Author's Note: Just a question for Sythar and anyone who has noticed this: what is with les Miserables fan fiction and respiratory problems? Is it Hugo himself with Fantine who started the trend? Because there's AmZ's Isaac's TB, Alec(the first)'s pleurisy, Perceval's broken ribs and now this. There are logical reasons in each case but it's still strange…

23rd December

Unknown workers showing up at apartment – 1

Troublesome news received – 1

Bowls of chicken soup consumed out of solidarity even though I wasn't hungry – 1

Unsolvable dilemmas – 1

Inapplicable plans to solve said dilemma – 1

Persons who might be able to apply said plan to solve said dilemma but whom I would really rather not get involved because they might make a mess of things instead – 1

I cannot believe what I am doing. It's almost noon and I'm still in my night clothes, curled up in a corner of the couch with an adventure novel in my lap.

The morning started a lot more productively. Got up with the intention of looking over the notes I had scribbled during Pointless July Revolution about the organization of the National Guard and some strategically unsound moves on part of the rebel forces. But while I was making myself tea, I suddenly realized… There's no point! There will be no one to tell my conclusions to for at least two more weeks and, frankly, most of them still don't seem too keen on listening. It's like they come to the meetings out of habit. Or because the back room has some sentimental value to them. In that 'remember when we used to come here and plan revolutions?' kind of way. It makes me want to tear my hair from my scalp.

It's like with that book in my lap. I know I am really far too old to be reading Télémaque again, (not to mention that I have lately started to cringe at anything connected to Greek mythology) but I still pick it up occasionally. It's a token of a care-free and ignorant childhood and I don't want to let it go completely but at the same time, it's not too important in my present life. Is that what our meetings have become? Tokens of all the 'fun' we had when we were 'playing rebels'?

Naturally, there's no question of me giving up on the Cause. If things don't get better, I'll just have to take Jehan and Fabrice (hopefully they have no intention of giving up either) and look for new supporters and reform Les Amis. But, God, I can't believe Combeferre may not be there! And I have yet to go on a recruiting mission. I admit I have been postponing it. For the first time I am not sure I have the courage to stand in front of a crowd and face a sea of skepticism.

My head hurts when I start thinking like that. That's why I picked up the book. But even that seems to bring about unpleasant thoughts today. Reading an adventure novel reminds me of what my father said last time I saw him. That I got too engrossed in those stories as a boy and that's why I'm trying to pretend I'm some kind of hero now. Words cannot express exactly how furious I was at that.

And reading about classical times reminds me of Grantaire's constant mocking (although he's been a little quieter lately).

And reading about Greece reminds me of Feuilly and the fact that Combeferre never did manage to take a good look at him and that I'm worried.

And with all this, I'm just sitting and sulking. At least everyone is either gone or busy so there is little chance of anyone showing up and seeing me in this st-

Merde. Someone's at the door. Better get dressed really quickly.

…

Dear Lord. I am right now at Feuilly's place – a tiny but, of course, very clean room in a house that is on the very edge of what could pass for Paris' respectable part.

The person at the door turned out to be a workman I had never seen before. Apparently, Feuilly practically collapsed at work today. Two of his co-workers were kind enough to take him home and pester him to tell them how to get into contact with someone who would at least check on him. He finally gave them my name which would have been flattering if he hadn't spent half of the time I've been here profusely apologizing for it.

The doctor has just gone and, thank God and all saints, it's not what I feared. The first thing that sprang to my mind was consumption and God only knows what I would have done faced with something I could do nothing about. Well, it's not that. But it's still a very severe cold, possibly bronchitis or pneumonia. Worrisome enough but I'm not allowed to show that since I can tell Fabrice himself is scared enough without me adding to the situation. Although somehow I can't imagine Feuilly being so afraid for his life. Not after the stunts I saw him pull in July. And especially not after he has been told by a medical professional that he will likely recover unless something goes really wrong. (Let's not think about that last part.) So I wonder what else could be bothering him. He's not saying anything, of course. In fact, he's acting positively chipper in a way that makes me think he'll crack in the middle of a sentence and burst into tears. Lord help me if that happens. I really wish Combeferre was here. This is completely out of my depth. Just now, while the doctor was here, I had to keep myself in check so I wouldn't instinctively step into my Leader role and start shouting orders like 'You – fix this man! You – stop coughing and get well immediately!'

Yes, and I'll just go and build a barricade, shall I? That will help a lot in this case.

God, did I just sound like Grantaire?

And I can't get rid of the irrational feeling that the doctor may not have been thorough enough. After all, it's not his friend coughing his lungs out.

At least Jehan arrived twenty minutes ago. I sent some boy to bring him as soon as I got here. (Strange, there were four or five children hanging around on the stairs.) He doesn't know what to do any better than I do but at least there's two of us here now. He's gone to find the landlady and see if he can convince her to make some soup. It's a pity raspberries are not in season. I always asked my mother for raspberries when I felt ill as a child.

