“All right, you’re in.” The formidable muscle-bound bouncer glanced quickly over the two IDs that had been handed to him, and practically threw them back at their owners.  The girl quickly stuffed them back into her handbag, trying to stay out of the way of the jostling group of people around them, at the entrance to the club.
                “Blue Mania…what a strange name.” Marius scanned the neon sign advertising itself to the world.  Beside him, Eponnyne shrugged.
                 “You know these clubs.  They all try to outdo each other in bizarre names.” She offered her arm to Marius, who took it shyly. “C’mon, let’s go in before I freeze to death in this thing.” She fiddled with one of her spaghetti straps in irritation.
                 “I told you that you shoulda worn a coat,” Marius answered as they slipped through the door with its darkened windows.
                 Inside, and up a flight up stairs, the large room was dark, and vibrated with the force of a strong bass beat.  It was only when one entered the room itself, did one hear the rest of the music, the shouting and laughing of young people, and feel the general warm, exciting, sweaty, dizzying atmosphere of the club known as Blue Mania.
                 “Hey!” Eponnyne shouted in Marius’s ear above the noise. “Do you know anyone here?”
                 “No!” Marius shouted back.
                 “Then why is that guy over there waving?”
                 Marius looked, and did a double take. “It’s Courfeyrac!” The two maneuvered their way through the crowd, over to the table in the corner, where Courfeyrac sat grinning, sitting on a metal railing that ran parallel to the wall.
                 “Hey kids!” Courfeyrac shouted to them. “Didn’t expect t’ see you here!”
                 “Just here to have a good time, same as you,” Eponnyne answered with a grin.
                 “This is perfect!  You’ll get t’ meet the whole gang today!  Keats and I are just two in a group, y’ know.” He glanced at his watch. “That is, if the group ever shows up.  I could have sworn I told them nine…”
                 “Hi.” A voice right beside Marius’s ear caused him to jump.  He turned, to see chestnut brown hair, a pretty red mouth, and two sparkling azure eyes.  When he just stared at her, mesmerized, the girl prompted him with a grin. “Remember me?  Candy?  Cosette?  From Les Miz?”
                 Marius came back to reality with a start. “Oh.  Right.” He blushed slightly.
                 Courfeyrac laughed over in his corner. “You can have ‘im, Candy.  Just have ‘im back by midnight before he turns into a pumpkin or his friend here”—he nodded to Eponnyne—“turns into a mouse.”
                 Candice smiled sweetly, taking Marius by the arm and leading him away into the crowd.  Courfeyrac turned back to Eponnyne with a charming smile.
                 “Well now.  That leaves us alone…” His grin broadened as he scrutinized her, but before Eponnyne could respond sarcastically, a young man slipped up behind Courfeyrac, smacking him lightly upside the back of his head.  The black-haired youth whirled to face his attacker, and ended up grinning madly.
                 “Ian!  Hey!” He laughed again, glancing over his friend quickly. “You look great, man!  Where’s Marky?”
                 “Right here.” Enjolras slipped up behind Combeferre and placed one hand gently on his lover’s shoulder, looking Ian up and down.  He hissed in fervent pleasure, his azure eyes sliding over Combeferre’s skin-tight leather pants. “Yes, he managed to drag me out to a social gathering.  It’s a miracle, eh?”
                 “Got that right.” Courfeyrac gestured towards Eponnyne and pretended to ignore Enjolras’s lusty examinations of his boyfriend. “Guys, this is Eponnyne.  She’s a friend of the guy I was telling you about.  She came with us to Les Mis.  And ‘Ponnyne, these are two of the people I was telling you about.” He nodded to each in turn. “This is Ian, and this ‘s Marky.”
                 “Marc,” Enjolras corrected patiently. “Marc Enjolras.”
                 “They’re lovers,” Courfeyrac informed the girl in a stage whisper. “But don’t tell anyone; it’s a secret.”
