Madame Thénardier eyed the students, one eyebrow quirked.

“It seems that whenever I pass by any one of you on the street, you’re always talking about some sort of revolution. Do you ever talk of anything else?” she asked. Enjolras glanced over his shoulder to her, a frown on his face. He opened his mouth to reply, but Grantaire interrupted.

“Never. At least, in Apollo’s case,” he motioned to the blond with his glass. “It’s always revolution this and revolution that . . . can’t ever get him to shut up. Now, Courfeyrac, here,” Grantaire pointed out the redheaded revolutionary, who lifted a hand to the Madame, as was his custom. “Courfeyrac always is ready with tales of a new mistress he has garnered or lost, and that keeps us interested. Combeferre, the doctor next to him,” The young man nodded to the Madame, a pleasant smile aimed in her direction. “is our resident philosopher and Enjolras’s right-hand man, whether he will admit to it or not. He is often quite readily available for philosophical discussions, if you like that sort of thing. Bossuet and Joly-“

“I’m Bossuet, he’s Joly, by the way.” the bald revolutionary volunteered, pointing to first himself, and then his brown-haired companion who was checking his tongue in the mirror.

“Thank you, Bossuet.” Grantaire stated. “Joly is always coming down with something of his imagination, and Bossuet always has to assure him that it is fake.”

“It is not fake!” Joly snapped indignantly, glaring at Grantaire over his hand mirror.

“Joly, if you had really gotten tuberculosis a week ago, you would have been dead already.” Bossuet pointed out on a sigh. Joly looked insulted.

“Moving on.” Grantaire stated. He motioned next to a very feminine looking young man with long brown hair that fell over one eye. “This is Jehan, our young poet. Lovely young man, and quite the writer. Always has some sort of brilliant poetry to brighten our day. Feuilly,” he pointed out the young fanmaker. “is as amazing with a brush as he is with his fans. Quite the talented young man, I assure you. If only someone were to buy his paintings. And last, but certainly not least, is Bahorel.” The boxer grinned, lifting a large hand in greeting. “Don’t ever get into a fight with him. It does make for some good stories, though.”

“And you, monsieur? Who are you?” Madame Thénardier asked, a smirk that matched Grantaire’s stealing into her face.

“I?” Grantaire looked amused. “I am a cynic. I am of a dark complexion and a dark nature, and you will want nothing to do with me, I assure you.”

“Oh, come off it, R.” Courfeyrac snorted, before he turned to address the Madame. “Madame, though he will deny it, Grantaire is part of the string that binds us together. Without him, there would be no one to question our action and place doubts; to make us glance at our goals again and to assure us that we go about it reasonably. He may be a cynic, but in the midst of all of us dreamers, that is essential, whether he likes it or not.  He is here to argue with Enjolras, who is anything but a cynic, so that we are not swept away in a tide. Grantaire has many stories to tell, as well, and has the ability to drink just about anyone under the table.” The redhead smirked at Grantaire, who was scowling at him fiercely. “He does, however, underestimate his own worth; but do not listen to him, Madame. If you want a true opinion on Grantaire, as anyone of us, save for Enjolras.”

“Monsieur Courfeyrac, you are irritating beyond belief.” The R stated, looking as though he would like to smack Courfeyrac over the head with a blunt object. The redhead only grinned back.

“The pot calling the kettle black, winecask?” Enjolras asked, not looking up from his map.

“Only in your case, Apollo. Only in your case.” Grantaire stated, mockingly toasting the blond with his glass.