A quick message to thank all you lovely peeps for taking part in our experiment. To cut a long story short, we basically did some research into the popularity of romance over any other genre. Two stories, based around the relationship of Enjolras and Grantaire, both about a thousand words long, one romance, one humor. Luckily, the results made me hate my writing a little less! Yeah, sarcasm isn't great with me.

If anyone is interested in the results, then feel free to PM us, and thank you all again for helping us out.

*Best GLaDOS Impression* Now, back to testing.

"It would be rather impressive, I have no doubts about that." Courfeyrac commented, sipping wine from his glass, peering over the brim towards the drunkard, who was midway down his third bottle.

"You underestimate me, good Monsieur. It would be as simple as catching a bird in a fishing net." replied Grantaire, leaning back, causing his stool to tip onto two chipped legs which creaked ominously under his weight. The pair sat alone in the back room of the Café, not-so-quiet observers to the clockwork actions of their fellows, sharing an old rickety table, littered with empty bottles. Enjolras, the student leader, stood centre-stage, arms flung wide, passionately acting out his great speech. Combeferre stood nearby, nodding with silent agreement, occasionally throwing a sharp glance in the direction of the rowdy couple, a raven's piercing glare. Courfeyrac had turned completely in his seat, one arm slung across the back, the other propped against the table, wine-glass held near to his lips. He blinked, before responding,

"Indeed, but the bird you're attempting to catch is of a variable eagle-type stature, and your metaphorical net appears to be rather wine-stained."

"Are you inferring that I cannot perform such a task?"

"I was implying, you then inferred it."

"Very well," slurred the cynic, taking another swig of wine from the murky, opaque bottle, "the challenge is accepted." Courfeyrac chuckled darkly, a grin spreading across his red lips. There was no way a person such as Grantaire could manipulate Enjolras, but it would be extremely interesting to watch.

"Enjolras!" The drunk cried, tilting his chair forwards once more, bottle coming to rest upon his knee, "Enjol-ras! Over here!"

The golden-maned revolutionary turned, arms lowering, speech paused by Grantaire's screeching.

"You called?" He inquired with a sarcastic tone, annoyed by the disruption. Grantaire raised a shaky hand, pointing a numb finger towards the man,

"I object." He stated, oblivious to what he was indeed objecting to. Enjolras sighed, before turning back to his audience,

"The cynic disagrees." He echoed, a smile blossoming open his face, eyebrows raised. The crowd laughed, expecting the speech to continue. No such chance.

"Am I correct in believing this speech is of a repetitive nature?"

"Pardon?"

"Have we not heard such a topic pre-preached? You appear to be re-using old speeches, yet taking no action?" The room fell silent, Enjolras froze, Courfeyrac reached over to poke Grantaire in the ribs, a warning that he had gone too far. The drunk swatted away his companion's hand.

No one spoke, nor moved, simply basked in the golden light of the few candle stumps and shattered oil-lamps. The pulsing heat radiated across the cramped, gloomy room, illuminating the creased, browned map of France pinned to the softened plaster. There was a musky scent in the air, the furniture coated in thick layer of dust, raising billowing clouds of flaked filth and smut, settling uncomfortably on the tongue. The rickety chairs had been drawn in a curve, the worm-eaten tables stacked upon each other in the far corner, creaking like dead trees rattled by a forming gale. A slight scent of cooking (the pungent fragrance of chowder) wafted throughout the stilled atmosphere, the muffled ruckus of outside activity raising in volume as the night went on.

The student leader remained in his state of shock, tense, frozen in time, Grantaire's words a barb struck deep within his easily-dented pride, metaphorical blood seeping from the cavernous wound, draining his energy. Combeferre extended his arm, tugging at Enjolras's blood-red sleeve, encouraging him to continue, to ignore the remark. Shoulders drawn tight, arms hanging by side, spine curved in despair, the revolutionary twisted to face the drunkard and the hedonist seated across the room, eyes glimmering with anger. "What will it take," he snarled, "to still your quick tongue?"

"Well, let me think..." Grantaire jested in mock thought, scratching the underside of his jaw with blunt fingernails, sharing a subtle wink and sly smile with Courfeyrac, "Hmm... Let us see... You could always, you know, compliment me?"

"Compliment, you?"

"Indeed, or I could continue..."

Enjolras folded his arms over his broad chest, canines sinking into plush lips. "Well, you... Your..."

"I'm listening."

"You, have a very impressive... Liver..." he stuttered, the words rolling awkwardly off his tongue.

"Oh my! What flattery! Both my liver and I marvel at your kind comment! A good metabolism is popular with the women, correct?"

"Indeed so, mon ami," laughed his feline-loving accomplice, "you would be surprised how many ladies have fallen into my arms due to the efficiency of my lower intestine."

A chuckle rose from the cobbled-together group, Enjolras flushed a shade as bright as the sash wrapped around his waist. Even the philosophical student to his right lifted a hand to cover his smile. The red-cloaked revolutionary growled in frustration, baring his fangs,

"Be still! Silence!"

"Calm down Enjolras! We are nought but jesting, you do have a tendency to overreact!" hollered Grantaire, gaining his feet in a clumsy fashion, placing a calloused hand upon the splintered table for support, "But, it must be said your 'compliments' do leave much to be desired."

"What was I to say?!" The blushing student mewled helplessly, the red in his cheeks darkening. He did not hate the drunken cynic, but he did wish he would keep quiet at least until the end of his speech.

"Now that I think of it, little. I am of little importance compared to a god such as your self, a toad in the wake of an eagle." The green-waistcoated man sighed, lowering his blurred gaze, "I am ugly, an impossible parody of man, crafted by the drunken hands of Prometheus from crumbled clay. I drink far pass excess in order to forget this fact, to avoid facing myself. Every morning I awake, the scolding and taunts falling from you angelic mouth forgotten, but not unheard. What were you to say, to a warted amphibian such as I?"

Enjolras gazed suspiciously at Grantaire's sloped form, eyebrow raised.

"How drunk are you?"

"Off my bloody head." He replied, holding up his bottle in a toast, "Freedom to France." he stated, blackened eyes glinting in the candlelight.