empty chairs at empty tables,

where my friends will sing no more.

shitpostingfromthebarricade:

shitpostingfromthebarricade:

shitpostingfromthebarricade:

How on earth does anyone read Funeral Oration on Blondeau by Bossuet and boil him down to merely an unlucky stereotype when he is Clearly the funniest person in the world?

omg he tells Grantaire to shut up so that he can get back to a discussion on legislation surrounding the church, this is amazing.

@wild-oats-and-cornflowers So True Bestie.

Yeah, sure, I could be writing my grad thesis but I also could be sketching Les Amis in “draw the squad” poses, so….

“i smell cheese. i enter building.” a man of simplicity

also grantaire whining because enjolras sent navet to fetch bossuet and not him is so funny. talking about: “enjolras hates me :( if he had asked for me to come, well guess what, i would have went. but he didn’t, he asked for bossuet, and so now i’m not going to his funeral bc my feelings are hurt.”

Love is Blind (Part Three: Living Together)

This thing just continues to be the beast that will not end.

E/R, Modern AU, Love is Blind AU (bad reality TV AU for anyone unfamiliar with the source show). Established relationship at this point, but like. Still a speedrun.

Read Part One here.Read Part Two here.

In our blind love experiment, our couples chose each other, sight unseen. They fell in love, and then they got engaged to the person who is now their fiancé, before ever seeing one another.

In Mexico, they had an amazing opportunity to begin to grow their emotional connection into a physical one. But now it’s time to leave paradis and start building their lives together. Each of our couples will move into a new home, a neutral space for them to deepen their relationships. 

In the real world, their love is going to be put to the test. How are they going to integrate their lives? Their friends, families, careers, homes? With their devices back and their weddings just three weeks away, will they allow the opinion of family and friends, the allure of other people, the distractions of social media, to sabotage their weddings and their happiness?

Will they judge one another for their looks, their race, their age, their family, or their circumstances? Will any of that really matter? Or will love be enough? Ultimately, that is what they will decide in front of their friends and families: will they say ‘I do’ to the person they chose sight unseen? Or will they walk away from them forever?

Is love truly blind?

We hope that they prove it is.

Grantaire let out a low whistle as he glanced around the living room of their new apartment. “So this is it,” he said, dropping his bag on the floor. “The new place.”

Enjolras followed suit, setting his bag next to Grantaire’s, before wrapping an arm around Grantaire’s waist and kissing his cheek. “Welcome home.”

Grantaire turned to kiss him properly before pulling away, wandering towards the window and glancing outside. “Seems weird to be moving into an apartment that’s literally, like, two neighborhoods away from the apartment that I am still nominally paying rent on.”

Enjolras just shrugged. “It isn’t any less weird knowing that this is like an hour from my place.”

“I always forget you live in Milwaukee,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras frowned.

“What does that mean?”

Grantaire arched an eyebrow. “Don’t worry, I’m not insulting Milwaukee – at least, not much.” Enjolras rolled his eyes and Grantaire smirked before adding, “But what I really mean is, the work you do is so politics-centric that I keep assuming you live in DC.”

Enjolras snorted. “You’ve been watching too much of the West Wing.”

“Excuse you, take that back,” Grantaire said, sounding insulted.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Fine, you’ve been watching too much Veep,” he amended.

Grantaire smirked. “Thank you. But no matter which TV show I clearly take all my political acumen from, you have to admit that DC makes more sense for a political hack than Milwaukee.”

Enjolras laughed lightly, reaching out to pull Grantaire to him. “A, I’m not a hack,” he said, kissing Grantaire’s forehead. “But even if I was, you’re not entirely wrong. I lived in DC for a long time and will probably end up back there eventually. But right now my organization is focused on Midwest organizing, and Wisconsin is ripe for it.”

He tried not to sound too enthusiastic, knowing that Grantaire didn’t care nearly as much as he did, and to his credit, Grantaire refrained from rolling his eyes. Mostly. “Is that why you’ve barely looked up from your phone since we left Mexico?” he asked instead.

Enjolras didn’t even bother to look shamefaced. “Yeah, we just had local elections.”

“And?” Grantaire prompted.

Enjolras frowned down at him. “And what?”

“How’d you do?”

There were a lot of ways to answer that, and Enjolras weighed them for a moment. He knew that Grantaire was trying to be supportive, but also knew that if he went too far, it would turn into them bickering about Grantaire’s lack of convictions. “That’s a hard question to quantify but better than anticipated,” he said finally, which had the benefit of being both true and not nearly as nuanced as reality. “No ‘Red Wave’ at least.”

Grantaire wrinkled his nose. “I hate that phrase, by the way,” he said off-handedly. “I know it’s a GOP co-opt of the Blue Wave but it reminds me of how my sister used to talk about her period.”

Enjolras barked a laugh before shaking his head. “Speaking of your sister—”

“Hell of a segue.”

“—We haven’t really talked about if we’re going to be meeting each others’ families,” Enjolras said. “Or if we’ll be inviting them to the wedding.”

Something darkened in Grantaire’s expression. “If my sister lived closer, we could meet her, but she’s out in California.”

“And your parents?” Enjolras prompted quietly.

“My mother’s dead,” Grantaire said shortly. “My father might as well be.” His tone indicated he had no wish to discuss it further, and Enjolras didn’t pry. “What about your parents? I know you’re an only child.”

Enjolras arched an eyebrow. “Did I tell you that, or did you just assume it?”

Grantaire managed a small smile. “I plead the Fifth.”

“Uh-huh,” Enjolras said, a little skeptically. “Anyway, my parents live in Connecticut and I haven’t seen them in six years so I wasn’t exactly planning on inviting them.”

Grantaire’s expression softened. “I’d rather we invite our found families instead,” he said lightly, and Enjolras nodded in agreement.

“Is that who I’ll be meeting?” he asked, crossing over to the kitchen counter and the bottle of champagne the production team had left for them. “Your found family?”

“Part of them, anyway,” Grantaire said, taking the champagne from him and opening it with deft hands. “You’ll be meeting Joly and Bossuet. I have more friends than that, I promise, but most of them wouldn’t sign the consent forms to appear on camera.” He poured them both a glass before raising his in a toast. “My friend Éponine claims that the camera will steal her soul, which is a good one, considering that she claimed in the same breath not to have one.”

Enjolras laughed lightly, clinking his glass against Grantaire’s. “I know what you mean. My friend Jehan said he refused to allow his image to serve as a tool of corporate greed.” He took a sip before shrugging. “But at least Combeferre and Courfeyrac agreed, which is good, because they’re my best friends and the closest thing I have to brothers.”

Grantaire nodded slowly. “So I’ll have to earn their approval.”

“Of course not,” Enjolras scoffed. “The only person whose approval you have ever needed it mine.” He took another sip of champagne before adding, “But I can’t imagine they wouldn’t approve regardless.”

Grantaire didn’t look nearly as convinced. “How do you know that?”

“Because they want me to be happy,” Enjolras said simply. “And you make me happy.”

“Sap,” Grantaire whispered, leaning in to kiss him before draining his champagne and straightening. “Shall we explore our new digs?”

“Digs?” Enjolras repeated with a snort. “Might as well, I suppose.” He took Grantaire’s hand as they strolled down the hallway, pausing in the doorway of the bedroom. “Only one bedroom.”

He said it deliberately casually, and Grantaire arched an eyebrow as he glanced up at him. “Good think the couch looks comfortable,” he said, matching Enjolras’s tone.

Enjolras smirked. “You planning on sleeping on it?”

“No,” Grantaire said, saccharine sweet, “I was thinking about you for when I decide to kick you out of bed for being an asshole.”

Enjolras just laughed. “Now who’s being an asshole?”

“Speaking of assholes—”

Enjolras raised both eyebrows. “Now that is one hell of a segue.”

Grantaire ignored him. “What do you say we take this new bed for a test drive?”

“I think that sounds like an excellent idea,” Enjolras said, kissing him slowly before adding, “No matter what segue got us here.”

“Say the word segue one more time and I’ll make you regret it,” Grantaire said, his voice pitched low.

Enjolras smirked. “Is that a promise?”

Grantaire kissed him. “It’s a guarantee.”

— — — — —

“Your apartment building has a doorman,” Grantaire said, with something like awe, for the third time in as many minutes as he stood in the entryway of Enjolras’s condo.

“You said that already,” Enjolras said, a little uncomfortably, sliding past him to dump the months’ worth of mail from his mailbox on the kitchen island.

Grantaire ignored him. “I didn’t even know apartment buildings in Milwaukee came with doormen, let alone that you lived in one. That’s like—” He broke off, casting around for the correct phrasing. “That’s like the 1% shit.”

Enjolras cleared his throat. “Technically, it’s a condo building, not an apartment building,” he muttered. “And I don’t know that I’d call it ‘1% shit’.”

Grantaire gave him a look. “Condo building and doorman would say otherwise,” he said, crossing through the sparsely-decorated living room to the balcony door. “Now if this is a view of the parking lot, then maybe—” Again he broke off, this time to make a strangled noise in his throat. “That is Lake Michigan.”

“I’m not sure what other lake it would be,” Enjolras said.

Again Grantaire ignored him, instead shaking his head slowly, not tearing his eyes from the view. “You rent a lakeview condo in a building with a doorman.”

“Own.”

Grantaire swiveled to stare at him. “Sorry?”

His tone was incredulous, and Enjolras winced before correcting in a somewhat delicate tone, “I own a lakeview condo in a building with a doorman.”

Grantaire’s eyes narrowed. “You’re rich.”

Enjolras snorted. “I’m not.”

“In this economy, for a millennial?”

“Sorry, I mean—” Enjolras broke off with a sigh, scrubbing a hand across his face. “I’m not personally rich. I make, like, 35k a year. But my family is wealthy, and some of that wealth, despite my best efforts to the contrary, is mine to access.”

Grantaire’s expression didn’t change. “That’s some impressive mental gymnastics to get out of just admitting that you’re loaded.”

Enjolras sighed again. “It’s really not,” he said, plopping down on the couch. “I don’t consider it my money because I didn’t do a damned thing to earn it besides being born.”

Grantaire sat down next to him. “So then get rid of it,” he suggested.

“I do,” Enjolras told him. “But do you know how hard it is to get rid of money? It makes interest faster than I can donate or spend it.” He shrugged. “Besides, I use it to supplement my salary so that I don’t drain organizational resources from more deserving recipients.”