                 “Ah, shut up, Courf’rac.” Combeferre smiled, batting good-naturedly at his friend.  He turned kindly to Eponnyne. “Don’t mind this young fool.  He’s a bit flippant about things that he oughtn’t be flippant about.”
                 “Pleased to meet you.” Eponnyne shook his hand firmly, encouraged by his mild manner.
                 “It’s mutual,” Combeferre said politely.  He flinched almost imperceptibly as Enjolras mischievously pinched his behind.  He forced a grin to an oblivious Eponnyne and a ready-to-explode-from-laughter Courfeyrac. “Ex-cuuuuuse me for a moment.” Grabbing Enjolras’s arm, he dragged him into the darkness of the corner of the room.  Ian shoved his friend up against the wall, licking his upper lip seductively, his agile hands traveling the length of the younger boy’s body.
                 “Look…” Combeferre’s tongue moved lightly down Enjolras’s jaw. “If you’re going to seduce somebody…” His fingers brushed along the golden-haired youth’s hips. “…do it right.”
                 Courfeyrac quickly diverted Eponnyne’s attention with a nervous laugh. “Heh.  Hey, uh, you wanna dance or somethin’?”
                 Fortunately ignorant of the goings-on in the corner, the girl smiled slightly. “I guess.” As he led her over to the packed floor, she asked, “Courfeyrac, what’s your first name?”
                 Courfeyrac laughed. “I see.  This is the part where we get to know each other before I ask you to booty dance with me.”
                 Eponnyne grinned. “Then is this the part where every other girl you’ve come onto has slapped you and stormed off?”
                 “Yep.” Courfeyrac wrapped an arm around her waist. “Incidentally, if you must know, my name is Radley.”
                 “Radley?” Eponnyne hooted in laughter. “Ah, that’s priceless!  Priceless.”
                 Courfeyrac smiled sheepishly, running fingers through his black hair. “No need to rub it in.  Call me Courfeyrac, please.”
                 “What’s it worth to you?” Eponnyne grinned. “A dance?  A kiss?  Maybe?”
                 “You’ve got yourself a deal.  Call me by my last name, and I’ll do whatever you like.”
                 “Great.  I’m sure I can think of something…”
                 Meanwhile, a hesitant young man slipped into the club unnoticed.  The dance floor’s ultraviolet lights could find nothing to highlight on his figure, as there was not a touch of white in his clothing.  He wore a black muscle shirt with fatigue pants in shades of gray and black, completed with scuffed combat boots and a silver-studded dog collar.  His dark eyes scanned the room quickly, before coming to rest on Enjolras and Combeferre.  The boy cringed slightly, and turned in the opposite direction, finding his own dark corner in which he could blend into the shadows.  Unfortunately, this corner was also already occupied.
                 “Hey, I know you, right?” The boy turned quickly to face whomever had spoken.  The gravely voice had been unfamiliar to him, but the face itself was slightly more known.  It was, after all, a very unusual face—rather asymmetrical, and flanked by dark, matted hair.  Today, this hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and the boy had to look closely to tell whether this was a male or a female.  He realized that it was a girl at almost the same instant that he remembered her name.
                 “Grantaire, isn’t it?” he said with uncertainty.
                 “Yeah, last time I checked.” She smiled crookedly, making a half-hearted attempt to straighten her hair. “And you’re the Commie, eh?”
                 The guy nodded. “Usually known as Feuilly.”
                 “Yes, yes, that’s right.” Grantaire’s gaze drifted away, and Feuilly followed it to a particular corner.
                 “So…you just been watching Enjolras and his preppie friend all night?”
                 Grantaire laughed mirthlessly. “You make it sound like I have no life.”
                 “Hey, you said it, not me.” Feuilly shook his head, glancing over at her.
                 “Feuilly,” Grantaire said suddenly, never taking her eyes from their focal point, “why do things happen the way they do?  Is it all predetermined, before we’re even born?  Or do we have the power to control our own destinies?”
