The streets are strangely empty for such a warm night. Only the faint echo of his own footsteps, distant pubs, and the occasional passerby interrupt the silence. Grantaire is thankful for the clear night air. For the first time in days, he feels well enough to leave his apartment. A headache still pounds behind his eyes, and his lungs have had little improvement, but the fever seems to have laid off for a while. Even if it is only a short reprieve, a calm before the storm, he's grateful.

As the cafe comes into view his footsteps slow, stopping completely to lean against a wall. Can he do this? He's wanted to return so badly, missing his friends horribly in the suffocating silence of his apartment, but ever since Enjolras came calling, he's been hesitant. He's not sure if he can face him now, or if he should. He still looks terrible, but compared to the last few days, it's a major improvement. Grantaire had even managed to eat this morning, the shaking ebbing just slightly in response.

The windows of the second floor of the cafe glow warmly, the occasional shadow passing by. From this distance he couldn't make out individuals, but his stomach turns at the thought that any one of those could be Enjolras. He's not sure why it bothers him so much that Enjolras may think less of him. The man already made it very clear he thinks little of him as it were. But there is something about Enjolras, something that awakens a strange part of Grantaire, something wonderful and unfamiliar. Enjolras makes him hope, he makes him believe in this world the leader is utterly convinced will come to pass. Perhaps Grantaire wishes so strongly that he could live in this world of Enjolras'. Perhaps he wishes that Enjolras could believe so strongly in him. Perhaps it is something else altogether.

He had heard many times from the mouths of poets and musicians the wonders of love and hope and romance. Was that what set his drowning soul aflame in the night at the mere thought of Enjolras? Is it that which lights his cheeks red at the thought of what it would be like to embrace him? Grantaire had spent hours trying to hit or drink this piece of him away. Sometimes he would think he had succeeded, then he would see Enjolras again, and be right back where he had started. It scared him that this man had brought out this piece of him, scared him that it had turned him into something he didn't quite recognize anymore. He found himself looking forward to some vague impossible someday. Someday he would tell Enjolras. Someday, Enjolras would take his hand. Someday, they could live in peace together. Someday, he would be happy. Someday, he would be seen.

He finally had to accept, that no matter what he does, or tries to tell himself, he does love Enjolras, and he can't drown that piece of himself. No matter how badly he wishes, for his and Enjolras' sake, that he could.

Grantaire summons his strength and pushes off the wall, walking toward the cafe that stands like a beacon at the end of the street. He can't spend another night trying to sleep with only the sound of his rattling lungs to remind him of where he is. He needs the noise and bustle of the cafe to remind him he's still alive.

He inches around the wall at the top of the stairs, scanning the room for Enjolras. There's only a few students he doesn't know, gathered in a circle where Gavroche entertains them with some story or other involving pick-pocketing Bahorel. Grantaire lets a small smile inch onto his face. He missed this.

He settles into his usual seat in the back, surprisingly winded from the short journey. His cough has let up just enough to where he had some control over his coughing fits, or, at least he could tell when they were coming on. A few red handkerchiefs lay folded in his pocket so that, should he need to cough, he could do so without frightening anybody. His sleeve still has faint brown stains where he had coughed into it before, unwilling or unable to find another solution. He had scrubbed at it furiously for almost an hour, but it had sat too long and wasn't likely to really be coming out any time soon.

The cafe begins to fill, more familiar faces mingling with the influx of strangers. There seem to be more students than when he had last attended. Most don't notice him so far in the back. His table had no candle, and he's grateful for the lack of notice, he's not sure what he plans to say if anyone asks what's wrong with him.

When Joly walks in the door Grantaire stiffens up a little, guilt building in his chest at not having let his friend in, ignoring his attempts to help. Joly spots him almost immediately and makes a beeline for his table, a grin spreading rather quickly over his face.

"Grantaire! You're feeling better? You still look so pale, have you rested? How's your cough? Has your fever broken for good? How long has it been gone?-"

"Joly, Joly, calm down, would you?" Grantaire rubs at his eyes, headache worsening in response to his friend's interrogation, "I'm feeling a little better, but I'm not sure how long I can trust it to last. My fever broke yesterday morning and hasn't yet returned."

"You could be pushing your luck by going out like this, you really should have rested."

"Oh, resting, I'm so tired of resting. What good is rest to the dying?"

