The writing in this chapter is a little off. Sort of choppy and stream-of-consciousness. But remember that this is all inside Enjolras's head and if he's not feeling quite up to snuff, he is more than likely to lose a bit of his eloquence.

Of course, not my characters.

**We didn't have any takers on last chapter's trivia question (Check my Author's Note at the end if you missed it.) so I'm gong to try again. Why is it cool that a dude named Sorel runs the Café Julien? What French novel am I referencing? Let me know your guess and if you get it right, I'll write you any story you want (With a rating of T or lower)!**

I can no longer convince myself that I despise Grantaire, that he bothers me, and that I do not wish to be his friend. I understand his fears, his reasoning behind the cold cynicism with which he mocks our cause.

And since finding that sketch, I am surer than ever that he understands me as well. He sees me, no matter how hard I try to hide. Foolishly, I find myself wondering what he would see if I allowed him access to my emotions.

But France needs me and I cannot allow a personal relationship to distract me from this cause. I force thoughts of Grantaire from my mind and throw myself even more forcibly into my work.

Days pass, as do the sleepless nights in between. I stand in the café each evening with my back to Grantaire's corner and I do not even bother responding to his slightly lessened flow of insults. I leave shortly after the others, abandoning the lost cause of Grantaire at his table. And perhaps the guilt of abandoning him contributes to my inability to sleep, but I would not have time even if my mind were at ease; I am much too busy taking inventory of our weapons and men, writing pamphlets, and trying to keep up with my classes.

I arrive late to the café one evening; some of the other men have already arrived. Ignoring the pounding in my temples, I set my books down at my usual table and shuffle through my papers, searching for those needed to run the upcoming meeting.

"Late tonight, oh Great One?" The sound of Grantaire's slurred voice doubles the aching in my head. I am much too tired to waste my precious time on his nonsense. But scolding him is only rewarding him with the attention he craves, so I keep my mouth shut and go on with my work.

"You are later than usual," a different, less grating voice, says. I turn to find Comberferre studying my face intently, his brow furrowed with what seems to be concern. "Are you alright, Enjolras? You look rather pale."

I immediately stiffen at his words. The men are never to see me weak, not even if I were dying. And I am not dying. I merely have a headache that has persisted for several days. Apparently, it and lack of sleep are wearing me down to the point where I look visibly weakened. Dammit!

"I am quite alright, Comberferre, but thank you for your concern," I say shortly, praying that the shaking in my voice is audible only to myself. "Now what have you heard from the men at the Rue de Rivoli?"

I concentrate with all my might on his voice and carefully record the names of the new recruits, blocking out my mortal frailties with work as I have always done.

I find myself seated at my usual table several hours later, working on a paper that needs to be handed in tomorrow morning. The church bells chime two, telling me that it already is tomorrow morning and that I have only a few short hours left to finish this paper and… do something else. I know that last night's meeting had left me with something else to do, but I can't quite remember. The entire evening is a bit of a blur, actually. All that I remember clearly is the pain in my head and Grantaire's horrid voice shouting insults and pointing out my exhaustion as I tried to speak.

I write another few lines before I feel my head nod forward, exhaustion taking over for a moment. But my mind will not give in, and I jerk myself upward. Fragments of thought drift through my mind; sentences for this paper, slogans for my next speech and- of course! I have to meet with the barman at the Café Julien!

The paper can be written any time before nine o'clock, but the café closes around three in the morning. Hurriedly, I shove my books into my bag and run the six blocks to the Julien.

I pause outside the door to catch my breath and breathe deeply in an attempt to quell the queasy feeling that has settled in my stomach. Stepping inside after regaining my composure as much as I will be able to without a good night's sleep, I approach the back counter and address the barman.

"I am here to speak to Monsieur Sorel."

"You are speaking to him," the man says shortly. "What do you want?"

I lean forward so as not to be heard by any customers, though there are only two or three men left and I believe them to be far too inebriated to hear anything. "A republic."

