Author's Note: Phew, this one took a while! It was supposed to be an entry for the 24th but too many things are happening to stuff them all into one chapter. Enjoy!

23rd-24th December, midnight

Amis involved in helping Feuilly – 3 (much better than today at noon)

Annoying drunkards – 1 (but annoying and drunk enough for a whole army)

Plans that I know won't work on account of annoying drunkard – 1

Plans that might work – undetermined number

Hours of sleep I am likely to get tonight - 0

I feel like it's been at least a whole day since Jehan's rather surprising suggestion this afternoon.

"Grantaire paints?" Fabrice asked curiously, confirming that I hadn't misheard.

"Well…" Prouvaire hesitated. "It's not so much that he paints at present, it's more that I believe he knows how to. It's a bit complicated. You know that he attended the university at one point. I have no idea what it was exactly that he was supposed to be studying but he went to quite an impressive array of completely unrelated classes. Apparently, one of the things he was reasonably fond of was biology. That, however, required some drawing skills and Grantaire wasn't very experienced at drawing. So he decided to go to an art class and ended up liking it so he attended that too for a while…"

One little and very strange thought fluttered through my mind a few times during this explanation – Jehan knows details about Grantaire's life? And his Christian name? Is it possible that they are close friends and I haven't noticed? But no, out of all of the Amis, Jehan is the one to speak to the drunkard least frequently. It's like they're on completely different planes of existence.

"How do you know all this?" I asked, rather than continuing to try figuring it out on my own.

Prouvaire blushed, as he often does, simply at being addressed. (At the beginning of our acquaintance I used to wonder all the time what exactly I had said to embarrass him.)

"Oh, I just asked him a few questions one evening before the meeting. You see, I was early and he was there and I was just sitting across the room with some paper, trying to finish a poem but it wasn't working and then I suddenly got this inspiration for something different and… Oh, it doesn't matter. But I asked and he answered."

"And his first name?"

His face lit up.

"Oh, I make it a point to know people's first names! It makes it so much easier to love them! Because then you can see them as little boys and imagine their mother calling them by that name to come for dinner or…"

Grantaire as a little boy? My brain tried to process that image and choked on it. Perhaps I lack imagination but, honestly, the man is in his late twenties (I think), looks in his late thirties from all that alcohol and often speaks as if he's a hundred and one and bored with the world. How am I supposed to see him as a child?

But, regarding everyone else, I suppose Jehan's theory works. I myself often use their given names in my head and it's not too hard to call them 'boys' instead of 'men'.

My mind was dragged from the detour it had taken when Fabrice started coughing again and Jehan suddenly clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry, did I upset you?"

The fan-maker gave him a confused look over the hand he was covering his own mouth with.

"Huh?"

"I shouldn't have spoken of mothers so much…" the poet mumbled, blushing dark pink and looking close to tears.

Feuilly, in contrast, burst out laughing.

"Prouvaire, for God's sake! I am not quite so easily upset!"

I could tell he only barely stopped himself before adding 'unlike you'. Upon seeing that his words hadn't been convincing enough, he stood and drew the still slightly tearful Jehan in for an embrace. He rolled his eyes at me good-naturedly over our younger friend's shoulder.

"There, now, if it makes you feel better, you can call me by my given name to compensate for the times my mother didn't."

"Ah, if you don't object…"

"I'll be thrilled."

I could see Jehan was right – Fabrice didn't take him very seriously but he was, no doubt, as fond of him as the rest of us.

A few minutes later we were seated at the rickety table, all three of us forcing soup down our throats, mostly to keep the other two company.

"And you suggest we ask Grantaire of all people to do this?" I asked, rather unconvinced. "Even if he does have the skills, what makes you think he will say yes?"

Jehan shrugged.

"He loves us. He will never say no to any of us, especially to you."

I gave him a skeptical look.

"'He loves us'? What gave you that idea?"

"Oh, I may seem without a clue about a lot of things but love I do recognize."

This was said so matter-of-factly that I found I had no reply.

"Whether he will manage to complete the task is a different matter though," Jehan continued thoughtfully.

I turned to Feuilly.

"Your choice. I'll be honest; I don't see this working out with Grantaire playing the central part. If anything, he'll show-up drunk and make things worse. But I don't have a better suggestion at the moment. I suppose it's possible that I'm wrong."

Feuilly considered the matter for a second and shrugged.

"We won't know unless we try, will we?"