Grantaire gave him a bemused look. “Which you could do just as easily from a shared two-bedroom on far less prime real estate.”

Again Enjolras shrugged. “I like my privacy.”

A smile twitched at the corners of Grantaire’s mouth. “Is this like a 50 Shades of Grey thing?” he teased. “Is there a sex dungeon or red room of pain in here I should know about?”

Enjolras barked a laugh. “Don’t you think if I were into BDSM or kink it would’ve come up by now?”

Grantaire’s eyes darkened. “I mean, you’re a little into it, and anytime you’d like me to tie your wrists to my headboard with a tie, all you have to do is ask.”

Enjolras flushed. “That’s a conversation for a different time,” he said. “No, there is no sex dungeon in here. As a matter of fact, besides my friends, you’re the first guy I’ve ever brought over here.”

Grantaire traced a finger across the pattern of the couch. “Because you don’t want them to know you’re loaded?”

Enjolras didn’t bother denying it. “Because people treat you differently when they know you have money.”

“And you’re not worried I’m going to treat you differently?”

Enjolras didn’t hesitate. “No.”

Grantaire didn’t seem surprised, though he still asked, “Why not?”

“Because I know you love me,” Enjolras said simply, “and you loved me before you knew that I had money.”

“I mean, yeah,” Grantaire agreed, “but I might love you a lot more now that I know you can single-handedly pay off my student loans.”

Enjolras’s brow furrowed. “Sure, I can move some money around, how much do you—” He broke off when he saw the look on Grantaire’s face. “You were joking.”

“At least I wasn’t fully serious,” Grantaire said, a little faintly. 

Enjolras sighed. “Can we at least agree to table the continuation of this conversation until after meeting Combeferre and Courfeyrac?” he asked, standing and offering Grantaire his hand. “Because otherwise we’re going to be late.”

Grantaire let him pull him up from the couch, even though he told him, “Fine, but if it comes up in the interim, that’s not my fault.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I highly doubt it’s going to,” he huffed.

He was half-right, anyway, but had vastly underestimated Courfeyrac’s capacity for being an asshole, since after meeting them in the park across from Enjolras’s place and casual introductions, Grantaire had told them that they’d just come from Enjolras’s condo, and Courfeyrac had asked, far too innocently, “And what did you think?”

“Bigger than expected,” was all Grantaire had replied, but it was enough. Courfeyrac had grinned like a maniac and launched into Kanye West’s ‘Gold Digger’. Enjolras glowered at him, but Grantaire just laughed. “I have a feeling we’re going to be friends,” he said, which made Courfeyrac beam.

Combeferre, however, didn’t seem as easily convinced, and Enjolras waited until Grantaire and Courfeyrac went off to get a drink, one camera crew trailing after them as the other stayed with Combeferre and Enjolras, to ask, “So what’s wrong?”

Combeferre shook his head. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“But you don’t like him.”

Enjolras didn’t state it as a question, not that Combeferre had ever needed him to explicitly ask for his opinion on anything. And this time was no different. “I like him just fine!” Combeferre protested. “Is he who I would’ve picked for you? No, but that’s why I’m not in charge of your love life.”

“And yet you’re not excited for me,” Enjolras said evenly.

Combeferre sighed and jerked his head towards a bench a little ways down the path. Once they had sat down and the cameraman had gotten into place, Combeferre continued, “I would be absolutely over the moon for you if I thought this was even remotely what you wanted.”

Enjolras frowned. “This is exactly what I wanted.”

“Is it?”

Combeferre sounded more than skeptical, and Enjolras’s frown deepened. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, exactly, so why don’t you spit it out?” he said, as pleasantly as he could manage.

Sighing again, Combeferre shook his head, glancing over at the lake. “I’ve known Grantaire for all of 30 seconds and I can tell that he is in love with you.”

Enjolras blinked. “I know.”

“And not the kind of flash in the pan, hot while it lasts love,” Combeferre continued. “Truly, madly, deeply in love with you.”

“Is that a Savage Garden reference?” Enjolras asked, aiming for a lighthearted joke to ease the tension. “Because that’s a deep cut if so.”

Combeferre scowled. “Would you be serious for a moment?” Enjolras barked a laugh and Combeferre frowned. “What?”

“Nothing, just—” Enjolras waved a dismissive hand. “That sounds like something I would say to Grantaire.”

Combeferre’s expression softened, just a little. “Look, I can tell that you care about him, probably as much if not more than any of your previous boyfriends. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re you, and I highly doubt your priorities have changed in the past month.”

Enjolras knew what he was referring to, and his heart sank, just a little. “They haven’t, but—”

“And Grantaire isn’t a houseplant that you can shove in a corner and hope it survives on its own,” Combeferre said, a little sharply. “He needs love and attention, and all the things that you normally have in short supply.”

“I know that,” Enjolras said quietly.

Combeferre gave him a searching look. “So then do you blame me for being skeptical?”

Enjolras shook his head. “Of course not. And I know there’s really no good way to explain this so I’ll just say it – Grantaire’s different.” Combeferre made a noise of something like disbelief and Enjolras set his jaw, feeling unexpectedly defensive. “Or maybe I’m different because of him, I don’t know. What I do know is this – until him, whenever someone talked about being heads-over-heels in love, I always kind of thought they were joking. But when I met him, I finally understood.” Despite himself, despite feeling indignant at being questioned, even if he understood exactly where Combeferre was coming from, he couldn’t stop the smile that crossed his face as he talked about Grantaire. “It’s not like all the pieces suddenly, magically fell in place, or anything like that, but it’s like for the first time I understood why I should bother putting the pieces together in the first place. He makes the work that it takes to be in this relationship worthwhile.”

Combeferre let out a low whistle. “Wow.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Combeferre nodded slowly. “In that case, my answer to your next question is yes.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “And what question is that going to be?”

“If I’ll be your best man.”

Combeferre said it so casually that it took a moment for Enjolras to realize what he said. Once he did, he grinned. “Do you mean that?”

Combeferre nodded. “Yeah.” He hesitated before adding, “And like I said, I am ecstatic for you if this is what you want.”

“But you’re still not convinced.”

Combeferre shrugged. “More than I was before.” He nudged Enjolras companionably. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to convince me fully before the wedding.”

“I’m sure that I will,” Enjolras said firmly. “Grantaire’s absolutely worth whatever effort it takes.”

— — — — —

Grantaire hesitated, his hand on the doorknob. “Ok, so it’s not exactly a lakeview condo with a doorman,” he started, and Enjolras just barely managed to avoid rolling his eyes.

“I know that by the fact that we’re a good three miles away from the lake,” he said patiently.

“And I don’t have the money to spend on, like, a housekeeper or maid or whatever—”

“Grantaire.”

Grantaire muttered something under his breath that Enjolras couldn’t quite catch before telling him, “I just want to make sure your expectations are sufficiently lowered.”

Enjolras gave him a look. “You know that I wouldn’t care if you lived in a hole in the ground, right?”

Grantaire met his look with one of his own. “That’s not true and you know it.”

“Maybe not,” Enjolras allowed, “but I wouldn’t care much.”

“Fine,” Grantaire sighed, finally opening the door to his apartment and stepping back to let Enjolras in. 

Enjolras’s first thought was that it was very Grantaire, which was perhaps a dumb thing to think, considering it was his apartment. But something about it just suited Grantaire, from the mish-mash of decorative styles to the bright colors to various knick-knacks that crowded seemingly every available surface. It was what he imagined the inside of Grantaire’s mind must look like. 

Grantaire hung back, something almost nervous in his tone as he asked, “So what do you think?”

“It’s cute,” Enjolras told him.

Grantaire made a face. “Cute means small.”

“Cute means cute,” Enjolras corrected, crossing over to where several photographs were hung on the wall, their subjects ranging from portraits to streetscapes. “Are these your photographs?”

Grantaire shrugged, dropping down on his slightly delapidated couch. “Most of them, yeah.”

Enjolras paused in front of one that he recognized. “Is this one?”

“Yeah.”

Enjolras turned to give Grantaire a measured look. “This wasn’t taken in Chicago.”

Grantaire shook his head. “No, it’s—”

“From Ferguson,” Enjolras said. “I recognize it.” He frowned slightly at the picture of the protests, one of several such pictures, and turned again to Grantaire. “What were you doing in Ferguson?”

He was aiming for curious but probably sounded more accusatory, though Grantaire didn’t seem to notice. “When I heard the Michael Brown shooting, I knew that whatever happened was something that needed to be documented, so I joined a few friends who were heading down to St. Louis to protest,” he said. Enjolras opened his mouth to agree but Grantaire cut him off with a derisive snort. “Fat lot of good it did, since it’s been six years and absolutely nothing in this country has changed.” He let out a slightly bitter sigh before running a hand across his face and giving Enjolras a rueful look. “Sorry.”

Enjolras frowned. “What are you apologizing for?” he asked. “It’s not like you’re wrong.”

Grantaire shrugged. “No, but I promised to try not to be so cynical.”

Enjolras raised both eyebrows. “When did you make that promise?”

“Maybe I only made it to myself,” Grantaire admitted with a small half-smile.

Enjolras nodded slowly, glancing around Grantaire’s apartment before offering, “For what it’s worth, I don’t mind your cynicism.”

It was Grantaire’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “Oh really?”

“Well, at the very least it’s a tangible reminder of everything I’m working towards.”

Grantaire laughed, standing up to cross to Enjolras and give him a kiss. “I love being hashtag inspo for you,” he teased.

Enjolras wrinkled his nose. “Please don’t ever say that again.”

“You know I can’t promise—”

Without warning, his apartment door banged open and two men Enjolras didn’t know burst in, both wearing identical smiles even if otherwise they couldn’t look more different. The slightly burlier and significantly balder of the two bellowed, “R!” before all but tackling him to the couch.

“Oh, Jesus,” Grantaire managed, his voice slightly muffled, and he let out a groan mixed with laughter as the other man piled on.

All three seemed to be talking at the same time, and Enjolras gave them a moment before saying, with no small amount of bemusement, “Um, hi.”

Grantaire struggled to extricate himself from the pile of limbs, red-faced and out of breath from laughter. “Enjolras, these two are my best friends, Joly and Bossuet.”

The bald one, Bossuet, stood up and offered Enjolras an enthusiastic handshake. “And you must be the man who has won our dear R’s heart!”

The other, Joly, scowled. “Why the fuck are you talking like that?” he asked as he also got up to shake Enjolras’s hand.

“Like what?” Bossuet asked, clearly put out.

