Thank you to der Reichtangle for spotting some problems with this story. Since I am not male, not French, not very experienced, and I tend to be rather emotional, the characters may come off sounding immature, or even drunk, which they are not. Please just take it with a grain of salt and a lot of silliness. :p

Much love,

Unicadia

"What are you writing, Prouvaire?" Courfeyrac asked, leaning over his friend's shoulder at a meeting at the Café Musain.

"Everyone's first names."

Courfeyrac laughed. "Why?"

Jean Prouvaire blushed. "Just because."

Still grinning somewhat sarcastically, Courfeyrac said, "Do you even know everyone's names?"

"Almost."

"Okay, what's mine, then?"

Prouvaire replied without even looking at the paper. "André."

Courfeyrac leaned closer. "Can I see the rest?"

Prouvaire slammed his hand over the list. "Not yet." He stood up (with his paper) and made his way over to the three Friends of the ABC he needed to ask. "Grantaire, what's your first name?"

Grantaire looked up at Prouvaire with bleary eyes, clutching a wine bottle in his hand. Prouvaire almost left, but Grantaire took a swig from the bottle and slurred, "You're weird, 'Vaire. But just for you, it's Mathieu."

Prouvaire smiled and wrote it down. Mathieu, what a beautiful name. Of course, he thought all his friends' names were beautiful. He moved onto the hazelnut-haired young man playing cards with Joly. "Bahorel, what's your first name?"

Bahorel stopped mid-laugh and narrowed his eyes. "Why do you want to know?"

"I might write a poem using it," Prouvaire whispered.

"Alexandre."

"Oh, how lovely!" Bahorel grimaced as Prouvaire wrote it down. "Now I only need Enjolras' name."

Joly paled. "Wait – you know mine?"

"Yes, it's Hyacinthe."

"SHH!"

"Oh, come on, Hyacinthe, everyone knows it," said Bahorel.

"But how? I never told anyone!" Joly cried.

Prouvaire blushed again but Bahorel said, "Your girlfriend's constantly saying, 'Oh, dear Hyacinthe!' Don't think we haven't noticed."

"I'm going to have to talk to her about that," Joly muttered.

Prouvaire approached the table Enjolras, Combeferre, and Feuilly occupied. The latter two were passionately discussing something, but Enjolras remained silent. Prouvaire sidled up to their leader and whispered in his ear, "Sorry to bother you, Enjolras, but could you tell me what your first name is?"

Enjolras gave him a dry smile. "No."

Prouvaire had not expected this, and hesitated, a little at a loss. "Why . . . not?"

"I don't want to."

"Oh."

Prouvaire returned to his seat, so distraught that he let Courfeyrac snatch his paper and read it. "Sacha? Your name's Sacha, Feuilly?" Courfeyrac yelled at the fan-maker.

Feuilly ignored him.

Courfeyrac laughed. "Etienne! Of course that's his name! And Prouvaire, you're Jean! Wait . . . I already knew that." He giggled and whispered, "Hyacinthe."

"I only need Enjolras'," Prouvaire sighed, "but he won't tell me. You don't happen to know it, do you?"

"Uhh . . . actually I do, but Enjolras made me solemnly promise not to tell anyone. As far as I know, only his family, Combeferre, and myself know his name."

Prouvaire's blue eyes widened. "Seriously? That's really weird."

"Yep. It's just one name, though. Don't worry about it."

"What are you two talking about?" said Bahorel, coming over, bearing Joly's coat. He had just won five consecutive games and most of Joly's money. Joly had refused to bet the rest and instead offered his coat, which Bahorel promptly won as well.

"Oh, Enjolras won't tell me his first name," said Prouvaire.

A highly interested and slightly crazy gleam, which they collectively called "Bahorel's Evil Look", flashed in Bahorel's eyes, and Prouvaire wondered if he shouldn't have said anything. "Well, there's got to be a reason why he won't tell," said Bahorel, sitting down.

"No," Courfeyrac moaned. "Please don't . . . he really doesn't want anyone to know."

Bahorel grinned, but ignored Courfeyrac. "Maybe he's embarrassed of his name."

"Enjolras never gets embarrassed," said Joly, joining them, looking rather different without his coat, and also looking rather sulky.

"Yeah, you're probably right. Even if he had a girly name like Hyacinthe, he wouldn't mind telling everyone," said Bahorel. Joly glared at him. "Then perhaps his name means something he doesn't like – like 'king'."