                 “Ah, this is about him again, isn’t it?” Feuilly rolled his eyes. “Why d’you torture yourself like this?  He doesn’t like you.  So what?  Find someone else.  It’s easy enough; you live in a city with eight million people.”
                 “But there’s only one of him.”
                 “And that’s not enough to split between two people.  Just let the preppie have him, girl.”
                 She gave him a strange look. “Why do you call him that?  Don’t you like Combeferre?”
                 Feuilly shrugged. “He is one of those bourgeois pigs, but then again, I suppose most everyone around here is.  I dunno…there’s just somethin’ about him that annoys me, I guess.”
                 Grantaire replied, “I like him.  He’s a nice enough guy, but I just wish…I dunno.”
                 “You wish that he wasn’t a rival, huh?”
                 “Yeah.”
                 There was an uncomfortable silence, and Grantaire finally sighed. “Well, I guess there’s no point to hangin’ around here forever.  Buy you a drink, Feuilly?”
                 “Yeah, I s’pose.” The communist followed her towards the bar.  As she settled herself against a wall, sipping from a whole bottle of wine, he paced a bit before her.
                 “Grantaire,” he said suddenly, “Grantaire, you need to forget Enjolras.” He gestured to the bottle. “Can I have some?”
                 She handed it to him, grimacing slightly as she swallowed. “It’s cheap, and really sour.”
                 “That’s okay.” Feuilly took a deep draught, and stopped his pacing, leaning against the wall beside Grantaire.
                 “Hey.  Why don’t we get outta here?” Grantaire asked abruptly. “We could find somewhere else to hang out.”
                 “I can’t.” Feuilly wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Came here on a mission tonight.”
                 “Mission?” She raised an eyebrow.
                 “Mm-hm.  Are you gonna use the rest of this bottle?”
                 “Depends.” She scrutinized him closely. “Whaddya want it for?”
                 Feuilly shook his head with an enigmatic smile. “If I told you that, it wouldn’t be confidential anymore, now would it?”
                 “Do I look like a capitalist to you?”
                 Instead of replying, he pulled a tiny lighter from his back pocket. “See this?  This is the sacred tool of communists everywhere.”
                 “What in God’s Name…?” Grantaire reached out, snatching it from him. “How is a little beat-up lighter gonna change the world?”
                 He sighed, and replied patiently, “You have no concept of the larger picture of things.  With that lighter, I could take out the greater part of Times Square.”
                 She raised one eyebrow, glancing at him. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll use it now to light up.” Before Feuilly could protest, she had pulled a soiled cigarette out of her pocket, flicking the lighter switch and lighting it. “So,” she said, exhaling slowly, “what were you saying about changing the world?”
                 He growled out between clenched teeth, “Never mind.”  She grinned, flipping the lighter up in air, and he caught it neatly. “That was probably the last of the fluid in it.”
                 “Okay, what were you planning to use it for?” Grantaire took a long inhalation of the cigarette. “I think it was used for a rather noble purpose.  Of course,” she added with a grin, “I am only what they call a ‘casual smoker.’”
                 “Well…” Feuilly sighed. “Can we sit down somewhere?”
                 “Suit yourself.” She sank down to the floor right where she had been standing.
                 “Um…okay.” The painter sat beside her, ignoring the strange looks some of the other people were giving them, sitting there on the floor. “Grantaire, have you ever made a Molotov cocktail°?”
                 “A what?” She took the bottle from him, and tossed back a gulp. “Can you translate that out of Crazy-Anarchist-Speak for me?”
                 “A bomb, stupid.  An explosive, actually,” he corrected himself. “Y’know…half-full alcohol bottle, rag stuffed in its mouth, lighter…?  Is this ringing any bells?”
                 “I’m just f***ing with you.  I know what a Molotov cocktail is.  Is that as illegal in Poland as it is here, I wonder,” Grantaire said, taking a demure sip of the alcohol.
                 “That’s not the point.” Feuilly rolled his eyes. “You’re totally missing the point.”
