Grantaire's lips had barely brushed the lips of the bottle when a shake of his shoulder splashed the wine all over the table. "Merde, Joly, be careful! Do you think this stuff drops out of the sky?"
"Please, Grantaire!" Joly simply jostled him harder. "You must come - he'll kill himself!" His eyes were wide as platters.
"Who..." Grantaire realized midsentence how needless the question was. Bottle shoved roughly across the table, he tore up the stairs. The source of Joly's agitation was immediately apparent.
There, swaying jerkily about the room like a ship deprived of its moorings, was Enjolras - clothed in a white nightshirt, face wreathed by disheveled golden hair, an angel fallen from grace.
"What precisely do you think you're doing?" Grantaire demanded. In lieu of answering, Enjolras swung round and stumbled straight into his arms.
His mouth dropped open, but no words escaped. Instead, he clutched violently at the Grantaire's jacket and motioned at a poster on the wall.
"The rally..." Grantaire mumbled to himself, then turned to Joly for confirmation. "That is today?"
"Well, yes, but he cannot go!" Joly exclaimed. He had removed the handkerchief from his pocket and was winding it between his fingers anxiously. "He is sick, delirious! Even if his mind were well, his voice is not!"
"I have...the people's...voice," Enjolras rasped out, before collapsing fully against Grantaire. "They must...hear it."
"Not today they mustn't," Grantaire insisted. With Enjolras a leaded weight slumped against him, it took Grantaire far too long to shift him the two meters across the garret room to the edge of the bed. "Combeferre is more than capable of rousing the rabble. Isn't he, Joly?"
"Of course!" Joly interjected hurriedly. "He knows all of your words by heart - and believes every one. Though he has not your ringing fervor, I know his quiet passion can just as surely carry the day."
When Enjolras attempted to use shaking arms to leverage himself back up, Grantaire laid strong hands on his shoulders and demanded of him, "Does Joly speak wrong?"
He brushed a hand over Enjolras' cheek and lightly tipped his head up so their eyes met. "Is your lieutenant truly so incapable that you would give a better speech without your voice than he with his?"
Enjolras considered him for a long moment...then shook his head. His shoulders slumped, his head pitched forward, and his entire body seemed to follow suit in surrender.
"Go, Joly!" Grantaire commanded - privately amused at the irony of him orchestrating the same revolution he continually refused to fight - "tell Combeferre his time has come. I'll take care of your fool of a leader."
Joly nodded, a weight visibly lifted from his shoulders, and hurried down the stairs once more.
"As for you..." Grantaire turned his attention back to the man whose head was lolling against his shirt buttons. "It will be back into bed until further notice, and I will hear no argument."
To his mild surprise, Enjolras put up no protest as he was tucked back beneath the covers; Grantaire could only surmise he was either too weak to protest or begrudgingly acknowledged the logic behind Grantaire's actions (in all probability, a little of both).
When he turned to fetch his new patient some water, Grantaire felt a limp hand in his. He pivoted to see Enjolras mouthing a weak, merci, before his eyes fluttered closed once more.
"De rien, mon ami," he said softly and, since Enjolras would surely not remember it, placed a light kiss to the hand before returning it gently to its original owner and padding quietly out of the room.