful, just... just horrible stuff, really."

"You would say so."

"What?" The already tilted eyebrows arch into further concern, and Bahorel waves him off with a dismal sort of apathy, staying steady where he'd usually burst into laughter. It all feels incredibly stupid, they all do, and he finds himself wondering what compelled him to come here in the first place, when there's clearly nothing to be gained by being among these people who can do little more than offer their useless sympathies. Going to the Musain isn't going to bring Jehan back into their ranks, won't make him healthy again. He doesn't know if that's what he was expecting, somehow, but it doesn't matter, because it hurts equally either way.

"Nothing. Thanks."

He hates the shortness of his words, but not enough to lengthen them, and he pretends that he doesn't notice the darkening of Joly's eyes, or the way that he ducks his head as he steps away with a mumbled apology. Bossuet half-glares at him, apparently not quite able to muster a full scowl, and Bahorel once more doesn't care.

"Friends," Enjolras begins, moving to the front of the room and cutting through the muted conversations that had been stirring among their ranks. Grantaire's gaze is the first to snap to his, and Bahorel finds himself watching the cynic rather than the leader, more fascinated by the flaws of the bitter man than the perfection of the shining one. He looks scruffy, as much so as ever, and his eyes are cloudier than usual, a shadowed face and tangled hair reflecting a major downswing of his already dismal mood. Bahorel has no idea whether it's because of Jehan or Enjolras, and wonders whether Grantaire knows or cares about the fate of the poet, if he's too far suffocated by his own adoration to properly care about anyone other than the object of his near-worship. Either way, his current affixation is clearly on Enjolras, on the easy words falling from his strong lips, and Bahorel feels himself absorbing them as if from a distance, sickened by each syllable.

"We have much ahead of us, as you all know, but there is another topic to address first, something of utmost concern."

He knows what's coming, and he figures for the first time that he really hates Enjolras, detests him for his directness and stoic attitude. He's inhuman. Grantaire may idolize that coldness, but Bahorel finds it repulsive, and his fingers curl, instinctively forming an empty fist that none of the rest of them, focused on their leader, notice.

"Surely, the majority of you have taken note of Jean Prouvaire's absence tonight. He is hospitalized for the time being, diagnosed with what has been tentatively labeled as pancreatic cancer."

There is not a stir. No one is surprised. Bahorel feels Joly glance back towards him, and Feuilly as well. They know about him and Jehan. They expect him to be hurt. He is, but there's no reason to let them know.

"Our thoughts, of course, are with him, and it is my sincere hope that he will soon recover and join us in our endeavors once more. He has always played an irreplaceable role among us all, being one of our most dedicated believers in freedom, and I am sure that he would be nothing but overjoyed to see us continue to fight for that cause in his regrettable absence."

Bahorel feels fire wrestling within him, and he leans back heavily, his chest trembling. He wants to sprint to the front of the room, to seize Enjolras's unevenly buttoned scarlet shirt and dash him against the wall, teach the impenetrable sculpture of a man what tears feel like. He wouldn't be overjoyed, you obsessive bastard. He barely knows what joy feels like, and of course you can't tell. You know his name and his face and the fact that he grows fucking flowers, and that's enough for you, isn't it? To scream at Grantaire—how can you love this? How can you love something so heartless?—but he can't, he can't do anything but sit and fume.

Feuilly is still watching him, eyes steady, and he returns the gaze with a glare, but the light-haired painter is unperturbed. He, for one, looks genuinely sorry, and doesn't try to drown them all in false sentiments. Bahorel is grateful for that, in a way, and reminds himself painstakingly that he can't allow himself to be furious at them all solely because Enjolras is so determinedly insensitive.

Still, he can't do this. He can't sit here and listen to Enjolras tick off words like a life-weary funeral orator. So he finds himself standing, his fingers steepled into the wood of the table, his teeth working more than his tongue to form his next words.

"Shut the hell up."

Combeferre and Bossuet tense while the rest of them turn, Enjolras's ravishing features twitching into momentary confusion. "Bahorel," he acknowledges tightly.

"Stop it. Stop—stop talking about him like you know what the fuck's going on. You don't. You don't give a shit about what happens to him, about what happens to any of us"—his stare twists briefly to Grantaire, who appears physically struck—"so long as your precious little rebellion keeps on simmering. Pretending otherwise makes you look like even more of a fucking prick than you are, and none of us need that. None of us—"

He realizes all at once just how hard his shoulders are shaking, and when he pauses, it's only for his lungs to be seized by a number of tremors, heaving and wretched. For him, however, tears don't come with anger, and it is anger dominating him now, drowning everything out in a flame of almost welcome respite.

"Bahorel, calm down," Combeferre says firmly, but he can't calm down, and the insistence that he does is only more infuriating, and he can't think, he just knows that he needs to get out of here, that he doesn't belong here when Jehan's gone, that he feels nauseous and heated and awful, and the only place he wants to be is that hospital room, holding the hand of the one person in the world whom he doesn't detest right now.

"Fuck you," he snarls back simply. "All of you. Fuck your faith and your revolution. Jehan's dying. He's dying, and you're all here with your goddamned alcohol and politics. It's disgusting. You're all fucking disgusting."

