I'm sorry it's been so long! I hope those of you whom I didn't scare away enjoy this installment!

Much love,

Unicadia

A drawing of Bahorel leaning against a wall. He lifts one leg and rests his foot against the wall as well. He holds his head slightly away from the viewer, his face placid, but to anyone who knew him, this is frightening. His jaw is tight, and he crumples a piece of paper in his hand. Scribbled below the drawing are these words: Les humeurs de Bahorel – Bahorel's moods.

"Bahorel, what did you do this time?"

Feuilly gave Bahorel a warning look, but Bahorel merely laughed.

"You worry too much," he said with a smirk.

Feuilly rolled his eyes. "We're supposed to be trying to liberate France and you end up in jail for what I'm assuming is some sort of petty crime. What kind of example do you think you are setting? You can bet we're not earning the respect of the National Guard."

"Hey, they don't know I'm part of the rebellion, so if you're afraid I'm going to give you all a bad name, well, I'm not."

Feuilly bristled. Bahorel could at least have the decency to look sorry. Instead, he had to grin like an idiot and keep laughing like he were flirting some pretty girl instead of talking to his best friend through bars. "What did you do?"

"What does it matter? As soon as my parents send money to bail me out, it will all be in the past and we can go back to hanging out in bars and picking fights – I mean, listening to Enjolras' oh-so-carefully-prepared speeches." And then he wriggled his eyebrows at Feuilly.

Feuilly could have slapped Bahorel, but he restrained himself. "Watch what you say, you big idiot. You know those speeches are for the good of all the oppressed of France."

Bahorel kept grinning.

"Like me."

Bahorel reached out and plucked Feuilly's hat off his head and twirled it in his hand. "Seriously, Sacha, you take yourself and Enjolras and everything else way too seriously. Lighten up."

Feuilly's brown eyes flashed. "You think this is some sort of game, Bahorel? Does the Cause even mean anything to you? Perhaps Enjolras misjudged you. Perhaps you should leave."

Bahorel froze mid-twirl, and the grin disappeared as he turned the full intensity of his gaze on the fan-maker. Feuilly could not help allowing himself an indulgent smile. "Leave? As in –"

"Yes, as in stop coming to the meetings and go off and do things you find more meaningful such as, oh, how did you put it? 'Hanging out in bars and picking fights'?"

Bahorel reddened.

"I mean, if you think so little of everything we're working for, and would rather do things that end you up in jail, go for it."

Bahorel looked away. Feuilly felt a stab of guilt, but he did not take back his words and kept his gaze fixed on his friend.

After a moment, Bahorel looked back up, a smirk tugging at the side of his mouth. "Well, then. I guess I know what I'll be doing when I get out."

Feuilly narrowed his eyes. "What?"

Bahorel let out a whooping roar of a laugh, scaring Feuilly out of twenty years of his life. "Listening to more of Enjolras' oh-so-carefully-prepared speeches!"

Shaking, Feuilly managed a smile as he snatched his hat back. "Good." He turned to leave, then stopped. "You still haven't told me how you got in here."

"Pfft." Bahorel waved his hand dismissively. "Nothin'. Just riling up a crowd with something about 'freedom for the oppressed.' Nothing important." He winked.

Feuilly shook his head and left.