Grantaire realizes his mistake in choice of joke when Joly's face falls. He opens his mouth to try and fix it, but Joly raises a hand to silence him.

"R, don't say that. Not tonight, and not here. It is hard enough to pretend everything is the same when your voice sounds like gravel. I don't need to be reminded that I could be losing you."

"I'm sorry." Grantaire looks down at the table, the light air having been extinguished, "That was in poor taste."

Joly smiles at him, a silent thanks, and rests a hand on Grantaire's shoulder.

"All is forgiven."

Courfeyrac takes a seat on Grantaire's left, shooting him a wordless smile and passing him a bottle. Grantaire nods in thanks and takes it with shaking hands.

"Cour-" Joly starts to protest.

"Everybody hush!" Enjolras strides into the room, an air of irritation about him for seemingly no reason at all. Grantaire can practically feel the anxious energy from across the room, "The hour of fate is nearly upon us! We cannot afford distraction."

Enjolras sends a searing glare to a few particularly rowdy students in the front, silencing them like a mother in the

marketplace. Grantaire can't help the small laugh that bubbles up in him. His stomach is in knots at being even this close to Enjolras after ignoring him nearly a week ago, but he can't help his amusement at his usual antics. Joly gives him a strange look, something mournful in his eyes that doesn't belong there. It feels wrong to see his friend so somber.

The meeting continues as expected for a while, Enjolras nearly yelling back and forth with the students, all of them citing whatever philosopher they have taken a liking to. This seems silly to Grantaire because the only thing making a philosopher any wiser than themselves was the fact that he wrote his nonsense down.

A sudden, noticeable, shift makes Grantaire sit up in his chair, leaning forward as Enjolras' voice drops, a new level of severity straining his features, lips pulled into a hard line.

"The time is upon us, friends. The time to decide who we will be, what we will stand for, and what we will fall for. Many of you are young yet, myself included. To dedicate your life now to a future you may never see is terrifying, but it is necessary. Who, if not you, will stand in defense of these people? Who, if not you, will cry freedom for our nation? And who, if not you, will stand with me to labor toward the dawn of a France we can be proud of? I cannot ask your lives of you, and I do not know that I could ask that of anyone, but there fast approaches a critical time in our history. There will be those that stand for freedom, and those that do not, and I, regardless of which wins while I am yet living, will stand with the one that will outlast time. I stand for a world that I wish upon our posterity.

"There is something to be said for those who fight for something they have not yet seen. We have seen in the America's what can be achieved by belief alone. For those of you that stand with me, know this: the winds of time are on our side. This world will not stand for oppression anymore, dawn approaches, for all people. The glory of a France reborn is inevitable, and her people will see the light of this new day, and rise to meet it. There remains only one question-"

Enjolras' eyes lock on Grantaire, his entire countinance freezing. The man looks as though he has died and crawled from his grave to sit where he does now. An unopened bottle sits in front of him and Grantaire gazes at it wistfully, smiling slightly at something Enjolras cannot see. He looks up at the silence, meeting Enjolras' eye. Something pained passes across the man's face, the shadows under his eyes seeming deeper somehow, the defeated slump of his shoulders more prominent than Enjolras had ever seen it. He finds he cannot look away.

Grantaire breaks the contact, looking back down at his hands in his lap. Enjolras is grateful for the reprieve and wracks his brain desperately to remember where he was.

"Who will history remember you as?"

Enjolras manages to complete his speech, but his passion, so prominent in the beginning, fails to return. His mind turns again and again to Grantaire. What happened to him? Where has he been?

He ends the meeting as he always does and works against the crowd, determined to reach Grantaire before he can escape. He spots him through the crowd, leaning to allow joly to whisper something to him. He nods solemnly and stares down at his hands again. Courfeyrac pats him on the back, mumbling a short goodbye before joining the crowd pressing toward the exit.

Enjolras emerges from the crowd in a huff, exasperated that it is so difficult just to move with all the people hurrying every which way. He takes a seat across from Grantaire, not bothering to ask permission because he was going to speak to the man whether he liked it or not.

"Joly," He says cheerfully, turning to his friend with a strained smile, "Could you give us a moment, I have something to discuss with our dear Grantaire."

Joly nods, looking worriedly between the two, but he takes his leave. Grantaire watches him go, a fearful look settling in his eyes. Enjolras finds that strange, Grantaire has given him many looks over the time they've spent together, but fear was never one of them. He takes a deep breath, this wasn't going to be fun.