Jehan's POV

I've been spending more and more time at Montparnasse's apartment, and less and less time at the apartment I actually own with Grantaire, but I don't regret any of it. As long as I'm still chipping in with the rent for my original place, life progresses ever so wonderfully. I enjoy my days with Montparnasse, as every lover should, as every poet should, as every normal person should, and I wouldn't trade them for any material possession, not in a million years when immortality has still preserved our love.

I believe that I do, in fact, love Montparnasse for all that he is — the charming young man who, even if he didn't attend college, is still a scholar where it matters. I also believe that he loves me for all that I am. It's a mutual devotion towards each other, and it is through this that I feel totally safe. I hope he does, too, but I need not pray excessively that it is true, as he clearly indicates how he feels about me through every subtle nuance in his expression.

Our bond has been strengthened by the amount of time we've spent unapologetically together, and it's become a regular occurrence to find myself in his apartment during the morning after staying the night, and this is one of those regular occurrences.

I had been awake for a while before I fled from the mattress, as Montparnasse's arm had tugged me into him like a bear possessive of its cub, and though I valued that connection, I ached to wander the apartment, so I carefully maneuvered my way out of his tight clutch, and now I meander through the space with no apprehensions about Eponine emerging all of the sudden, catching me in the act of something as innocuous as ever, because she's been rooming with Cosette for the week, for we creep her out too much — typical Eponine.

Though Eponine has been gone for some time, Montparnasse only tidied up the place a bit. Maybe Eponine's presence urges him to fix his apartment, and now that she's not here, he's been slacking. Maybe I'm just a distraction to him, though I'm not complaining about that. The space is clean enough to traverse safely, and Montparnasse maintains the messes he makes in then current moments, but he hasn't yet dealt with the rest, so there is the occasional obstruction in my way as I explore the living quarters.

Montparnasse's apartment is nothing special. No one would think anything special of it, and would probably form a disfavored opinion if they were ever prompted to share what they thought of it, but it's as interesting as an ancient civilization to me. It's my personality that directs me to map all that I can, my poet identity, so I always have a good time promenading through uncharted territory.

I touch everything that I can, whether it's to further examine it, or to simply glide my fingers along everything to perceive the texture of the things that lie in the apartment. I find a variety of patterns and consistencies in such a limited space, which reminds me that life is so diverse and so beautiful and so perfect for a writer like me, and my heart swells with the joy of knowing that all of this is reality.

I trek all around the living spaces of the apartment (the kitchen, the living room, and the area that contains the dining table), and discover so many new things. However, it is when I circle back to the kitchen that I locate the gem of the lot: a leather book with sheets of notebook paper clipped in its binding.

Everyone will teach you that it's immoral to snoop through people's belongings, especially when their belongings look as though they could be diaries or journals, but Montparnasse and I are close enough to share lots of things, and I'm not really thinking straight, as is common for me in the morning, so I could leap off of a bridge at five o'clock in the morning thinking it's the best idea in the world, and I might as well be leaping off of a bridge with what I'm going to do.

At least checking my surroundings to make sure that Eponine hasn't arrived early and that Montparnasse is still asleep, I proceed with my illicit activities regarding this intriguing book left on the kitchen counter. I open the front cover to find the first page blank, a smart move for the overly cautious, and the second page is where it begins.

The page is filled from top to bottom meticulously with names, phone numbers, and something even more sinister than the prior two: drug orders. The three columns are divided evenly, as a businessman would do it, but a businessman would not sink to the level of dolling out drugs to random people. A businessman would also not have such a plethora of drugs seen on the sheets; I'm actually astounded at how many types are marked in this book. Confusion sweeps over me, drugs me as Montparnasse might, and I suddenly can't make sense of anything. This seems like a mafia situation to me, and I'm frankly quite terrified now, but I look onwards nevertheless. I'm always searching for something fresh, I suppose, but that's now come to fuck me.

Every page is ordered the same way, with the same three columns, with the same format, so by now I'm just scouring the book for a deviation in the code, but the only thing I find is myself on the last page of the journal, amazed by how orderly Montparnasse keeps his syndicate.

