This is a story of what never, ever happened. It's condensed insanity, really, and collects strange elements from all manner of stories and roleplays.

Another normal day passed in Le Cafe Musain. Joly and Bossuet had a short argument about Musichetta, but made up in spectacular fashion, thereby embarrassing their friends. Courfeyrac and Bahorel discussed the latest styles. Prouvaire got up and read a poem, which only Combeferre seemed to like. Pontmercy wandered in, made a brainless comment or two, and received sympathy from Feuilly. And, of course, we mustn't forget them of all people, Enjolras yelled at Grantaire, who accepted all of the insults as if they were praise. It was an average sort of day.

Combeferre, being the eminently reasonable man he was, approached Enjolras after he had finished praising Jehan's poetry. "I don't understand why you fight with him," he said, almost sadly.

"You do not want to know," Enjolras answered. He tried to go back to rererererereading Rousseau, but Combeferre wouldn't let him.

"Of course I want to know. I'm your best friend and I'm the resident therapist, right? You have to tell me, or I have every right to nag you until you do. It's in my contract."

Enjolras sighed deeply. "It is a long story."

"I get paid by the hour," Combeferre said, shrugging slightly. "Try me."

That earned him a curious look, but he made no response. Enjolras shook his head and began to talk. "It all started when I first came to Paris. I had never been to a city that big."

Wavy lines started streaking through the cafe, indicating an imminent flashback.

Grantaire, looking rather more clean-cut and upright and sober than in the previous scene, walked along a Parisian street of indeterminate location because the author of this story has never been to Paris and does not care enough to figure out a reasonable location for him to be. Enjolras trailed along behind him, looking even younger than he normally would. He asked in a very light tenor, "How on earth did you ever get used to Paris? It's such a big, scary, ugly city."

"'s not ugly," Grantaire responded, "and it's not that scary if you know there's someone here who loves you."

"Oh." Enjolras managed to sound completely less than enlightened despite his companion's utter lack of subtlety. "It must be nice to know something like that. I bet I'll never feel that way."

That stopped Grantaire -- not in his tracks, because he turned around to face Enjolras, catch him by the waist, and bestow a kiss. Admittedly, said kiss did not seem to have much to do with love, but it looked interesting, to say the least.

When Enjolras was released, his cheeks were flushed. "Wow."

"Oh. Good. I was half afraid you were going to be straight in this story," Grantaire said sheepishly.

"Nahh. The author just reread 'The Picture of Dorian Gray.' It's beyond her to write me straight today." Enjolras stole another kiss.

"Ah. I see," Grantaire opined after that.

Wavy lines obscured them once more, signalling a return to the so-called present.

"My God!" Combeferre expostulated. "But why do you fight, then?"

"The bastard dumped me for some tart, name of Marie-Suzette," Enjolras said, his lower lip beginning to tremble. "She's pretty and perfect and wonderful and he apparently loves her and it's just not fair, Combeferre!" With a wail, he threw himself into the other man's arms.

Combeferre did not protest. Instead, he patted Enjolras on the back. "There, there, cher. I'll take care of you."

Enjolras looked up at him with tearful eyes. "Will you? I thought you were with Jehan -- but I'd be so happy."

"Nope, that's a different story. I'm all yours." The promise was sealed with a kiss.