Claude LeClair was feeling absolutely awful. He had been repeatedly sick all through the night, and had vomited almost every hour since he had risen in the morning. He felt hot and fuzzy-headed, and his limbs felt like they were full of lead.

"God, there can't be anything left to come up!" he groaned to himself, as he retched again and ducked over the basin. Raising his head, he gulped down another glass of water and dried his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.

At the moment, LeClair wanted nothing more than to go back to bed and sleep the rest of the day away. But he had agreed to go to the Café Musain this evening. If he failed to turn up, it would only result in Combeferre and Joly coming round to call on him tomorrow. And if they realised how awful he felt, they would insist on sending for a doctor…

And he couldn't afford a doctor! He had been short on this week's rent payment, though the situation had been solved by his pawning of the locket which had belonged to his mother. And he stoutly refused to sell his medical equipment. If he consulted a doctor, he would have no way of paying his fee other than with his rent money. Of course, Madame Dupont always said he could pay her a week late, and Joly and Combeferre had both offered to lend him the money until he could pay them back, and it was tempting to take up either offer...

But no! LeClair did not have much in life, but he had his pride. He wanted to get through these struggles on his own, get through university on his own, get through life on his own. His friends' generosity was touching, but he did not want to be indebted to anyone at any time!

Which was why LeClair was determined to turn up at the Café Musain and spend the night with the other Amis. He would not be drinking wine, for neither his pocket nor his stomach would stand that. He would just have put on an act of cheerfulness and health. And he would have to hope they all fell for it!

He gave a weary sigh, and began to put his waistcoat on.

"Julien, mon ami, may I ask a favour?" asked Courfeyrac in the sweetest voice he could manage, as he walked into the café with Prouvaire that night, to find Enjolras and Combeferre already seated at a table, deep in conversation.

"I haven't got my essay notes with me, Jerôme," said Enjolras dryly.

"How did you guess?" grinned Courfeyrac. "May I borrow them tomorrow? Please?"

"All right," Enjolras nodded. "But you'll never get through the final examinations if you do not do some of the coursework yourself!"

"Why break with tradition?" Prouvaire laughed as he took a seat. "He'd hardly be the Courfeyrac we all know and despair of if he suddenly started acting responsibly!"

"Hey!" Courfeyrac pouted theatrically as the others laughed, before jumping at the sound of a crash on the stairs.

"Evening,Lucien!" called Combeferre, without even looking up and, sure enough, a moment later, a dazed looking L'Aigle came into the room, rubbing his elbow.

"Bonjour mes amis!" he smiled ruefully, turning to frown at the laughing Joly, Feuilly and Bahorel who followed him inside. Grantaire appeared at the same moment – sober for once, but the night was young.

"Well, it would hardly be a proper gathering without our dear Bossuet making his proper entrance of falling down the stairs!" said Bahorel gleefully. "So what were you talking about before our er…dramatic appearance?"

"The unjustness of life in Paris for the underprivileged," said Combeferre, as the others took their seats.

"Well, let's not continue in that vein," said Prouvaire again, with his usual quiet earnestness. "It'll only get everyone upset, and we are supposed to be enjoying ourselves tonight. Let's not dwell on it – the darkness that is injustice will be banished by the sunrise of progression."

"Well said, Jehan," agreed the quiet Feuilly. "Put darker subjects aside for tonight, mes amis. We have all our lives to be angry at the government."

"And we'll probably have to spend a good deal of our lives with the government being angry at us!" called a voice in the doorway, as LeClair came into the room.

"Good evening, Claude!" called Joly, as nine welcoming smiles turned towards the new arrival. "I almost thought you weren't going to turn up."

"When have I ever missed a gathering of the Amis de L'ABC, Christophe?" asked LeClair smiling as he sat down, blinking a little too hard against the dizziness that threatened to take him. "Forgive me for being late, my friends. I was distracted on my way here." 'Distracted' was a euphemism for being sick again, but his stomach finally felt a little more settled and he hoped to make it through the evening without further event.

