4
The hour of two to three in the afternoon has become Bahorel's least favorite time of day, burdened as it is with the repulsive memories of that first call from Courfeyrac. He knows it's irrational and sentimental to get so caught up in a period of sunlight that's only really been devised by the strict labeling that clocks provide, but he can't help it, and wonders on occasion whether Jehan's own absurdly tragic attitude is reaching his mind. In any case, it's impossible to shake the steady gloom that settles over him a couple of hours after noon, and it's only all the more painful when he's in class, with none of the distractions that a usual free day might provide.
He's been going back to school ever since Jehan's release from the hospital, on the poet's own insistence; he had seemed horrified, if a bit flattered, upon discovering that Bahorel had taken to skipping out on his classes out of sickened concern. Besides, there's no excuse for him to stay behind now, since doing so would only cause him to spend even less time at Jehan's side. They share only one class, but it's one regardless, and it's also, infuriatingly, the one that encompasses the two-to-three hour period that Bahorel has come to despite so thoroughly.
This particular class, a mathematics course that calls itself Calculus II, is immensely difficult to endure even on a tri-weekly basis. This particular session, the first since Jehan's return from the hospital, couldn't be more dull, and Bahorel stops trying to pay attention to the instructor after about the first two minutes, resigning instead to a soft gaze at the long-haired blonde head ducked in front of him. The clock is too loud, thrumming over the professor's dull mutter, and it's causing him to itch, fidget in his seat with the urge to bolt out of the room and get a whiff of fresh air, at the very least. It's in tepid times like this that he has the hardest time forgetting, and he hates that, wants more than just about anything to be able to dislodge his obsessive nature and just breathe easily again.
But that's impossible, and so he sits and itches and curses the clock, his knee jiggling with impatience. A low rush behind him reveals that the rain clouds lingering all day have finally broken open and begun assaulting the windows, and the prospect of the cool, refreshing shower is only more infuriating, until it's all he can do to keep still and quiet. The haunting minute hand creeps around 2:46, a time that he still can't make himself forget, and it's nine minutes later that the professor finally relents, shutting down the projector and spouting out some homework numbers that Bahorel doesn't bother to try and take down. His textbook is in his bag and slung around his shoulder before most of the class has gotten out of their chairs, and then he's at Jehan's side, setting his hands heavily on the smaller man's desk.
"Hey," he greets, ducking down to be at proper eye level. The pale blue gaze darts up to his, and a slight smile spreads over the delicate features across from him, almost shy as Jehan shoves away his own notebook and various other materials.
"Hi."
"It's raining," Bahorel points out as casually as he can, keeping his stare fixated on Jehan even as the latter's gaze shifts downwards, the smile still not falling away. He always looks so fragile with his eyes down, as slight and ethereal as some sort of flower spirit, though of course Bahorel is nowhere near ridiculous enough to put voice to such an absurd metaphor. "You love rain."
"I do," Jehan confirms, and his tone is almost playful, though his words stay measuredly ignorant of Bahorel's obvious intentions. "I also have a physics class next hour."
"Yeah," Bahorel agrees, springing back and shoving his hands into his pockets as Jehan rises, "but you don't love physics."
"It's okay."
"Let's go," he half-whines. Jehan carries a canvas messenger's bag rather than a traditional backpack, and his long hair falls over his feminine features as he hoists it onto his shoulders, apparently unable to tame the light smile that still teases his lips. "Just one hour. I mean—" He bites back the final words, which he supposes he never had any intention of uttering in the first place. He can't say that this might be one of their last chances to act like children. Can't, because he wouldn't dare to remind Jehan of such a thing, and because every time he speaks the words aloud, it only confirms things more definitely. It's better, surely, to pretend; if he acts like nothing is wrong, then it has to be that way. Jehan is doing alright now, his symptoms clearing up at least a bit, and Bahorel isn't willing to give that up in favor of the damned illness's acknowledgement.