                 “If you’re such a holy prophet, then explain it to me.  Why in the Name of God would you risk going to jail just so that you could get the opportunity to put a little hole in a McDonald’s?  I mean, granted, we’d all like to do that sometimes, but still…” She put out the cigarette on the ground beside them.
                 “It’s all in the ideal, Grantaire.” He sighed, folding his hands and preparing himself for a lengthy explanation, as though he was lecturing a child. “Y’see, I myself am only a small part of the larger plan.  All over the world, there are hundreds of thousands like me, who only want to see the ordinary people get their just dues.  Beside the needs of the millions of needy people in the world, my own life means nothing.”
                 Grantaire interrupted him with a wave of her hand. “Hang on a second, Robin Hood.  That sounds noble enough, but this isn’t grade school anymore.  We’re adults now, and you should know as well as I do that things never turn out that way.  How is landing your ass in a Manhattan jail cell gonna help the masses throw off their chains?”
                 “I don’t understand your cynicism.” Feuilly leaned back against the wall, his fists clenched at his sides. “I don’t understand you.”
                 “Would you like some help with that?” Grantaire asked gruffly. “I was born twenty-five years ago in New Jersey to a drunk and a seventeen-year-old, out of wedlock.  When I was two, my father beat my mother half to death, and she fled with me.  We settled in the suburbs with Mom’s parents, and I grew up as the strange little girl who sat on the edge of the playground and wouldn’t play with the other kids.  I met cigarettes at the age of twelve, and alcohol at the age of fifteen.  I ran away from home in the eleventh grade and came to New York to seek my fortune, such as it might be.  I’ve been here ever since.  I took a job at a liquor store up in Morningside Heights, and I work day hours there.  A few days ago, I met a little college-boy named Enjolras.  I follow him around.  He hates my guts.  End of a short and rather pointless story.”
                 Feuilly sat in silence for a moment.  Finally, he said, “Okay.  Wanna hear my story?”
                 “Knock yourself out.”
                 He inclined his head slightly to one side, staring at some point in the air. “I was born to two Polish immigrants in 1978.  They arrived at Ellis Island, where my father caught some sort of disease.  He died within a month, and my mother became a whore.  One night she never came home, and my seven-year-old brother brought us the doorstep of a neighborhood orphanage.  I left the orphanage when I was thirteen owning nothing but my clothes and a locket, and got a job in a fish market, after telling them I was sixteen.  I never saw my brother again.  I discovered painting in my fifteenth year, and I haven’t stopped it since.  I got a cheap loft in Greenwich Village, and I’m now five months behind on rent.  I don’t believe in love, and I don’t believe in destiny.  And that’s life as I know it.” He scratched absentmindedly at his spiked hair.
                 “I’m sorry.” Grantaire took a swig of the wine.
                 “Yeah, me too,” the young man replied darkly.
                 “Feuilly…” She touched his shoulder.
                 “Hm.” He turned to look at her.
                 Grantaire lunged forward, pressing her lips against his.  He responded hungrily, gripping her narrow shoulders with both hands as their tongues battled for dominance.  She crushed his body between hers and the wall, and his fingers twisted in her tangled hair.  Finally, they broke apart, panting.
                 “That was…uh…” Feuilly searched for words. “Zdumiewajacy°.”
                 “My thoughts exactly,” Grantaire murmured, the corner of her lips twisting upwards slightly. “Come home with me, Feuilly.”
                 His dark eyes locked with hers from beneath thick eyebrows. “Is that a come-on?”
                 “That’s as close to one as I’m going to give you.”
                 “I’m a dangerous person, girl,” Feuilly said quietly. “You know that any given day, you might come across me in some small cell down at the 26th Precinct.  And one day, it may not be a holding cell anymore; it may be solitary.  The way I choose to live my life is too turbulent to allow for a serious relationship.”
                 “Who said it has to be serious?” Grantaire smiled. “I’m too cynical to get heavily involved with you, and you’re too disillusioned to start a long-term relationship with me.”
