Notes: Guess which book the bit about the Spanish wine is from? Hint: it's at the end of a great French novel. This story is dedicated to Mr. Trent Blanton, the best Grantaire that I have ever had the great pleasure to see or hear.

Corinth should have been closed. The two patrons still remaining should have been given warning; asked gently to leave long ago. However, they remained because these two were not the sort of men you asked to leave lightly.

Enjolras had taken a table as far from Grantaire as possible. His essay, started earlier that evening, was still far from finished. Enjolras worked on. He did not particularly enjoy the subject, it having been dictated as: The Significant Laws of Napoleon and Their Effects. However, Enjolras was bent on making his views heard, whatever the media. The essays would be read aloud by M. Blondeau, the instructor. This was usually a time for naps on the part of the general student body, but Enjolras meant to give them something new to listen to in the hopes that it would wake them up. In his opinion Napoleon had made no significant laws and their effects had been purely detrimental in the history of France.

Grantaire sat at his usual table in the corner. He was in a fair way of emptying a bottle of Spanish wine, an occupation which he religiously went through every night. He spun the glass around and contemplated the charms of his half-empty bottle of Malaga. It's almost as beautiful as you are, Apollo, Grantaire thought, and much kinder. In reality, Grantaire had only taken the wine as an excuse to stay and watch Enjolras after the others left. He did this on nights the leader stayed late at Corinth. Enjolras would not sleep, so neither would his shadow. Grantaire remained as a kind of moral support that was never accepted.

"Demi-god," he said finally. "What are you writing?"

Enjolras, too tired to fight, said shortly: "An essay."

"Can I help?" Grantaire sauntered over to his table, bottle in hand. He sat down opposite his leader.

Enjolras wiped a hand across his face, and when it came away, he looked much younger than his scant score of years. "Please go away."

"Just ignore me, Apollo. You seem to be very good at doing that."

"I have a name, you know. I wish you'd use it once in a while."

"Enjolras seems so-- formal. Do you have another? Or is it against your beliefs; to have more than one name?"

"My name is Jeanne Enjolras. Never call me that." He said this last sentence with such ferocity that Grantaire was a bit surprised. All the same, he began to muse.

"Jeanne is a girl's name. What was your mother thinking, Ap-- Enjolras?"

"I have no idea, she died when I was five."

"That seems to be what mothers do nowadays, isn't it?"

Enjolras slapped him. It was an open-handed slap that snapped Grantaire's head back. The chair moved slightly.

"My mother's name was Jeanne. She died of the cholera a couple years ago." This from Grantaire, who was rubbing his cheek.

"I am sorry. Go away."

Grantaire did a very good job of not showing how much Enjolras had hurt him. "I meant what I said about helping. Let me see the paper; I used to be good at that sort of thing."

"Used to be?"

"Aye, I used to be a student. I used to be a great many things, my demi-god."

"I've asked you not to call me that."

"May I call you Jeanne, then? You may call me René."

"I prefer not to indulge in such familiarity with-- one such as yourself."

"One such as I, my demi-god? Have I become that repulsive in two years? We get rid of Charles X and things just go downhill!"

"You were involved in the July Revolution?"

"Involved in it? I led it. I used to be rather good at speech-writing, you see. But I don't suppose you need any help at that, do you, Apollo?" Grantaire stood up, "Good luck with the paper."

He walked out the door into the darkness that had become his life, leaving Enjolras stunned at the table with a candle that burned brighter for the absence of a drunkard.

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