The Corinthe was buzzing with people, as usual, and Joly struggled to weave his way through the crowd to his friends. They sat at a booth in the corner, so squashed up they were almost on each others laps, and the table was completely full of food and drinks and books and papers. Bossuet waved at him when they made eye contact.

"Sorry," he apologised to the woman in front of him, who was clearly drunk as a Lord, as she looked at him scandalized. He may have accidentally touched her butt as he pushed past. He made a mental note to sanitize his hands as soon as he got to the table.

"Hey Joly," said Azelma, swaying towards the table with a tray of mozzarella sticks. Yum. There was no way she'd balance them on the heaving table, though. He wasn't even sure how he'd manage to sit down.

"Hi." He swerved around a drunk, shouting man. "How's it going?"

"Same as usual. Schoolwork is draining my soul. There's no progress on the shop." She'd been trying to open a shop with loads of witchcraft-y stuff. She'd had loads of stuff delivered, but hadn't actually bought a place yet. It was kind of freaky going into her house and finding seven skulls on the sofa. Although he and Jehan had grown rather fond of them. "I'm poor and miserable, and I haven't washed in five days."

"Ew. That's really unhygienic, 'Zelma. Do you know how many diseases you could-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. What else is new?" Joly scratched his head.

"Nothing. I've got a new patient." They reached the table. "Her name's Meryl. I go round her house once a week to check everything's in order. She's sweet- she keeps trying to give me chocolate." He was a respiratory nurse. The pay wasn't great, but he enjoyed what he did, and that was what mattered- although many people were probably disinclined to think in that way.

"Joly, what are you doing with 'Zelma?" Feuilly stood up, and everyone on the table turned towards them, staring accusingly. He felt blood rush to his cheeks.

"N-n-noth-" he began.

"Nothing, Feu," Azelma interrupted coolly, leaning precariously over three people to kiss him on the cheek, "we're just chatting. You're too paranoid."

"Right, yeah," he said, the blush creeping up on his face creating an interesting clash with his red hair. "Sorry, Joly."

"It's okay," he said, as he was pulled onto Bossuet's lap (there was absolutely no where else to sit. Plus, his boyfriend's lap was a lot more comfortable than the bench). "She's not my type anyway." Bahorel snickered. Azelma glared at him.

"Bahorel!" Someone- Musichetta, judging by the volume and the thick South African accent- hollered from the backroom. "Get your lazy, fat ass over here and work! I ain't covering for you again if Dad calls!" Bahorel sighed and ducked under the table. He was probably drunk. Sober-Bahorel would definitely climb over the table, not under.

"Coming, sis!" He crawled under, punching Jehan in the leg- the bastard- and wobbling the table as he went. "I fucking hate running a business with family."

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes as the back of Bahorel's head disappeared into the crowd- with the rest of his body attached, of course. Grantaire looked up, with charcoal on his nose.

"Wha-," he began, before apparently seeing something and muttering to himself. Joly looked over to where Grantaire had been, but all that was there was a drunk dancer and a waitress. Nothing that would be of interest to him.

"'Taire, what was that?" 'Taire pointed at Enjolras with a stick of charcoal- he must have been drawing him again- and he too seemed to be looking over there between reading and muttering about politics.

"Éponine," the cynic raised an eyebrow, "He keeps looking at her." Sure enough, when Joly looked closer, he saw that it was Éponine carrying trays and avoiding the inebriated customers. He wasn't sure why he hadn't recognized her sooner, because Éponine was most certainly someone you'd notice in a crowd.

"I think," Bossuet announced under his breath, "that our mighty leader has a crush."

"What?" Courfeyrac joined the conversation, "Really? About time."

"You can say that again," Joly nodded.

"What? Really? About time." Courf smirked and Joly proceeded to elbow him in the stomach. Idiot. "Seriously, though. I've known Enjolras my whole life and he's only had two crushes, Feuilly, and Jehan's mum, who everyone had a crush on, so it doesn't count."

