Enjolras tries, he really does. He tries to budget, to learn to stretch a loaf of bread for a week. But he just isn't used to handling money, and it seems to vanish like magic.

'Being someone's kept woman sounded so much more glamorous in novels', Grantaire says one night, when the window won't shut properly and they're jammed together in the bed, stiff with cold. Enjolras tries to laugh, but he can't help but feel like he's failed him.

'I could get a job', he attempts. Grantaire just laughs. 'No, darling, you couldn't.'

The thing is, he knows he could write to his mother and ask for more money, and she'd most likely give it to him. But the thought of spending more money in this city, where he sees more and more the groups of young men in uniforms, the people beaten into the pavement on street corners while people around them hurry past with their shopping and avert their eyes, and once a huge bonfire where books writhed and shriveled in the flames and the night air was full of paper and ash, makes him sick. This is not a city for pleasure anymore, but the people keep on dancing and singing and drinking as if they can't see. Grantaire still drags him to endless parties, and the parties are still just the same, even if some of the handsome young men wear uniforms now.

'Come back to England with me', he says. Grantaire turns around in his arms and looks into his eyes.

'We love it here.' There's a strange, hard note in his voice. Enjolras pulls away in exasperation.

'Do we? Do we still? Wake up, Grantaire. The party in Berlin is long over. You just can't bear to admit it.'

'Oh, yes, and it'd be such a riot back home', Grantaire hisses. 'Not all of us have Mummy's welcoming arms to rush back into, you know. Or have you forgotten how my family feels about me?'

Enjolras winces. 'You don't need them. You have me.' Grantaire just looks at him, cold. 'I'll get you a job in the Party.'

A smile tugs at the corner of Grantaire's mouth. He raises an eyebrow. 'Are you trying to indoctrinate me, darling?'

'Is it working?'

Grantaire looks at him for a long moment before he laughs. 'How could I ever resist you?'

Fraulein Fantine comes into their room on a morning a few days later. She's carrying a box, and it takes Enjolras a moment to recognise it as the same one they gave her at her engagement party.

'Fraulein Fantine, is that the fruit bowl? Is there something the matter with it?'

Fraulein Fantine looks older than he has ever seen her look. 'No, nothing the matter. Only…it is an engagement present. And there is no engagement.' She puts the box down on the chair and turns to leave. 'Thank you for your kindness.'

Grantaire grabs her arm. 'You'd let a few words from an man like Babet spoil your happiness?'

She smiles, hard and bitter. 'Two days ago they threw a brick through his shop window. Yesterday it was written on the door. Juden.' Her voice breaks. 'I am not a coward. But they will take my rooms away. If I- If I-' She looks from Grantaire to Enjolras. 'What else can I do?'

'Fraulein, you mustn't give up in that way', Enjolras says. The words sound hollow even to him. She rounds on him.

'Oh, yes, I can. That is easy to say, easy for you. Fight! And what does it matter if you fail? It is easy for you. But if you were me- this is all I have. Can you understand that? If they take it away…if they…' She puts a hand over her mouth. Enjolras has to fight the urge to look away. He feels as if he's intruding. It takes her a moment to collect herself, one slow breath in, and then she is back just as she was, unmovable. 'I have survived on my own this long. Why should I break that habit now? Cosette and I, we will survive. Just as always. Just as I have survived everything else. When the world ends I will still be here, Herr Enjolras. Still renting my rooms. For in the end, what other choice have I?'

The silence after she closes the door behind her stretches. Grantaire picks up the fruit bowl, running his fingers over the carvings.

'Rather ugly, isn't it? I don't know what I was thinking.'

'I bought the tickets', Enjolras blurts out. Grantaire stares at him, fingers clenched around the fruit bowl. 'We're going home, Grantaire.'

Grantaire exhales slowly. 'Oh, well, in that case. Shall we have a going-away party? I'll just ring up-'

'Your Nazi friends?' Enjolras snaps. Grantaire goes white. 'I'm sure they'll be thrilled to see us go. They can march us out of the country at gunpoint. But we are going back to England. Back to where I can actually do some good.' He sweeps the accumulated rubbish off his case, starts throwing things in. 'We leave the day after tomorrow. So you might as well start packing.'

Grantaire doesn't move. A horrible smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. 'And what should I do in England?'

'I told you, I'll get you something-'

'In the Party.' Grantaire's still smiling, that horrible, impenetrable smile. 'Grantaire the Socialist. What an image. You should have been an artist, darling. You've got the imagination.'

'Whereas here you have so much', Enjolras spits. He gestures around the room at Grantaire's mess, the empty gin bottles, the window with its broken latch. 'All the gin you can drink and a steady stream of wealthy fascists to whore yourself out to. I don't know how I could ask you to leave such a fulfilling existence.'

The silence rings in their ears. Enjolras takes out the tickets and puts them down on the case in front of Grantaire. Grantaire follows them with his eyes, still immobile.

'Call the Klub. Tell them it's goodbye for good. Then start packing.' Grantaire stares him down. 'For once in your life, Grantaire, face the truth about yourself.'

He almost doesn't hear Grantaire's reply as he closes the door behind him.

'Maybe I will.'

Enjolras gets halfway to his usual café before he realises he has no money. He stands on the street corner, shaking hands shoved deep into his pockets, not knowing what to do.

'Enjolras.' Babet seems to appear beside him out of nowhere. 'I have been trying to reach you at Fraulein Fantine's. I have another errand for you.'

'I'm not interested', Enjolras spits between clenched teeth. Babet laughs. 'Can you really afford such principles, Enjolras? In this day and age, who can?' He puts a hand on Enjolras's arm. Enjolras wrenches it away. 'I will pay you double.'

'Get away from me.'

'Why should you condemn yourself to such poverty?' Babet looks genuinely baffled. 'I am your friend, Enjolras. And I know you need the money. So why won't you go?' He peers into Enjolras's face, and something seems to occur to him. 'It is because of that Jew at the party-'

Enjolras's fist slams into his jaw with a horrible crunch.

The uniforms appear from nowhere. There are hands on his arms, pinning him, and then a fist connects with his face, a knee with his stomach, and he is on his knees, the cold of the pavement seeping through to his bones. He doesn't struggle, barely makes a sound, as a boot comes down on his arm with a crack, something hard knocks the air out of him, a dull flash of pain blooms across his cheek. There is nothing to fight back against but polished black boots, and so he doesn't try, and the people hurry past with averted eyes as he has seen them do so many times.