“Like you just walked out of some period romance.”

Bossuet scowled. “I am not—”

Grantaire nudged Enjolras as Joly and Bossuet continued bickering. “They’re going to be like that for awhile,” he said in a slightly fond undertone.

Enjolras shook his head,deciding not to question it. “Can I ask what’s up with the whole ‘R’ thing?” he said instead.

“Oh, it’s a play on my name,” Grantaire said with a laugh. “Doesn’t work so well in English.”

Enjolras considered it before realization hit. “Grand Aire, Capital R…oh, that’s clever.”

He chuckled and kissed Grantaire’s temple. “I thought so,” Grantaire said, a little smugly.

Enjolras wrapped an arm around his shoulders before nodding towards Joly and Bossuet, who were still bickering. “So, uh, are they always like this.”

“Pretty much,” Grantaire said, still fond, though he glanced up at Enjolras and asked, “Not quite like what you’re used to, huh?”

Enjolras snorted and shook his head. “On the contrary. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were on their best behavior when you met them. 95% of the time, they’re worse than this.”

Grantaire winced. “Yikes.”

“Pretty much.”

Grantaire kissed Enjolras before pulling away to clap his hands together, the sudden noise startling Joly and Bossuet from their back and forth. “Alright, kids, time to break it up,” he said loudly. “We got shit to do.”

Joly brighteed. “Good point. Bossuet, want to take Grantaire to go stock up on drinks while I talk to Enjolras?”

Grantaire frowned. “I don’t need to stock up on drinks.”

Joly smiled sweetly at him. “No, but you do need to leave me alone with your fiancé.”

Bossuet had already looped his arm through Grantaire’s and was tugging him toward the door. “Remind me why we’re friends again?” Grantaire said sourly.

“Because you love us and couldn’t live without us,” Bossuet said promptly.

“True,” Grantaire admitted with a sigh, giving Enjolras one last pleading look to rescue him before the door closed after them, one of the cameramen hurrying to follow.

Personally, Enjolras thought if anyone needed rescuing, it was him, since Joly was currently eyeing him like he was sizing him up for a fight. “So,” Joly said, gesturing for Enjolras to take a seat. “Enjolras.”

“Joly,” Enjolras said cautiously.

Joly leaned forward. “I’m supposed to be giving you the ‘hurt him and we hurt you’ speech.”

Enjolras arched an eyebrow. “Supposed to be?”

Joly waved a dismissive hand. “Grantaire’s a big boy, and frankly, between the three of us, he’s the one most likely to beat the shit out of anyone.”

Enjolras’s lips twitched. “I hadn’t noticed.”

A sharp smile flickered across Joly’s face. “Liar. And not even a good one at that.” He gave Enjolras a measured look. “Let me guess, he got in a fight with someone?”

Enjolras shrugged. “He and a friend may have had a run in with each other in Mexico.”

“And why’d they do a thing like that?”

Enjolras cleared his throat. “They were both under the mistaken impression that their fiancés were flirting.”

“Ah.”

“With each other.”

Something darkened in Joly’s expression. “Oh.”

“Which we weren’t, for whatever that’s worth,” Enjolras hastened to add.

To his surprise, Joly laughed lightly. “That I actually don’t doubt, if only because you don’t strike me as the type to flirt with anyone, let alone someone you’re not engaged to.”

Enjolras couldn’t really deny it, so didn’t bother trying. “But it’s also why I have no intention of ever actually doing anything to hurt Grantaire,” he told Joly, whose smile faded.

“Maybe not, but if that was a lesson in anything, it’s how sometimes intentions aren’t enough.” He gave Enjolras a look. “Since I doubt you intended on making him jealous enough to question your relationship either.”

“No, I didn’t,” Enjolras said, defensive despite himself. “But he and I talked about it, and agreed that we needed to talk things through before either of us goes off the deep end, and for what it’s worth, we’re both trying.”

Joly nodded slowly. “Which is a start, at least.”

“But not enough of one to get your blessing.”

Enjolras wasn’t sure why he said it, but the moment he did, he knew it was true. Joly cocked his head slightly. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Joly took a long moment to answer, and when he did, he seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “Bossuet and I have known Grantaire a very long time. And what you have to understand about Grantaire is that beneath the attempts at cynicism is a man who cares so very deeply. And he’s gotten himself hurt from lesser situations than this.”

Enjolras nodded. “I don’t doubt that.”

“And I’m afraid that if this thing between you ends badly, it will break him for good.”

Joly didn’t say it harshly, but Enjolras still flinched. He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts before telling Joly, “I’m not sure what you want me to say to that. I can’t promise that things won’t end poorly, just that I have no intention of them ending at all, let alone badly.” He took a deep breath. “But as you said, intentions aren’t enough. So all I can tell you is that I love him. I may not have intended on falling in love with him, but I did. And I made a promise to him, one I intend to uphold in just a few short weeks when I make him my husband. I don’t break promises easily, and I certainly don’t do it without good cause.” He paused before adding, somewhat fiercer than intended, “And before you ask, Grantaire filled me in on his mental health history, not that any of that would be considered good cause anyway. And none of it scared me off.”

To his surprise, Joly grinned at that. “I can see why Grantaire fell for you.”

Enjolras blinked. “Oh yeah?”

“He’s always had a thing for righteous indignation,” Joly told him. “And blonds.”

Enjolras laughed. “Well, we all have our weaknesses.”

“And mine is automatically liking anyone who cares about Grantaire that deeply,” Joly said, giving Enjolras a genuine smile. “I’m sure you don’t need it, but you have my blessing.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras told him.

Joly hesitated before adding, “Just – do your best to make sure that righteous indignation is always for him, not aimed at him.”

Enjolras thought of all the times already that Grantaire had all but driven him crazy, whether with his cynicism or refusal to be serious or whatever else. It was a hard promise to make, as much as he knew he wanted to. “I will do my best,” he said.

Joly nodded. “And that’s all I can ask.”

— — — — —

“Can we talk?”

Enjolras didn’t glance up from his computer, though he automatically tucked his toes under Grantaire’s thigh as he sat down next to him on the couch. “I have fifteen minutes before you told me I better have my ass in bed or you’re starting without me.”

Grantaire shook his head. “Not about that.”

Now Enjolras did look up, frowning slightly. “Why don’t I like the tone of your voice?”

Grantaire sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I don’t know how to say this, but—”

“Are you breaking things off?” Enjolras interrupted. Not that he thought Grantaire was, by any stretch, but he figured it might add some much-needed levity to the moment.

But Grantaire just looked startled. “What? No, of course not.”

“Ok, well then, if I may, in the future, don’t start a conversation like this with ‘I don’t know how to say this’.”

His tone was teasing but Grantaire didn’t smile. “I’m hoping there won’t really need to be a conversation like this in the future. But our trips to each other’s places, and meeting our friends—” He took a deep breath before telling Enjolras,  “We still have a lot that we need to work out before we actually get hitched.

Enjolras nodded slowly. “I’m ignoring your use of the term ‘hitched’, only because I can tell you’re not in the mood. So what do we need to decide?”

“For starters, are we going to have kids?”

The question was so out of the blue that Enjolras was temporarily speechless, and he looked at Grantaire cautiously before telling him, “Kids were never in my plan. If that’s something that you feel strongly about—”

Grantaire shook his head. “It’s not,” he assured him. “That’s a relief, actually. I definitely do not want kids. I’ve babysat for my friend Éponine before, and that is as much contact with kids as I need in my life.”

While normally Enjolras would be inclined to celebrate a major agreement like this, he had a feeling this was only the tip of the iceberg. “So we’re in agreement on that. What else do we need to decide?”

“Well, there’s the question of where we’re going to live,” Grantaire said. “I know that Milwaukee and Chicago aren’t that far apart, but you mentioned going back to DC eventually, so…”

He trailed off and Enjolras frowned, setting his computer down on the coffee table. “Eventually means eventually. I don’t exactly have a timeline for it. But yeah, my work will probably take me back there at some point.” He hesitated before asking, “Is that a dealbreaker?”

“I don’t know,” Grantaire said. “I’ve never really thought about moving somewhere else.”

“Ever?”

“Well, I mean, when it’s the dead of winter and cold as balls out, I’ve thought about fucking off to California or Hawaii or wherever, but not seriously.” Grantaire shook his head. “I don’t know. Chicago is my home. I love it here.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “More than you love me?”

Grantaire flinched. “That’s not fair.”

Enjolras knew in an instant that he had overstepped, and he reached for Grantaire’s hand, squeezing it once as he told him, “I know. I’m sorry. Bad joke.”

Grantaire took a deep breath. “Well, while we’re on the subject of how much we’re willing to sacrifice for each other, there is something else.”

“What?” Enjolras asked warily.

“We need a pre-nup.”

Enjolras knew in an instance that this was what Grantaire had been after from the beginning, and that he had brought up the other stuff to soften the blow. It hadn’t worked. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Enjolras—”

Enjolras dropped his hand. “This entire experiment is supposed to be about finding love, not turning it into a business transaction!”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “And I’m forced to once again steal your line – be serious.”

“I thought I was,” Enjolras shot back.

“Then be realistic, at least,” Grantaire said. “You’re fucking loaded. And I am…not. I joked about you paying off my student loans and you were ready to do it.”

Enjolras winced. “I didn’t say that, I said I could move around some money…”

It wasn’t exactly the stellar point he’d hoped to make, and Grantaire took it as an opportunity. “See?” he said. “You don’t even know how much money you have at your disposal, let alone invested or whatever it is rich people do with their money. I live paycheck to paycheck and stagger my bills throughout the month to make sure I don’t overdraw my checking account. I know exactly how much money I have.”

“So?”

“So I shouldn’t be the one to have to tell you that we need a fucking pre-nup.”

“And I shouldn’t have to be the one to tell you that I don’t want a pre-nup,” Enjolras snapped. “I don’t want to go into our wedding prepared for it to fail.”

Grantaire threw his hands up in frustration. “Oh my God, this isn’t about it failing—”

“Yes it is!” Enjolras said. “You don’t sign a pre-nup thinking it’s going to work out, you sign one to plan for it to not.”

“You sign one to protect your ass,” Grantaire shot back.

Enjolras gave him a look. “I think you mean assets.”

Grantaire just shrugged. “I said what I said.”

