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Gunfire fills the air, smoke and sparks erupting in an unestablished pattern. They are outmatched. They are outgunned. And they still fight.
Bahorel clambers up the barricade, a quick jump for his large frame. He is only happy in the thick of the fight. He wants to see the whites of the eyes of the men he is killing. Shoving his bayonet over the piles of amassed furniture and driftwood, he cries triumphantly as he takes down another solider. That is one less gun that can harm his friends. His rifle adds to the clamor of the battle, cacophony reigning as the currency of warfare. A burst of laughter escapes his lips, his face enraptured.
Feuilly watches from the ground, significantly safer. He is also significantly more afraid. He raises his gun, poking it hesitatingly through a gap he carefully constructed. The architect of the barricade knows where and where to not fight, and he chooses his position smartly. The smile that dances across his lips is directed towards Bahorel and Bahorel alone. Even in battle, surrounded by death, he is happy. He is in his element, and that makes Feuilly happy.
Life was poorer, before Les Amis. Life is poor now, strictly speaking, for the orphan who adopted the people. But these men make life worth living.
The scream breaks his reverie. Buckshot erupts from over the barricade, from a solider Bahorel doesn’t see. The smoke from his own gun obscures his vision, and he doesn’t see him coming. He drops his gun and clutches his chest in pure instinctive movement. Blood blossoms in flowers across his chest, and a bayonet punctures them with urgency. It withdraws, removing all the support the fighter requires to remain upright, and he topples backwards. For Feuilly, all time stops. There is silence.
“BAHOREL!”
The solidly muscled body hits the ground limply, the skull cracking against the pavement and releasing more precious blood. Blood is not new for these two; Bahorel always comes home roughed up and bruised and Feuilly fixes him. He always fixes him.
Losing all semblance of self-preservation, the builder cries out in vain, animalistic sounds ripping his throat raw as he reaches Bahorel’s body and clings on in vain to a life already extinguished. “NO, no, no, no, no. Don’t die, you fucking bastard. Don’t do this.” His shirt is covered in blood, not his own. He presses his face into his lover’s chest, mingling tears with blood. He still smells like smoke and sweat. Feuilly can hardly form words and wet sobbing racks his entire body.
He lies there, not able to make himself move. He no longer hears the gunshots or smells the smoke. He only feels the body beneath him, unmoving and growing colder. “No, you don’t do this. Fuck you, Bahorel. You can’t. I’m not ready for this. I didn’t….fuck. I never…” Some things he screams at Bahorel. Some things he mutters as if to a lover in bed. Feuilly only reacts when Combeferre grabs his arm to pull him up and away; Feuilly wretches himself out of the grip, roaring in anger.
“Feuilly, we need to go. He’s gone. You’re going to die out here. We’re not holding this spot for much longer.” The guide hisses at him in vain. He will not move.
“Combeferre, leave. Fucking go. I….I never said it.” Sobs overtake him again. He kisses the stubble-lined face with intimacy and care, smearing blood from once face to another. Combeferre looks away, granting them one final act of privacy.
“Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it.” He dissolves in to spasms of crying. His words are now marked by fists hitting flesh, into Bahorel’s unmoving chest in a mockery of fights they once shared.
“FUCK ALL YOU BASTARDS. JUST GO.” Combeferre quickly retreats. As he does, the final thing he hears is a confession screamed into Bahorel’s body first and retreating to broken sobs.
“I loved you, you fucking bastard! I fucking loved you. I…I still love you.”