                 He nodded, then rose slowly to his feet, one hand clutching the neck of the wine bottle, the other hand pulling Grantaire up with him. “I guess there’s only one thing for it, then.” She looked at him questioningly, and a hint of a smile passed over his lips. “Let’s go.”
                 They almost collided with a person in the doorway, a slight young man dressed in midnight black, his pale hair spilling from beneath his black beret.  He smiled apologetically at them, hardly raising his eyes, and not recognizing them with that quick glance.  Grantaire and Feuilly brushed past him into the dark hallway, and he continued on into the main room.  The young man scanned the crowd, searching for familiar faces.  His gaze passed over Courfeyrac and Eponnyne, out on the dance floor, and Enjolras and Combeferre, now sitting unobtrusively on one side of the room, watching everything around them.  He also glanced briefly at Marius, who was chattering animatedly with a girl who was unrecognizable to the black-clad young man, as she had her back to him.  He seemed about to go up to Courfeyrac, but two strong arms around his waist arrested his movement, and he struggled briefly before his harasser spoke aloud.
                 “Hey there, Keatsy!  ‘Member me?”
                 Prouvaire stared, and Laigle flashed a brilliant grin back at him. “How could I forget?” the poet said with a little annoyance, pulling away from the NYU student. “How’s it going, Laigle?”
                 “Ah, same old, same old,” was the reply, as the two young men moved out of the doorway to allow for two others to enter.
                 “H’lo Joly,” Keats said to the mild boy hovering behind Laigle.  Joly smiled in greeting, and Laigle broke in again.
                 “Hey, Keats, you met our new friend yet?” He waved to a slender, dark-skinned girl around whose waist Joly had his arm draped.  Laigle chuckled at Prouvaire’s surprised expression. “This is Musichetta.”
                 “Uh…hi.” Keats, instantly understanding the situation between the three, simultaneously blushed furiously and thanked God for the darkness of the lighting. “Um…I think I’ll go find Courfeyrac now.”
                 “Going so soon?” Laigle grinned, looping a casual arm around Prouvaire’s shoulders.  The poet glanced around the room, praying that someone would rescue him.  He met the gaze of Combeferre, whose head rested lightly against Enjolras’s shoulder, and the philosopher just smiled at him, disinclined to come bail him out.  Laigle followed his gaze, and his toothy grin seemed to broaden still further, if that was possible.
                 “You see that?” The African-American nudged Joly in the ribs with his elbow. “Pay up.”
                 “What?” Joly looked where Laigle had indicated, noting only Enjolras and Combeferre, and nothing else of particular interest. “What am I s’posed to be looking at?”
                 Laigle sighed impatiently. “Them,” he said, this time pointing outright at the two young men. “I toldja there was only one bed in their dorm.”
                 “Oh, are you still on that?” Joly rolled his eyes. “They’re just friends, Courtney.”
                 “Mm-hm.  That’s why they’re lying all over each other.  Now stop whining and pay up.”
                 They were so involved in their discussion that neither noticed Enjolras and Combeferre standing beside them until Prouvaire cleared his throat loudly, taking advantage of the distraction to ease himself out of the crook of Laigle’s arm.  Joly gazed steadily down at his shoes, trying to stifle a laugh, while Laigle, never flinching, immediately turned his attention to the two newcomers.
                 “Hey, guys!  Whassup?”
                 Combeferre smiled. “Not much.”
                 “Guys, clear up a bet for me, wouldja?” Laigle said suddenly.  Joly shook his head emphatically, mouthing the word ‘NO’ very clearly.  Laigle ignored him, and addressed Combeferre. “How many beds are there in your dorm?”
                 “Two…” Combeferre gave him a strange look.
                 “Are you sure?” Laigle pressed.
                 “I think so…”
                 Laigle sighed, ruffling Combeferre’s hair fondly. “I guess I oughta rephrase that.  Do you screw Marky on a regular basis?”
