This is my second Les Mis fanfic, and I hope you enjoy it! I was going to update my other one but this plot suddenly hit me... it will be Jehan/Courfeyrac, past Courfeyrac/Montparnasse, probably with some background Enjolras/Grantaire.
Warnings for violence, character death, and mentions of non-con/rape. If you think the rating is too low let me know & I'll change it.
Also a disclaimer: I don't own Les Misérables, the poetry quotes at the start of each chapter, or anything else you recognise. I don't believe any racial views expressed in this fic - it's something I added because, well, 1830s. And sorry for any historical inaccuracies!

Chapter One: Mercy's hand hath taken

Hush! Seal ye up
Your gushing tears, for Mercy's hand hath shaken
Her earth-bonds off, and from her lip hath taken
Grief's bitter cup
- After Witnessing A Death-Scene, George W. Sands

December, 1831

Saturday evenings at the Café Musain were always a rowdy, boisterous affair. Many Parisians worked six days a week on 10 hour shifts and so there were often more customers on Saturday nights, who would drink (often in excess) and generally cause a noisy rabble (which usually resulted in being kicked out onto the street). Les Amis de l'ABC didn't tend to be a part of this noisy rabble, however today seemed to be an exception.

There was one week left until Christmas.

Although the Amis varied in their religiousness – Courfeyrac was a particularly devout Christian, while Enjolras stayed stubbornly atheist to rebel against his father – they all celebrated Christmas for one main reason.

Jean Prouvaire.

Every year Jehan would work himself up into a frenzy buying all of his friends presents, decorating the tree and making everyone feel as festive as he could. He would write poems about snow, sing carols by the fire with Feuilly, and no one would have the heart to tell him he was being a bit over the top.

Enjolras would grumble occasionally, expressing that 'it's all a capitalist money-making scheme' and 'we need to spend this valuable time planning the January protest' and 'I don't even believe in Jesus,' to which Courfeyrac would scowl, put an arm around a disheartened Prouvaire, and argue 'You need to relax a little. Yule is a great time of the year, and it doesn't have to be about a baby in a stable – it's about friends and family, and giving.'

Grantaire would then proceed to top up Enjolras' drink with whiskey, and the festivities would from then on be a little less tense.

On this particular Saturday, it was now past the point where everyone had exchanged gifts and sung a drunken verse of Happy Birthday to Joly, whose 23rd was to be on Monday. Musichetta gave him a rather passionate kiss after the last 'happy birthday to you,' and so did an intoxicated Bossuet, to which Joly turned bright red and pulled them both into a hug. Then he complained a bit about their unsanitary sharing of saliva but soon quieted when Jehan came over to hug him and weave some mistletoe into his hair.

The loudest part of the night was at 1am, when Marius and Enjolras were in a heated debate regarding upper class privilege, Bossuet and Grantaire were violently arm wrestling (resulting in a glass being pushed off the table and shattering), and Combeferre and Courfeyrac were engaged in the world's loudest chess match. Courfeyrac was shouting at the unfairness because he couldn't cope with the fact that Combeferre always won. It was chaotic.

Now let it be known that Jean Prouvaire was a fairly sociable person. He was never the first to leave a social gathering because he loved people, his friends in particular, and he felt it would be rude if he did so. However, Jehan was also a French Literature student in his first year at university and had been up every night for the past week or so writing essays for his overdue coursework, trying to finish it all before the holiday. Furthermore, he was the youngest of the friend group (excluding the street urchin Gavroche), at only 18 years old, so being a teenager he was quite fond of sleep. Lastly, he had a killer headache.

So, aiming to get a decent night's sleep, he notified a frustrated Courfeyrac of his departure. Courfeyrac looked a little disappointed yet still worried. Being closer to the law student than he had been all night, Jehan noticed the dark bags under his eyes which he hadn't seen before, and a purple bruise which was peeking out above his collar. What had happened there? "Wait – Jehan," he said, swiftly grabbing the poet's arm as he pulled his coat and hat on, ready to leave. Courf furrowed his eyebrows. "Be careful, mon ami," he continued in a low voice, "the streets of Paris are dangerous in the early hours of the morning, you need to be aware at all times. Trust me, I speak from experience."