Enjolras sighed and shook his head. “We are getting married, and once we are, everything that I have is half yours,” he said firmly. “I don’t want it any other way. I refuse to live with separate bank accounts and different trust funds and money squirreled away that you can’t touch in case of a divorce or thinking you’re only sticking around for the requisite number of years so that you can get what’s coming to you. I won’t live like that.”

Grantaire was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “I’ll assume that’s how your parents lived?” he asked finally.

Enjolras swallowed and looked away. “My father filed for divorce two days before their tenth wedding anniversary to try to stop my mother from getting half of his assets,” he said, his tone turning bitter. “They finally finished their divorce proceedings just in time for my fourteenth birthday, which I spent alone because they had scheduled vacations with their new lovers.”

Grantaire reached out to take his hand. “I’m sorry.”

Enjolras squeezed his hand before telling him, his voice low, “I have seen first-hand what happens to a loving relationship when it’s treated like a business agreement, and I don’t want that for us. Even if that means you take me for all I’m worth if we were ever to get divorced.”

Grantaire’s expression softened. “I would never do that.”

“I know.”

“Half of what you’re worth, but never all of it.”

Enjolras laughed. “C’mere,” he said, pulling Grantaire to him and kissing him, a slow, sweet kiss, before telling him, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Grantaire said.

“And as soon as we are back from our honeymoon, I’m paying off your student loans.”

Grantaire stiffened. “Enjolras—”

“It’ll be my wedding present to you,” Enjolras told him. “And before you protest, or ask me why, because I want to, and because I can.”

For a moment, it looked like Grantaire might protest further, but then he sighed and raised his hands in defeat. “Well, I may be stubborn, and occasionally too proud for my own good, but I’m not stupid enough to turn that offer down.”

“Good,” Enjolras said, a little smugly.

Grantaire kissed him once more before standing and stretching almost languidly. He peeled his shirt off before asking Enjolras, fully aware of what he was doing, “Now do you still need your 15 minutes?”

Enjolras eyed him hungrily. “Maybe just 5,” he hedged.

“I’m setting the alarm on my phone, and I was not joking about starting on my own,” Grantaire warned him, unbuttoning his jeans.

Enjolras wet his lips. “In that case, I’ll be there in two and a half minutes.”

Grantaire smirked. “You better be.”

He started to head back to their bedroom but Enjolras stopped him. “Are we ok?”

Grantaire half-turned, his brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Enjolras shrugged. “I don’t know, I just want to make sure we’re leaving this conversation in a good spot.”

Grantaire hesitated. “We’re leaving it in as good of a spot as it can be.”

“That’s not a real answer.”

“It’s as real of an answer as you’re going to get,” Grantaire told him.

Enjolras frowned but decided not to press the issue further. “Fine,” he sighed. “I’ll see you in two and a half minutes.”

But he wasn’t able to concentrate anymore, and not just because he was thinking of Grantaire getting started without him in their bed. Something about the conversation had driven home how real this all was, and how soon they were going to have to make the biggest decision of their lives.

He had thought he was ready for it. Now he knew he was ready, but he wasn’t quite as convinced about Grantaire.

He stood, heading into their bedroom and pausing in the doorway to watch Grantaire, who was muttering something to himself as he pulled out the lube and condoms from the bedside table drawer. “You about ready?”

“Jesus Christ,” Grantaire huffed, turning around to glare at him. “Give me some warning, would you?”

“Sorry,” Enjolras said, feeling anything but, and he crossed over to Grantaire, cupping his cheek with one hand and smoothing a thumb across his cheekbone before kissing him.

Grantaire bit down lightly on Enjolras’s bottom lip before murmuring, “That was a fast 80 seconds.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “Are you complaining?”

Grantaire’s eyes darkened and he pushed Enjolras down onto the bed. “Absolutely not.”

— — — — — 

“What are you doing?” Grantaire asked, dropping a kiss on the top of Enjolras’s head as he passed him, heading to the fridge.

Enjolras didn’t look up from his computer. “End of quarter fundraising numbers are out,” he said.

“Am I supposed to know what that means?”

Enjolras sighed. “It means a lot of campaign disclosures to go through to see who’s potentially more vulnerable than we thought, at least monetarily.”

“Because that would be a good person for your organization to go up against,” Grantaire said, grabbing a beer from the fridge and twisting the top off.

Enjolras jerked a shrug. “Potentially. Depending on other factors, of course.”

Grantaire nodded slowly. “So then does that mean—”

“Look,” Enjolras interrupted, trying not to sound as irritated as he felt. “Ordinarily, I would be happy to play twenty questions with you and tell you all about the ins-and-outs of being a political operative, but I really don’t have time right now. Combeferre is working on a strategy pitch for some major investors, and we need solid numbers by tomorrow.”

“I didn’t realize asking basic questions about your job was playing twenty questions,” Grantaire said coolly.

Enjolras sighed, feeling a headache coming on. “And I appreciate your interest,” he said between clenched teeth. “But this has a deadline.”

“Ok,” Grantaire said. “I’ll leave you alone.”

He brushed past Enjolras on his way back to their bedroom, and Enjolras was so absorbed in what he was doing that he didn’t even notice that this time, Grantaire didn’t pause to kiss the top of his head.

In fact, he was so absorbed in combing through D-2s that it was a few hours before he realized that he hadn’t seen Grantaire in awhile. It took him fifteen minutes more to find the note that Grantaire had left for him on the counter. Gone out. Be back late. Good luck with your work. xo, R.

Enjolras scowled, glancing over at the clock above the stove. “Be back late?” he repeated out loud to no one. It was already one in the morning – how much later could he be?

For a moment, he was half-tempted to sulk off to bed, but he remembered that Courfeyrac had told him once not to go to bed angry. Of course, at the time, Courfeyrac had been referring to trying to get him to make up with his idiot roommate Marius over some nonsense, but Enjolras figured the theory still held.

At the very least, he wanted to have this conversation tonight instead of waiting for the morning.

It was almost 2 before the door opened and Grantaire stumbled inside. He lit up when he saw Enjolras. “Apollo!” he said brightly. “What are you still doing up?”

“Waiting for you,” Enjolras said shortly. “Since you didn’t exactly give me any details besides ‘gone out’.”

Grantaire’s smile faded. “And yet there’s this magical invention known as a phone where you could’ve texted me to ask where I was,” he returned, with an arched eyebrow. “Which leads me to believe this is about something else.”

Enjolras flushed, knowing he was right that he could’ve texted or called, and hating Grantaire a little bit for it. “You’re drunk,” he said instead, saying the words flatly and dismissively, a preemptive way to end the conversation.

“So?”

“So we should have this conversation when you’re sober.”

Grantaire just shook his head. “But I’d prefer it now,” he said, crossing over to practically collapse on the couch, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling as he said, “So spit it out. What the fuck did I do wrong?”

“You really have to ask me that?” Enjolras demanded. “You disappeared without even a word to me just because I was too busy with something really important to pay attention to you.”

Grantaire rolled over onto his side. “I disappeared without a word because I knew that your work is important and I didn’t want to distract you when you had a deadline,” he said. “I don’t need you to pay attention to me 24/7. I’m a big boy who can keep myself entertained.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Yeah, by going out and getting shitfaced.”

“By going out and having fun,” Grantaire corrected. “Not that you would know what that looks like. Just like you apparently don’t know what common courtesy when you live with someone looks like.”

“You call this common courtesy?”

Grantaire sat up, frowning. “I call it better than sitting silently in an apartment waiting for you to be done. Because you can’t tell me that if I had stuck around, you wouldn’t have found something else to get irritated at me about. Probably breathing too loudly.”

“I—” Enjolras broke off, realizing in an instant that Grantaire was absolutely correct, and he slowly sank down into the chair. “Am I really that bad?”

Grantaire just shrugged. “That might’ve been an exaggeration for dramatic effect.”

Enjolras winced. “Was I that big of a dick to you earlier?”

“No. But you were enough of a dick for me to know that I was better off fucking off for a few hours than hanging around here.”

Enjolras nodded slowly, finally understanding what Grantaire had been saying. “You were trying to be helpful.”

Grantaire nodded as well. “I was trying to let you get your work done.”

As much as Enjolras knew he should just apologize and call it a night, he couldn’t help but add, “You promised that you would be annoying when you need attention.”

Grantaire cocked his head slightly. “That promise still holds, but I didn’t need your attention tonight.” He gave Enjolras a look. “So are you mad that I chose to let you work, or are you mad that you needed my attention and I wasn’t here?”

The question hit Enjolras like a ton of bricks as he realized that was exactly what he had been mad about, that he had gotten done with work and was ready to spend time with Grantaire, only for Grantaire to be gone. “How—”

“In vino veritas, babe,” Grantaire said breezily. “I’m always more perceptive when I’ve had a few.”

Enjolras barked a laugh. “The time you tripped over four different things on the walk back to our hotel room would say anything.”

“More perceptive of emotions, ok?” Grantaire said, scowling. “Physical space can get fucked.”

Enjolras just shook his head, his own amusement fading. “I’m not mad that you weren’t here,” he said, before making a face and amending, “I mean, I guess I was, a little bit. But I also don’t want this to feel like we’re living separate lives, that we’re just two ships passing in the night.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Well I don’t know about ships, but we are living separate lives. Being a couple, even a married couple, doesn’t suddenly mean that we have to do everything together.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” Grantaire asked. “Because some days, I will want to go out at 10pm on a Tuesday and blow off some steam, and I love you enough to not expect you to come with me, just like I imagine you will have early morning meetings and I sure as hell hope you love me enough to not expect me to also be awake at 5am to deal with them.”

He was clearly aiming for a joke but Enjolras didn’t laugh. “And what happens when you’re still out when I go to bed, and I’m awake and out of the house before you even wake up?”

“Then we make up for it later.”

Grantaire said it like it was the simplest, most obvious thing, but Enjolras shook his head. “How?”

“Date night,” Grantaire said. “Once a week, just you and me. No work, no friends, just us.” He paused before adding, “And it doesn’t have to be at nighttime, either, just whatever time on whatever day works best for both of us.”

Enjolras nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I like the sound of that.”

Grantaire gave him a smile as well. “You and I both knew this was going to take work, and this is just one more piece of it.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, standing and crossing over to the couch to crouch down next to Grantaire, brushing his hair out of his face. “Yeah, it is.” He leaned in and kissed him before asking, “How about we have our first date night tomorrow?”

Grantaire grinned. “That sounds like the best idea I’ve heard all night.” He kissed Enjolras once more before pushing him away and standing, swaying slightly. “Now, if we’re good, I’m about one tequila shot away from either taking off all my clothes or puking. Or taking off all of my clothes and then puking on them. So I think it’s time I put my ass to bed.”

