Three weeks had passed. None of les Amis had seen Grantaire, nor knew anything about him. None of them really cared, for that matter. Enjolras was more than a little worried, and ashamed, but it was impossible for him to inquire, or reveal his reason for wondering. Even on his discreet rounds of Grantaire's most frequented haunts, there was no news of the drunkard from anyone. Still, Enjolras attempted to carry on as usual. Only a few of the more perceptive ones, such as Jehan, or those who knew him better, such as Ferre, noticed any change. Not even these two so much as guessed the reason.

Alone in his flat, thoughts of revolution only led to thoughts of Grantaire. He hated it. Hated himself for thinking, the thoughts for existing, Grantaire for causing them. He wished it would stop. Flopping on his bed, most unusual for him, he wrapped himself in his blankets like a crepe, attempting to block out the world. It, however, had other plans. There was a long, loud knock at his door. If one's manner of knocking indicates personality, this one was loud, crass, and rude. Enjolras started, took a moment to compose himself, and opened the door slowly. Grantaire, who had only remained standing due to the door, collapsed on top of him, spilling them both onto a pile of dirty laundry, papers and books. Grantaire was very drunk, very sick, and very unconscious. Enjolras realized his lips were pressed against the winecask's forehead, and their...groins...were touching. This evoked a strange combination of joy and horror in Enjolras, and he quickly rolled the unyielding weight off.

Taking a seat at his desk, Enjolras contemplated. Grantaire was in his room. He was clearly unwell, and also unconscious. Enjolras knew enough about the man to know that he had no family, at least none he spoke to, no friends, unless les Amis counted, and no discernable source of income. Aside from that, Enjolras knew virtually nothing about his companion, not even if he had a flat, or where this hypothetical flat might be. All he knew was that the man he lo—knew had appeared, obviously in need of help, and it was his, Enjolras', duty to look after him.

Sighing, Enjolras rose, hoisted the limp Grantaire under his arms, and placed him on his own bed. This done, he had no idea how to continue. Soup, he thought vaguely, something about soup...give the sick person soup? Don't let them have soup? He was so overwhelmed by Grantaire's sudden and complete reemergence that he could hardly think straight, He decided to consult Joly.

Joly, as it happened, was drunk, one of the first times in his life. Not very drunk, mind you, just enough to make him tipsy, giddy, and rather louder than usual. When Enjolras finally found him, several hours later, he was faced with a rather different Joly than usual. However, he was so distracted that he hardly noticed. He attempted to approach Jolllly stealthily, an endeavor that he failed very well, succeeding only in bringing curious glances. Joly, however, was startled.

"Enjolra'! What're you doin' 'ere?" he said, with just a touch of slurring.

Enjolras was still oblivious. "Well, you see, I need a favor..."

"O! A favor is't? Well, 'nything for my buddy Enjolra'!"

At this point, even Enjolras couldn't help but notice his friend's condition. "Joly!" he asked, utterly amazed, "have you been drinking?!"

"Drinkin'? Naw...Jus' a little... Not like some." Here he peered around suspiciously. "No' like...Grantaire..."

Enjolras started, sure that Joly was insinuating something. Joly just took the opportunity to nab another swig of wine. "Er, yes, uh, well..."

"You said you had a favor."

"Yes. Yes of course. I need your advice."

Joly's voice had grown steadily louder over the course of the conversation. For normal-Joly, it was now almost at yelling volume. "You wan' a favor an' advice? E'en from you, tha's a lost....a lot...a lost lot..." He giggled a little, spilling a little puddle of wine. He stared regretfully at it; it was his last.

"Well, I have a sick...friend...and I don't know what to do. Maybe if I just tell you—"

Smiling condescendingly, Joly absently patted Enjolras' hand, dragging his own sleeve through the puddle. "S'all right... We all know. Was obvious."

Enjolras blushed, but was somewhat relieved. "Oh. Good. Well, come with me, then."