"Is it physically possible to speak any louder than you?" Grantaire muttered.

"You know the answer to that as well as I do, my dear friend."

"Well, shut up. He'll hear." Courf shut up. Bossuet furrowed his brow. Joly got his hand sanitizer out. Grantaire turned back to his muse. His muse stared at the waitress.

"Do you think he realizes?" Bossuet asked after a moment of uncharacteristic silence.

"No. He's an idi-"

"Courf, shut up."

"How come he's allowed to talk and I'm not?"

"Courf." Grantaire gave the Irishman a death stare, and he turned to speak to Combeferre instead. "What were you saying, Suet?" They'd started off calling him Boss, but since Enjolras had stormed off under the impression that his leadership was being undermined, they'd started calling him Suet instead (which got considerably more complaints from the man himself, but hey, everyone had to make sacrifices).

"Do you reckon the Chief knows he's got a crush?"

Grantaire scoffed. "Please. He wouldn't recognise a crush if it danced in front of him wearing 'Ferre's cycling jacket."

"And you'd know," Joly commented, sniggering. The death glare was delivered again, and Bossuet slapped Grantaire's arm. He looked away, lips pursed, and they sat again in silence. Well, the only silence that could be possible in a noisy bar at half past ten.

"I say we stay 'til the end," Grantaire announced, rubbing his hands together, "Then we interrogate him."

"Sounds like a plan," Joly nodded, but Suet shook his head.

"I can't. I've got the five o'clock shift tomorrow. Again."

"I never get that bus. Are you as grumpy as the other drivers?"

Joly rolled his eyes. "Have you met Suet? He's like, the embodiment of niceness. Most of the time." Bossuet nodded in agreement.

"I like to think I'm one of the nice one's. Maybe that's why I've got all the early shifts, and the school runs."

"That'll be it."

e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e

How the hell am I gonna get these drinks on the table, wondered Éponine, as she wove towards Les Amis with yet another tray of drinks. They were going to drink themselves into a stupor if they carried on. Unless R had actually gone with his ambition to replace his heart with another liver- Joly was disgusted when he'd told the group.

"S'cuse me," she muttered as she shoved her way through the thick throng of people, drinks held precariously above her head. Her inability to walk in a straight line without falling over meant that she was not exactly cut out for waitressing, but until she finished her novel and got it published, she was stuck with it. Fortunately, it paid the bills (most of them, anyway) and the company (ie. Musichetta) was pretty good. There were certainly worse positions she could be in.

Once she reached the table, her sister was sitting there, stuffing her face with mozzarella sticks and crisps. She was perched on Feuilly's lap.

"Azelma, what the hell? You're meant to be serving. There's a shit-tonne of food to be served."

"You try giving out these mozzarella sticks and see how long you can resist them," she shot back, but stood up anyway. Enjolras and Combeferre both jumped as she crawled over them. "Sorry boys. Got to go."

"Bye, 'Zelma," called Feuilly as she left.

"Sorry to steal her away, Feuilly," Éponine addressed the young man, "but she really does need to work. Her rent's due in a week. Eviction or pay. And I'm tired. So, I'm assuming the tequila's for Courf?" He winked at her.

"You bet."

"You're gonna end up like Grantaire if you're not careful," she chided, before taking a swig of someone's beer. "White grape Schloer?" Combeferre raised his hand, nose buried in a book, and Feuilly waved at her. "No alcohol today, Feuilly?"

"I've got work tomorrow," he said simply, disregarding the fact that he had work everyday and he took all the jobs so people like her couldn't get one. She sniffed and put the drinks down.

"Right, so alcoholic ginger beer, lapsang souchon tea, and bucks fizz."

"Tea over here please, 'Ponine," smiled Jehan. She nodded in agreement.

"Should've known. Good choice, Daffodil. Ginger beer?"

"Over here," Bossuet said from the edge of the booth.

"And bucks fizz for me," said Joly from his lap.

