It was Christmas Eve, and the Musain was empty. Well, almost empty. Tucked away deep in the back room, two students remained, each at his usual place. The one, Enjolras, was composing one of his famous speeches, devoting his whole attention to it. The cafe could burn down around him, and he wouldn't notice. The fair-haired revolutionary would simply continue to write, to serve his precious Patria, until he was physically incapable of it.

The other, Grantaire, was also devoting his attention to something, or rather, someone. Enjolras to be specific. Enjolras was to Grantaire what the revolution was to Enjolras: everything. He was Grantaire's every word, every thought, every breath. Of course, even when drunk (and he was absolutely drunk, as usual, absolutely, completely, beyond a doubt drunk), he would never tell a soul. No, instead he watched his golden angel, his Apollo, from afar, hoping one day to be able to make the truth known.

Finally, after a few hours of writing, Enjolras rose from his seat, gathering up his papers. If he had noticed Grantaire's attention, or even his presence, he didn't say anything. Suddenly, as Enjolras made his way to the door, Grantaire jumped up from his seat, his steady, determined pace concealing the growing pit of fear in his stomach (Or was that the absinthe? It was so dreadfully difficult for him to discern between the two sometimes.). At this point, he was moving on pure instict. If asked, he couldn't explain the cause, the motive. He simply followed where his feet led him.

"Grantaire?" Enjolras asked, finally noticing his shadow. He opened his mouth to speak again, but was quickly silenced as Grantaire kissed him, pushing the revolutionary against the door frame. It was over as quickly as it had begun, both students gazing at each other, one shocked, one pleased.

"Grantaire, what was that?!" Enjolras exclaimed, beyond confused. He tried to pull away, but Grantaire's arm had latched onto his waist, keeping him close.

"You should be more careful about where you stand, dear Apollo," Grantaire whispered teasingly into the blonde's ear and he pointed up at the tiny green plant dangling from the doorway. Enjolras examined it for a minute before returning his gaze to Grantaire, a strange look in his eyes. As if on a sudden impulse, Enjolras tentatively pressed his lips to Grantaire's, pulling the taller man closer, making him feel-

'Thud!'

The cafe door slammed shut, waking Grantaire from his absinthe-induced reverie. He looked around the room, but his Apollo was nowhere to be found.

"Just a dream then," he sighed, addressing his empty bottle. "A clever trick, my friend, sending Morpheus to me to weave such a tale. Well played, well played." And with that, he stumbled drunkenly home, passing under the mistletoe above the door without a second glance.