Enjolras laughed, standing as well. “You’re not even going to try propositioning me?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Even if I thought I could pull it off, I don’t think I can manage it.” He gave Enjolras a smile. “I’d settle for cuddling, though,” he said, turning to wrap his arms around Enjolras’s waist. “Lots and lots of cuddling.” He kissed him. “Maybe some light petting.” He kissed him again, a heady, open-mouthed kiss this time. “Third base, no further.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and pushed him gently away. “Go get ready for bed.”

“See, you’re already ordering me around,” Grantaire said, grinning again. “I can work with this.”

Enjolras just shook his head. “I love you,” he said.”

Grantaire gave him a wave over his shoulder. “Love you, too.”

Enjolras watched Grantaire amble towards the bedroom, feeling like an idiot for picking a fight when Grantaire was trying so hard. In fact, between this and the pre-nup and everything else, Enjolras felt like Grantaire was trying a hell of a lot.

Maybe more than he was.

Which meant that maybe it was time he showed just how much he was trying, too.

— — — — —

Grantaire glanced around the room, looking a little amused. “Do you know, in all my years of living here, I’ve never been to the top of the Hancock?” he asked, referring to the formerly second tallest building in Chicago, where they were eating dinner on the 95th floor for their date. “Also did you bring me here just to hear me say ‘cock’ repeatedly in my sexy Chicago accent?”

“I don’t think it’s the called the Hancock building anymore,” Enjolras said mildly, “and I am not taking the bait on accent sexiness. Sitting through your rant about the Boston accent being voted sexiest was a performance I don’t need a repeat of.”

“Coward.”

Enjolras chose to ignore that comment. “Also, how have you never been up here before?”

Grantaire shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. “Probably because it’s for tourists.” He paused before adding, “Or because I’ve been to the top of the Sears Tower like five times.”

Enjolras just shook his head. “What is it with you people and refusing to call things by their current name?” he asked fondly.

“Hey, I called it Jean-Baptiste Point DuSable Lake Shore Drive just earlier today,” Grantaire protested.

Enjolras gave him a look. “You did that to piss off a guy wearing a MAGA hat off.”

Grantaire smirked. “Which just proves I have good timing.”

Laughing, Enjolras glanced out the window before asking Grantaire, “Well, now that you’re up here for the first time, what do you think?”

Grantaire took another sip of his drink. “It’s fine.”

“Just fine?”

Grantaire shrugged again. “The drinks are overpriced, the food is almost certain to be mediocre tourist fare, and the necessity of our camera crew means we don’t even get to do any quality people watching.”

The latter part was especially true, as the crew had to close off an entire section of the restaurant just for them. “So a terrible date,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire smiled at him. “I didn’t say that. After all, I’m with you.” He reached across the table for Enjolras’s hand. “And besides, it’s a hell of a view.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Me, or the lake?”

“Both.” Grantaire turned to glance out the window. “But you have to admit this view is stunning.” He arched an eyebrow at Enjolras. “Almost as good as the view from your condo.”

“That it is,” Enjolras agreed. “And it’s nice to be able to see something from a different view.”

Grantaire’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds like a segue.”

Enjolras didn’t deny it. “I just think it’s important to see what you’re getting yourself into before you decide to call a place home.”

It took a moment for Grantaire to realize what he was saying, but when he did, his eyes widened. “Does that mean—”

“I’ve decided to move to Chicago after we’re married,” Enjolras told him, unable to stop his smile.

Grantaire just stared at him. “Wait, seriously?”

Enjolras nodded. “Seriously,” he said. “I can still do work in Wisconsin as needed and Illinois actually provides easier access to Indiana and Michigan. Besides, Chicago’s angling to get the DNC bid in 2024, so I may end up needing to spend a lot of time here anyway.”

It looked like Grantaire was torn between excitement and concern. “You don’t have to do this for me,” he said.

“I’m not,” Enjolras said immediately, and when Grantaire gave him a look, he said, “I’m not! I’m doing this for us, and for our future together.” He took Grantaire’s hand and squeezed it. “Besides, whether or not I need to, I want to. I want us to build a life together. And it doesn’t hurt that you happen to already live in one of the greatest cities in the country.”

“Not the world?” Grantaire asked.

“I don’t know if I’d go that far.”

Grantaire shook his head. “Just you wait,” he said. “Soon you’ll be saying ‘Da Bears’ and eating an Italian Beef while telling anyone who will listen that Chicago’s the greatest city in the world.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “If I ever say ‘Da Bears’ with anything resembling sincerity, you have my full permission to euthanize me.”

Grantaire just grinned. “Nope, I’m stuck with you now.”

“Yeah you are,” Enjolras murmured, raising his hand to his lips to kiss his knuckles. “Besides, I figure future date nights will be a lot easier when we’re living in the same city.”

“Probably,” Grantaire agreed. “But on the other hand, I was already looking forward to having sex on the Amtrak up to Milwaukee.”

Enjolras considered it for a moment. “Well, Combeferre and Courfeyrac are still going to be in Milwaukee.”

Grantaire grinned. “That is an excellent point.”

Enjolras picked his glass up and raised it in a toast. “To Chicago,” he said simply.

“To sex on the Amtrak,” Grantaire returned, and when Enjolras just gave him a look, he chuckled and added, “To starting our life together.”

Enjolras clinked his glass against Grantaire’s. “To us.”

In just a few short days, our couples will be standing at the altar, ready to answer the question we’ve all been waiting for: Is love truly blind? Will they marry the person they fell for in the pods, spent time with in Mexico, and moved in with in Chicago? Or will they say no, and end what started just a few short weeks ago for good?

We’ll find out, on the next episode.

Café Society
fic by lizamezzo
art byorlofsky

(warning for alcohol and innuendo; also, illustrations on this fic are throughout the text!)
****

“I am not going to Momus.”

“But —“

“No.”

“Musichetta, my love, the plan—“

“Was made by you, not me.  I’ll prepare a hero’s welcome for your return, but my foot does not cross the threshold of Café Momus.  Especially not in these shoes.”

Joly cast his eyes down.  They were red, a deep-dyed scarlet, with sweetly worked embroidery and delicate heels that had long since left their precise imprint upon his heart.  Musichetta, in these shoes, was not to be questioned.

“Very well, dearest.  Though I shall be thinking of you.  I wish you could come.  Grantaire would love to see you there, I know.  It’s his favourite place, you see, and—”

“Grantaire has no idea this is even happening, does he?”

“Well, no.  It’s a surprise.  It took ages for me and Bossuet to work out when his birthday was, he’s always been so close-mouthed. About that, that is— obviously not about anything else.”

“Yes, ‘close-mouthed’ is not a term I’d apply to Grantaire in the normal course of things.”  Musichetta smiled irresistibly, and Joly felt something he was sure presaged a syncope.  “Give him my very best wishes, and come back in one piece— you and Bossuet both.  I’ll be expecting you.”  She leaned in to kiss him.  Definitely a syncope, Joly thought, but worth it, in the end.

************

If you wanted a table at Café Momus on a Saturday in June, you had to arrive unfashionably early to stake your claim.  The canny customer would seek out the upstairs room: a convivial place with its large windows and ornate plasterwork stained by years of smoke from candle, lamp and pipe.  Joly, entering, found Courfeyrac and Bossuet already seated at a table that looked— to Joly’s worried eye— optimistically large.  After embracing Courfeyrac (who was wearing a new scent, he noted) and planting bisous on Bossuet’s rough cheek, Joly ventured: “My dears, do we know who else is coming along?”

“Well, I’ve invited all of our crowd, of course,” Bossuet replied thoughtfully.  “Enjolras gave me a stern look and told me he had work.  Feuilly is teaching tonight— French to his Polish group, you know.”  

“Marius was off on one of his mysterious long walks, so I left him a note at that ghastly tenement of his.”  Courfeyrac sipped his coffee.  “Combeferre has a shift at the Necker.  But Jean Prouvaire said he’d be along.”

“Prouvaire’s coming?  Good, I owe his bony poetic arse a kick or two.”  The others looked up to see Bahorel striding to the table, his jacket under his arm.  His hair was pomaded and tied back neatly for once, Joly saw, and he was wearing a miraculously clean shirt.  

Across the table, Courfeyrac had his hands over his eyes.  “Is that waistcoat… new?”

“You like it?”  Bahorel posed, smiling.  “Chinese silk!  Expensive, mordious, but I had to have it.  Dragons, you see?”

Risking a closer glance at Bahorel’s midriff, Joly discerned golden serpentine forms, clawed and whiskered, writhing across the gleaming scarlet fabric like spermatozoa under a microsocope.

“Why this desire to kick the arse of Jean Prouvaire?”  Bossuet was asking.

“Firstly,” replied Bahorel, “because at our last conversation, he implied that I could not if I tried.  Secondly, because on the morning following that conversation, I awoke to find my inadequacies immortalised in a ballade in the style of Villon, inscribed upon various parts of my person in what I am assured was the finest India ink.  Thirdly, because the aforesaid arse offends me by its shapeliness.  The curvature of those twin hemispheres is far too perfect to exist in this city, I’m sure you’ll agree. If, as the Church Fathers would have us believe, we live in a world where perfection is denied us for the sins of Adam, then the arse of Jean Prouvaire is a living blasphemy.  If, on the other hand, we dwell in a chaotic and godless universe, where all things are haphazardly shaped by the mindless actions of primordial forces, then nothing so perfect as the arse of Jean Prouvaire should exist at all.  How am I supposed to live in proximity to an arse which both disproves and affirms the existence of God?”

Courfeyrac passed Bahorel a freshly poured coffee and the sugar bowl.  “My dear Bahorel, if you are resolved not to make a lawyer, then perhaps theology is the career for you.  Think of the Sundays that would be enlivened by such a sermon.”  

“Perhaps,” mused Bossuet, “Jean Prouvaire’s posterior exists as a sign of divine benevolence, like that other arc which occasionally decorates the sky?”

Bahorel finished stirring and struck the spoon vengefully against the rim of his cup.  “All I’m saying is that when the revolution comes, those with perfect arses will be first against the wall.”

“I’m sure that will be of great comfort to the sans-culottes,” muttered Joly.  Bossuet gave him a perfectly filthy grin—there’s that syncope again— and murmured back, “Is Musichetta coming?”