"Oh, and Musichetta told me to tell you that if that hamster has escaped again, she is gonna stew it and serve it to the restaurant critic. And that she loves you both." Bossuet and Joly shared a look of absolute horror, and started whispering.

"So, we have left Merlot, Fosters, and red grape Schloer," she finished reading off the list, "which I assume are for Grantaire, Bahorel and Enjolras." The blonde looked up when he heard his name, and his cheeks turned pink.

"Wha-"

"Drinks," Éponine smiled at him, trying to ignore the fact that he was staring at her. Oh God, she thought, have I got something on my face? She wiped it quickly with her sleeve, and Enjolras looked away.

"Ah, yes. Schloer, p-please."

Joly smirked. She set the last of the drinks down, putting a Fosters in Bahorel's empty seat. "I'd ask if you want any food, but I doubt you'd fit it on here."

"Actually," said Jehan, sitting up in his seat, "could I have the tofu platter and a miso soup please? I'll put it on my lap."

"Jehan, you can never afford anything from here."

"Well, I can now." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ten euro note. "Guess who just got published? It turns out that my poetry is worth more than cat vomit!" The whole table gasped, and then erupted into applause. Éponine couldn't help feeling just a little jealous- it had always been her dream to get published and make it big in the author world, and Jehan had beaten her to it. Still, she was pleased for him. Judging by his proud smile and the way his eyes looked like they were welling up, he was extremely happy, and if she- or indeed anyone- ruined it for him, she would kick their ass. Even her own.

After everyone had said their congratulations, she returned to the bar. Bartending was more her thing-there were fewer opportunities for clumsiness, and she got to chat to people a lot more. She swapped places with Musichetta, who offered her a quick smile before going to yell at some drunkard for standing on a table, and stood behind the bar. A man walked up.

"Sprite, please," he said, with a vaguely familiar voice. His black hoodie covered most of his face, and he would be completely camouflaged in the darkness if it wasn't for his bright green Converse.

"Coming right up," she replied, and the stranger looked up.

"Éponine?" he asked incredulously. It was Montparnasse. He'd changed. A lot. Last time she'd seen him- it would've been a year ago now- he'd had greasy hair, dyed black, down to his shoulders, a lip piercing, and eyeliner. His hair, now it's natural brown, was cut into a flick -eugh- and the eyeliner and piercings were gone. He'd turned, as much as she hated to admit it, good. He looked nice.

"'Parnasse- you're...different," she said, shaking her head.

"That's a bit rich coming from you," he replied. It was true- this time last year, she was still on the streets. How times had changed. She reached into the cooler beneath the bar to get out his Sprite.

"So," she said, putting his drink and a glass on a coaster, "how have you been?" He sighed.

"It's a long story."

"Do you wanna tell me over coffee? I've got a day off tomorrow, and the drinks here are to die for."

"Sounds like a plan. What sort of time?"

"Two?"

He shook his head. "Can't. I've got...business." She raised an eyebrow. Montparnasse's "business" had never really been exactly legal, and even in his current state of apparent lawfulness, she doubted anything had changed.

Not that she was anyone to judge.

"What sort of "business"?" she inquired, raising her eyebrows again. He laughed.

"None of yours, weirdo," he replied, poking her on the forehead. Gavroche called her a weirdo. It was the kind of insult an eleven year old would use.

"How old are you again?"

"Older than you," he shot back, smirking, "and therefore more powerful and authoritative. So," he said, back down to business, "I'm free between ten and one. We'll meet here at ten, and maybe have lunch, and then go our separate ways."

"Do I get any choice in this," she asked, mildly surprised at the authority in his words.

"Of course," he replied, bowing his head, "I'm sorry, I got too ahead of myself there."

"It's fine," she accepted, "ten's fine."

"Good. I'll see you then." He placed a five euro note on the bar and left, drink in hand. She put the note in her pocket, and shoved a few different coins in the cash machine. Then she turned to the next customer.