"Where?" Jehan questions, eyeing him as he exits the room. Bahorel half-strides and half-trots alongside him, moving backwards in order to keep their easy gazes locked.
"I'll show you," he promises, reaching up to shove away a stray lock of gingery hair. They pass into the hallway, relatively empty with the rest of their class already dispersed. "Come on."
Without giving Jehan a chance to reply, he reaches forwards, winds the thin, cool fingers in his own wide, warm ones, and Jehan is laughing helplessly as Bahorel dashes through the sterile hallways, headed for the side door that he knows to be located only a few rooms away. His heart races furiously below his ribcage, pounding equally with the jubilation of their juvenile escape and the pure immature rebelliousness of it; truancy is so trivial, and yet there's still an energizing spark to the tiny crime, a painless echo of the raging flame brought by their more traditional riotous activities.
Their feet scatter unevenly on the ground, footsteps noisy in the quiet hallways, and Bahorel can only imagine the professors in the rooms nearby, scowling as the peace of their classrooms is disrupted. The prospect only causes him to snort with his own laughter, and his legs are shaking with energy by the time he reaches the door and throws it open in the most magnificent flourish he can manage.
"After you, princess," he declares, gesturing towards the outdoors with a wide swoop of his hand. Jehan bites a bit uncertainly at his lower lip, the smile faded but still present. He reaches up to comb the loose blonde strands of his mussed hair out of his face, and takes a moment to disengage himself from Bahorel, unlooping the bag from his shoulder and setting it carefully against the wall. Following the cue, Bahorel copies the action, dumping his own backpack and rolling his shoulders in relief from the weight.
"I'm not a princess," Jehan murmurs, something which he's stated before, but never with enough resolve to get Bahorel to drop the nickname. Bahorel shrugs in response, and Jehan rolls his eyes, but willingly ducks outside into what's quickly become a solid sheet of rain.
Grinning in triumph, Bahorel follows, and the door slams shut behind them. The shower immediately greeting his face and bare arms is the perfect temperature, warm but still refreshing, and he whoops as loudly as he can, thrusting his palms towards the grey-stained sky and spinning around in a full circle. Jehan's laughing again, his long hair instantly drenched and his light shirt clinging to his thin figure with the sopping moisture. Rainwater trails down his jaw and neck, only adding to the surrealistic beauty that he so constantly emanates.
A second later, Bahorel realizes he's staring, and hastens to leap into his own action, lunging forward and taking Jehan's wrist again. His feet slosh in rapidly gathering puddles, but he doesn't care, even loves the splash arching up his calves. "Let's go," he urges, drawing the smaller man in close and gazing down at him, at his wide blue eyes, his flushed cheeks, the hint of pearly teeth through that sweet, soft grin. "Let's just... go. Let's run."
Away from it all. He doesn't say it, but he doesn't need to, because Jehan is nodding, eagerly as he bites at his lip again, and then Bahorel is turning, his grip firm on the rain-slicked wrist below him as he dashes down the sidewalk, skidding and slipping but not caring as the pavement unfurls under his soaked feet. Jehan hurries after him, giggling again with the absurdity of it all, and Bahorel grins into the oncoming rush, gasping in air as exhilaration floods through him.
He keeps running until his heart feels like it's reaching into his throat and his clothes are soaked through completely, grey T-shirt growing transparent with wetness. It's only when his legs are burning that he whirls around all at once, not giving Jehan a chance to slow down but instead pulling him into his own arms and twirling him around completely, watching his sapphire eyes spring wide as he swings him with clumsy fluidity. And it doesn't matter that the movement isn't executed perfectly, that halfway through he starts laughing and his shoulders give out and he ends up just bringing Jehan in as close as he can, running his fingers through the dripping hair and pressing his lips to the moisture-slicked forehead. It doesn't matter in the least, because it feels magical anyways, and from the way that Jehan flings his arms around Bahorel's neck and tucks his face into his shoulder, still trembling with giddy laughter, he hopelessly believes that the ringing emotion is shared between them and not isolated unto himself.