With some difficulty, Joly managed to stand, aided heavily by Enjolras' arm. Outside the dismal cafe Joly had stationed himself in there was an old, disused horsetrough, full of rainwater. On a whim, Enjolras grabbed Joly's hair and the back of his coat, and dunked his head.

Joly came up spluttering, but himself. "Enjolras! What on earth...?! Do you know how many achoo diseases achoo there are achoo in there?!" He began to stalk off, huffily.

Enjolras sighed, following. "Oh, Joly... I'm sorry. Look, here's a woman selling medicine. Pick out anything you like."

Joly looked as happy as a hypochondriac in an apothecary. In fact, he was one. While Enjolras waited impatiently, staring dismally at all the bottles, which all looked, and he suspected contained, the same. Joly, however, raced around, showing much more energy than usual. After what seemed an eternity for both Enjolras and the shopkeeper, Joly squealed gently, holding up a jar to Enjolras' skeptical eyes.

"It's...alive..." He peered into the jar. It was full of clear liquid, with writhing brown things. He decided he didn't want to know. "That's...very good. Alive is good. How much?"

"Three francs," Joly said, beginning to hyperventilate a little.

Enjolras paid with five, and told the owner to keep the change. He just wanted to be gone.

When he looked back at Joly, the brown squirmy things were gone. Enjolras chanted to himself, don't ask don't ask don't ask... until he arrived home. Waving Joly through the door ahead of him, Enjolras entered, leaning against the door. It had been a very long day...

Joly cast a jaded eye around him, appraising, criticizing, then...his eyes came to the bed. He gasped. "I-it's Grantaire! He's dead! In your bed! He's in your bed, dead! He's bed in your dead!" Swooning, he collapsed into a chair, gasping.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. At times, Joly could be more irritating than...Grantaire. "He isn't dead. I found him this morning. Besides, you said you knew."

"Knew!Knew! What are you talking about, knew! I had no idea!"

Enjolras frowned. "Joly, at the cafe, I said I had a sick friend, and could you...and you said 'we all know'."

"Oh," said Joly, "I suppose I did. Well...I know...knew...thought...we thought you had a mistress!"

"WHAT!" roared Enjolras, turning as red as his famed vest, in both anger and humilation. "I, a mistress, I, Enjolras, a MISTRESS! You lot are out of your heads..."

Joly had shrunk back in his seat. Grantaire woke, slightly, at the outburst, enough to groan softly. Joly yelped, throwing himself at Enjolras. Enjolras shoved him back into the chair. "I told you, he's not dead. He's sick. That's why I asked you here, for help."

Joly instantly assumed his best bed-side manner. Which, due to lack of practice, and being Joly, wasn't very good. "Well...well-well-well..."

Enjolras groaned. "Look, just tell me what's wrong with him, please!"

Joly puffed himself up, but quickly deflated at the glare he received. "Er, well...he hasn't eaten for, oh, a week at least, he's drunk more wine than humanly possible, he has a bad cold, and god knows what else. I'll have to question him if—I mean, when, he awakes." Lookly thoroughly satisfied with himself, Joly stepped aside, arms folded over his narrow chest.

"Hmmm...and?"

"And?"

"And what do I do about it?"

"Oh! Yes, yes of course. Um...well...you could...no, that wouldn't...or! No...perhaps..."

Without realizing it, Enjolras had begun to tap his foot.

"Yes! Lots of rest, plenty to eat, and, er, love...."

Enjolras rolled his eyes. Joly, King of the obvious... "Alright, thank you, see you tomorrow!" as he all but shoved the other out the door. Sighing, he leaned again against the closed door, glad to be alone at last.

At just that moment, Grantaire groaned again, and rolled over slightly. Enjolras hurried over, to make sure he was alright. He wondered why he cared, wished he didn't. One of Grantaire's eyes opened slightly, revealing their startled blue, so contrasting with his shaggy mop of deep brown hair.

"Maman?"

