Okay, so chapter eight (My Heaven is with You), which seems to be one of the most beloved chapters, was prompted by my gal messed up stargazer. So, here's another prompt by her, which I hope y'all enjoy. It's Enjolras as the drunken cynic and Grantaire as the impassioned idealist. As I've said, I'm leaving for Idaho (just a vacation; not permanently) with Bee the anon on Monday. I will update this story daily until then, I promise.

Yours,

-Georgie

XXX

Nicolas Grantaire. Étienne Combeferre. Robin de Courfeyrac. The three had been friends since early childhood when a young, lonely six-year-old Nicolas had been approached by three-year-old Robin, who demanded a playmate. The two had been fast friends ever since, and the addition of their beloved book-loving Étienne had just seemed natural. Étienne had been nine when he was added, an awkward, bespectacled youth prone to dreamy periods where he would yammer on about moths. Robin had been six, Nicolas nine as well. The three were thick as thieves, often causing some sort of trouble wherever they went.

When they were all old enough for college, they chose the same one, even going so far as to all bunk together in the same flat. Nicolas was studying politics and law; Étienne philosophy and medicine, and Robin wasn't quite sure what he wanted. One day, Étienne met a jolly young hypochondriac named Lucien Joly, who seemed to share the same revolutionary ideals as his two best friends. Shortly thereafter, Lucien was added to their group, and their little trio became a quartet.

Lucien's best friend was a witty boy named Lesgles, who was more than happy to regale his friends with a tale of his bad luck. He agreed with everything Lucien said; ergo, the quartet expanded once more. The five young men – Lesgles being the eldest at twenty-five – decided to form an official society to discuss their beliefs and plans of revolution. This was how Les Amis de l'Abaissés was formed.

Eventually, their back room group attracted the spirited brawled Victor Bahorel and his constant companion Masselin Feuilly, the orphaned artist. Five became seven. Their meetings grew longer, less formal, but still just as revolutionary. Nicolas now went by Grantaire. ("It sounds much more suited to a revolutionary leader, does it not? After all, Rousseau didn't go by Jean-Jacques, now did he?") After this change, Les Amis adopted their last names instead of their first names. Vic became Bahorel; Robin became Courfeyrac, or Courf, and Lesgles – for the purpose of humor – became Bossuet. Shortly after this, an effeminate, delicate young poet – the youngest of their group at seventeen – joined. His name was Jean, but he called himself Jehan. The others (with the exception of Courfeyrac) called him Prouvaire.

He brought a spirit of gentility to their meetings that they had lacked before. It really was the perfect mix of people – Bahorel brought his raucous humor to balance Combeferre's serious nature. Lesgles and Joly took it upon themselves to make everyone laugh on the days that Prouvaire scribbled down morose poetry. Feuilly's wry wit made everyone smile sardonically, each feeling a bit sad inside. Courf's effortless charm brought the group up again.

They went on this way for some months before a new addition to their tight-knit group was made. Prouvaire brought him up at a lull one day. "There is a new student in my poetry unit," he announced dreamily. "Such a complication, this one."

"Do tell," Bossuet said cheerfully, before a book fell from the shelf above him and landed upon his completely-bald head.

Joly began to fret over his best friend, muttering about head injuries. "Are you concussed, Bossuet?" he asked anxiously. "Do you feel unusually sleepy, or –?"

"Calm yourself, ami," Bossuet laughed. "I'm fine."

"Go on, Jehan," Courf said happily. "I want to hear all about this complicated student."

Prouvaire glowed under Courf's attentions. "He's a handsome young man, this one." At this, Courf glowered. "He has the palest lashes, and his hair all but cascades," he sighed dreamily. "The poetic inspiration I could get from him! He's a brilliant speaker, but sadly most of his eloquence is mumbled into a bottle." He sighed, as if he had just heard a piece of dreadful news. "He's a drunkard, I'm afraid. And a cynical one at that! The poor boy is troubled by demons; I can see it in his eyes. And oh, what pretty eyes they are!" While Prouvaire waxed poetic on his new inspiration, everyone in the group looked thoughtful.

"He sounds dreadful," Grantaire laughed. He was in good spirits after giving a particularly inspiring speech. Oh, Prouvaire, he thought fondly. Picking up strays like a dogcatcher. It was a particular habit of the little poet, being drawn to troubled souls and trying to fix them. He means well, Grantaire, the revolutionary reminded himself.