Combeferre nodded seriously in agreement, still plotting the checkmate of Courfeyrac's king. It seemed that Courfeyrac, even in his drunken state, still had common sense, good advice, and the capability to care for others. The law student winked, returning to his mischievous self. "Et Joyeux Noël, Prouvaire."

He shouted in outrage upon turning back to the chessboard and seeing that Combeferre had taken his queen. Courf turned to Jehan to ask him to back him up, but the teenager had already left.

Jehan made his quick escape into the cold December night, his head pounding painfully, even worse than before. He sighed and shoved his freezing hands into the pockets of his jacket. It was snowing – the beautiful white crystals drifted down, landing in his dirty blond hair and melting on his tongue when he held it out. The whole street was coated in a layer of white and the snow crunched under his feet when he walked.

It was beautiful – but deadly.

Before this year, Jehan used to write artful poems inspired by winter and the festive season, about the purity and cleanliness of the snow which fell from the heavens, and the warm feeling of entering a cosy café or house with a fire burning in the chimney. He'd write about the snow melting to reveal apple blossom, baby sheep and a new start – he'd write until his wrists ached.

Now all that was on his mind was the poor, the widowed women desperately trying to feed themselves on scraps of leftovers and the charity of others, the malnourished children losing hope and shivering in dark alleyways, and the dead bodies of the very people that Les Amis fought for, staring emptily at the sky, having either frozen or starved to death. Unlike last year when Jehan wrote naïve, petty poems about snow, now he wrote about the people he was trying to save. This year he had met Les Amis, this year he had a conscience. And he would fight with his friends until the very end, using both his masterful words and force if necessary.

Jehan was ready for a fight.

Upon turning the corner into a less lit, slightly sketchy-looking street which was unfortunately on his route back to his apartment, the poet heard a whimper from an alley between two houses. The sound was so quiet that he almost missed it.

Someone, or something, was in pain. He couldn't just ignore that. If it was a stray cat, he couldn't leave it to die. If it was a street urchin, he couldn't just leave them to suffer. So Jehan's conscience got the better of him. This street was a known place where the infamous Patron-Minette gang frequented, and the crime levels were high, so the student approached cautiously, trying to silently tread on the snow towards the alley. He looked down the alley, eyes still adjusting to the dark, and spotted someone curled up by the wall between the bins, wearing ragged, torn clothes and sobbing.

Jehan went closer, leaving footprints in the fresh snow behind him. "Mademoiselle?" he whispered gently, for indeed as the person looked up he saw it was a young woman. She had dark, very frizzy long hair which looked uncontrollably messy and tangled and concealed most of her face, and her skin tone was dark. The girl was unhealthily thin, and Jehan fleetingly thought that if he touched her wrist she might break. His heart clenched at the thought, and he knew that, despite her wise, haunted eyes, she couldn't have been any older than him. She was still just barely a child, perhaps sixteen or seventeen. "Are you hurt, mademoiselle?"

The girl flinched and nodded hesitantly, clutching at what was maybe a serious wound on her chest. "S'il vous plaît, monsieur," she gasped, voice trembling. "L-leave me to die in peace."

Prouvaire was not the type of person to leave an innocent dying in an alleyway, alone and in pain. "No," he said firmly. "I refuse it. I can help you; I have friends who are studying medicine, if you would just let me take you to them – "

The young woman made a terrible sound which was like a mixture of a moan, gasp and sob. She took in a deep breath and Jehan saw that her hands were shaking. He wasn't surprised – her clothing was partly missing (he could guess the reason why but didn't really want to think about such an awful thing) and the temperature must have been in the negatives. "Il est … trop tard," she whispered, and moved her hands away from the wound which she had been applying pressure to. And then Jehan saw the blood. She was right. He was too late.

Never had he seen so much blood before.

It poured, a deadly scarlet colour, faster than the red wine downed by Grantaire on Friday evenings.

Jehan leapt forwards, feeling his heart beating fast with adrenaline. He knelt down in front of the girl and took one of her trembling hands in his own. She grasped it tightly like it was her lifeline. And it may well have been. With his other hand he unwound his scarf, ignoring the sudden chill on his neck, and carefully applied pressure on what looked like a nasty cut.

"You're going to be fine," he murmured, kissing her head and tucking her messy hair behind her ears. "J-just breathe for me, and don't close your eyes."