"I'll have a Stella Artois, thanks," she slurred.

e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e~e

Gradually, Les Amis filtered out the bar, in various states of drunkenness. Courfeyrac had left propped on Combeferre's shoulders, and Grantaire would be lying if he said he wasn't impressed by his ability to practically carry six feet of drunk deadweight back home. Perhaps it meant that they'd finally got a grip and confessed their (obvious) crushes on each other.

It was only he, Joly, Bahorel and the Chief left. Azelma had come over with the bill (it was expensive. Too expensive) and sat with them. Most of the drunks from the bar had cleared off. It was almost quiet.

The confrontation began.

"Enjolras," Joly started, snatching his papers away, "we are about to address you on a matter which I, personally, find very important, and I'm sure that Grantaire here agrees." The cynic nodded, a bottle of wine raised to his lips, the charcoal picture long forgotten.

"You were keeping on-" he started, but Joly gave him a pointed stare.

"I am slightly more eloquent at this moment," Joly interrupted- he always seemed to get posher when he was drunk, "and so I shall talk. Now, Enjolras, are you sitting comfortably?" Enjolras nodded, clearly bemused at the sudden formality. "Good. Then we'll begin.

"Now, over the course of this evening, we (meaning myself, Grantaire, Bossuet, and Courfeyrac) have noticed a pattern. That is, between each sentence you read, you glance over towards the bar. Now, this could be due to three factors. One-you're thirsty- and two-you're hungry- are possibilities, but, judging by the cost of this bill, it has nothing to do with either of those. Which leaves only the third option."

Enjolras frowned. He hadn't noticed that he'd been looking- or at least, he'd acknowledged it but hadn't thought about it in great depth. "What's the third option?"

Grantaire snorted. "You," he began, pointing the now empty wine bottle (was his liver invincible?) at him, "like Éponine. Want to kiss her and hug her and marry her and have her babies and spend all the time with her." Enjolras' face was a picture. His eyes seemed to pop out of his sockets, his nostrils flared, his cheeks flushed and twitched, and he had a coughing fit. It was almost as if he'd had an allergic reaction to crushes. Which would actually explain their near absence for the past twenty-six years.

"Wh-w-at," he sputtered incredulously. Grantaire inhaled again, ready to reel off the list of Enjolras' "desires", but Joly put a hand on his arm.

"I wish you hadn't said that," he sighed, "I had a piece planned that was near poetic."

Bahorel and Azelma had been silent throughout the whole ordeal, there mouths reaching the floor, but with Joly's comment, Bahorel fell about laughing. Huge, full, verging on hysteria laughing. Azelma moved away from him a little, frowning as he nearly spilt a drink on her uniform.

"What I was going to say," Joly continued, "was that, however you may try to deny it, you are head over heels in love with our 'Ponine." Enjolras choked on his coffee (his third of the night- caffeine was his only solution for the crippling study that needed to be done), and Bahorel attempted a half-hearted Heimlich manoeuvre. Too hard, apparently, as Enjolras fell off of the seat.

He'd caused a ruckus. Éponine and Musichetta both came over to help. Stuff had fallen out of his pockets-they were like Mary Poppins' bag- and spilled out all over the floor. He flushed an even deeper shade of red, almost the same as the flag he seemed so fond of, and stood up, only to bend over again to pick everything up. Someone else had bent down too.

He scrabbled around on the tiles, picking up pens and notebooks and who-knows-whats and his hand touched someone else's. He looked up and jumped back. It was Éponine. Luck seemed to be deceiving him today, he thought as he felt the blood rush to his cheeks.

"S-sorry, 'Pon- po-ponine," he spluttered, tripping over his words. She simply looked back, with an eyebrow raised, seemingly "weirded out" (that was what Gavroche called it, anyway- though whether it was grammatically correct, he had no idea) by his reactions. He heard Azelma and Joly whispering, while the rest of the table sat in silence.

He'd probably receive hell for it later.