“No,” said Joly sadly.  He related their earlier conversation to Bossuet.  “I don’t know why she’s so dead set against this place.  As far as I know, she hasn’t been here in years.”

Bossuet shrugged eloquently.  “Best not to enquire, I find.  If it’s an old love affair, all we should do is feel enraged and jealous for no good reason.  Let Musichetta be Musichetta, that’s the best way.”

“Just as you say, my dear.  Now: shall I go and fetch the man of the hour?”  At Bossuet’s nod, Joly rose, made his excuses and went to seek out Grantaire.

*********

After drawing a blank at the Corinthe and the Musain, Joly found himself at the door of Grantaire’s lodgings just off the Place Saint-Michel.  A word with the concierge bought him a disapproving glance and passage to Grantaire’s door.  Some while after his hesitant knock, the door grudgingly opened.

“You do me wrong to take me out of the grave.” 

“My dear Grantaire.  Happy birthd—“

“I had just attained the blessed state known to the heathens as Nirvana and to the poets as sweet, blissful unconsciousness.  I was dreaming, you infidel, dreaming— that sunny dome, those caves of ice— a vast harem of odalisques bent on discovering the inmost secrets of my languishing soul— and then your knuckles at my door, and the whole damned thing dissolves into the murk of memory.  You are Alexander, and my palace of dreams your Persepolis.”

“You should write a poem about it,” said Joly, momentarily struck.

“Been done.  Besides, if I pick up a pen I might be ranked beside Jean Prouvaire in the annals of futility.  Come in, come in, don’t stand there like some underendowed Herm waiting for the tender mercy of Alcibiades.  Or of the concierge, for that matter, who runs this place like the Conciergerie.  Come in.”

***************

Joly and Grantaire strolled forth under leaden summer skies, feeling the occasional spitting drop; as they were crossing the Île de la Cité they saw a blue-white flash and heard a nearly simultaneous crack of thunder.  All at once the heavens opened, drenching them and driving them to seek the scanty shelter of a chestnut tree.

Joly put his fingers to his wrist, but his pulse remained steady, if a shade faster than usual.  Another flash, a pause of exactly two heartbeats, then another thunderclap.  They were out of the sheeting rain, but fat drops from the leaves above still spattered them.  The only poor souls in the street hurried by with their shoulders hunched.  All but one: down the street came a slight-figured young man, apparently of student age, with his jacket plastered to his body and his arms open to the heavens.  There was something of the sublime in the skyward stare of his wide blue eyes.

“Oh, would you look at that idiot.” 

“That’s no idiot, that’s Jean Prouvaire!”

“I stand by my opinion—”

“Prouvaire!  Poet!  Here!”

A moment later, they were both locked in the affectionate, dripping embrace of Jean Prouvaire.  “Jehan, Jehan,” murmured Joly against his soaking shoulder— “what on earth are you doing?”

“Enjoying the storm.  Isn’t it beautiful?  No one looks up during a rainstorm.  I can’t think why.  Such lightning, my Jolllly!  What thunder in the heavens!  At such moments, I feel truly alive.”

“Would you gaze heavenwards while an old wife empties her chamberpot on your head, since you do so when God does it?”

“My dear Grantaire, if chamberpots caused such divine cloud formations, perhaps we’d all raise our eyes.  Even you.  Happy birthday, by the way.”  Grantaire remained absolutely motionless as the poet leaned forward to kiss his cheek.

Into the brief silence, Joly said “We were just going to Café Momus for a drink.  Join us?”

“I— yes, of course.”  Prouvaire gave Joly a conspiratorial smile.  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.  Shall we go, then?  It seems to be easing up.”

Indeed the most violent part of the shower was over, but still, Grantaire and Joly were almost as soaked as Prouvaire by the time the three arrived at Café Momus.  At the door, Joly drew Prouvaire aside.

“I should have said something earlier: Bahorel’s here, and I think he wants to kick your—“

“Yes, well.  Many have tried.”  Jean Prouvaire gave him a smile.  “Thank you for the warning, but I’m certain it was all bluster on his part.”

Grantaire grimaced.  “That Bahorel is bluster incarnate.  A paper tiger.”

“No, an unexploded grenade.  But believe me, I know how to defuse him.”

Their wet shoes made a sextet of squeaks as they climbed the stairs and crossed the old floorboards of the upstairs room.  From the table came a full-throated cry of greeting, the pop of Champagne and one or two handfuls of confetti, which fluttered down to decorate Grantaire’s damp hair and shoulders.

“Idiots.”  He grinned. “Beloved idiots.  Let’s drink.”

******************

Prouvaire and Bahorel had eyed each other like feral cats for a moment; then Bahorel had embraced the poet, lifted him off the ground, and murmured something in his ear; they were now deep in talk.

“While you were away,” murmured Bossuet to Joly, “we had to defend the table.  From them.”  He nodded to the corner by the piano where three young men stood, drinks in hand, favouring the revellers with the odd disdainful glance.  “They kept insisting that since there was no one in your chairs at that moment, they ought to have the right to sit in them, or at least take them away.  And I believe they would have, had not Bahorel intervened.”

“Devoted as I am to the rights of my fellow man,” Courfeyrac put in, “it pained me to refuse them.  But, as I said to them, just because a chair is empty does not mean it is unoccupied.”

“And if our numbers are lessened,” added Bahorel, “those left behind must fight all the harder.  Thus, it fell to me to kick righteous arse on your behalf.”

“No actual blows were exchanged,” Bossuet clarified.  “Bahorel convinced them of the justice of our cause by… er, standing up.  And also by the excellence of his rhetoric.”  

“A true loss to the legal profession, our Bahorel,” sighed Joly.

“Avocat jamais!”  Bahorel raised his glass to Bossuet, who met it with his own.  “Jamais.” 

Courfeyrac looked up.  “I say.  They’re coming this way.”

“They want some after all?”  Bahorel brightened.  

But Grantaire was on his feet.  “Ha, I knew you wastrels wouldn’t be far.  My friends and sundry assembled fools and rogues, may I present:  Rodolphe, slinger of ink; Marcel, defiler of canvases; and Schaunard, creator of cacophony.  And these are the Friends of the ABC, a perfectly innocuous society for the education of children.”

“So we can sit at your table now?” asked the shortest of the three in what he doubtless thought was a tone of light mockery.  “Is there, perchance, a seat for a poet among your fancy law student friends?”

“Sit by me, poet,” said Jean Prouvaire with a smile.  Bahorel ran his thumbs over his knuckles as the new arrivals helped themselves to Champagne, finishing the bottle.  

“A piano bench for me,” announced Schaunard, draining his glass and scampering to the far corner, where he struck up a tune on the battered and tinkly rosewood upright.

“He’s good,” Courfeyrac admitted.  “So how do you know Grantaire, then?”

“We met on the day of submissions to the Académie…oh, some years ago now.” Marcel smiled.  “A month later we met again, and discovered that both our masterpieces had come back bearing the dreaded capital R.  So we drank to drown our misery; by eight o’clock we were friends, and by midnight sworn brothers.”

“And you are a painter, now, by profession?”

“Well— I entertain hopes that someday my genius will be recognised.”

“How many times did you paint over that Passage of the Red Sea and resubmit it as something else?” Grantaire broke in.

“Only two times.  …Maybe three.  But you, your still lives were astonishing— your studies of—“

“Oh, come on.  They were shit.”

“No art is shit!”

“Most art is shit.  Mine certainly was.  Tell me you don’t look at your work from five years ago and feel consumed with shame at its utter, irredeemably awfulness.”

“It was the work of a different artist, but no less worthy.  My Red Sea never sold, but it still has pride of place on my wall.”

“Hush.  I’ve come to terms with the fact that my paintings were shit.  You clearly haven’t.”

“And do you still paint?” Marcel asked.  “There,” he said into the sudden, table-wide silence.  “If you have no faith in your own art, what do you have?”

“The satisfaction of not wasting pigment,” replied Grantaire tranquilly.  “And you— if you can’t even recognise shit when you produce it, then how do you ever expect to paint anything that’s notshit?”

“I believe that what Grantaire is saying,” intervened Jean Prouvaire, “is that dissatisfaction can be as much of a spur to the artist as aspiration.  I think you’re both correct.  One must never avert one’s gaze from the distant Parnassus—“ this with a nod to Marcel— “yet distant it remains, no matter how we strive.”

“And what would you know about it, lawyer?” demanded Rodolphe.

During the heartbeat’s pause that followed, Joly realised Schaunard had stopped playing the piano.

“Only what a lifetime of lines written, scratched out and rewritten can teach me.”  Prouvaire’s voice was soft.

“All I’m saying,” continued Rodolphe with some truculence, “is that none of you should claim to know what it is to be a true artist.  None of you.  To be a true artist is to serve the Muse to the exclusion of all else, no matter the cost to yourself.  Have you gone without food because the journal turned down your article that week?  Have you been thrown out of your cold, solitary room because you couldn’t make the rent?”

“Actually, I—“ 

“Shh, Bossuet.”

“Have any of you,” continued Rodolphe, warming to his theme, “had to burn your furniture because you couldn’t afford firewood?”

“Speaking of which, Rodolphe my friend,” broke in Grantaire, “don’t you have a millionaire uncle?  The one who made his fortune by inventing that stove— what’s it called—“

“Yes!  He would have employed me to write proposals for his new stove design, but my poet’s honour could not bear it.  I fled his house by the window.”

“Without completing the work he’d paid you for.”

“Indeed.”

“And,” pursued Grantaire, “as I remember, that fee, which might have seen off your landlord for a number of months, was spent in three memorable evenings— one of them here.”

“What’s your point, Grantaire?”

“My point is that you, Rodolphe, are no better than the rest of us.  But cheer up:  you’re also no worse.  Do you know, our Laigle here once spent no less than five louis on dinner with a… lady?  His sleeping quarters were in a hallway at the time.  My hallway.”

“That was long ago!”  Bossuet protested.  “My misspent youth.”

“Anyway, Bossuet’s no lawyer.  Rodolphe, you two ought to get along fine.  Here’s Courfeyrac with a fresh bottle.  Everyone kiss the Widow Cliquot and make up.  I, Lord of Misrule and Master of the Floral Games, command it.  Rodolphe, Prouvaire, you’ll drink each other’s health or I’ll set Bahorel on both of you.”

“I’ve got to kick at least one poet’s arse tonight,” murmured Bahorel as the cork popped.

“Keep dreaming,”  replied Jean Prouvaire, sotto voce.

As Courfeyrac poured, the door opened.