At this point there was a knock on the door. I stood up to answer and was quite surprised to discover a tall, lanky figure, fashionably dressed and leaning charmingly on the doorframe.

"Courfeyrac?"

"Good afternoon, Enjolras." He looked past me at Jehan and Fabrice, still sitting at the table and looking mildly surprised to see him. "Good Lord, Feuilly, you do look a little ill. Although you don't seem to be on your deathbed as I was almost led to believe when I was called here."

Feuilly raised an eyebrow at me and Jehan in turn. Jehan shrugged. I racked my brains to figure out how Courfeyrac had miraculously appeared at the door and suddenly remembered that I had indeed asked a different boy to fetch him when I had sent one for Prouvaire. But I hadn't had much hope that he would be at home so I had just forgotten about it and assumed it was up to Jehan and me to deal with the situation. I couldn't say I wasn't glad to see him though.

"So, may I join the party? I'm sorry I'm late but I was out when that boy came looking for me," he chattered as I stepped aside to let him in and he made himself comfortable on the couch. "Luckily, the little messenger turned out to be quite stubborn. He waited for me for hours until he could complete his assignment. I gave him a well-deserved reward, which he, I am glad to say, is currently splitting with his friends outside on the stairs. Say, Feuilly, did you know that you are currently better-guarded than the king? And your bodyguards are determined to stay at their posts until they are quite certain you are not dying."

"Oh, dear! Are you telling me they are still around?"

Feuilly shot out the door. We could hear him convincing someone, presumably the children, that he was perfectly alright and they could all, please, go, really, everything was fine.

"I didn't know they were here because of you," I said when he returned. "Else, I would have told them we had things taken care of."

"They're not all yours, are they, mon ami?" Courfeyrac asked with a devilish grin.

Feuilly rolled his eyes.

"You can sort of say that, in a way. Some of them have parents but the folks are often too busy trying to put bread on the table to do much else. So, the little ones keep me company from time to time. I teach them to read and write. And they don't mind Polish folk tales. I probably gave them a bit of a scare when Blanchon and Renard practically carried me here this morning."

We stared at him. There it is again, Fabrice, I thought. You are making me feel like an idiot. You have probably done more good for these children than our whole organization has managed to do for anyone so far.

"That's… That's absolutely wonderful!" Jehan summed up for us. "I mean, what you've been doing and not that you had to be carried, obviously… Why didn't you tell us? We could have helped. We are les Amis de l'ABC after all – we might as well live up to our cover."

He glanced at me for approval and I nodded. I didn't really fancy teaching street urchins the alphabet while I could be collecting guns instead but, of course, this was horrible of me to think and at this point I could not possibly say no.

"It's a splendid idea. But it will have to wait a little. We have another problem at present."

It took us a few minutes to bring Courfeyrac up to date. He fiddled with his cane thoughtfully while Jehan explained the Grantaire idea. Then he looked at me.

"Well, what are your orders, Commander? I could go and fetch Grand-R if you like."

I shook my head.

"No point bringing him here. We can both go and see him. I have to go home at least for a while. My rent was due today and I forgot to pay the landlady. Prouvaire, Feuilly, will you two be al…" I stopped before I said something mildly offending. They weren't children after all. "I mean, I know you will be alright but do you need me for anything?"

They both shook their heads.

"Don't worry. I'll get us some real dinner on top of the soup," Jehan promised. "And I could stay the night if Fabrice doesn't mind me borrowing his couch…"

Feuilly looked positively horrified.

"You most certainly will not! I mind very much you sleeping on a couch because I happened to catch a bit of a cold. I'd love you to keep me company over dinner but then you are going home! You may all come and see me tomorrow if you very much insist. But, as Courfeyrac reasonably pointed out, I am not on my deathbed."

"Very well then," I said picking up my coat and hat. "We will let you know tomorrow morning how it went with Grantaire."

I couldn't help a small grimace. I wasn't looking forward to putting anything important in Grantaire's hands.

Then Courfeyrac and I were out the door.

It was quite dark before we managed to reach our destination. I had heard that Grantaire's quarters were somewhere close to the Musain but, unsurprisingly, I had never actually bothered to learn the exact address. Courfeyrac took me through a few crooked alleys behind the café and to an insignificant-looking building. Then up a few flights of stairs to the third and last floor and to a plain brown door on the far left end of a corridor. He raised his cane and knocked rather loudly.

