Just to the left of the cafe's door, Bahorel leaned back against the facade of the cafe, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, selected one, placed it between his lips, and after taking his lighter out of his pocket, lit up. He ignored the passerby who did not interest him and they avoided him either by instinct or knowledge of his reputation. He didn't care though. He knew from experience that he wouldn't be waiting long. Bahorel knew that Feuilly knew that a few wasted minutes could be what lost him a job or a meal, making him quite easily the most punctual of Les Amis. However, the one flaw in this plan was that Feuilly didn't know about it. Bahorel hadn't told him he'd be waiting for him, mostly because he knew Feuilly would protest 1848-style. So, Bahorel preferred to think of it as a little "surprise" for, in his opinion, his over-worked friend.

A total of about two minutes passed before Bahorel's patience, in the loosest sense of the word, failed him and he grabbed his phone in order to find out why he'd been forced to wait more than ten drags of his cigarette.

Where the fuck are you? He texted, his thumbs practically leaving dents in the screen. Even waiting the next fifteen seconds for a reply had Bahorel muttering angrily, long winded curses spilling from his mouth as if it were his mother tongue.

OK, first off, stop cursing under your breath. You've probably already terrified enough people in the vicinity as it is, was Feuilly's initial reply.

Bahorel growled in the back of his throat. Feuilly continued.

Good. Now, I'm on my way to the cafe to discuss the pros and cons of collective bargaining with Enjolras and Courfeyrac before the meeting officially starts tonight.

Oooh, fun. Bahorel taunted.

Shut up.

Listen, Bahorel began, Grantaire and I were going to grab some beers before the meeting. You want to tag along?

Feuilly responded with a single word: No.

Let me rephrase that, Bahorel wrote. You're tagging along.

My turn to rephrase…No.

But Feuuuuuuuiilllllllllllyyyyyyyy.

No, Bahorel, I am literally just turning the corner to the cafe now. Plus, I have no spare cash for alcohol today. Or ever really but especially today! So, no. See you later.

Bahorel smiled devilishly as he looked up and saw Feuilly rounding the corner, his eyes still on his phone.

"Three…two…" Bahorel said, under his breath. "…One."

Then, he set to savoring the look on Feuilly's face when he saw Bahorel, looking as sly as a cat, reclining casually on the wall outside the cafe.

"You son of a bitch, Bahorel!" Bahorel grinned and clamped his monstrous arm over Feuilly's bony shoulder, forcing him to walk alongside him.

"While this is true, now you have no choice but to come with me on my quest of alcoholic fulfillment." Bahorel continued to grin cheekily but Feuilly remained unamused.

"Do you realize, Bahorel, that as my salary stays constant, the cost of living continues to increase on a daily basis?"

"That's why I'm paying." Feuilly looked doubtful.

"Are you so sure about that?"

"Well, Grantaire has his own fucking tab there anyway!" Bahorel yelled. He'd expected to be, at the very least, buzzed five minutes ago. He jabbed his cigarette in Feuilly's direction as he said, "The point is, tonight's your lucky night, Feuilly. So stop bitching about it."

Unimpressed but deciding to go along with it, Feuilly plucked the cigarette out from between Bahorel's fingers and took a long drag, blowing the smoke into Bahorel's face. They continued walking down the street until the bar was in view.

"Go fuck yourself," Feuilly stated coolly. Bahorel appeared to be halfway between extremely entertained and extremely incensed, a feeling not new to him.

"You may be my friend but I have no problem making your death look like an accident."

"I'd like to see you try." And with that, Feuilly threw what remained of the cigarette at Bahorel's feet and, while he was distracted, made a mad dash for the bar just a few yards away. Running inside, he immediately scanned the room for any sign of his roommate and, judging by the mop of dark hair hovering over a half empty glass of a liquid green substance, found him slumped over at a table far in the back. Sprinting over to Grantaire, Feuilly quickly slid into the booth and beneath the table just as he heard the door swing open wildly.

"Feuilly?" Grantaire mumbled.

"Yeah?"

"Never mind." Feuilly smiled and tightened his crouching position and Bahorel's thunderous footsteps drew closer to the table. Soon, Bahorel's huge Timberlands came into sight and he heard Bahorel ask Grantaire:

"Would you happened to have seen a disgruntled ginger jackass run in here recently?"

"Not as of late, no," Grantaire answered, drily. Bahorel sat down in the booth on the bench across from Grantaire and Feuilly soon felt a swift kick delivered to his left shin.

"Asswipe," Feuilly grumbled as he came up to sit beside Bahorel.

"Asshat," Bahorel shot back. Grantaire stared at them, his eyes drooping and unfocused.

"Children, children," he drawled. "Please, control yourselves."

