He wishes he could bear it himself. He knows he can't -- knows that the next best thing is to watch it, feeling the touch on Jigsaw's body as if it were his own.

How many more? Twice? He thinks it's twice.

"Like that. Yes."

He pulls again, and it crashes and runs down his chest, pools in his navel just like it did in Jean’s, makes his skin pale and then flush.

He jumps out of the seat, a little, every time, even knowing it’s coming, back arching. Maybe that’s why there’s no restraint at the waist.

He didn't move like that. He was so still. Was that worse?

"One more."

He squeezes the lever, and then pauses.

“…do you want to see the bad ending?”

He needs it -- but --

"--no. Just like it was for me. Please."

He nods — as well as he can, restrained as he is —

— and pulls, shoulders tugging against the straps as the water pours over him, gasping and shivering —

— and then pulls again, again, again, milking out the last drops onto his chest.

It's --

-- he moves, in a haze, to release Jigsaw, to bring the workshop's ratty towels. He dries his body, kneeling beside him, and he kisses him where the water touched, in the center of his chest.

By the time he’s dry, his expression has softened, a bit, into a lazy smile.

“Cold plunge,” he says, and he ruffles Jean’s hair gently with his hand.

Jean smiles up at him: adoring, affectionate, like he smiles at his pretty reflection in the mirror in the morning.

Then he bends again, solemnly, and he begins the work of drying Flashdance herself.

He slides out of the chair, and he watches him, knelt beside him on the floor.

He's meticulous, and he's reverent, and he freezes, sometimes, when his fingers brush her.

He makes a full circle around her. When he's finished, she's dry, alone on the flooded floor.

He watches them both together, just a moment longer, before he takes one of the ragged towels to start mopping up the rest of the floor.

He doesn't try to help. He just sits there, spent of willpower, damp at the collar and cuffs, not bothering to suppress the shivers.

He puts his hand on Jean’s back, when he’s done, between his shoulder blades, feeling him shiver.

“…done for today, huh,” he says.

"Is it enough?"

He turns up his pretty face, looks helplessly into Jigsaw's hollow one.

(Is it fair?)

He thinks.

“…yeah. Today, it’s enough.”

And then it’s turn to help Jean up, and take him down the stairs.

Camillo drives Jigsaw to chemo. Camillo picks up garlic scapes at the farmer's market for Valentine. Dorothy texts Camillo about a job opening she saw, and Camillo texts back not really looking right now, but thanks! :)

Camillo drives Jigsaw to the hospital, late at night, and yells at the doctors to give him some better fucking painkillers. Camillo sits in the ER waiting room, when Jigsaw can't stop vomiting enough to keep water down, and looks at the pictures of Six Flags with Z and doesn't cry. 

Jigsaw suffers.

Being poisoned every week is taking its toll. He can't miss driving, because piloting a vehicle would be far too much propriocepting. The morning before chemo, which used to be the easiest time of week, is now the most miserable, as his body responds in advance and leaves him sweating on the floor.

Everything hurts. His skin hurts, his head hurts, his hands and feet hurt worse than anything unless they're too numb.

He begins to struggle, again, to get out of bed, on the worst days.

His doctor thinks it might be best to give his body some time to recover.

"You need to get your job back," he says, the morning after, curled up on the couch in his apartment, facing the back cushions.

"Plenty of time for that," says Camillo, from the floor where he has been relegated for leg-jiggling sins. "And it's not like Valentine charges me rent."

“I’m serious. You can’t spend the whole next year watching me die.”

"It's not like that," protests Camillo, whose plan is precisely that.

"I know — you miss him. And this is fucked up. And it's hard."

"Please go on...a fucking lunch date, or something. Talk to somebody from school. Teach a kid algebra."