His hand lashes out suddenly, violently, and the nearly-empty beer bottle jolts off the table, colliding with the floor and releasing a hundred sharp missiles of murky glass, spraying in every direction. One shaves through his bicep, but he ignores it, determined not to think about the way that Jehan would patch him up after fights when Joly was busy, not to imagine the weary fondness in the blonde man's pale blue eyes. It hurts, a thousand times more than the burn of the glass in his skin, and then he's lurching around the table, refusing to meet any of their gaping stares as he forces himself out of the room, through the front of the Musain and outside to the cruelly blazing sunlight.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and starts for the hospital.

"I need to see him."

"M. Prouvaire is unavailable for guest visitations at the moment," the woman at the front desks insist for what's probably the twelfth or thirteenth time. "His records..." A brief click of her computer monitor, which he desperately wishes he could see. When she speaks again, her tone is light with surprise. "His records say that he's not meant to stay here for much longer, however."

He proceeds to interpret this in the most morbid way possible, and his next word is nearly shouted as his stomach falls away in a swift wrench. "What?"

"I can't tell you any more with that, but his doctor may be available for a brief word, if you care to wait for a few minutes—"

"I can wait," he agrees in a rush, and his head feels light, almost alarmingly so. Not meant to stay here for much longer. Surely, surely that isn't referring to—to his stay in life—no, the very thought is so horrific that he doesn't allow himself to touch on it for more than a brief fragment of a second. His mind is a whirlwind as he pulls away from the desk, moves without thinking in the direction of the far too familiar waiting room. It's absurd. Maybe she got his records mixed up somehow—for cancer can't be cured, he's positive of that. God, of course it can't. Does he have time left, then? Enough time that they can spare him from what Bahorel can't help but imagine to be some sort of intensive care?

It's in this state of utter confusion that the doctor finds him. It's the same one who kicked him out of Jehan's room the first time, complete with wire-rimmed glasses and shock of greyish, receding hair. "Now, there's a familiar face!" he exclaims far too brightly. "I'll assume you're the one inquiring after our M. Prouvaire, then?"

Our M. Prouvaire. He hates it. He hates everything about this place, with its antiseptic reek and its glaringly pale surfaces. It's draining, and it must be sucking the goddamned life out of Jehan, confined as he is to its relentless depths.

"Yeah. The desk lady said that he's going to... to get out soon. But he can't. He's got fu—" A pause, a forced breath. "He's got cancer." The words cause his stomach to jerk, and he lifts a hand, wipes it slowly across his mouth to cover the tremble of his lips. He still can't stand hearing the words, even after lying in bed late at night repeating them over and over to himself, even after screaming them as he rammed his fist into the wall again and again and again.

"Yes, he does. But, well... perhaps we should talk in a more private area, for such delicate subject matter."

Bahorel makes a show of glancing to his left and right, scoping out the entirely empty waiting room. The doctor's lips tense, but he doesn't object.

"Very well. You see, Jean Prouvaire has been sick for a very long time. Remarkably long, in fact. It's a wonder that he hasn't been hospitalized before his recent... attack. The loss of consciousness itself was not, in fact, caused directly by the disease for which we hold him now—it was triggered by a combination of the symptoms, rather; weight loss, anxiety, low blood sugar, the like. And the fact that it took so long for them to take a startling enough toll on him for medical attention is... unfortunate. We've reached the point, I'm afraid, where operation would be futile... the best thing we can do is to, well, to make sure he's comfortable."

He feels his heart jerk in the wrong direction entirely, spinning violently sideways, cutting through everything around it like a flaming iron rod. His lungs are cauterized as soon as torn open, and he attempts to take a halting breath, but it's extinguished by what feels like a mass of raw scar tissue dominating his chest. Everything is too slow, too thick, and he can't close his mouth—his lips are numb, his tongue dry, his head resonant with denial.

The doctor is still talking. The fucking doctor hasn't stopped talking. The earth has collapsed and burned to nothing and his blood is molten steel and his head is a sandstorm and the doctor still hasn't stopped motherfucking talking.

"It's a condition we refer to as metastatic, meaning that the cancer itself has spread far from the actual pancreas, so that it's affecting several organs in his body at this point. He's very strong, however, despite what I'm sure you can agree is an outwardly frail appearance, and since we can do nothing more for him other than make sure his time is spent happily, we'd like to allow him to fill it however he wishes. He's expressed the wish that he'd rather not stay here, but instead proceed as though things were... normal, I believe he said."

Expressed the wish. He knows. He knows that he is going to die. He knows that they can do nothing about it.

"He mentioned the sun, I believe, and the scent. Something about not missing a last springtime."

His eyes ache.

"In fact, I think your own name might have come up once or twice, M... Bahorel, is it not?"

He can't breathe.

"So, yes. I do hate to bring unfortunate news, but I believe our plan at the moment is to let him go in just a couple of days. He'll need regular checkups, of course, but for a generally indefinite amount of time he should be able to go through life as normal... we can give estimations, of course... but there's no need to put a number on it, especially one that isn't likely to remain legitimate. Each of these cases is truly unique, and we'll have to see how M. Prouvaire's develops on its own."

Somehow, he isn't shaking. He is still. Perfectly still. Only his lungs heave, jerking and trembling and still unable to draw in even the shallowest gasp of air.

The words repeat themselves without his permission, ingraining their stark syllables more permanently into his memory with each awful run.

Operation is futile. The best we can do is—

Operation is futile.

Futile.

There's nothing that can be done.

Nothing.

Time has taken the reins.