"Apollo," Grantaire slurred to the darkness around him, "I have always longed for this night." There was no reply, yet Grantaire stretched his arms out, as though there was somebody in front of him. He made to caress the cheeks of this invisible person, but his hand clutched only at the emptiness surrounding him. "Apollo?" Grantaire sounded frantic now, the drunken slur having been replaced by sober panic. "Where have you gone?" A tear was released from his bloodshot eyes as he realised that there had never been anybody there. "And there never will be," he whispered sadly.

When the meetings at Cafe Musain had begun, Grantaire had only gone along for the free booze. He cared not for revolution or fighting, or anything for that matter. Why should he? All paths lead to death in the end. One might as well enjoy the time given to them rather than waste it by fighting for a new world.

Despite his drunkenness, he remembered that wonderful night when Enjolras had first spoken, when he first heard that angelic voice, ringing out like that of angels on high. Grantaire had been near unconsciousness when a voice from the heavens had lifted him out of his intoxicated slumber. It turned out that this voice was the passionate speech of Enjolras, who was busy lecturing the people about something (Grantaire hadn't bothered to listen to what he was actually saying; he cared only for the sound of Enjolras' melodic voice). Upon looking up, Grantaire beheld a god; the human incarnation of Apollo himself. This man, whose tousled blonde hair shone in the dim candlelight, had the ability to lead; not only to lead, but to change the world. For the rest of the night, Grantaire listened in wonder and awe.

It had started as admiration, nothing more, but as the months wore on, Grantaire found himself wandering what was beneath that majestic red jacket, and what it would be like to sweetly kiss those lips. At first, Grantaire tried to deny that he was in love. It was wrong, it was strange, he told himself, but what was the point in telling himself that, when he knew it wasn't true? There was nothing wrong or strange about loving Enjolras; it was impossible not to adore that being as soon as one beheld him. Then he told himself that it would never happen. Enjolras hated him; he thought of him as a drunken nuisance, yet the adoration only grew.

On this warm May night, Grantaire was drunk, as usual. He had, in fact, intended to stay sober that night in order to prove to Enjolras that he was worth something, that he was more than just the cynic who always sat in the corner of the cafe. After Enjolras had accused him of believe in nothing, it all became too much, and he found himself reaching for the bottle of absinthe beside him. "I believe in you!" Grantaire had said desperately. Enjolras did not believe him.

Grantaire lay huddled up in his bed, shaking with sobs as he began to understand that Enjolras would never accept him. It was the most painful thing in the world to be hated by the one you love most. Just as sleep was about to come for him, and carry away from his depression for a few hours, something in Grantaire snapped. Enjolras would never love him, he knew that, but he also knew that they were all going to die at those god-damn barricades, so why should he not make the most of his life before he died with his Apollo?

Throwing on his threadbare coat, Grantaire left his apartment, the stench of alcohol still of his breath. He was going to tell Enjolras how he really felt, and that required drink, and lots of it.

"What is it?" Enjolras said exhasperatedly with raised eyebrows when he found Grantaire in the doorway at one in the morning.

"I... I..." Grantaire's throat felt dry as he tried to say the words. He raised the bottle to his lips for confidence, but found that when he opened his cracked lips, the bottle was gone. Enjolras was angrily holding it.

"Whatever you need to say, you can say it without the help of wine, or whatever devilish concoction this is." Grantaire looked at Enjolras pleadingly, but found no sympathy.

"I love you, Apollo!" He almost shouting. His voice was desperate, hopeless, and yet so full of love and adoration that it would have made an angel weep, but Enjolras' marble heart did not swell or stir.

"Drink makes you behave like a fool, Grantaire. I am sick and tired of your mocking and your cynical behaviour." Enjolras cried angrily. The bottle smashed in his hand, causing ruby red blood to dribble down his hand and land on the floor. Shards of dirty glass were lodged in his feminine hands. Grantaire hesitantly took Enjolras' hand and brought it to his lips, giving it a soft and innocent kiss. Enjolras looked at him sternly, as if to say: Grantaire, you are acting like a fool. Go, go now, before you embarrass yourself any further. Grantaire knew he should have listened to that silent advice, but instead of leaving, he found himself pressing his lips against Enjolras' He barely had time to savour the beautiful feeling of Enjolras' lips before rough hands shoved him furiously away. "Get out! And don't bother coming to the Cafe again! You have gone too far this time!"

"But, Apollo, I love you. I do!" Grantaire protested tearfully. Why had he not remained sober? Enjolras would have taken him seriously if he had.

"Stop calling me that! My name is Enjolras." Enjolras muttered as he stalked furiously back into his home.

"Whatever it takes to please you, Enjolras," Grantaire said sadly, walking away in a dejected manner. Enjolras paused for a moment, but then decidedly slammed his door.

The next night, Enjolras was on his way to the Cafe. His normally perfect hair was soaked with rain, yet his eyes were ablaze with a warm, cracking fire — the fire of rebellion. He looked up with all the determination of the born leader he was, and started making plans and noble plots in his remarkable head. He would do anything to get the peculiar events of last night out of his mind.

Suddenly, a hand reached out of nowhere and grabbed his arm. Enjolras, acting purely on instine, swung his fist wildly and connected with the "attacker's" stubbled jaw.

"Crap!" Yelled a familiar, but unwelcome voice.