"If he's in and he hasn't passed out, he ought to hear."

Sadly, I could not adopt my friend's cheerful attitude at the thought of someone getting drunk enough to lose consciousness. But I refrained from voicing that thought. No one ever seems to take Grantaire's drinking quite as seriously as I do and if I try to raise the topic in front of them, I'm faced with shaking heads and smiles of exasperation, as if I'm talking about a naughty little sibling eating too much candy.

There was some shuffling and the door was opened by a very disheveled and undoubtedly drunk Nicolas Grantaire. (Although I should really refrain from ever thinking of his given name after listening to Jehan's talk of little boys. Otherwise I risk having an image of a drunkenly swaying ten-year-old with bloodshot eyes, stubble and a bottle stuck in my mind forever. And, of course, even his name had to be specifically chosen to mock me. Nicolas. 'Victory of the People'. Hah!)

"Ah! Apollo, Courfeyrac, what a fine surprise," he slurred, focusing on us with some difficulty. "Bit early for a Christmas visit but I don't complain. Do come in, do come in, to Hephaestus' humble abode, my dear friends. Have you brought the Sun with you, Apollo? 'Tis a bit dark in here. Hades is playing dominoes with Dionysius in the corner…"

I followed him and Courfeyrac inside thinking 'shut up, shut up, shut up!' the whole time. Can't he just speak to me normally for a moment? Or act as if I'm a real person and not one of the delusions that his wine-soaked imagination conjures for his entertainment? I feel positively used within five minutes of being in the same room with him, like a dancer whose sole purpose is to fuel men's fantasies!

Courfeyrac threw me one glance, understood immediately that if I were to open my mouth right now the only thing coming out would be a growl, and resolved to take things into his own hands.

"Now, Grand-R, mon ami, we're here because we need a favor…"

"A favor! A favor to the gods! Shall that be a human sacrifice? Anything for you, my lord and master."

He attempted to kneel before me and ended up toppling over and bursting in a fit of giggles on the floor.

"Grantaire, you are truly an abomination," I said as calmly as I could manage. "Get up."

He stopped laughing and stared up at me with eyes so red and watery that I could hardly see them in the sickly light of the gas lamp. I was not sure I had ever seen him so outrageously inebriated before. Or at least he was normally not awake at this stage.

"But isn't that where an abomination belongs, Apollo?" he asked quietly this time. "At your feet?"

I turned to Courfeyrac.

"This is no use. I don't know what I was thinking. Let's go."

"Ah, Enjolras, he won't be that bad once he's sobered up! Tell you what, I know witnessing people's silliness irritates you. Go home and I will stay and make sure our old friend here is in top shape tomorrow. I'll tell him what he has to do. And if that doesn't work, you have my word that I will find another solution."

I hesitated.

"Come on, Adrien." He gave me a compelling look. "You and Prouvaire have done everything else so far and I feel behind on good deeds."

I glanced at Grantaire.

"We can't leave this in his hands."

"We won't. I'll keep an eye on him. And if he's not up to the task, I may have another idea. Trust me. I believe I can talk my way through this one with Feuilly's boss if it comes to that."

I sighed. I was tired and I really wanted to just leave it to him. I knew I could trust him. Antoine is really a most trust-worthy person unless you are his mistress. And even then, I admit I have not heard of any girl complaining from his treatment of her. So, I suppose, if he is able to charm his way out of quarrels with half of the female population of Paris, it might be possible for him to negotiate something in Fabrice's favor. In any case, I had nothing better to offer.

"Very well then," I said finally. "Goodnight, Courfeyrac."

"Goodnight, Enjolras."

I turned on my heels, trying to ignore Grantaire who was shakily getting off the floor.

"Goodnight, Apollo."

I practically ran outside and almost slammed the door in my desire not to turn and shout at him. It would be useless. He wouldn't hear a thing and he probably wouldn't keep his mouth shut either and I would get even angrier and I hate loosing my temper.

Once I was out of the building, I breathed in deeply. The doubtfully clean air of Paris seemed a lot cleaner in comparison to what I had had to breathe in that bottomless pit of a room. The air in there consisted not of any chemical elements but of mockery and bitterness and disbelief. Pure poison. I sometimes wonder how Grantaire himself stands to live in it.

Is he even really alive?

Maybe he was right. Maybe Hades and Dionysus were really playing dominoes in the corner. Maybe if I go back there, I will see them too. And I have no wish to.