Another Winecask fic. This may as well be set in canon, which I do not own.

Back-Table Confessional

December 1831

It's amazing what one can hear even when inebriated. Every now and then, I deliberately feign my snores and slump my head lower even as the candles burn dimmer here in the Musain.

Tonight, only Joly and I linger in the backroom. I have my hand around my bottle of absinthe while he nurses his glass of wine. He is staring fixedly at the beautiful red liquid swirling in his glass, as if expecting it to respond to him.

"I can't marry her, you know. I love her enough to be with her, but can I really tell my parents about her?" he says softly. Ah, he is talking about Musichetta again. Not a week goes by that he does not mention her. I suspect he is in this frame of mind, since Jehan asked him (as a joke, I suspect) when will he marry his mistress of nearly four years. Of course, he simply grinned at this, before shaking his head as I tried to tell him about what I thought was going on in his mind, and Enjolras told me once again to 'sleep off my absinthe'.

I prefer it when Enjolras does that. That way, I need not feel that I have to participate or make an ounce of sense. But I can watch him, listen to the rest, and understand everything.

I look up momentarily as Joly drains his glass of wine and sets it down. "It's too late. I hope she doesn't lock me out," he mutters. He turns to me and I duck my head. "Good night Grantaire. Will you be fine there?"

I look up at him. "Mais oui."

"Are you sure, mon ami?"

I nod, hoping not to worry him. "You go ahead. I'll make it home on my own," I say, affecting my usual smile. He shrugs as he puts on his overcoat, wraps his scarf thrice around his neck before heading out the front door.

I stretch as I listen to him leave. Honestly, I do understand a little why he hesitates. I understand that he cannot tell the rest why so. I should know, since they are all that way too.

Yesterday, it was Jehan who was here, pondering Hernani and another lost love of his. The day before that, it was Combeferre who stayed here till about three in the morning, scratching away feverishly at a long-overdue paper that he would have finished long ago were he not drumming up support in the streets. Then last week, it had been Courfeyrac, talking about his family and the disappointment he was supposed to have been to them. They've all done this at least once, without them knowing that I know.

Tomorrow, who will it be? Perhaps Feuilly, seeking warmth amid his misery of three-francs? Or Bahorel with a new collection of bruises? Or Bossuet, musing on his dissipation? Or maybe even Enjolras, exhausted at the end of it all, not knowing that I or anyone else would only listen if he asked? Or maybe the others again, with troubles of their own.

I get up from my chair, even as I struggle to keep my balance. Draining the last of my absinthe, I feel the drink go down as easily as their words can pour into my ears. And happily, it all stays inside, as it should.