Within the hour, everybody was aware of what was going on, and those who weren't showing immediate symptoms had been separated from those who were. Montparnasse opted to stay with Claquesous, whose temperature had sky rocketed since his last check up, and who very quickly succumbed to a crude, half-hearted argument.

Enjolras was put into one of the medical bays, the other two in the room next door. And while the bleeding had stopped for the time being, other signs he was sick had begun to show themselves; he was stripped down to a T-Shirt and boxers, but still felt unbearably hot. His stomach twisted into knots and no amount of water could quench his thirst. Feuilly had given him something to bring down his temperature, and for a little while, it had worked. But soon enough he was sat slumped on the floor, against the wall, letting the cool surface bring some modicum of relief to his sweat-soaked body. For the first minute, he didn't quite register the fact that someone was knocking on the door, and he noticed too late that the door was opening and that Grantaire was now inside with him, holding out his hands with a smirk, as if to say 'surprise!'

"Evening."

"What're you doing..? Get out."

"Why?"

Squinting up at him under furrowed brows, the blond gave him a look of complete disbelief, as if he couldn't quite comprehend how Grantaire could have forgotten why they'd all been separated.

"Because I'm sick, because you're not presenting symptoms-"

"Yet." He said simply.

"Grantaire, this isn't a joke – if you didn't have it before, you'll certainly catch it the longer you're in here."

"I had a possibility of being infected anyway, and it's more than likely that you caught it from me."

Taking a seat opposite him and getting as comfortable as he could, Grantaire straightened out his leg, and gently nudged Enjolras' thigh with his foot, waiting for him to open his eyes and look at him again before giving him an apologetic smile – one that, had it not been for the foul and frightened mood he found himself in, maybe he would have returned.

"While we're on the topic; you're welcome."

"I don't remember thanking you for this."

"Maybe not verbally…but hey, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

"This is going to kill me."

"Touché."

"Grantaire, this isn't a joke. Get up and get out, there's no point in you putting yourself at more risk-"

"Did you not hear what I just said? I've been exposed to it even before I was voted in. I'm safer in here, and so are the others that haven't caught it. So…I'm afraid you're stuck with me."

Enjolras fixed him with a hard, serious glare – the very same that would normally have his opponent backing off or excusing themselves from the situation. But Grantaire was someone who not only knew how to argue, but could also be just as stubborn as their leader when he felt like it. Once Enjolras realized that his alone time had come to an abrupt end, he did eventually yield, and allowed Grantaire to keep him company, though after some time had passed and he looked up, it was his turn to point out that the other was bleeding.

X

"You're a fucking idiot, you know."

Claquesous didn't look up, or open his eyes, and at first, Montparnasse assumed he hadn't heard him, or that he'd fallen asleep. Ripping a page from the nearest book, he screwed it into a ball and hurled it at his friend, finally earning himself a grunted response.

"You hear me? You're a cock."

"Fuck off."

"No can do. Until one of us drops, you're gonna have to put up with me."

"'Parnasse, I'm not in the mood."

"I don't give a shit what you're in the mood for. You're the one that came out of here, knowing you were infected. You're the one who made me sick. Enjolras, too-"

"Of all the things you could be pissed with me for, why do you give a flying fuck about whether or not he's healthy? You can't stand the guy."

With visible effort, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, wiping fresh blood from his nose as he met his friend's eye with a poisonous look. Even speaking sounded painful, his voice coarse and raw, but he still managed each sentence with his usual eloquent articulation.

"I knew I was infected. Big fucking deal. This is all hypothetical, it doesn't matter if we all die or not. There was no way I was spending my year, my first turn in the bunker, in a tiny room away from everyone."

"I thought you hated everyone."

"And I thought you hated our class too, but evidently, screwing the poet has made you a changed man."

That was met with an indignant scoff.

"What? You're denying it then?"

"Yeah, I'm denying it. I haven't screwed anyone in a pathetically long time."

"Okay, I'll rephrase; if you hadn't before now, you were planning to. The way you pushed for him to change his cards, the way you stand when you're near him, how you two talk – you might as well have just bent him over the kitchen counter when he first got voted in, gotten it over with. God knows he looks like he needs it."

His rant was ended abruptly by a violent fit of coughs, which Montparnasse patiently waited out, silently pleased for the peace and quiet as he shed his jacket, and soon after, his shirt as well, flawless skin soon layered in a sheen of sweat.

"You know…if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were jealous of him." He replied, breath hitching as he tried to get to his feet, his insides seeming to cramp painfully in response. Sinking back down, he shot Claquesous a smirk, though cherry lips were now beginning to pale, and seemed to struggle the hold the weight of the smile that was once weightless.

"Fuck off, 'Parnasse – it's true and you know it. I just don't see why."

"Why I'd want to 'bend him over the counter'?"

"Yeah. He's a total pushover, he has the personality of a wet piece of cardboard, he might as well not have any balls at all - he puts flowers in his hair for Christ's sake. I don't see what someone like you would see in that. Everyone else you've had in the past has had evidence of a backbone. You've been with women who could beat him in an arm-wrestling match-"

"Claquesous, if you've been choosing fuck buddies based on who you can beat at arm wrestling, I'm honestly not surprised you haven't been laid since your sixteenth."

Had it not been for a gentle knocking on the door, Montparnasse might have earned himself a beating, despite the weak disposition of his companion. Getting up, he opened the door a crack.

"Aaah, speak of the devil."

"Am I being discussed?" Asked Jehan with a surprised, slightly sceptical smile. Nodding him inside the room, much to the chagrin of his friend, Montparnasse closed the door once more, ushering him over to the chair he'd taken as his own and tugging him into his lap a second later. Taken aback by the action, at first Jehan did nothing but let the other hold him loosely in place, though the fact he was shirtless wasn't lost on him, nor look he was shooting across the room.