Without a word, the man leads me into a private room behind the bar, where we can talk freely of what he has to offer.

I leave an hour later with twenty five more names and four additional kegs of powder on my list. This is well worth another sleepless night; it is worth the poor mark I will get on my paper if I even manage finish it. France and her people are worth all the suffering in the world.

My headache has spread to my neck and shoulders; the pain of simply remaining upright is nearly unbearable. A scratchy sort of discomfort has settled in the back of my throat and as I think of the three page speech I must give at tonight's meeting, a part of me wants to run home and hide. But there is still so much to do.

"Oh, dear me! The sun has lost its glow! Now we shall all wither in the darkness."

I have taken Grantaire's rudeness for years, and through it all I have continued to consider him a friend of sorts (though I would never tell him such a thing). But I am tired and sore and my hope is starting to fade. I cannot be spoken to in this way any longer. I cannot risk letting the others notice my weakness.

Setting aside the papers I had been discussing with Courfeyrac, I turn toward Grantaire. The room goes silent; they want to see their leader put this arrogant piece of filth in his place, and I will not disappoint them.

"You have been withering all your life, you wastrel. No light from me or from Heaven itself could change that." My eyes burn into him, daring him to talk back.

The man never did have much sense. "Come now, Apollo. You can't think that poorly of your loyal servant. Do you doubt I will be there when you lead us all to our deaths."

The lightheadedness that has followed me all day vanishes as I stand, pushing my chair away so forcefully that it crashes to the floor. The noise echoes in the silent café. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears and a voice in my head repeating, For the last time, Winecask, shut up. Shut up! as I walk slowly toward him. These noises build to a crescendo in my head, ceasing at the overpowering sound of my hand coming in harsh contact with Grantaire's face.

Nothing can be heard except the reverberation of the strike. The red clouds slowly recede from my line of vision, revealing the frozen stares of my loyal followers, looking at me as though they have never truly seen me before. But all my mind registers seeing is the stunned face of Grantaire. His mouth is slightly open and his face has drained of all colour except for my brilliantly red handprint on his cheek. He does not seem at all angry, as I would have imagined, nor has he made some cruel comment that would sting me worse than my hand stung him. (Would he believe me if I told him that his casually offensive words actually hurt me?)

He stands dumbly before me, embodying the stillness of marble as completely as he says I reflect its coldness. All that moves is the light reflecting in his eyes. Sudden horror washes over me as I realize the cause of this sorrowfully dancing light; his large bloodshot eyes are filling with tears.

I feel my mouth open, though I have no idea what I intend to say. But I have no time to stutter pointless words, for Grantaire suddenly rushes forward, pushing me out of his way as he flees the café.

The defenders of France's republic stare at their leader in shock. My head begins to pound again, much harder than before, and my stomach writhes. Marcellin wants to run after the man who knows him so well, the man he desperately wishes to call 'friend'; Apollo forces him to remain and repair the damage done to his stony image. "Let's get back to work."

"Don't you think that was a bit harsh, Enjolras?" It is little Jean Prouvaire, normally so quiet, who has spoken.

Yes, I want to reply. I didn't mean it at all, but the damn Winecask hurt me so deeply and I'm tired and- "I suppose, but the man must learn to hold his tongue. We're better off with one man less than with a drunkard."

And that is the end of it. The meeting continues as if there had been no interruption. I know they are wondering where Grantaire is and why I lost my perfect control, but they do not dare speak. I think for a moment that Comberferre will when it is only the two of us left in the café, but he simply tells me to get some rest before disappearing into the night which swallowed up Grantaire several hours earlier.

OKAY! Happy 2nd Anniversary to me! Two years ago today I became a member of . Of course, my first story was not posted for two days, because it takes 48 hours to activate a new account. But I'm excited, so pretty please review me, even if you normally wouldn't, as a sort of birthday present.

I feel that I may have crossed some out-of-character-ness barrier with this. Let me know if this is sacrilege.