"That still doesn't seem likely," said Prouvaire, watching Enjolras at his table.

"Why not?" Bahorel asked.

Courfeyrac twitched.

Prouvaire swallowed nervously. "I mean, it's not obvious enough to warrant him not telling us. Do you know what my name means?"

"No, but I know what Hyacinthe means."

"Will you shut it about my name?" Joly hissed.

"Hey!" said Bahorel, his face lighting up, and Courfeyrac flinched again. "I'll bet we'll be able to squeeze the answer out of Combeferre. He's so wimpy."

"He's not wimpy-" Courfeyrac protested, but the others were already surrounding Enjolras' table.

"Come on, Combeferre," said Bahorel, pulling him out of his chair. "We need you."

"But I'm discussing the atomic theory with Feuilly."

"I thought you didn't go to school, Feuilly," said Laigle, coming over.

"I don't. Doesn't mean I don't know the atomic theory." Feuilly looked up at them slyly. "Hey, Bahorel. Did you know that a shortened form of Alexandre in Russian is Sacha?"

"Yes, of course I do," said Bahorel, rolling his eyes. "Now, come Combeferre!"

"Why do you need him?" asked Enjolras placidly.

"I just want to ask him a question," he answered too quickly.

Combeferre sighed. "They want to make me tell them your first name, Enjolras."

Enjolras raised an eyebrow and frowned. "Oh."

"How did you know?" Bahorel cried.

"Seriously, Bahorel. I don't think you realize that you yell everything you say," said Combeferre.

"I don't yell everything I say."

"Then what about that one time I heard you screaming to the whole world, 'I love Odette!'?" Courfeyrac couldn't help saying.

A different gleam, dangerous and sparking like lightning, which they called "Bahorel's Murderous Look", now flared in Bahorel's eyes, and he swung his fist at Courfeyrac's nose. Courfeyrac ducked, and Bahorel's fist instead connected with the side of Enjolras' face. Enjolras fell over backwards in his chair and stared at the ceiling, looking dazed.

Grantaire shot over to him, making unintelligible noises. Bahorel was too shaken to catch it, but the others did understand one word, repeated many times: Louis.

"Oh, so that's his name," said Prouvaire, but suddenly Feuilly whooped in a very un-Feuilly-like manner.

"Louis! His name's Louis! Just like the king, but without the 'Philippe'!"

"Actually-" Courfeyrac began, but then thought better of it.

In a minute, Louis-Philippe Enjolras was on his feet, red-faced and seething. He jabbed a finger – not at Bahorel, who had punched him – but at Grantaire. "You," he hissed.

Grantaire only smiled. "Thank goodness you're all right."

Enjolras' eyes burned. "You! You said it! You – you – said – IT!"

Grantaire blinked.

Combeferre, most likely figuring that Grantaire's demise was very near, quickly walked over to Enjolras and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Everything's going to fine, Lou – I mean, Enjolras. No one will ever speak of it again." He glared at the group. "Right?"

"Right," they all mumbled, except for Grantaire and Prouvaire.

"I need it for my poem, though," said Prouvaire, looking at Enjolras hopefully.

"No," said Enjolras, venom in his voice.

Prouvaire shrank away. "Okay."

He made do with what he had. Here is his poem:

Etienne is crowned with knowledge;

André's strength is in his words;

Alexandre, defender of the poor;

Jehan tries to show that God is gracious;

Fernand's daring is his downfall;

Hyacinthe lives like a flower;

Mathieu is a gift of God;

Sacha defends with Alexandre;

And our golden-haired leader is a mystery.

(He almost added "Not really" to the last sentence, but his poetical side wouldn't allow it.)

Fin

Combeferre: Etienne – French form of Stephen, means crowned

Courfeyrac: André – French form of Andrew, means strong

Bahorel: Alexandre – French form of Alexander, means defender of mankind

Prouvaire: Jehan or Jean – French forms of John, means God is gracious

Laigle: Fernand – French form of Ferdinand, means daring

Joly: Hyacinthe – means hyacinth

Grantaire: Mathieu – French form of Matthew, means gift of God

Feuilly: Sacha – a short form of Alexandre, which still means defender of mankind

Enjolras: Louis-Philippe – Louis means famous warrior, and Philippe, a French form of Philip, means lover of horses

And just for the record, here's Marius.

Marius: originating from Latin, means male