The girl whimpered in response but still smiled peacefully. Her eyelashes were now fluttering and Jehan couldn't help but think that she looked like an angel with the snowflakes sparkling on her dark eyelashes.

"What's your name?" he asked softly, voice cracking. Don't cry, he told himself. Be strong for her. Then you can cry.

Taking in a shaky breath, she replied so quietly that Prouvaire had to strain his ears. "My name is Estelle."

Jehan smiled gently. "That's a beautiful name, just like you."

Most men would not have called Estelle beautiful, but Jehan was not most men. True, perhaps she looked awful with her tangled hair and dirty clothes, and by most peoples' standards she could not be considered attractive because of her dark skin tone, but in Jehan's eyes she was perfect. He could tell that she was incredibly brave, good and innocent despite all the wrongdoings that had happened to her. And he knew that this unfortunate soul would be the subject of his poems for many years to come. Life had ruined her, but she stayed strong.

"Merci, monsieur," she said, and winced from the immense pain.

"Mine is Jean Prouvaire, but I chose the name Jehan for I am a romantic at heart," he muttered, and tenderly squeezed her hand. "I write poetry and study French Literature. I used to write about the snow and Christmas, or the beautiful lavender fields of Provence and the ancient stone cottages in my home town… but now I write about the poor and the pain I see in their eyes. My professor tells me my words are revolutionary and would not be accepted by the public so I publish my ones about snow and lavender – but in reality I wish to speak my words to the world so I may achieve equal rights for everyone with mes amis."

Jehan was very much aware of the fact he was now rambling and that Estelle wasn't listening much. But he wanted to comfort her in what was likely her last moments. He couldn't save her so he wanted to give her the only thing he was able to give her: hope.

She was now breathing thinly and Jehan could feel her heartbeat slowing from where his hand was laid upon her chest, applying pressure to the wound. "Do not stop writing about the snow," she said. "It is just as beautiful as the new world which will dawn." Estelle convulsed sharply and painfully, coughing up some blood which coated her lips in red. "Tell me more about your friends," she whimpered, her eyes wide and gazing into his as if she were reading his soul.

"Y-you would love my friends," Prouvaire stuttered. "There's Combeferre who is the guide, and he's a wonderfully intelligent man who saves lives and is fascinated by moths. Joly, who turns 23 this Monday, studies medicine like Combeferre and I'm not sure if he loves Bossuet, Musichetta or both. Bossuet and Bahorel never fail to make me laugh, and just today Bossuet, a slightly clumsy fellow, broke a glass while arm wrestling. I know you'd get on well with Musichetta, you seem quite similar. She has a fiery temper but can be fiercely kind and loyal and will protect all of her friends. Marius is my age and spends most of his life stalking a girl he calls Ursula, and Feuilly is a working man who I admire very, very much. Then there's Grantaire, who is undoubtedly a cynic and a drunkard but believes wholly in Enjolras, and his unconditional love is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Enjolras is the leader and I will follow him to the end, whether it's to a successful revolution or my death... R calls him Apollo and I think that's a very accurate representation of him. And Courfeyrac is the centre. I love him more than he knows I do- "

Throughout Jehan's comforting speech he realised that Estelle's heart was beating slower and the blood from her wound wasn't flowing as fast. Now she had closed her eyes and was motionless. "Estelle?" he whispered. "Estelle- help!" he shouted the last part, begging for someone, anyone, to come and save her life. "Please! Elle meurt!"

He felt her freezing hand. It had stopped trembling.

Jehan put his ear near her mouth, desperately hoping to hear or feel the warm breath he knew wouldn't be there. He let go of her hand and it fell lifelessly by her side.

The poet sobbed and stood up abruptly, inexplicably wanting to run away from the sight of the dead body of a woman he couldn't save. Her glazed eyes stared emptily up into the snow, which covered her now cold body in a thin white blanket. Jehan, feeling dizzy, leant against the wall of the alley.

A charming, disgustingly cheerful voice emerged from the shadows. "What have we here?"

French translations for this chapter: mon ami/mes amis - my friend/my friends
et Joyeux Noël - and Happy Christmas
s'il vous plaît/merci, monsieur - please/thank you, sir
il est trop tard - it's too late
elle meurt - she is dying