                 Joly stared in horror as Enjolras, bristling, took his stand protectively in front of Ian. “How in the hell is that any of your f***ing business?” the golden-haired young man snarled.
                 “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Laigle backed up a step with a half-hearted grin, lifting his hands as if in self-defense. “Chill, Enjolras.”
                 “Enjolras…please…” Combeferre begged, clutching at Marc’s arm.
                 Enjolras ignored him, scowling at Laigle. “Mind your own f***ing life, Laigle, and get the f*** out of mine.”
                 Laigle’s smile dissolved into an annoyed glare. “Enjolras, I don’t want to have to hurt you.  It was only an innocent question, man.”
                 “Oh, you think you can take me, do you?” Marc’s slender hands balled into fists. “Bring it on, S.O.B.!  I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”
                 Laigle shrugged slowly, drawling, “You asked for it…” With one powerful hand, he grabbed the front of Enjolras’s shirt.  The other hand, suddenly transformed into a fist, he sent crashing into Enjolras’s jaw.  Marc grunted angrily, stumbling backwards.  The next moment, he was back on his feet, blood trickling down his chin from a split lip, and, resisting the urge to flail wildly and scream at the top of his lungs, he aimed a violent blow to Laigle’s solar plexus.  The older boy bent double, gasping for air, and Enjolras moved a bit closer to him.  Without warning, Laigle tackled Marc, dragging him to the ground and aiming a series of quick, sharp punches at his opponent’s head.
                 In the meantime, a crowd had formed around them, cheering and screaming.  Combeferre and Joly just exchanged a look and flung themselves between the two combatants.  Joly held back Laigle’s arm doggedly, and Combeferre physically slipped between them, shielding Enjolras with his body.
                 “Stop it!” Joly yelled, but his voice was drowned out by a foghorn of a voice from beside him.
                 “BREAK IT UP!” Lupe Bahorel stood on the inside of the circle and glared at all of them with smoldering dark eyes, one hand on her hip, the other raised in a threatening fist. “Break it up, or I’ll show both of you what it means to get the living s*** beat out of you.”
                 Growling, and gasping for air, Laigle allowed Joly to drag him off of Enjolras.  The golden-haired sophomore, with bruises beginning to surface against his pale skin, pulled himself into a sitting position by clinging to Combeferre’s arm.  Ian wrapped one arm around Enjolras’s body, half to protect him from further harm, half to keep him from launching himself at Laigle.  As it was, Marc was seething with fury, blood staining his lips deep scarlet, as though he had smeared lipstick over them.
                 “I’ll kill you next time,” Laigle barked over his shoulder as he was escorted firmly from the club, Joly on his right hand, Musichetta on his left. “I’ll f***in’ kill ya, Enjolras!” He was heard muttering solemnly to Joly as they exited: “Pay up.”
 Disappointed, the crowd began to disperse, most heading back to the dance floor as the music pounded jarringly through the floor and the walls themselves.  Combeferre remained frozen on his knees on the ground, holding Enjolras tightly, for at least a minute, surrounded by Bahorel, Prouvaire, Courfeyrac, and Eponnyne.  Finally, he moved, releasing Enjolras and rising slowly to his feet.  He brushed imaginary dust from his pants, and without a glance back, strode out of Blue Mania, his steps measured and angry.  Enjolras stared after him for a moment, and called a half-hearted entreaty.
                 “Combeferre…!  Combeferre, wait…”
                 Before anyone else had moved, he leapt to his feet, absently brushing the blood from his chin, and followed his lover out the door at a jogging pace.
                 “Well…” Eponnyne said simply. “That was…interesting.”
                 Lupe, who had relaxed visibly, sighed. “You must be one of Courfeyrac’s little high school friends.  Don’t worry; they’re not always like that.”
                 “Well, you two are behind on the gossip,” Courfeyrac piped up, running his fingers through his hair and looking pointedly at Bahorel and Keats. “Enjolras and Combeferre are lovers, y’know.”
