Éponine entered Le Café Musain with a bang one day. Literally. She slammed the door behind her so hard that a number of Les Amis turned their heads and swore at her. Enjolras gave her a cool gaze and Éponine shot a deadly glare back. Seeing this, Grantaire frowned. That wasn't usual behaviour for Éponine... Enjolras was typically exempt from her black looks. Grantaire liked to think it was because Enjolras commanded awe and respect from everyone – and perhaps it was, to some degree. But he also knew Éponine simply feared his power to kick her out of Le Café.

"Bad day?" he asked as Éponine sat down and reached for the whiskey bottle. She ignored him.

He watched her quietly as she chugged the strong drink at an alarmingly rapid speed. Grantaire's forehead drew together in concern. Éponine could certainly hold her liquor, but this might be pushing it.

He reached out a hand and touched the arm which held the bottle, pressing it down gently. Éponine's eyes flashed at him in irritation.

"Seriously?" she snapped. "Coming from you? "

"Just take a breath or two in between gulps, won't you?"

"Va te faire foutre."

She continued chugging and Grantaire sighed.

"Do you want to talk about anything?" he asked after a few more moments had passed.

"I'm too busy counting my breaths."

It wasn't until Éponine was well clobbered that Grantaire finally learned what was going on. She was murmuring half to herself, half to him, and not much of it made sense. But Grantaire could put together enough pieces to understand.

"'Course I never really thought I ssstood a chanccce..." She slurred. "But still... And with hhher... She was so ugggly as a littl'un... 'S'not fair she growsss up to be ssoo beautiful... 'Y'know I ussed to be pretty? 'Fore life, y'know... Life makess her beautiful, me ugly...'S'jus' cruel..."

Grantaire watched Éponine in silent concern, his large hand covering her thin, bony one.

"'S'why he i'n't here today..." she continued. "In sssome garden with her... "

Éponine was far too inebriated to walk by the end of the evening. Grantaire considered carrying her to her home, but given she still hadn't let him accompany her, he didn't know the way. And she was hardly in a state to direct him. So instead, he slung her over his shoulder, murmuring an apology that she probably didn't hear, and set out towards his own flat.

Éponine was light – concerningly so – and it took next to no effort for Grantaire to carry her through the streets and up the stairwell to his flat. He shouldered the door open (he never bothered to lock up) and walked on over to his unmade bed. She was unconscious by this time. Her breathing was loud and rattly, which he figured was a good sign. At least she wasn't choking on her own tongue or anything.

He laid Éponine in the bed and pulled his blanket over her, smoothing it down with both hands.

"You're gonna feel like shit tomorrow," he mumbled, flicking her gently on the forehead. She stirred, making a sound that was something between a grunt and a snort. But she didn't wake.

A couple hours later, Grantaire began to yawn. He glanced at the passed out girl in his bed, then about his room, as though he could conjure up a sofa through wishful thinking. Although he'd been renting here for over a year, he'd left the place entirely undecorated and unfurnished, save for the essentials of a bed and liquor cabinets (the latter often unused in favour of dozens of liquor crates scattered across the floor). The only thing Grantaire did in his flat was sprawl drunkenly, sleep, and have sex - and the bed was perfectly sufficient for all those purposes. But as Grantaire frowned at his now occupied bed, he regretted for the first time his meager furnishing decisions.

Sighing, Grantaire walked over to the slumbering Éponine, then clambered up onto the mattress next to her. He nudged her with his elbow, hoping to get her to roll over and make more room. But she just issued a guttural purring sound and curled in closer to him, tucking her head against his chest.

Grantaire grimaced. The last thing he needed was for a wasted, broken-hearted Éponine to mistake him for Pontmercy while they were sharing his bed.

But then, Éponine pulled her head back and tilted her face up to him, blinking sleepily. And when she spoke his name, Grantaire realized there was no mistake.

"'Taire," she mumbled. Her smile somehow managed to be both sluggish and sincere, at the same time. "I don' keep friends. So we urn't that. But yurr a good friend."

Grantaire stared for a moment. Then, he felt his own mouth stretching into a smile - one that was significantly broader than hers.

Éponine blinked at him a few more times, then her eyelids drifted shut and she nestled back into his chest. Soon the return of her loud, rattly breathing indicated that she was asleep. Grantaire wrapped his arms around her comfortably. The smile remained on his face as he drifted off to sleep.