A/N- I know this is retarded. But it's something I've wanted to put on the site for an unspeakably long time now (five years?) so I decided to embed it in a hastily-written fanfic. Apologies and (perhaps) enjoy.
"Enjolras? Will we be meeting tomorrow?"
The leader gave Courfeyrac a steely glance. "And why wouldn't we?"
"Well… it's Christmas day," the other man replied quietly. Several of the assembled students nodded in agreement.
"That should make no difference."
"Shoundsh like someone doeshn't believe in Père Noël, that'sh what I think," slurred the voice of Grantaire.
Enjolras curled his lip. "I thought you were unconscious, winecask."
"Can ya not call me that, jusht during Chrishmash? It'sh mean," protested the thoroughly drunken drunk, teetering to his feet.
Enjolras leveled his icy gaze at Grantaire. "Winecask," he said slowly.
"That'sh it," cried the drunk, stumbling out of the café. "You wouldn't even notishe if I died, you uptight old—" the door slammed and cut off the rest of his insult.
"And at that," Enjolras said solemnly, "we adjourn. I will see you all early tomorrow morning, right here. Farewell."
The students filed out of the back room of the café, only Courfeyrac daring to grumble under his breath.
Even from a distance, Combeferre recognised Grantaire's huddled form at the end of the avenue. He rolled his eyes slightly. So the drunk had passed out in a public street again—no surprise there. He only wished he had noticed him here last night as he was leaving, giving him the chance to get him back to his own flat and clean him up a little before this morning's meeting. Imagine spending the night before Christmas unconscious in the middle of a street! He sighed and drew closer to the drunk's slumped body.
"Joyeux Noël, Grantaire—" he began, but the sentiment ended in a gasp as he drew closer and realised what he was actually seeing.
Grantaire was dead.
This was immediately evident based on what appeared to be hoof-prints upon his ashen forehead and the large puddle of blood that surrounded the body. His mangled hand was still clutched around a broken bottle of beer, and the amber liquid had also spilled onto the pavement, even mingling with the crimson blood.
"Hullo, Cubbeferre," cried Joly's voice. "Is Gradtaire alseeb id da street agid?"
"Joly, I don't think you should come any closer—" Combeferre began, but he was too late. It only took one good look at Grantaire's broken corpse for Joly's eyes to roll back into his head as the little doctor collapsed into the street in a dead faint.
Combeferre dragged Joly into the café and propped him up at a table; by the time he returned the rest of Les Amis were gathered around Grantaire's dead body.
"Well, I'll be damned," muttered Courfeyrac. "Has Enjolras seen this?"
"Seen what?"
The group turned in an almost coordinated movement. While they had been discussing him, Enjolras himself had joined them.
The leader's cold eyes scanned the strangely guilty faces of the group assembled before him, and at last he looked down and saw the body at his feet.
The other students could not help but avert their eyes and shamble into the café, allowing Enjolras a final moment to bid farewell to the man he abused to fiercely in life. The moment the door to the street closed, however, Courfeyrac shouted triumphantly, "I think he's crying!"
The back room was still but for the scratch of Jehan's quill and the tapping of Marius's boot against the floor. Full glasses of wine sat at each table—no one could bring himself to ingest an alcoholic beverage after what they had seen—and a small labelled parcel sat before each student, courtesy of Fricassée and Chowder. The parcel marked "Grantaire" sat ominously at the front of the room.
Marius fiddled with the brown wrapping on his present again. "Well," he asked at last, breaking the long silence, "should we open his present or send it back to Père Noël?"
At that moment Bahorel burst into the room, perhaps saving Marius from some rather harsh words. "I've got the mourning bands!" he cried, waving them above his head. "Oh, and now they're saying that those hoof-prints didn't look like any normal horse could have made 'em. And they found long funny marks in the dirt, like the runners of a sleigh."
"So you're saying he was run over by a sleigh pulled by something that has hooves but isn't a horse?" Feuilly asked.
"OH MY GOD!" cried Marius. "Grantaire was killed by Père Noël!"
L'aigle patted his arm. "Hush," he whispered, "you're bothering Enjolras."
"So should we open his gift ourselves?" Marius asked again, ignoring the advice. Enjolras had half-risen from his chair, his angry eyes fixed on the penniless baron, but Jehan leapt to his feet and exclaimed, "I've written a song in Grantaire's memory! Here, let me recite it."
The young poet cleared his throat and began.
Grantaire got run over by a reindeer
En route from the café Christmas Eve
You can say there's no such thing as Santa
But as for me and Enjy we believe
He'd been drinkin' too much absinthe
And some wine and brandy too
So when Enj called him a winecask
He just staggered out the door into the Rue
Then we found him Christmas morning
In a pool of blood and beer
Joly fainted when he saw it
And our brave bold fearless leader shed a tear
Grantaire got run over by a reindeer
En route from the café Christmas Eve
You can say there's no such thing as Santa
But as for me and Enjy we believe
Now the wine is on the table
No one moves to take a glass
All our thoughts are turned to Grantaire
Drunken cynic and a pain in Enjy's neck
It's not Christmas without Grantaire
All Les Amis dressed in black
Silly Marius keeps asking"Should we open up his gifts or send them back?"
Grantaire got run over by a reindeer
En route from the café Christmas Eve
You can say there's no such thing as Santa
But as for me and Enjy we believe!
Merry Christmas!