The Café Musain was empty except for one man. This was unusual, considering how late it was. Or how early, depending on one's point of view.

The man had come in alone, and sat alone. He looked like a man who shouldn't have been alone, though. His dress was that of a man well off, and those men always had flocks of admirers around them waiting for a chance to prove themselves worthy of their company-and money. But in spite of the man's affluent appearance, he was alone. And a closer look into his hollow face would reveal that he felt alone as well. That was always worse.

Several hours earlier the man had ordered a glass of wine, but it remained filled to the brim in front of him. He looked as if he had no intention of drinking it; he merely stared into it as if it were a crystal ball, and he were a gypsy searching for answers in its depths. But he would not succeed. Life's answers can never be found at the bottom of a wineglass.

Occasionally the man would lift his finger and gently trace the rim of his glass, issuing a faint crystalline moan. But then he would sigh and turn away. It was obvious that the man did not want to be there. But it was equally obvious that he was driven to be there; he had no choice. Or maybe he had, and it was just the wrong one…

Moments passed; it grew later and later. The man still sat there, lost in thought and still. Then he took a deep, uneven breath and picked up the wineglass. He held it aloft right before his eyes, delicately turning it this way and that. What little light there was in the moonlit room filtered through the wine and refracted onto the man's face. His eyes were illuminated by a crimson light, and the solitary tear which betrayed him looked like blood.

Then he drank.

One sip. One long sip. Afterwards he looked into the wineglass again, and a terrified countenance appeared on his face. He stood up wildly, and recoiled from the table and the wine, knocking over his chair in the process. He let out a choked sob, and covered his face with his hands.

"What have I done?" the man whispered brokenly. "What have I-"

"I think it should be obvious to you what you have done," a deep man's voice addressed him from out of the shadows. "It's obvious to me."

"Oh God!" the first man wept. He spun around and uncovered his face. "Enjolras!"

The slender man materialized out of the darkness. His face was hard and disapproving as he regarded the other man.

"Enjolras, I thought you had gone…"

"Grantaire." Enjolras spoke softly and deliberately. "You told us you were sober."

"Enjolras, I-"

"You lied to us."

"Enjolras, please! Just listen-"

"You lied to me, Grantaire!"

Grantaire had nothing to say to that. He hung his head in shame.

"Goddamnit, Grantaire!" Enjolras swore, one of the few times in his life. "I shook your hand! I trusted you! And now I see you here, visiting your mistress, visiting your God, when you thought that I had gone. In the dead of the night! Why, Grantaire, why? Why are you hiding it? You never bothered to hide it before. What's there to hide?" Enjolras mocked him in his anger. "Is it because you couldn't bear to let Courfeyrac know the truth? Or Prouvaire? Or Pontmercy?" He paused. "Or me?"

Grantaire looked away, and softly began to cry. This more than anything fed Enjolras' fury. He advanced on the weeping man with fire in his eyes.

"You had enough sense to be ashamed of yourself, but not enough sense to stop!" Enjolras snatched up the wineglass. "You chose this over us!" He hurled it against the wall. Grantaire winced at the display of violence.

For a moment, Enjolras stared after the shards of glass, breathing heavily. Then he turned back to Grantaire and muttered, "I wash my hands of you." He stalked past him, and made for the door.

"Enjolras!" Grantaire called after him.

But it was too late. Enjolras marched out the door, and let it slam behind him.

One sip. One sip was all it took. One sip had caused Grantaire to be left alone again.

Numbly, he walked over to the abandoned bar. He reached over and pulled out a fresh wineglass and a bottle of wine. With shaking hands, he poured himself a glass. Again, he held the glass up before his face, watching that bewitching liquid swirl around and around. He raised the glass to his lips, and lingered for a moment.

Then he threw back his head and drained the glass.

Alone.