They've gone nearly a mile by now, surely, and their surroundings are unfamiliar, distanced in the opposite direction of the college campus from their apartments. A streetlight, blurred by the downpour, flickers from red to green, and the verdant light washes over both of them, rebounding in the puddles at their feet. He gathers Jehan up to him as completely as possible, fingers probing his sharp shoulder blades through the thin cover of the drenched shirt, and indulges himself in a deep, heavy inhalation, allowing the spring floral scent to flood him until he's dizzy with its richness.
"You're so beautiful in the rain," he sighs against Jehan's ear. The initial response is a swift tension, and then he pulls back, just enough so that their foreheads can press together and they can gaze properly into each other's eyes, green to blue, blue to green. Somehow, Bahorel can't quite smile; he's far from upset, suspended as he is in the enchantment of their little rainy bubble, but the utter emotion struck into him by the soft features across from him is too unadulterated, too raw, too pure to be encompassed in as rough and senseless a gesture as the grin that he dons so constantly. It means more, at this point, to find himself incapable of mustering any expression that could possibly begin to contain his emotions. Much, much more.
"And you're gorgeous," Jehan responds, lifting one hand to wind his fingers through Bahorel's soaked ginger mop, thumb trailing along his hairline and a sweet half-smile tilting his mouth.
"Nah," he breathes in response, and he can barely voice the soft sound. His lungs are still heaving from his sprint, and Jehan's proximity makes it near-impossible to retrieve even the slightest whisper of oxygen, so that a far from unpleasant dizziness explodes through his mind, rendering everything a thousand times more unreal, and therefore more precious.
"Oh, yes. You are. My handsome prince," Jehan sighs, and the last thing Bahorel processes before ducking in is that the blonde's quiet smirk has an almost superior air, but then he can't see anything else, because he's reaching up and slipping his fingers gently under the thin jaw, tilting it up and leaning forwards and vanquishing what little breath he has left as he closes the distance beneath them and tastes Jehan's grin below his own, winding them together until there's nothing but the sigh of the rain and the warmth of their closeness.
For that little handful of miniscule infinities, nothing can touch them. Not sickness or the others, not the lash of rain, not the school where they'll be punished for skipping, not the cars which blare endlessly past the sidewalk where they stand, not the past or the future or anything in-between, for none of that exists, not here, not now. The concept is almost laughable, for surely that's not real; this is real and tangible and definite, and Bahorel is absolutely positive that he's never felt more alive, farther from the prospect of demise. It is reality, and reality is what they've distanced themselves from so beautifully, landing instead in some snow globe of a fairy tale. They are impossible. They are all that each other needs, as absurd as that is, and their luminescence can't be stained by any petty concern that comes with the rest of the world, with all the people and scum and viruses that inhabit it, for surely they're above that now.
It's only a few seconds before they break away, but Bahorel only brushes Jehan's overlong hair out of his eyes and kisses him again, dipping in over and over, growing more insistent in his motions and not caring that people are probably watching, maybe even laughing or rolling their eyes. It's so utterly, blissfully irrelevant, and all he knows for sure is that every time Jehan sighs into him, it's like his very core trembles, awash in tenderness that moves him more effectively than the solidest of punches. He's so fragile, and every stir sparks chills, until Bahorel can feel his eyes burning from the absolute gentleness.
"Really," he murmurs, slipping over so that his lips move slightly against Jehan's ear, causing a slight giggle at what presumably tickles. "You're the most stunning thing I've ever seen, or felt, or heard. I'd try to make up a new word for it, but I think we both know that I'd just embarrass myself."
"You wouldn't," Jehan murmurs.
"Oh, I would. You're the literary one, flower."
"Mm. Maybe we could make a word for it together, then."
"Maybe we should."
Jehan nuzzles into his collarbone, and he brings him in tightly again, holding onto him and praying that nothing would dare to be so cruel, so utterly invasive and twisted and sickening, as to ever rip them apart.