“Speaking of floral games!”  Grantaire raised his glass.  “To beauty, wit, and artistry— and virtue— in the charming persons of Citizens Floréal and Boissy!”

The new arrivals were unanimously hailed.  Serviettes were handed to them to dry their hair, their wet shawls hung ceremoniously over chairs; glasses were procured for them, and Champagne poured.  Irma Boissy took a glass to the piano for Schaunard, and the two of them began a song:

“Chevaliers de la table ronde,

Goûtons voir si le vin est bon.”

Boissy’s voice had a pleasing stridency which had made her a popular guest at the cafés chantant.  Schaunard, as he played, sang harmonies in a high tenor.  Soon the whole room was singing, with Grantaire standing on the table conducting wildly with a limp rose from one of the vases.

“Behold the Parisian Beethoven,” proclaimed Jean Prouvaire, gazing upwards.  Joly had to admit the resemblance was uncanny; Grantaire’s hair had always resisted discipline and was now in open rebellion.

“To Beethoven!”  Joly raised his glass, and Prouvaire clinked his against it.

“Turgid German rubbish,” said Rodolphe loudly.  

Marcel smiled.  “Well, I suppose it’s good enough for lawyers.”

Lightning flashed outside the dark windows.  Joly turned to Marcel and Rodolphe.  “Listen.  Sneer at us all you like for being bourgeois.  Most of us will be lawyers, it’s true.  But remember that we are trying to change things for the better, and that will take lawyers as well as poets!  It did in ’89, and it will tomorrow.”  He realised he was shouting to be heard over the increasingly cacophonous singing.  

“I understand the impulse to exist outside society,” said Prouvaire.  “Society is a gilded carriage on which the rich ride in comfort while the poor either pull till they drop or are crushed beneath its wheels.   Will you watch and do nothing, or will you join us?”

“Join you in what?”  Rodolphe’s eyes narrowed.

“There are those who would upset the cart and lay a new road where all may walk side by side.  It won’t be easy, and it will take courage.  Audacity.  But we believe Paris is with us.”

Rodolphe lowered his eyes to his glass.  “I’m just a poet.  Tonight I drink Champagne, tomorrow water.  I take each day as it comes.”

“And you, Marcel?”

“I depict acts of heroism on canvas— or I try.”  Marcel smiled wryly.  “And fail, mostly.  Grantaire was right.  And if I tried to be a revolutionary hero, I’d fail at that too.  Now, a failed artist is a wretched creature, but a failed revolutionary is… in an even worse case.  Of the two, I know which I’d rather be.”

Grantaire had noticed their conversation, and pointed his floral baton menacingly.  “Sing, you bastards!” 

“Sur ma tombe, je veux qu’on inscrive:
Ici-gît le roi des buveurs.”

Across the table, Bossuet reached around Grantaire’s waist to unfasten his buttons while Courfeyrac and Bahorel tugged down on one trouser leg each.  The room outroared the thunderstorm as Grantaire’s trousers descended.  Nothing daunted, Grantaire sang on, rose in hand, the table shaking as he conducted like one possessed, his nether baton bouncing in time:

“La morale de cette histoire,
C’est qu’il faut boire avant d’mourir!”

The song ended with falsetto high notes from everyone and a protracted cheer.  Grantaire, trousers still around his ankles, bowed theatrically in all directions and was pelted with flowers snatched from the vases on the tables.  His bare posterior was towards the door when it opened, and he turned at the draft of wet, chill air.

Enjolras, his hair soaked, stood in the doorway.  

Thunder echoed from without as he stepped forwards.  “Courfeyrac?  I went to your lodgings, and Marius told me you were here.  Did you forget to leave me that article?  You know we go to press tonight.”

“Oh.”  Courfeyrac stood up, looking guilty.  “A thousand apologies!  I meant to get it to you, of course, but…”  He fished in his jacket pocket, extracted a folded page.  “Here it is.  I’m sorry.”  He handed the paper to Enjolras, who stood entirely still beside the table, not looking up or acknowledging Grantaire in any way.  “May we pour you some Champagne?”

“No, thank you.  I must be going.  Till tomorrow, then?”

“Till tomorrow.”  Courfeyrac leaned forward as if for bisous, but Enjolras had already turned on his heel and made for the door, unhurried, straight-backed.

As it closed behind him, Grantaire raised an empty glass to the empty air.  “Happy birthday to me.”

***************

Jean Prouvaire had procured another bottle of Widow Cliquot’s finest and Schaunard was doing his heroic best at the piano, but the party was no longer gai.  Grantaire was sunk in a profound melancholy.  Prouvaire and Bahorel were seated on either side of him, talking to him in an undertone; Rodolphe and Marcel had joined Schaunard at the piano.

Joly found himself sitting next to the girl Grantaire had called Floréal.  “May I pour you a glass, mademoiselle?” he asked.

“Yes.  Thank you.”  She was silent as he poured, watching the bubbles rise.  “Tell me:  the man who arrived just now and left so quickly, who is he?”

“A friend of mine, and of many of the people at this table.”

“But not Grantaire?”

“I… I don’t know.  They know each other.  We all know them both.  But it’s true, they are… not friends.”

“What is his name?”

“Enjolras.”

“Ah.”  She paused.  “I have heard Grantaire speak that name.  Never happily, but never with malice either.  With sadness, and sometimes anger.  It’s an unusual name.”

“He’s an unusual person.  I think you’re right, by the way— that’s the thing about Grantaire:  that no matter how unhappy he is, he’s never malicious.”

“Yes.  He’s always been like that.”

“May I ask where you know each other from?”

She picked up her glass, from which she still had not drunk.  “We were children together.  Not related by blood, but he’s been more of a brother to me than my brothers.  I knew him before he was Grantaire, and before I was Floréal.”  She took a sip of Champagne.  “I sometimes wonder: had I not become Floréal, what else might I have been?  And I think he wonders the same, about being Grantaire.”

Joly glanced across the table.  “I can’t imagine him not being Grantaire, but…”

“Yes?  Go on.”

“I don’t… I don’t know whether he enjoys it much.”

She shook her head, then put a hand on the table.  “Will you pardon me?  I should go talk to him.”

“Of course.”  Joly pushed his chair back to let her pass.  She made her way over to Grantaire and laid her hand on his shoulder; he seemed to tense at the touch, but then looked up at her and said something Joly couldn’t hear.  She seated herself by Grantaire as Bahorel cheerfully made room; Joly passed her glass along.

“Quite a girl,” said Bossuet, settling into the seat beside Joly.  “Reminds me of Musichetta in some ways.”  Silently, they raised their glasses and drank to her.

“She doesn’t talk much, does she,” mused Joly, “about who she was before she was Musichetta?”

“No,” said Bossuet, “I’ve noticed that too.  She talks about her childhood and about recent years, but almost nothing in between.  I suppose it’s not so extraordinary; after all, before I was Bossuet, I was no one of interest.  Still, I’d imagine she knows most of our life histories by now.”  

“Yes.  She knows more about me than anyone except you.”  Joly knew it was true as he said it.

Bossuet failed to hide a smile.  “I’d never thought of it like that, but I think I might say the same.”

Briefly, clandestinely, Joly clasped his friend’s warm hand under the table.  

“We should be getting back, shouldn’t we?”  Bossuet said after a pause.  “She’ll be waiting.”

“I know, but I hate to leave Grantaire feeling like this.  We invited him here, and now…”

“What shall we do to cheer him up, then?  More singing?”

“Definitelynot more singing.”

“Hm.  How about brandy?”

“Brandy could work.”

When Joly returned with a bottle of Armagnac and a tray of glasses, he found himself intercepted en route to the table by the painter Marcel.

“Ex-scuse me, friend.” He’s drunker than me, Joly realised, and that takes some doing.  “Not to eavesdrop or any-such-thing, but did I hear you mention— just now— the name Musette?”  

“My colleague and I were discussing an acquaintance of ours, called Musichetta.  A similar name.  I can see where the mistake arises.”  Joly attempted to step forward; Marcel still blocked his way.

“Are you sure it’s not the same girl?  ‘Cause if it is, you want to steer clear of her.”  He tapped a finger unsteadily to the side of his nose.  “One who knows, you see.  Brotherly advice.  Don’t trust ‘er.  She’s a viper. She’ll eat your heart—“

“I’m sorry, but you’re mistaken.  I was speaking of a different lady altogether.  Please excuse me.” Joly dodged around a nearby table and turned back toward his friends.

“She’s Italian.”  He heard the painter’s voice aimed at his back.  “Her real name’s Luisa.”

Joly was glad the man couldn’t see his face.  By the time he got to the table, he’d mastered it— he hoped.

“My dear Grantaire, a glass of brandy?”  

Grantaire looked up.  His good ugly face split into a smile.  “Joly!  If you’ll have one with me.”

“I brought glasses for everyone.”  Joly began pouring.  Hands perfectly steady, now.  

“Joly… Jolllly, my boon companion, I have a favour to beseech.”

“Beseech away, o comrade in arms.”

Grantaire put a hand on Joly’s shoulder and met his eyes.  “Let’s never do this again.”

“What, come to Momus?”

“God knows there’s better drinking-holes in Paris, but no.  I mean, no more of these futile celebrations of growing old.  No more birthdays.”  He patted Joly’s shoulder and let go.  “It is unseemly, after all, for immortals such as we to mark the paltry passing of the years.”

Joly passed Grantaire a glass of brandy.  “Are we growing old, or are we immortal?  Make up your mind, old soak.”

“Both.  We are Zeno’s tortoise, crawling endlessly towards a grave we’ll never reach.  Or perhaps we shall share the fate of Tithonus, who withered and grew decrepit but was denied the mercy of death, while the object of his affections remained as fresh as morning dew.”

“…I’m sorry, Grantaire.  I’m sure he meant no offense.  He’s just… got a lot on his mind.”

“No.”  Grantaire downed his brandy and made a small “ah” sound.  “No, he’s Enjolras.  Disdain flows in his blood vessels, mingled with divine ichor.  Were he otherwise, he would not be Enjolras, and my heart would be free as air.”  

Joly pondered a moment.  He had never considered Enjolras a scornful sort; it was only Grantaire, Joly realised, to whom he showed contempt.  Joly searched for words.  “He… he sees the world a certain way.  He lives here among us, but his mind is always bent toward the future, the Republic.  I think sometimes he forgets that that’s not as easy for others as it is for him.”

