Chapter I: Enjolras

"What?!"

"That's right, give it here."

"But how did you... How did she..."

"Ten francs, Joly. Hand it over."

He stared at the table between us, a look of utter confusion, shock, and disbelief on his face. Then, at last, he let out an angry groan and turned over ten francs as we had agreed upon. "Thank you," I said, grinning as I took the money from his hand and slipping it into my pocket.

Joly glared at me jealously and unhappily. "You realize that all ten of those francs will be gone by tomorrow. You will have wasted my money on useless things, purchasing alcohol, and drinking yourself senseless! What a waste!"

I only shrugged and rolled my eyes, as I shuffled the cards in my hands. "You're just mad, because I beat you."

Joly did not deny it.

Courfeyrac and Bahorel, who were sitting at the table and watching the game, grinned and laughed. "It is quite shameful, Joly," Courfeyrac said with a playful smirk, "that you let a girl beat you every time you gamble with her."

Joly's face twisted as he became even angrier and more embarrassed. The rest of us laughed. Pretending that he had not heard this comment, Joly turned abruptly back to me and persisted, "You need to stop drinking, Grantaire! It is not healthy! It could kill you."

"Says the man who wants to have a revolution against the entire army. Yet, drinking could kill me. Good one, Joly."

"I'm serious, Grantaire! It is not good for anyone, especially not a woman! It can cause serious problems! Damage to the liver! Damage to the ovaries! Inability to have children! Heart failure! Death! It could ruin your life, Grantaire!"

"I'll keep that in mind," I muttered as I finished shuffling the deck, making it obvious to them all that I could not have cared less about what Joly had to say. I looked up and met his eyes with a mischievous smirk. "Play again?"

"No, I do not want to."

"Because you know that I'll beat you, again."

"You will not! You had a lucky hand, that is all!"

"Luck had nothing to do with it, Joly," Courfeyrac joined in teasingly. "She beats you every time."

Joly turned his eyes to glare darkly at Courfeyrac. "Why don't you play her then?!"

He laughed. "Alright, I will! Grantaire, deal me five cards! I'm in!"

I grinned as I dealt him into the next round. "Fair enough. I will just have to beat you both. Bahorel, are you in?"

"Of course, I am!"

"Good, good. Very good. We each put in ten francs, and the winner gets it all. That's forty francs total, thirty francs gained." I raised my bottle to my lips and took another long drink.

"Forty francs for you to waste on alcohol!" Joly grumbled under his breath, and the rest of us laughed or roll our eyes at him. I did the later.

By the end of the round, Joly and Courfeyrac had already lost, and only Bahorel and I were left. Bahorel was always a good match. Just not good enough. I beat him, claimed the forty francs, bought a third bottle of liquor, and Joly began to rant again about the dangers of alcohol and the waste of money.

"Joly, leave me alone," I finally said in annoyance, as I raised a bottle to my lips. "It's bad enough when I have Enjolras constantly yelling at me to put the bottle down."

"Leave her alone, Joly," Bahorel supported me. But then he grinned and added, "But Grantaire, I will not deny that you must have a hole in your stomach! You drink more than any of the fully grown men, twice your size, age, and strength, that I know!"

"Come on," said Courfeyrac. "Let's play again."

This was the way of it. I was a part of the Friends of the ABC. Here I was, a woman outplaying, out-gambling, out-drinking all of these men. But I was not like other women. A cynic, a skeptic, a rouge, a rover, a drunkard, a gambler, a libertine, and a woman. I dressed in men's clothing, because I hated having to be prober and wear dresses, because if I had money I did not spend it on fashion but on liquor, and because I did not care enough about myself to try at anything. Society despised me and scorned me, but these boys accepted me in. They accepted me as part of the group, and they treated me no differently than they treated each other. Sometimes Bossuet or Courfeyrac would try to flirt with me, and sometimes I would flirt in return with them, even though we all knew that I did not love them and they did not love me. Any affaire we might have had would have been for our own pleasure and not for love, just as it was with all of the men that I had ever been with. Even still, most of them saw me just as another one of the boys. It was better this way. Easier. They all accepted me, and I was happy. All of them, that is, except for Enjolras.

"A—B—C!" a loud, high, clear voice rang out through the cafe, and at once, all of us students turned our heads. All of us who called ourselves the Friends of the ABC. It was Enjolras who had called us. Enjolras was our leader. He was everything that a leader needed to be, young, handsome, strong, brave, passionate, powerful, inspiring, and ready to die for what he believed in. He was a perfect leader. With his clear blue eyes, the color of the sky before sunset; long, flowing, curls of blonde hair that blew in the wind and glowed in the sun, illuminating like a hallow; fair skin, white, smooth, and flawless, like marble; pure lips, slightly red, that had not kissed any being of this earth; the body of a god, the captivating stature of Apollo; the gate of a king; and a stern, serious, handsome, soldierly, and angelic face, he was a perfect relic of beauty. In his eyes, one could see the thoughtful reflection of his mind and the burning fire of his soul. His speech was like that of a song, a hymn, and whenever someone heard his voice, it was nearly impossible not to stop and listen. In times of quiet, Enjolras was a king. In times of song, when he gave a speech, or rallied the people, or talked of the Revolution, justice, and freedom, he was an angel. He spread his wings and soared through the Heavens, astonishing, amazing, and making awestricken all who listened to him. When I saw him and looked upon all of his beauty, his splendor, his glory, I felt that I was looking upon the face if an angel.