He deposits Jehan at his physics class ten minutes before it gets out, and resigns to wander about the hallways for the rest of the hour, seeing as there's really no point to dropping in only to be counted absent anyways. He's halfway on an abstracted journey to the men's bathroom when he runs nearly headfirst into Courfeyrac, whose dark eyes immediately catch with the smooth guilt of what's presumably his own skipping, before he processes who's standing before him.
"You're wet," he declares, as if the notion is the most delightful thing to ever cross his mind. "And playing the truant."
"So are you," Bahorel replies with raised eyebrows, his own words pertaining solely to the latter part of the statement.
"Yeah, I do it on occasion. Though I don't frolic about when it's practically thunderstorming outside." Their tones are hushed, and Courfeyrac grabs his arm, dragging him away from the occupied classroom door that they've paused outside of, then straightening and speaking with a bit more confidence. "Really, you look like you've just taken a dip in the Atlantic."
"Cute. I just decided to take a break, so Jehan and I went down to the corner." He adjusts the book bag slung over one arm and glances towards the ceiling, hating the way that Courfeyrac instinctively stiffens at the mention of the other man.
"—Oh. Is everything alright?"
"Of course everything's alright," he forces through gritted teeth, already regretting his choice to mention the subject that's still so sore for every member of the Amis. "Why the hell wouldn't it be?"
"Bahorel, come on. I'm allowed to be worried about him."
"Yeah, just—just don't right now, alright?" he implores, and a noisy nudge of self-hatred jerks at the back of his stomach, teasing away a layer of the golden haze that's materialized there over the past hour. He hates the cold pinch of reality, but attempts to shove it off only cause it to return with all the more ferocity, until it's tearing away at him. "I just... I'm happy right now, so do me a favor and don't get rid of that. I'm fine, and he's fine, and we're fine, and I just... want it to stay that way." He says it as if Courfeyrac is the only thing preventing them from such, and, after a hesitation, the other silently agrees to treat it that way, running a hand through his shock of dark, curly hair and shrugging, one of his signature grins settling into place.
"'Course. Glad to hear it's going good, then." He leans against a wall and reaches a hand to scratch absently at the back of his neck. "What're you skipping out on, then?"
"History, I think."
"You think?"
"Yeah, history." He doesn't say anything about how he hasn't gone to any of his classes for the past week and a half, about how that's more than enough detachment to begin calmly erasing the stressful schedule from his mind. "So, not much. You?"
"Nothing, actually. I don't have anything on Wednesdays. I'm just waiting for Combeferre, Enjolras has a message that I'm supposed to deliver."
"What, he can't text him?"
"Nope. Top-secret business, or something that he doesn't want out 'in the air.' Shit, I don't know. I'm not entirely sure Enjolras grasps the concept of private texts. It's like, in his mind, you've got technology, and you've got the internet, and then you've got people stalking the internet for any mention of political uprisings, and then they're all the exact same thing, right? So he's got to go with foot messengers. Hence my being here on a day when I'd really rather deny this damn place even exists." He gestures to himself with a shrug.
"Right. Great. Well, good luck, I should get to physics."
"Thought you had history?"
Shit, Jehan's the one with physics. Focus, you idiot. "That," he agrees. He has no intention to get to class, something which he's sure they're both perfectly aware of, but he's had enough talking for now. He wants to preserve the last traces of the golden sensation that still linger within him, and it's becoming quite clear that talking to Courfeyrac is far from the proper way to do as much. "See you at the Musain tonight, then."
"Sure," Courfeyrac agrees, and steps away as Bahorel strides past, his hands back to his pockets and his mind back to Jehan.
It's in that state, wandering the campus aimlessly, that he struggles to retain every last fragment of sensation from the last hour that he can. The rain-and-flowers scent, the striking warmth, the tickle of Jehan's laughter against his own lips... every thought burns through his mind with a ferocity unbefitting of their gentleness, and he holds onto them with all the strength he can muster, cursing himself with every step for being so weak in all the places where it really matters.