“It’s not.  Easy for him, that is,” said Grantaire, his voice rough and low.  “You can see, can’t you, how it takes all he has, all the flame of his spirit?  His disdain is for those who don’t give everything.”

“I don’t give everything,” said Joly.  “There’s always more I could be doing.  I think that’s true of all of us.  You don’t have to devote yourself entirely to the Republic, as Enjolras does; I think he’s the only one who can do that.  But there’s a generosity about him, too.  He finds common ground with anyone who’ll give something.”

“Yes.  And he rightly sees that I give nothing.  That I have nothing to give.  That I can’t even perceive the Republic, or imagine it.  Oh, I tried, in the early days— to please him, I tried.  I read my Robespierre and my Hébert, I memorised the Constitution.  But every time I try to act as though I believe, it’s a disaster.”  Grantaire poured himself another brandy.  “Perhaps there’s some phrenological bump absent from my skull: the seat of belief in invisible things.  There were times when I thought I could see the Republic through him, as a window lets in the light.  But I was wrong.  I can only see him.  And he sees me.  He’s the only one who sees me for what I am.”  In Grantaire’s hand, the glass was shaking.

Joly gently took the glass, set it down, and clasped Grantaire’s hand in both of his.

“I think, after all these years, I know something of what you are too,” he said.  “I think that’s true of Lesgles and me both.  Call us whatever you please, but you’ll get no disdain from us.”

“It’s true.”  Bossuet was there, like a falcon to the wrist.  “You’re stuck with us.  A terrible fate, but you’ll cope.  Now,what shall we drink to?”

“To no more birthdays.”

“Tomany more birthdays, because as long as you know us, this is something you have to put up with.”

“Then you name the toast, Aigle de Meaux.”

Bossuet raised his glass and looked round the table.  “Citizens, charge your glasses!  What shall we drink to?”

“To life!” cried Courfeyrac.

“To art,” said Marcel.

“To poetry!” shouted Rodolphe.

“To the future,” said Prouvaire.

“To revolution,” murmured Bahorel.

“To peace,” said Irma Boissy firmly.

“To friendship.”  Floréal was smiling.

“To harmony,” Schaunard piped up.

“To good company,” said a voice from the doorway, “and good music.”

“Musichetta!”  Joly rushed to take her hand and lead her to the table.  He raised his glass:  “To love!”

Bossuet’s smile could have lit the room.  “To many happy returns.”

*******

“Musichetta, my love!  I thought you weren’t coming?”

“Well, I decided I was being a silly girl after all.  A mere café should hold no terrors for a grown woman, don’t you agree?  In any case, my reservations weren’t as important as wishing Grantaire a happy birthday.”  She embraced Grantaire, leaving a pink afterimage of her lips on his cheek.  “You look melancholy, my friend.”

“Nonsense!”  Grantaire was ebullient.  “I’ve never been better.  A glass of ambrosia, my good Courfeyrac, for the goddess of the shrine!  Schaunard, a hymn to do the lady justice.”  Schaunard threw Musichetta a smile and seated himself at the keys.

“Musette!”  Marcel had somehow got to his feet and was swaying towards her.

“Ah.  Hello, Marcel.”  Without missing a beat, Musichetta swung her right fist out and connected smartly with Marcel’s jaw.  He fell sprawling.  She shook her hand twice delicately, from the wrist.  “Do you know, I’ve been waiting to do that for years?”

Rodolphe rushed over to kneel by the fallen painter.  “What was that for?  Wasn’t breaking his heart enough?”  

“Not nearly.  Now if you’ll excuse me.”  Musichetta stepped over Marcel’s prone form to greet Jean Prouvaire and the others at the table.

”Don’t you turn your back on us!”  Rodolphe shouted.  “Don’t you dare walk away.  We know what you are, Marcel and I.”

“Yes.  I am the person who sold her earrings when someone we both loved was dying, and you never thought to go to your rich uncle.”  She turned back to face them.  “On that night, I knew I could have nothing more to do with you or your false Bohemia.”

Rodolphe was silent.  Marcel raised his head, groggy.  “I heard you got married.  You married a… postmaster.”

“It fell through.  I ended up with a postmaster’s son.  And a medic.”  Musichetta smiled.  “And they all lived happily ever after, Fin.  I’ll take that Champagne now, Courfeyrac.”

Marcel’s head sagged back to the floor.  “Oh God.  She’s wearing the shoes.”

*********

“Pardon me, citizen.”  A deep voice at his elbow startled Joly.  He turned to find that the speaker was a stranger of about his own age, wearing a battered, shapeless overcoat and an amiable expression.  “Do you know what happened here, and if so, will you tell me?  I don’t often find my friends on the floor of Café Momus, you see.”  He looked down at Marcel and Rodolphe.

“Nor I mine.  I can see how this might seem strange.”  Joly wondered how, exactly, he was going to answer the newcomer’s question.  

“Strangeness is a necessary first step to understanding.”

“There was… not a fight precisely, but an altercation… anyway, it seems to have blown over.”

“As the storm leaves fallen trees in its wake,” replied the man.  “I don’t believe we’ve met.  I’m Colline, itinerant philosopher.”

“Joly, physician in training.”  

“Ah, a disciple of Aesclapius!  May Apollo smile upon your calling.”

The fellow was decidedly odd, Joly thought, but strangely likeable.

“Colline!”  Grantaire called.  “I was wondering when you’d turn up.  Are you renewing Diogenes’s  search?  I fear you’re doomed to disappointment; the last honest man left the room some time ago.  This party is strictly frauds and charlatans only.”

“I lack both Diogenes’s keen eye and his lantern,” replied Colline.  “I doubt I would know an honest man if I met one.  More to the point, I find myself lacking the key to my lodgings, which I was hoping to retrieve from my colleagues, if one may be found compos mentis.”

“Here’s one,” cried Schaunard, hastening from the piano.  “I’m still on my feet, and moreover, I have keys.  Not merely of ebony and ivory, but of the metallic variety which procures entry.”

“Both are honourable in their way,” said Colline agreeably, “but just now I stand in more need of the latter.”

“Come then: let’s get these wastrels home.  Grantaire, hail and farewell.  Rodolphe, Marcel, on your feet, you louts.”  Schaunard and Colline wrestled Rodolphe upright; Marcel was more reluctant to leave the comfort of the floor.

“She’s wearing the shoes.  Look, I can see ‘em.”

“Shut up about shoes,” Schaunard advised him.  

At length the four bohemians threaded the labyrinth of tables and got to the door.  As they disappeared through it, a series of impacts was audible, as of someone falling down a flight of stairs.

“I quite liked that Colline chap,” said Joly to Prouvaire.

“You have a weakness for good men in old coats,” replied the poet.  “Bahorel and I are leaving too.  The bill is settled— no arguments, my dears— and now we must pay the greater reckoning we owe to Bacchus and Morpheus.”

“And, possibly, Aphrodite,” added Bahorel in an undertone.

“Hush now.”  Prouvaire laid a finger to Bahorel’s lips.  

“Good lord,” whispered Bossuet, “I’ve never seen Bahorel purr before.”

Joly smiled.  “Farewell, my friends.”

Courfeyrac, meanwhile, had embraced Grantaire and taken a courteous leave of Boissy and Floréal; he then bowed to Musichetta and kissed her hand.

“Courfeyrac, you are, as always, the preux chevalier,” said Musichetta.  “Thank you, dear heart, for a glass of Champagne just when I needed one.”

“Widow Cliquot is the true heroine,” demurred Courfeyrac.  “I am merely her champion.  Joly, Bossuet: thank you for a fine evening.”

“Are you sure we can’t help with the bill?” whispered Joly urgently.

“Perfectly.  Prouvaire and I agreed it between us.  And I felt it was the least I could do.”  Courfeyrac glanced at Grantaire.  “Will he be all right?”

“He’s Grantaire,” said Bossuet.  “He’s bounced back from worse.  We’ll see him home.”

“No,” said Boissy, “we’ll do that.  Floréal and I.”  

They embraced Courfeyrac and waved as he left, then slowly made their way downstairs.  The rain had ceased, and the air smelled of wet greenery and warm stone.

“You’re sure you’ll be all right?” asked Bossuet.

“Two such guards to protect my virtue, and you worry?” asked Grantaire.  “These ladies are fearless, I’ll have you know.  And in their company, so am I.”

“Well.  Goodnight, then.  And happy birthday, Grantaire.”

“Happy birthday,” echoed Joly and the others.

Grantaire growled.  “You idiots.”  Then, suddenly, he stepped forward and gripped Joly and Bossuet in a fervent embrace.  “You beautiful idiots.  I love you.  Don’t forget it.”

“We never will.”

“Never.”

“Grantaire.  I can’t breathe.”

He released them.  “I’ll let you live.  See, my mercy is infinite.”

“Long live Grantaire, the Bounteous and Merciful!”

“Long live Grantaire the drunk,” said Boissy.  Floréal took his hand and said “Come on.  It’s getting late.”

They waved farewell, and Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta started home, arm in arm.  They walked in silence for a while, Musichetta’s heels clicking on the wet paving-stones, till they came within sight of their door. 

“Thank you,” she said softly as they halted.

“For what?” Joly and Bossuet spoke at the same time, then giggled like children.

“For not asking.”

“Musichetta, love.”  Joly paused, then: “Luisa.  We always want to know you better— you’re the continent round which we sail— but we never want to know more than you want us to.”  As he said it, his heart untwisted in his chest and the bitter taste of Marcel’s words subsided.  All was well with the world.  Musichetta embraced him— was it still raining?  Her cheek was wet.

Bossuet spoke near his ear:  “I am quite curious about the shoes, though.”  

She laughed. Joly could feel the laugh in her ribcage, under his hands, and then the vibration of her voice: 

“Help me take them off and maybe I’ll tell you.”

“As my lady commands!”  Bossuet fumbled with the key, opened the door, and let the three of them in.  Joly contemplated Musichetta’s shoes ascending the staircase, felt astoundingly happy, shut the door behind them, and followed.

hasharakl:

LES AMIS DE L'ABC FANZINE PRE-ORDER

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ONE DAY MORE…….

LES AMIS DE L'ABC FANZINE PRE-ORDER

- 20 pages

- payment method: PayPal

- pre-orders will be closed on March 9

Please if you want buy this fanzine fill form and write me in direct message

REBLOG WILL BE APPRECIATED

Enjolras: The real treasure was the memories we made along the way.

Grantaire:Ialmost died.

Enjolras: That… was my favorite memory