Fabrice is asleep which is good, both because he needs rest and because when he is not sleeping he's going on about how he's going to pay us back the money we've spent on cabs and the doctor and whatever else. As if I would allow him! The last thing I need is to know that the bloody three francs he earns a day are going to pay some ridiculous debt he thinks he owes me!

Jehan is back with what should be chicken soup. Let's hope it contains actual chicken or at least something more nutritional than water and salt.

…

When I moved to stand up and wake Feuilly for dinner, Jehan grabbed my arm gently.

"Wait, before you wake him…" He threw a quick glance at the bed and sat opposite me, leaning forward and whispering. "Something's troubling him. You can see it, can't you?"

I nodded. Obviously, I had been thinking the same.

"Will you talk to him? He won't say anything to me. He doesn't think much of me."

My eyebrows flew up.

"Pardon? Prouvaire, I'm sure you are wrong. I have never met a person who doesn't like you."

"Oh, Feuilly likes me well enough, I believe. I just suspect that he doesn't think I live in the real world, that's all. And, you know, he's right." Jehan chuckled a bit. "I know you and I are probably the two people in Paris most prone to staring off into space grasping at abstractions but out of the two of us I think you would qualify as more down-to-Earth."

I commanded the muscles of my face to retain a somewhat dignified expression and not let my eyebrows travel all the way up my forehead and into my hair. I wasn't aware that I stared off into space on regular basis. Well… at least not enough for people to notice. But then again, I had never been described as 'down-to-Earth' either.

"Besides," Jehan continued, "you're his leader. He'll trust you with anything."

I wasn't entirely sure about that but I gave a curt leader-ly nod and went to the bed, giving the man sleeping on it a gentle shake.

"Feuilly, we have some dinner served. Although 'served' is, perhaps, a bit of an overstatement…"

Fabrice opened his eyes, blinked at me for a moment, then glanced at Jehan who was pouring soup into bowls.

"Oh, no…" He slammed his face into the pillow with a groan. "What are you two still doing here?"

This was the moment for Courfeyrac or Bahorel or even Grantaire to say something ridiculous like 'What does it look like we're doing? We're fishing!'. But, of course, none of them were here so Jehan and I just exchanged looks across the room. That's one of the reasons I hate it when someone's missing from a meeting or similar. The whole conversation seems to stumble on the empty chairs.

"I didn't mean that I don't like having you here!" Feuilly amended quickly. "But, really, you have done more than enough. And I have to go back to work and finish what's left from this morning anyway…"

Of course, at this exact moment, his own lungs decided to point out the ridiculousness of what he was saying and he started coughing so hard that I was surprised he didn't spit at least a few vital organs on the floor. I turned back to him, drawing to my full leader-ly height (that I normally only use for large crowds of prospective republicans) and looked down at him sternly.

"First, you will stay in this bed until further notice. Second, you will stop mentioning debts and paying back. Consider whatever Jehan and I have spent or will spend on your health an investment into the army of the Republic. Third, you will tell me right now why you are so upset."

"I'm not upset!"

"Mon Ami, I don't mean this in any disrespectful or patronizing way, but that sounded just a little hysterical," Jehan pointed out from behind me.

Feuilly rubbed his forehead with a fist and gave a long sigh, apparently getting a grip on himself. When he spoke next, he sounded more composed.

"You know, I've never been sick a day in my life. Not seriously, anyway. A bit of a runny nose here and there. I've always been healthy enough to work. As long as I'm at work, it will be fine. But I cannot afford to miss out. I plan to take care of myself as much as possible, really, I do. But do you know how many people are looking for jobs? Of course you do! We talk about that all the time at meetings! The boss is not going to wait for me to get better. He can't afford it either. We get more orders over Christmas because of all the balls. So he could replace me in minutes. He might have already replaced me. What if I can't find anything else? So this is not me being stubborn, it's just… If you think I wouldn't rather stay in bed and eat soup… If you think…"

He stopped in the middle of the sentence, rubbed his forehead again, took a few calming breaths and went straight into another coughing fit. Jehan and I stared at each other helplessly.

"Alright… Alright…" I said slowly, sitting on the bed next to him and trying to think. "What if we find someone who will be willing to take your place for a period of time and then relinquish it back to you?"

Feuilly shook his head.

"No one in their right mind would give up a job."

"They would, if they weren't looking for a job in the first place," I pointed out.

"No one who doesn't need a job would take one for three francs a week."

"Well, not for their own benefit. We need someone who won't mind doing us a favor and is at least qualified enough not to get fired."

Unfortunately, I didn't really know any painters at all, let alone ones that would do this.

"Enjolras," Jehan began cautiously, "you are not going to love this but the only person I can think of… for whom I have reason to believe he can paint at least to some extent… and has a chance of agreeing… is Nicolas."

I frowned in confusion.

"Who?"

Jehan chuckled nervously.

"Grantaire."