The sun is high by the time Grantaire wakes the next morning. The Musain is empty, books, papers, and bottles lay scattered where they were abandoned the night before. He tries to rise, ignoring the way his body screams in protest. He aches all over, and as much as he wishes he could ignore it, he knows he's running a fever.

After a few tries, he's finally able to rise, shakily, to his feet. His head swims, but with all his practice being drunk and hungover, he's still able to make it down the stairs, leaning on the wall to keep his balance.

Outside, the sun beats down on the street, and, judging by the smell, he should be feeling rather warm right now. Still, shivers wrack his frame. He stumbles a few times over nothing, finding it harder and harder to regain his balance. Dots dance in his vision. He hears laughter drifting out an open window, and wonders, vaguely, what was so funny.

When he finally falls, he manages to catch himself partially on the wall, lungs heaving for air, rattling with each breath. Something is shaking, but he can't tell if it's him, or the ground. He relishes the feeling of the warm sunlight for a moment, before his consciousness dissolves into nothing.

When he is awoken the sun has moved, leaving him in the shadows. He shivers at the cold, squinting up at the silhouettes that stand over him, blocking the late afternoon sun.

"R?" Joly questions, leaning down to shake his friend by the shoulder, "Grantaire can you hear me?"

"Is he alright?" Courfeyrac asks, trying to get a glimpse of Grantaire's face.

"I don't know," Joly presses the back of his hand to Grantaire's forehead. He's burning up, "He's got a fever, bad one I think."

Grantaire groans at them, trying and failing to bat away Joly's hand.

"Up you come then," Courfeyrac pushes past Joly and lifts Grantaire to his feet, pulling his friend's arm over his shoulder, "Where to, Joly?"

"The Musain is closest. Let's get him inside and figure out what's going on before we take him anywhere else."

"M' fine," Grantaire groans, trying to get his feet back under him.

"Of course you are." Courfeyrac chuckles, leading his friend back toward the cafe.

Grantaire gives up and tries his best to keep his balance. His head is pounding, but he squints through the sunlight anyway, looking toward the cafe. No one should be there so early in the evening, but a shadow passes in front of the second story window. The glare off the glass makes his head pound, but he can see movement. They're almost to the door by the time he figures out who it is. It's the unmistakable silhouette of Enjolras.

Fear builds in his throat. He can't allow Enjolras to see him like this. He would think he was pathetic, weak, disgusting even. His head swims again and he has to lean on his friend. There's no way out, he doesn't think he could get past these two, not in this condition. He takes a deep, rattling breath to steel himself, and digs his heels in, forcing himself and Courfeyrac to a stop.

"Grantaire, what-"

"I can't go in there." Grantaire interrupts, head still pounding horribly.

"It will just be for a bit, Grantaire, until we know what's wrong. You're burning up, we need to get you inside." Joly reasons, signaling Courfeyrac to keep going, and putting Grantaire's other arm over his own shoulders.

"Nothing's wrong. Let me go." He tries again to push them off, but they just hold tighter and hurry their pace.

His pulse quickens, panic settling in. This can't be allowed to happen.

"Enjolras is in there, I can't go in." He begs, knowing they wouldn't understand, but hoping they would at least take pity on him.

"Enjolras? Why would that matter, I'm sure he won't mind if we keep you up there until we know what to do. Honestly we could use an extra pair of hands." Courfeyrac smiles at him, pushing through the cafe door.

Only a few students occupy the bottom floor, all at their respective tables, huddled by the windows so they can do their assignments. Grantaire feels his face heat even more with shame as a few look up to watch as he's carried through. He doesn't want to make a scene, but as they approach the stairs, he feels he may have no other choice.

Enjolras has been working for hours now. When he came back to the cafe at noon, Grantaire had already left, as had everyone else. He set to work anyway, glad at first for the silence. But it's hard to bounce ideas off of walls instead of people, so he's hit a few roadblocks. With evening approaching, the cafe is still empty, but he doesn't doubt that the first group of meeting-goers will be arriving soon.

He hadn't been very productive. Without the distraction of shouted ideas and, frankly, horrible jokes, his thoughts kept returning to Grantaire. The man had looked terrible the night before, but surely he would have gone to Joly if he were sick. Right?

He'll ask Joly when next he sees him, well, perhaps he won't have to if Grantaire is at tonight's meeting. The nights where Grantaire didn't raise a fuss were somehow worse than the nights he did. Grantaire confused, confounded, and frustrated him, but he would never wish him ill.

He takes down another note on his points sheet for the upcoming meeting. The A'mis were likely growing bored of his speeches by now. They yearn for action, something more substantial than a demonstration. Enjolras knows it's only a matter of time before they will have to take up arms, but it feels that this climax is approaching too soon. They aren't ready. The people are fast-approaching their breaking point, but they aren't there. Not yet.

A sudden scuffling at the bottom of the stairs startles him and he drops his pen. Loud footfalls bound up the steps and he rises to meet their owner. Joly practically falls into the room, clothes looking rumpled, a familiar furrow in his brow.

"Ah, Joly," Enjolras smiles, confused, but glad to see him, "Are you alright? I've been meaning to ask if you've seen Grataire, he's seemed out of sorts."

"I- ah-" Joly looks hesitant.

A crash sounds below them. Joly looks at Enjolras, then the stairs. He groans and starts back down the stairs, waving for Enjolras to follow. Enjolras can't fathom for the life of him what is going on, but hopes it isn't another drunken brawl, especially so early.

As they approach the bottom of the stairs Courfeyrac can be heard cursing in the back room. The sounds of fumbling and falling wood accompanying his colorful, and rather creative words. Enjolras winces as Courfeyrac coughs, he sounds terrible. It's no wonder he and Joly came together then.

By the time they enter the room Courfeyrac is dusting himself off, surrounded by broken pallet boards.

"Courfeyrac, you clumsy bastard." Joly jokes, brushing some dust off his friends back, "You really should be more careful."

There's a pause and Enjolras swears he can see joly whisper something to Courfeyrac.

"Yes, my apologies. No matter how I try to avoid them it seems situations like these keep occurring. I thought I could lean on them, but it seems they're rotten. I'll be more careful." Courfeyrac smiles at him and Joly, brushing the last of the dust from his trousers.

The pallets don't look rotten to Enjolras, but he decides it's easier to just go along with it. Perhaps Courfeyrac's embarrassed.

"Courfeyrac, are you feeling well? Your cough sounded dreadful." He asks, worried that his friend could be coming down with something. It would explain the need to lean on the pallets.

"My-?" He looks at Joly quizzically, Joly just stares at him wide-eyed, "Oh, that? Nothing to worry about, it's been a rather wet spring this year is all."

Enjolras nods, rather confused by this entire encounter.

"Alright, well, do you two want to come up early? I can show you what I have so far for pamphlet design. I can't quite decide on the title." He offers, turning to go back up the stairs.

"Yes, we'll be right up!" Joly calls after him, whispering something to Courfeyrac that Enjolras can't quite make out, but he swears he hears Grantiare's name.

Grantaire can't help the tears that fall, his breath shuddering in shock and fear. Enjolras had come so close to finding him. He was only barely able to escape in time, pushing Courfeyrac out of the way. He's sorry he had to be rough with him, but he was desperate to not be seen, especially now. It had been his coughing, not Courfeyrac's, that Enjolras had heard, and as much as he wishes he could unsee it, the fit had left a stain on his sleeve: Blood.