A/N This slashy shortwas inspired by a timed prompt attheLes Miserables Fan Fiction Index.

Grantaire was perfectly sober. Not from any altruistic notion of abstinence. No, he'd consumed so much he'd moved past intoxication, the way only a true drunkard could manage. He was not drunk, he was beyond drunk, in a moment of perfect understanding.

He would pretend to sleep for a while, to let the feeling pass. Then he would drink more. He did not want to die sober.

It was the curse of sobriety that he could remember how ridiculously he'd behaved. The moments happened again and again in his head with torturous clarity. His brain, Judas to him, did not bother to soften the sharp edges of the memories.

That he'd made a fool of himself was no great shock. He'd done it before. It didn't matter anymore. He wouldn't survive to do it again.

What mattered was the look on his face. The beautiful, untouchable Enjolras hated him.

That had not been Grantaire's intention. On the contrary, he'd wanted to get the attention of the serious young man, to make him smile.

Grantaire had seen him smile once. It had been brief and stiff-looking, an expression obviously not used often. He'd wanted to see it again.

He'd gotten his attention, all right.

But now it was pointless to scold himself, pointless to rail against himself for his stupidity. His sober mind was a stranger. They would not meet again after the next drink. It was an unpleasant guest who visited infrequently, but whose conversation was unbearable.

He would evict the fiend soon enough.

There would be no memories of Enjolras's hard eyes and angry mouth. Indifference would reign again. Grantaire's shattered universe would be restored.

If he had to drink Paris dry to achieve that state, he would.