dona mihi agnum - give the lamb to me.

"You're an angel," Grantaire declared, his lips struggling round his words with more than his usual drawl. His celebrations had begun well before his friends had convened at their normal evening hour. "As terrible, as distant, and as good. Just as beautiful."

His dissertation was unheard. Enjolras, for his part, was accosting Courfeyrac with his straight face and unnatural stillness; the rest of Grantaire's more willing audience seemed to be occupied in composing various songs, dramae, theses, apologies. The room behind the cafe Musain was as usual separated into countless small and overlapping states of confusion and activity. Alone with his declamation, Grantaire was, however, as comfortable as if he had properly rehearsed.

"As beautiful as I am drunk - and not only with respect to your spirit. I'm not so shallow, nor half so false or righteous. People these days will speak for hours at a time of inner qualities, and come to so much nonsense. Strength, good will, bravery, charity, heart, and all of that - is that what turns my head when I see you? Yes, perhaps, I must admit; but then you're as perfect as a jewel, which means I can see through you without any difficulty at all. You, my angel, are transparent. Your face itself is good and brave and strong, and I have need of nothing else."

An island of idle students surrounding Grantaire's private table had fallen silent. In wine, he was far from quiet. Their dialogues would wait.

"I regret to say that charity does not seem to manifest itself as readily. Your mouth is always hard, your figure straight, and like a gem you're cold and quite unbreakable. You lack warmth. I flatter myself I could give it to you, if you would leave your post for just a night. Heavenly sentry must be a lonely detail. Pan's chased after his share of Aphrodites, to switch my mountain-tops, and I'd let you beat me any day, no complaints. You render me senseless, you know, or maybe sublime. If the distinction depends upon my strength, of course, I'd be speaking in tongues as soon as I touched you. I've always thought that sounded scandalous. Tongues usually are. No less the tongues of flame. How perfectly astonishing."

The corona of silence, which is to say attention, when at its center lies someone generating such intense heat paired with complete baseness, not to say inanity, as Grantaire, had expanded. Courfeyrac had the appearance of a man attempting to appear serious. Enjolras' melting glare was changing course slowly and steadily, as a prow against a dread current. The wine-soaked slanders Grantaire was leaving in his wake were beginning to reach his ears.

"Yes, charity and warmth are things that I could teach you. And now that I've mentioned it, tongues of flame seem perfectly appropriate; forgive the mundane allusion. But locked rooms would hardly come amiss, either. You're frowning so sternly, angel, that I think you must never have known generosity - but come lie with me, as the priests upon the floor this Friday, in red, and I'll show you genuflection. I speak entirely too much. I require a confessor. And yet your face in any arrangement seems enough to absolve me, so clearly stamped upon it are your virtues - no, no, it's constructed from them. Your countenance consists of nothing but your spirit, which is why it suffices to love the one. Let me taste of virtue, and you can taste of man. The exercise will be mutually beneficial. Come, we'll model ourselves after this doxology."

And Grantaire began to chant, with what lofty dissonance he could muster, the Elevation. "Per ipsum, et cum ipso, et in ipso - in unitate. God, but that sounds good. May the Lord be with me. And what do you say, angel? Don't look so frightful. Warmth and charity, remember."

After the small, involuntary flurry of amens that exposed the Sunday service-goers had come to an end, Enjolras, regarding the drunkard's impossibly hopeful form slumped rather obscenely into his chair, gave a terse little smile not lacking in distaste. "Mercy," he said simply, "Peace, Grantaire." And he made to return to his less sensational conversation.

"Ah! Can it be?" Grantaire was grinning, opening for himself another bottle of unremarkable wine. "Our own pretty priest is remiss in his weekly attendance. Any good boy knows that before the agnus, and before the dona nobis pacem - hah, I say dona mihi agnum - we must all pray for the Coming of the Kingdom, as our Saviour taught us. But if you wish to skip directly to the body and the blood, my angel, my lamb, only say the word."

"By all means, no." A veritable study in non chalance, Enjolras retrieved his watch from his waistcoat, read the face, and snapped it shut again. "The Coming of the Kingdom it shall be - you are quite right. And now, as long as we're on topic, it is very nearly seven. Who has the minutes?"