Oh great, thought Enjolras, he's delirious...I wonder what day it is...I should never, ever open the door on this day. Ever again. "Non, Grantaire. C'est moi. Enjolras." (sorry, random French sentence...)

Grantaire grinned sleepily. "Enjolras..." the word trailed off as he slipped back into unconsciousness.

Enjolras shivered. The way he had said it...Like he expected Enjolras to make everything alright, like he made the world safe. Said it like he...loved him, and he meant it. He turned away, built up the already roaring fire to distract himself. It occurred to him, offhand, as if someone had casually mentioned it, that he was hungry. And Grantaire hadn't eaten in a week! He suddenly remembered that Bossuet had been by the day before, having run out of money and food yet again. He had nothing in the house to eat, he would have to go out.

"Damn! Forgot to ask about soup!"

An hour later, Enjolras returned to his flat, burdened with heavy baskets of food. Shoving onto the largest clear area of table, he peered at his 'guest'. He was still asleep. Distractedly, Enjolras muttered as he arranged the food. "Well, I wasn't sure what you liked, or what was good, so I got a bunch. No wine, though, no no no, not for you. Hmm, let's see. What would you like? Maybe just a little bread and cheese to start, nothing too heavy if you haven't eaten. Or, is it a lot you're supposed to eat? Oohh, I need Combeferre!"

At that moment, there was another knock. This one was much lighter, but sounded as if it were accustomed to knocking at this door, and gaining entry.

Warily, Enjolras opened the door, peering around it to see..."Combeferre! Oh, mon dieu... you're just who I need..."

Combeferre looked startled, but smiled. "Yes, I will come in. No, thank you, I just ate. I am well, thanks, and you?"

Enjolras grinned slightly. "Sorry, mon ami, this day has been...crazy... Please, come in. I need your help."

Combeferre shrugged. "Anything for you."

"You see, it's..."

"Grantaire!"

Enjolras winced. "Yes, yes, he's sleeping, so please be quiet. Joly was by, and..."

"Joly? He knows, too? Am I the last, as usual?"

"No, only you and Joly and I know. I found him this morning. Anyway, Joly said he's sick and needs to eat, so I got food, but I don't know what's good or bad, and he hasn't eaten in a week and I'm worried!"

"Enjolras, I've never heard you make such a speech about anyone, let alone...Grantaire? We all thought you despise him."

A little too quickly, Enjolras replied, "I-I do! It's just, I had to do something."

Combeferre nodded, accepting this excuse. "Yes, yes of course. I understand. Now, let's see what you have..."

"Grantaire. Grantaire, wake up."

Grantaire was a little less delirious at this point, and already half awake. Opening his eyes slowly, a habit he had developed from long years of hangovers, he peered around. He had no idea where he was. This wasn't uncommon for him, but there was something vaguely familiar. Then he remembered. Enjolras. Enjolras attacking him, pinning him to the wall. Enjolras kissing him. Finding his way, after all that time, to him.

"Enjolras?" he croaked, his voice rougher than usual. He shuddered slightly, he hadn't seen his god since that night.

"No, it is I, Combeferre. Here, have some soup."

Grantaire looked skeptical.

Combeferre grinned softly. It was a little strange, being kind to the winecask, but he adjusted quickly. "Don't worry. I didn't let our leader near the pot. Try some, it's good."

"What kind?" Grantaire had begun to assume his personality again, like he would put on a coat to go out.

Combeferre winked, pretending to cast his eyes about for Enjolras. "Wine flavoured, mon ami."

Grantaire shook his head softly, but allowed Combeferre to help him sit, hold the bowl, hold the spoon, hating himself the whole time. He was so ashamed. Declaring his feelings to Enjolras, of course he would be mocked like that. And now, the ultimate humiliation; being babied here, in his room. He stifled a sob, his breathing ragged. The soup was good, however, and his body relished the warmth and nourishment that he had so long denied it. He nodded his thanks to Combeferre, swallowing the soup as quickly as possible.

Combeferre nodded in return, spoke briefly with Enjolras, and left.