Montparnasse — the youthful, humorous, kind Montparnasse — is not the kind of person to tie himself up in drug affairs. I would've never suspected, even as a joke, that he could be a drug dealer, so the news strikes me with a pain I have never before experienced. Why would he do this? What are his motives? Will I ever know? Part of me wants to keep my mouth closed, and that part would've entirely devoured me, were it not for the name I glimpse in the most recent spot of the notebook: Grantaire, marked down for painkillers.

Though I had previously thought myself to be safe from being caught, I now detect the soft padding of Montparnasse's feet on the hardwood floor of the hallway as he makes his way to the kitchen, having just woken up. He is still groggy from recent sleep, but he's awake enough to recognize this book I'm holding, awake enough to panic. "Jehan, what are you doing?"

I turn to him frankly. "I was just about to ask you the same thing."

Montparnasse's focus is solely on the book, not on me, which indicates that he's more worried about protecting his secret than he is about sparing me from this anguish, making this a terrible sign for our relationship or whatever the hell is going on. "You weren't supposed to see that."

"Well I did, and your intentions to hide this from me don't make this situation any better."

"Please, calm down," Montparnasse pleads, but he's already worked me up, even if it was inadvertent. I am beyond frustrated with him, to the point where I've run cold and eerily calm.

"Not until you explain why you have a book full of names, phone numbers, and the supposed drugs these contacts buy from you, and why my best friend's name is in the list." I'm not really asking much, so this should be far from arduous for Montparnasse, yet he's stumbling over himself like he's love struck and at a loss for words.

Montparnasse captures the longest of breaths to attempt to rewire his system out of its current jitteriness, and part of that process is explaining things earnestly, so he tries his luck with that. "When people correspond with me about sales, I always take down their information to later contact them. That's what a good business man does."

"Why the hell are you selling drugs, and how did Grantaire get caught up in this?"

"How else would I afford to pay for my necessities?" Montparnasse exclaims, as if it's the most mundane thing in the world. "I simply pounced on a good opportunity when your friend came round to my part of town and bought painkillers from me."

The audacity in this one! I love him — I really do, and this argument may be an example of how protective I am of him — but he talks as though he doesn't trust me, as though I'm a threat to him! I need to drill it into his brain that this isn't okay, and countering his pliant statements is going to aid me. "So is he addicted to you just as much as he's addicted to this goddamn painkillers?"

"He only bought from me once," my boyfriend murmurs to the floor, ashamed.

I roll my eyes, throw my hands up in the air in nothing but candid exasperation. "Oh, as if that clears the whole situation."

He looks up from the ground, and mutters, "I didn't say it did."

I'm not finished with him, however. "Montparnasse, I can't believe you wouldn't tell me about this. In case you haven't noticed, selling drugs is illegal." My fright and concern has molded tears into my eyes, and I don't even wipe them away. The damage needs to be seen in order for Montparnasse to conceive the gravity of these circumstances.

A flicker of remorse snaps at Montparnasse's face, but it vanishes before I can be clear of what I witnessed, as he isn't backing down. "My reputation is a beacon of power on the streets. People don't fuck with me. They won't report me."

I am somewhat cognizant that Montparnasse arguing with me is probably for the better, because most of his claims are meant to soothe my worries, but it will take me a while to jump out of this pandemonium, and back into security, so as for now, everything he says is an amplifier of my distress.

"And what if the police catch you by chance?" I debate.

"No one visits my hangout just to stroll around."

"You're being careless by saying that," I sigh, more disappointed with Montparnasse than angry now.

"I've been nothing less than cautious, actually," he contradicts with a new heaviness to his tone.

"Yet you're the reason why other people can't even conceptualize the word 'cautious'. You strip them of their consciousness by willingly handing them these drugs, and now you've doomed my roommate."

And once again, he is knocked back to square one, his voice drained of its power, and given back its muted qualities. "I told you that he quit using them."

"I nevertheless need to check on him, okay? We'll resolve this later." It is in this moment that I endeavor to flush my body of the toxic ideas, storing them away for the time being.

"Jehan, I'm sorry." It's a genuine statement, but it's a genuine statement I cannot deal with right now.

"I'm not accepting any more comments about this matter until I see if Grantaire is still fucking alive."

Montparnasse doesn't argue with me. He's done enough already, and he's keen enough to understand it. He knows I need a break, and I'm thankful for at least that.

~~~~~

A/N: me ruining everything with only one diddy dang chapter left lmao why

everything's b u r n i n g

~Darkota