"Oh well, you are here now!" said Joly cheerfully, wondering if LeClair seemed a little flushed, but then dismissed the idea. It had probably been the nippy air and his hurrying to get to the cafe!

"And since all ten Amis are accounted for, let us bring out the wine," said Bahorel with a grin, tossing his jacket over the back of a chair and digging some money out of his pocket.

"Not for me, Sebastien. Just water tonight," said LeClair, with a pleading look at Joly and Combeferre, who both loyally remained silent.

Enjolras noted the look and made a mental note to have a word with LeClair as soon as the others were tipsy enough to be distracted. Which, he realised, could easily be within the next hour…

Sure enough, an hour and a half later, several tongues were very much loosened by alcohol; Bahorel was enthusiastically telling an exceptionally vulgar joke that had Grantaire roaring with laughter, Courfeyrac giggling like a schoolboy and Prouvaire blushing to the very roots of his hair. Meanwhile, a mischievous L'Aigle and Feuilly were trying to convince an embarrassed Joly that the waitress was giving him suggestive looks.

Enjolras, Combeferre and LeClair, the only ones still sober, were in the middle of a light hearted debate on military tactics. LeClair and Enjolras were both doing a fine job of keeping their illnesses carefully hidden; though LeClair still looked rather flushed and Enjolras exceedingly pale. They were both having to clear their throats more often than usual too, to hide the fact that they wanted to cough.

The alcohol made the young men talk louder than normal, all desperate to be heard, and so three separate conversations were mixing so fast that, had an outsider walked into the midst of the gathering, they would not have had a clue what was going on:

"You have to hand it to him, for all his brutality, Buonaparte was a military genius!"

"And so the doctor says to him, stick it up your…"

"Lucien, she is not winking at me!"

"In terms of manoeuvres warfare, certainly, but he was completely out-smarted at Waterloo!"

"Christophe you're blushing, mon ami!"

"Cover Jehan's ears, Jerôme! This may be too lewd for his young, delicate mind!"

"Wellington was certainly a gifted tactician, I grant you that, Etienne."

"I'm the same age as Julien! You don't call him young and delicate!"

"I loves the girls and I loves good wine!"

"I think you're drunk!"

As time went by, their voices grew even louder and the room got even warmer. Enjolras was feeling uncommonly hot. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and blinked his eyes quickly to keep them in focus. He refused to lose face before his friends; even if it meant he'd have to leave early, he would still not admit to this irritating bug!

"You know," he began to tell Combeferre. "I think the battle of Talevera was…"

Combeferre never got to hear what Enjolras thought of Talevera, for his friend's eyes suddenly rolled back and he fell insensible and wheezing on the floor, his blond hair falling across his face. The room was deadly silent for a moment, and then was filled with laughter.

"He's drunk!" crowed Grantaire, who was himself well on the way to inebriation. "Finally, our pompous Apollo has become human!"

"I always said he'd never have a head for drink!" giggled Courfeyrac, who was very tipsy. "He's only had two glasses and he's on the floor."

Joly and LeClair got to their feet in concern when they saw how Combeferre flew to Enjolras's side; kneeling beside him, tearing the cravat from his neck and loosening his shirt collar. He pushed the damp blond hair aside with urgency.

"Julien! Breathe for Christ's sake!" he cried in a panicked voice, noticing in horror the sheen of sweat that covered his friend's face, and the struggle he seemed to be having to get air.

LeClair fought the urge to retch. Not now! Please, please not now! he thought desperately, gripping the table top for support.

"Calm down, Etienne!" laughed Bahorel, as Combeferre pressed his hand to Enjolras's forehead. "He'll be all right come morning. He just needs to sleep it off!"

"For God's sake!" Combeferre exploded, tears threatening in his eyes, as Joly hurried to his side in alarm. "He's not drunk can't you see? He's ill! He's very ill…he's burning!"

And the room went silent again, horror written upon every face.