"Am I interrupting something..?"

"Nah – well, actually Claquesous was just telling me how much I likes having you around."

"Suck my dick, Mont. And get him out of here – I want to sleep."

Sharing a look, Montparnasse beckoned the poet to lean down closer to him, letting him shift around a little more to make himself comfortable before speaking, doing so deliberately quietly so that their conversation remained private.

"Honestly? He doesn't like you much."

Raising a brow, Jehan gave him a strange look.

"That's hardly breaking news, he's never liked me. He's never really liked anyone…Why were you talking about me, anyway?"

"He brought you up – said he didn't understand why I like you." He replied with an easy smirk.

"Ah, I see…and you explained it to him, I imagine?"

"I was getting to it."

"A very thinly veiled way of saying 'I didn't want to have to defend you to my big, bad, mysterious best friend'"

"Not true. I was just about to when you came a-knocking."

"Of course you were."

It was plain as day that he'd had no intention of doing so, but Jehan still went with it, refusing him a kiss at the last second with a pretty little simper, and going to climb off of him, though a hand clamped on his thigh made this act just a little more difficult.

"I didn't come here to flirt with and kiss you."

"Then why did you? Because, my dear poet, whatever you have to say, I don't see why you can't say it from my lap."

"Perhaps I wanted to see how you felt? And talking about the fact you're now infected with a horrible disease does somewhat dampen any mood you were hoping to build here."

"Tell you what, then…let me kiss you once, and you can sit where you like."

"I'll tell you what – I'll sit where I like, and you can think about me kissing you anywhere you please."

After a moment's consideration, Montparnasse released Jehan, and he got up and did as he said he would. However, as they talked – now with little consideration for Claquesous – Jehan had to help Montparnasse once again when his nose began to bleed, this time the flow far heavier than before, though this was closely followed by far more painful cramps in his abdomen, the pain quickly going from easy-to-ignore to literally gut wrenching.

Within the next few minutes, he was vomiting thick, dark blood, most of which ended up spattered across Jehan and pooled on the floor. He'd known it was coming – Claquesous had puked once or twice, but as he struggled to catch his breath and willed his stomach to settle, Montparnasse would have sworn it hadn't been this bad. Jehan helped to clean him up, and once his body gave him a short break, he let him press a cold cloth to his burning forehead. Finding the free, freckled hand to his right, Montparnasse gave it a small squeeze.

"You make a cute nurse, you know?"

"Thank you."

"Though, this does make me regret not trying to win you over sooner."

Rolling his eyes, Jehan gently pulled his hand out of the other's grasp to push his own hair behind his ear.

"If you wanted to sleep with me that badly, perhaps you could have gotten to know me properly. Who knows, maybe I would have even asked you out."

"So, you do like me."

"Montparnasse, you don't need reminding you're incredibly good looking. But of course, that's not all there is to a person. You're also not half as badass as you like to think. All that, plus more…yes, I'd say I like you."

X

It wasn't long before Grantaire was rubbing a hand up and down his partner's back as he emptied his stomach into the sink, the bowl filling with blood faster than it could drain. By this point, Enjolras had pushed his anger to the side, and was suddenly far more grateful for the company. The hours passed them both, and their symptoms both worsened at an almost even rate, until both lay side by side on the bed, unable to stand up anymore, and unable to stay asleep for long due to the discomfort.

Neither spoke for some time. Grantaire had positioned his face near Enjolras', with the intention of being close enough to press butterfly kisses into his hair or to his temple when the next wave of pain crackled through him.

"You're such…an idiot, 'Taire. Such an idiot…"

"I know."

"You shouldn't have stayed. I don't understand why you'd stay – if this was real, you wouldn't have, so why bother now?"

Feeling fresh blood flow down past his lips, Grantaire shrugged weakly, not bothering to clean it away.

"I would have…if it was real, I would have stayed. I wouldn't have let you be by yourself."

"I wouldn't let you if it was real."

"Well…would you like me to ask your permission, for this round? Do you permit it?"

His answer came in the form of one weak, sweaty hand finding his, pressing the palm and giving Grantaire a wonderful feeling of victory.

X

Montparnasse had been the first to die in the night. The infection had taken a strong, unshakeable hold on him, and despite his much longer exposure time, it was a while before Claquesous followed suit, finally meaning Jehan had a reason to leave, though he didn't until Feuilly came to find him. And it was when they checked in the other room that they found Enjolras and Grantaire, with bloodstained pillows and sheets, and lips now a ghostly shade of blue. No breath had been drawn by either in hours.

Both Musichetta and Bossuet were infected by now as well, though they hadn't bothered to quarantine them; there wouldn't have been any point any more. Feuilly was likely infected too and just wasn't showing symptoms. And so, the remaining four students spent their time as they normally would, acting as normally as they could until the sickness began to claw at them as well. And eventually, one followed the other like slow falling dominoes.

Jehan had taken bed sheets from the dormitory and covered the bodies of his friends with them, and when the Teacher – who had returned, mostly unnoticed by the majority of the class - had called a close to the scenario, which had ended with him stating that he'd take his own life soon after he'd been left alone. While the decision wasn't one he seemed to struggle with, Courfeyrac had asked him why – why kill yourself when you have the opportunity to help save others? He was immune after all.

"What use is an immune person if I can't leave the bunker?" Jehan had replied in a quiet voice, his expression neutral but his eyes troubled. "I'd have died eventually any way; Montparnasse never shared the code with the rest of us."

"Nah…I would have written it down somewhere. Check your notebook, I'd have put it in there-"

"It's too late for that; he's already shot himself." Came the Teacher, crushing any hope of Jehan leaving the situation alive.

"Perhaps you should have shared that information before catching the new plague."