For a nonbeliever, a wretch, and a sinner like me, Enjolras was the closest thing to a glimpse of Heaven that I knew. When I looked upon him, when the glory of his light fell upon my dark face, and when I followed him, I was filled with a deep joy, admiration, respect, and love that I had never felt for anyone else. I ran with many men, but there was only one man that I would have ever stopped to stay with, to settle down with, to be with forever. There was only one man that I really loved. But unfortunately for me, this was one man that I could never have. This man was Enjolras.

At the sound of his voice crying out "A—B—C!" I stopped playing in the middle of the game, stopped drinking in the middle of a sip, and turned my head to look for him. He was standing across the room before the table in the corner, a great map of Paris opened in the table before him. Combeferre was already standing by his side. Enjolras stood tall and proud, his head held high, his eyes blazing like the sun. When my eyes fell upon him, I felt a vague, yet exceedingly deep longing, yearning in my heart. The first time I laid my eyes upon him, I felt this even stronger. After all of these years, the feeling had faded, because I knew that it was hopeless, that I could never have Enjolras. But it would never go away. I needed Enjolras. Even if he would never love me in return, I loved him. I needed him.

"A—B—C" to all others in this room was only reciting the first three letters of the alphabet, but to the Friends of the ABC, it was a code that said, "Now it was the time. It is time to talk about Revolution. It is time to overthrow injustice and pursue freedom."

At once, without even glancing at Bossuet, Courfeyrac, or Joly but keeping my eyes fixed on Enjolras, I rose out of my chair, went across the room, and gathered with the rest of the boys around the table where Enjolras stood. Enjolras was our chief. Combeferre was the guide, Enjolras's best friend, his advisor, his councilor, and his right-hand-man. Courfeyrac was the center, the center of our friendships and he held us all together. Marius was a newer member of the group, as he had only been with us for two years, but nonetheless, he was very close to Enjolras, and in Enjolras's eyes second only to Combeferre. Feuilly was a working man with a passion for liberty, much like Enjolras, but he was a follower and Enjolras was the leader. Joly, Bahorel, and Jehan were faithful followers to Enjolras and to freedom, and he respected them each. But Grantaire. Grantaire was a bother, a pain, and a doubter than Enjolras only wished would go away. Enjolras despised Grantaire. Enjolras despised me.

"Today is the fifth of April," he informed us, but most of us already knew that. "The time is growing nearer. Soon, we will have to take action." Then he went on with a long list of updates on the status of Paris and of reasons why we had to rebel soon. "We will rebel," he said at the end, passion burning in his voice, "and we will set the people free."

"We will rebel, and we will all be killed."

He turned abruptly to glare at me with dark, hateful eyes. "Silence, drunkard!" he snapped in fury. "Why are you even here? It is not as if you are going to be fighting with us."

I laughed bitterly. "Of course, I won't be, Enjolras," I said, taking a long swig form my bottle. "There is really no reason for me to be here."

"Then why are you here?" he growled impatiently.

I shrugged and held up my bottle. "For the drinks."

Enjolras scoffed in disgust and turned his back to me. "Grantaire, you are impossible. You a disgrace. You are a disgrace to France, to the Friends of the ABC, and to all of us." With that he turned his back to me and stormed away, leaving us all behind. This was a typical conversation between Enjolras and me.

I sighed, my heart sinking in hopelessness, and I took a long drink from my bottle. "Enjolras despised me," I muttered under my breath.

"He does not mean what he says, Grantaire," Combeferre, who must have noticed how hurt I was, said gently.

But I, a cynic and a hopeless fool, only shook my head. "Yes, he does. And he's right."

Jehan sat down in the chair beside me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. "Sweetheart, listen to me," he said gently, in his shy delicate voice. I raised my eyes to meet his, hardly able to take the poet seriously. He was the only person on the face of this earth that called me "sweetheart." "I have known Enjolras for a long time. I know that he is very strong, and fearless, almost heartless at times. I know that he is very cruel to you. But he does not mean any of it. He is harsh to you, because he is afraid of you."

I frowned at Jehan, not at all comforted by these words. "He's afraid of me? Great. That makes me feel great."

"No, no, no, no," Jehan cried, burying his face in his hand. "That is not what I mean. But yes, he is harsh to you, but only to hide is fear."

"His fear of what? Enjolras is not afraid of anything."

"Yes, he is," Jehan protested. "He is not afraid of pain, of battle, of death—"

"What more is there?"

"I will tell you!" His voice softened almost comically, and he said, "Enjolras is afraid of love." I frowned, not understanding. Jehan must have noticed, because he went on to explain, "Enjolras has never loved anybody, and the whole idea of love frightened him. That is why he is harsh to you, because he is afraid. He is afraid, because he loves you."