A spring sun shone in a powder-blue sky. A light breeze set the leaves of trees to swaying, and the scent of newly-blossomed flowers hung in the air.

Enjolras glared at the sun. He slumped back on the park bench, six of his friends sitting or standing around him. None of them took any more pleasure in the scenery than he did.

"Flunked. Completely flunked," said Courfeyrac, sprawled next to Enjolras.

"The ultimate disgrace," said Laigle.

"Look at this!" Courfeyrac ripped a few sheets of paper from his satchel. "I thought for certain I would get at least a C, not a big fat F. I studied for days!"

"At least you studied." Combeferre, seated on Enjolras's other side, rested his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. "I mean to study. I really did." He looked up and glared across at Courfeyrac. "It's all your fault."

"I said I was sorry."

"You should have been more careful! The least you could do was let me use your books after you spilled coffee all over mine! I failed, thanks to you."

Courfeyrac blinked. "You got a B minus."

"Exactly. Utter failure."

"Well, I studied," said Bahorel, a smug look on his face.

"And then probably forgot it all," Enjolras said. "Did anyone other than Combeferre score higher than an F?"

No one spoke.

"I hate exams," said Courfeyrac, folding his test papers into paper gliders. "Can I help it I was thinking of something else?"

"Yes." Combeferre looked at Prouvaire. "What's your excuse, Jehan?"

Prouvaire blushed. "I, uh, forgot we had an exam."

"How could you forget?" Combeferre said, then realized that Prouvaire regularly forgot everything that didn't have to do with flowers or poetry or revolution.

"Grantaire was probably snoozing," said Bahorel, absentmindedly dropping a beetle down Prouvaire's shirt. Prouvaire hopped up squeaking while Enjolras facepalmed. Laigle pulled the tail of Prouvaire's shirt out of his waistband and shook the beetle out. "Joly's lucky. He's sick today." The others gave him incredulous looks. "For real this time."

"You sure about that?" Grantaire snorted. "He probably just didn't want to take the exam. The minute you get home he'll be perfectly healthy."

Courfeyrac stamped his foot. "Now why didn't I think of that?"

Enjolras gave him a sidelong glance. "You obviously weren't thinking of the exam, either."

"You weren't either. You were just thinking of battles and barricades. You probably went on a rant about the oppressive rich when you were asked to define economics."

"I'm happy the way things are," Grantaire drawled.

Combeferre frowned at him. "Even though you failed?"

"Yep." Grantaire produced a small bottle from his coat pocket and took a few swigs from it. He gave Combeferre a wide toothy grin.

Just then Marius came barreling toward them and threw a satchel at Laigle. "You forgot this. Your exam, too." A few pieces of paper followed the satchel, and Marius went tearing away from them, only one arm in his jacket sleeves.

Laigle picked up his test and put it in his satchel. Courfeyrac watched him curiously. "What grade did you get?"

"I don't know. I didn't check."

"Why not?"

"Why bother? I know what it's going to be." Laigle slapped his satchel closed, and the strap promptly broke. "Oh, drat."

"Maybe Musi-what's-her-name can fix it," Bahorel said.

"She's probably busy taking care of Joly," Laigle muttered.

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow. "Don't you have a housekeeper who could tend to him?"

Laigle shrugged.

Bahorel leaned over Prouvaire and snatched his satchel. "Hey!" Prouvaire tried to grab it, but Bahorel held it out of reach. "Calm down, kiddo. I just want to see what poem you wrote on your exam this time." He drew out Prouvaire's exam and scanned it. Then he burst into raucous laughter and caught Prouvaire in a headlock. "Where did you get the inspiration for this!?"

"What? What does it say?" Courfeyrac climbed over the back of the bench and tried to see the poem.

"No, it's not –" Prouvaire began, struggling to loosen Bahorel's iron grip on his neck. But Bahorel drowned him out as he yelled out the poem.

Walking eternity's edge

I am stepping through the sky

I can't see my steps

The world splashes

Reality grins

"That's creepy." Laigle studied an ant.

"That's the darkest poem of yours I've ever read," Bahorel said, choking on his laughter.

"Read it? You inspired it!" Grantaire whooped and drained his bottle.

"What really inspired it, Jehan?" Laigle asked.

Prouvaire shrugged as best he could, still in Bahorel's power. "I was just walking by the river, and I was having the most wonderful daydream, and I walked into it."

"Into the daydream?"

"No, into the river."

Enjolras, rubbing the corners of his eyes, said, "Bahorel, would you please release Jehan before he chokes to death?"

Bahorel looed his arm from around Prouvaire's neck, and Prouvaire reeled backward, wheezing. Courfeyrac launched his paper gliders, and no one spoke for a while.

"Well, I ought to be getting home." Combeferre stood and straightened his coat.

"What are you going to do?" Courfeyrac asked.

"Study."

"Well, I'm taking Mireille over to the Café Musain. It's time I went there as a patron instead of a revolutionary."

"Wow, you have your whole life planned out," Grantaire muttered, peering into his empty bottle.

"I should go home too," said Laigle. "Oh, thanks for letting me borrow your notes, Enjolras. Here they are." Laigle produced a piece of paper from his satchel, then frowned. "No, wait, this is my test." He made to put it away again, but froze. His eyes widened, his gaze glued to the paper.

"What's wrong with him?" Courfeyrac said. Prouvaire bit his lip nervously. "Laigle? Are you all right?"

Laigle went as white as the paper he held. He took a few unsteady steps backward, gasping for breath. "I got an A," he said, and swooned.