AN: Here's a few things I have to say before you read on. 1) I have not read the book yet (I have yet to secure a copy) so forgive me if I couldn't get certain things right, especially with the Les Amis. 2) I only have the 2012 film and the 25th anniversary concert as my basis. That, and some fanfics that I've read. 3) This is my first Les Mis story and my first multi-chapter story. 4) There is a possibility that I may not be able to finish this or that I may, at times, have long gaps between updates and for that I apologize in advance. But I shall do my best to finish this before my summer ends. 5) You might find the story to progress slowly. That is done on purpose. Let's be realistic. A romance between Enjolras and Eponine would not happen so quickly. They are not the types to fall madly in love in a blink of an eye and certainly not with each other. But "stuff" will happen sooner or later.
With that said, you may now read on. I do hope you will enjoy it.
Disclaimer: I do not recall being named as Victor Hugo thus, I conclude, Les Miserables is certainly not mine.
It is utter chaos. He watches as everything begins to fall apart. Men lie dead at his feet. Many are injured. Blood stains the streets of Paris. Blood stains his hands. Death had once stayed behind the shadows…waiting. But now Death danced upon the street where the barricade once stood tall and proud. Now, the tall fortress they had made lay in shambles, scattered around the scene. Their revolution had lost all hope.
He continues to run. Not to escape to tragedy but to keep on going for that is the only thing he could do. He runs because he cannot bear to see the lifeless bodies scattered about. The bodies of his fellow Les Amis. The bodies of his comrades. The bodies of his friends. They are all gone, shot down by the revolution they fought for. For the revolution they died for. He runs because a moment of idleness could cause him his life. But what did that mean, anyway? The fight was over. They had lost and it was all too clear to them. But he needed to run. He needed to fight. For if he did not then who else would?
He ran until his feet had come to a stop. It was a dead end. He could hear the footsteps of the men that would take his life come closer by the second. He knew it. He was going to die. But he was going to die for a cause. Just before the men could come across his path, he took the red flag that hung by the window. He was ready. They were there. He closed his eyes and took in one last breath. As he opened his eyes another figure emerged. It was of a drunken man. His comrade. His friend. He would not die alone. They exchanged a look. A final farewell. He raised the flag and shouted a few words that he could no longer make out from the sounds of the shots being fired. This was it. His final breath. The bullets finally hit him. One, two, he could no longer count how many. He was jerked back. And then a darkness enveloped him.
He awoke with a start, finding himself already sitting up in his bed. He was gasping for air. The sheets clung to his bare skin, covered in a great amount of cold sweat. It was a dream. Yet another one, to be precise. These dreams had haunted him for quite some time. It was always the same kind. And they always came. Some consecutively while others had a gap of months between them. His last dream was two months prior.
As soon as he began to get a hold of his bearings, he turned to look at his clock situated atop his bedside table. It was twelve minutes past five. He scowled. It was far too early for him to be awake. But there was no way he could go back to sleep. The vivid images still raced through his head.
He soon removed the sheets that still clung to him. He was only wearing his boxers, as he always did when he would go to bed. But even so, he could feel the sweat all over his body. It was not hot but the night terror had resulted in his sweat glands to produce cold sweat throughout the night. It clung to him. He needed to take a shower.
He wrapped a towel around his waist and grabbed a few of his belongings as he made his way out of his room. He made his way down the hallway and into the bathroom. He could still hear the snores of his sleeping roommates. They would most probably be out for the next few hours. Good. He didn't need anyone to question his early awakening.
He took a long shower, letting the warm water wash over him. It helped his mind to clear. He watched as the drops fell from his hair. Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop. It was relaxing. It relieved him. He took his time, letting the water do its magic. It was far too early, anyway. His first class wouldn't start until it was eight. As he stepped out of the shower, he let himself linger in front of the mirror. He was never fond of the object of vanity. In fact, he rarely used a mirror, using it only to check the condition of his teeth. But he would let it pass for now. He needed to check something. He needed to be sure. He inspected his chest in front of the mirror. He let his fingers go to certain spots, pressing them lightly to the skin to see if he would feel pain. Nothing. Good. There were no piercings. There were no bullet marks. He was safe. It was all just a dream.
He quickly made his way back to his room and put on some clothes. He put on a decent pair of jeans and a long plaid button-up shirt. He put on a pair of shoes and grabbed his messenger bag. He removed his books and replaced them with another set. He combed his hair without checking his reflection and went out the door. He stopped by the bathroom to brush his teeth and took a quick look in the mirror. He patted his hair. It was no longer long and curly as it was in his dreams. Good.
He went into the living area and picked up a book that he left on the coffee table. The apartment was still silent when he left. He was the only one who had morning classes for the day. Classes which he would no doubt be too early for.
He went down his same route. He always walked when heading for the university. It was merely a few blocks away and walking somewhat gave him a small sense of comfort. It relaxed him. It cleared his mind. He would always stop by the same old coffee shop on his way to school. It was all part of his routine. He would order the same black coffee he would every single day and have a sandwich to go. Actually, he would now have the time to sit down and eat a proper breakfast. He still had a lot of time left but that would break his routine. And as his friends knew it, he was a man who stuck to his schedule.
As he made his way out of the coffee shop, he made eye contact with a girl who seemed to be around his age. He always saw her in the mornings. She'd order a steaming cup of hazelnut cappuccino and a butter croissant to go. He would also sometimes see her in the afternoon, lounging in the corner with a book in hand or writing down notes on a piece of paper. She was a regular customer of the shop as was he.
Now, one would think that normally, a young gentleman such as he would not take such notice and observations of a young maiden such as her if he did not harbor any sort of attraction towards her. Well, he was no ordinary young gentleman. He was not one to linger on looks. Sure, if asked to describe the young mademoiselle, the word "beautiful" would certainly exit his lips but he would say it as a truth. She contained beauty but that did not mean anything to the young monsieur. He did not let his mind linger on such trivial things such as looks and physical attributes. There were much more pressing matters to be thought of. Then why must he take such interest on the mademoiselle? Well, it was not attraction that let his eyes linger on her for a passing moment. No, it was curiosity. He was intrigued by her and not in the way that other gentlemen would be. She was familiar. It was as if he had seen her before his days as a regular of the coffee shop. But that was preposterous. He was sure that he had never seen nor met her prior to their daily run-ins in the shop. If so, then why is there a certain familiarity within her that somehow pulls him towards her? That is a good question.