"Sorry," Feuilly apologized, not really sounding sorry at all. "But not all of us get to spend our nights in the sole company of the Incorruptible."

"What?!" Bahorel's voice must've shot up two octaves.

"Shut up, just shut up," Grantaire entreated, running his hand through his unruly hair, flakes of dry paint sprinkling the tabletop.

"Wait," Bahorel said, trying to get a grasp on the situation, "so did you guys-"

"No!" Grantaire asserted, finishing off his drink in a final swig and signaling to be brought another.

"But you guys are-"

"NO!"

When the next drink arrived, Grantaire chugged it down in three epic gulps and finally asked to just be brought the bottle.

"So what the hell happened?" Bahorel wondered, more than a little confused. Grantaire looked at him and stated frankly:

"Absolutely nothing."

"Do you think that you two might-"

"No." And like a man presented with a heroic feat, Grantaire set to imbibing the entire bottle of absinthe as if he were drinking from the Fountain of Youth itself.

By the time they decided it was time to head to the cafe, Grantaire was rambling like a man possessed and neither Feuilly nor Bahorel was any closer to figuring out what exactly it was that had happened between Enjolras and Grantaire the other night. At some point, they thought he was reciting Shakespeare though neither bore the Bard an excessive amount of love.

"A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling, much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth. And for a woman wert thou first created…" Grantaire paused as they walked towards the cafe and inquired rather loudly, "God damn it, do either of you know the rest of it?"

Feuilly and Bahorel shook their heads in unison and continued to prod Grantaire on his way.

"Ah well, something, something, blah, blah, blah," Grantaire continued to rant on, "But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure, mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure!…Lovely, isn't it?"

"Yes, Grantaire, pure poetry. Keep moving." Bahorel huffed, completely done with the drunkard's antics. Unfortunately, Grantaire was far from being done.

"What do you think it means though?" He blurted out.

"I think that, even though he was married to a woman, Shakespeare played for another team." Feuilly mused, proud of his own analysis.

"By George, Feuilly, I think you've got it!" Grantaire virtually bellowed. "Enjolras was right; you really are the salvation of the underdog!"

Feuilly chuckled softly as they reached the cafe. "Is that what you and Enjolras discussed? Poetry and myself?"

"Well, we…woah," Grantaire suddenly lost his balance and slouched against the cafe wall.

"Grantaire?"

But Grantaire didn't respond. Instead, he ducked into the alleyway next to the cafe from which Feuilly and Bahorel could hear the sounds of violent retching and incomplete oaths as Grantaire littered the street with the contents of his stomach. Feuilly ran inside, hoping to find Combeferre or Joly, but the first man he met was Enjolras who was instantly followed by Combeferre at the sight of Feuilly's urgent expression.

"It's Grantaire, he drank to much today; he's outside now." Feuilly informed them rapidly and together they returned to the alley, outside of which Bahorel stood guard and from within, Grantaire could still be heard coughing and moaning and vomiting. Enjolras, leader through and through, promptly began doling out orders.

"Combeferre, get me some kind of container or bag. Feuilly, get me a cab. Bahorel, help me with him." Everyone did what was asked of them without questions. Combeferre returned from within the cafe with a plastic black trash bag as Bahorel and Enjolras supported Grantaire's weight between them. After a two unsuccessful attempts, Feuilly triumphed in acquiring them a cab. Together, Enjolras and Bahorel helped a pale and sweating Grantaire into the back seat of the cab and Enjolras, taking the trash bag from Combeferre, told them:

"I will take him back to his room. Combeferre, I entrust the running of the meeting to you and I expect you all to take it as seriously as if I were there." The four of them nodded in agreement and Enjolras joined Grantaire in the back seat of the cab. They heard Grantaire retch once more as the cab drove away, Enjolras holding the trash bag up to his mouth for his use.

Combeferre, Feuilly and Bahorel stood on the sidewalk in silence until Courfeyrac and Jehan came out from inside the cafe, looking curious.

"Where'd Enjolras go?" Courfeyrac asked and after getting a whiff of the contents of the alley, "And why does it smell like Saint Patrick's Day came early this year?"

With absolutely no prelude or embellishment, Bahorel informed him, "Grantaire got sick so Enjolras took him home."

"So Operation: You Can't Spell Revolution Without L, O, V, E is really just moot at this point?"

"Courferyac…" Combeferre warned.

"No, I think he's right." Bahorel surprised everyone with this confession. He met their shocked face and admitted, "I think there's a lot more going on between those two than they would have us believe.

"They'll never admit to it," Feuilly said.

"You know what we need, boys?" Courfeyrac turned his gaze to Jehan who looked down at his feet. "Proof."

"Prouvaire?" Feuilly asked. Jehan smiled, slightly embarrassed.

"Yeah…about that…"