"Oh, no!" Prouvaire cried, aghast. "He's a wonderful chap! When he's not drinking himself half to death, he's quite intelligent, and eloquent, as I said before. Feuilly, you might like to paint him sometime." Suddenly, something in Prouvaire's eyes flashed.

Oh, God. He's wearing The Look, Grantaire thought.The Look was something only Jean Prouvaire could pull off, a combination of sparkling, hopeful eyes, pleadingly clasped hands, and a look of infinite sadness and quiet disappointment that would wash over his face if you said the wrong thing.

"Grantaire, he's a brilliant arguer! Maybe…maybe he could join Les Amis!" Prouvaire cried. "Oh, it's the perfect thing! You could keep him in check, and we could keep him from drowning in the bottle. Oh, yes! He could contribute as well, he could."

"What could a cynic like he possibly contribute? A drunkard doesn't belong with idealists such as we," Grantaire said firmly, reminded far too much of his father, an angry alcoholic.

"Well, excuse me, Apollo. I can see that this Dionysus isn't wanted," a voice said. It had to be the young man that Prouvaire was fawning over. He had messy, tangled blonde hair tied back in a tail, brilliant eyes, crossed arms, and an indignant yet slightly hurt look about him. He looked around the back room that he stood in the doorway of, observing the friendly look of the room. It was paneled with wood, and a cheery fire blazed in the hearth. There was a large, antique-looking map of France as a République nailed to one of the walls. Ah, an idiot as usual, Dionysus, he thought. Jehan's friends are not your friends.

"No, no, Julien!" Jehan creed. "Of course you're wanted!" He shot a nasty glare in Grantaire's direction. "Ignore Monsieur Grantaire."

Enjolras looked around, eyeing the guarded expressions of Jehan's friends. "Ah, so you are all judgmental liberals," he said, laughing dryly at his own joke.

An impossibly tiny ginger-haired man was the first to crack a smile. "Feuilly," he said, shaking Enjolras's hand. "Masselin Feuilly."

"Good to meet you," Enjolras grinned. "Julien Enjolras. Don't call me Enjy."

Feuilly laughed, clapping Enjolras on the back.

Grantaire watched this all with a somewhat disapproving frown. It was no secret to him that he had been tainted by sin from an early age; he had always been attracted to men. Only his group of friends knew that, but none of them treated him any differently for it. In fact, it was barely mentioned. Sometimes Courf would say, "R, mon ami, I saw a handsome young lad walking through the halls yesterday…" and earn a cuff for it. None of his friends were repulsed by the fact, and Grantaire had no doubts that Courf was like he was. He seemed to pine after Prouvaire. And now, it was almost as if Grantaire could have very easily been after this handsome, broken young man. Merde.

XXX

Over the next few months, Grantaire was consistently infuriated by this Julien Enjolras. The man had no qualms about interrupting Grantaire in the middle of a particularly great speech just to make some joke. (Or – more often than not – give a point that actually strengthened the speech. Not that Grantaire would ever say this, of course.) He was irritatingly brilliant – intelligent, cunning, a great boxer, great artist, and amazing at a game of singlesticks. He and Grantaire had played a few times, and the game never lasted more than five minutes. Enjolras often showed up to the meetings completely drunk, a fact that irritated Grantaire to no end. One day, he had finally had enough.

"Enjolras! You are a drunken fool who believes in nothing. Why do you even bother to show up to these meetings if all you do is mock our ideals? No…not "our." They are not your ideals at all! We would be better off without you, you winecask!" he roared.

Enjolras looked stricken. Yes, Grantaire had been harsh with him before, but never to this extent. "Would it please you, noble leader?" he choked out.

"YES!" Grantaire shouted. "It would please me very much to never see you again!"

"Grantaire!" Prouvaire shouted at the same moment Enjolras gave a sickening smile and ran out of the Musain.

Enjolras didn't show up for the next two weeks, and when they finally did find him, he was lying in the gutter, bruises covering his body and harsh cuts in his arms. A freshly scabbed-over cut made its way down his leg: letters reading "WINECASK."

Grantaire was sick with himself after this, but how could he apologize for something that? Apologies had never been his strong suit. Public speaking, charisma; not intimacy or even kindness. Besides, Grantaire reasoned with himself, he's still alive, is he not? He took the weak way out, anyway. I was rude, yes, but…he should have known I wasn't serious. Yes. This whole thing is his fault.

XXX

And just one week later, when he gently asked if Grantaire permitted him to die at his feet, Grantaire's last thought was: I could have done so much more. It was not his fault after all. All he could do was give Enjolras one final smile…before the world was awash with red, and then faded to black.