                 “Where have you been?  They’ve always been lovers.  I thought everyone knew that.” Bahorel lifted her chin a bit haughtily.
                 “No, no, they haven’t,” the black-haired young man insisted. “They just recently got together.  They were only friends before.”
                 Prouvaire nodded. “Courfeyrac’s right, Lupe.”
                 She shook her head. “Whatever you guys say; I don’t care.” She took Courfeyrac’s hand possessively, winding her fingers with his, and led him towards the dance floor. “C’mon, kid.” Courfeyrac shot an apologetic look at Eponnyne over his shoulder.
                 “Well, whaddya know.” Eponnyne chewed thoughtfully on her glossed lip. “Eponnyne’s a regular loser magnet, as usual.  Dumped again.” She turned to go find Marius, adjusting that ever-annoying strap of her dress again.
                 “Hey,” Keats said quietly. “Can I talk t’you for a moment?”
                 She started, as though just remembering his presence. “Oh.  Yeah, sure.”
                 His smile was sweet, albeit close-lipped. “So…I don’t know how to ask this, but…d’you want to just talk with me for a bit?  I’d like to know you a little better, maybe…”
                 “Okay.” Eponnyne’s cheeks colored slightly. “Um…this sounds stupid, but what’s your real name?  Everyone seems to call you something different.”
                 “It’s Jonathan.” He twisted a flaxen strand of hair nervously on one index finger. “Everyone calls me Keats because it’s my middle name.” He flashed that gentle smile again. “And because I write poetry…”
                 “Poetry?” Eponnyne grinned. “How can you and Courfeyrac stand each other when you’re so different?”
                 “Easily,” Keats said. “He’s my roommate.  We were childhood friends, I guess you could say.  And when we both got into Columbia, we pooled our cash and got an apartment as an alternative to th’ dorms.  Besides”—he blushed—“we’re not so very different.  Although my drum-playing prob’ly annoys him, I think.”
                 “Oh?  A drum player too?  What a strange boy you are.” She shook her head, her eyebrows raised.
                 He blushed deeper. “I get that a lot.”
                 Eponnyne tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “So, is this your kind of scene?  Dance clubs?”
                 He shrugged. “I mostly go for Courfeyrac.  He likes this kind of thing, so I come along, usually out of sheer boredom.  Besides”—he tapped his temple knowingly—“one never knows when one’ll get struck by poetic inspiration.  I guess it could happen just as easily in Blue Mania as it could in Central Park.” He pulled a tiny notebook from one of the deep pockets of his long black coat. “And I’ve come prepared, so…”
                 “Oh, is that your writing notebook?” She smiled brightly. “Can I see it?”
                 “Um…I…I don’t think so…” Keats ducked his head in embarrassment. “It’s not exactly, well…what I mean is, it’s not really worthy of being read.  Not precisely living up to my namesake.”
                 “Oh, I get it.” Eponnyne’s smile widened. “That’s what all poets say.” She took hold of his elbow, leading him out of the middle of the room, over to a table. “Let’s sit down, okay?”
                 “Right.” Prouvaire pulled off his beret, slipping his fingers through his hair. “So, how’d you and Marius get in here?  Fake IDs?”
                 She laughed, glancing across the dance floor at Marius, who was just leaning in to kiss the girl at his side.  The laugh died on her lips, and she replied in a more subdued tone, “Yeah.  A friend of Marius’s set us up with some.”
                 Prouvaire followed her gaze, leaning his elbows on the tabletop. “Yeah, I figured.” He cleared his throat, pretending to ignore the fact that his companion seemed suddenly uninterested in the conversation. “So, what colleges have you applied to…?”

1.) molotov cocktail: It is unknown what Feuilly may have been planning to use a Molotov cocktail for, but it is presumed that he had entered Blue Mania with the intention to explode the bomb in the men’s restroom, as a warning to other “capitalist” establishments.

2.) Zdumiewajacy: Polish for “amazing.”

Go back to the Frat House...