Alright, everyone! Since I didn't write a Christmas story, I present to you all a New Year's Story! A little early, but I'll be without internet for New Year's Eve, so better early than late, I say! This idea's been kicking around for a while; it was finally finalized while I was in the mountains in November (I do a lot of decent writing in the mountains!) and finally put down on paper within the last couple of days. I hope you all enjoy! Oh, and I got the Polish off of a translation website, so I hope the way I translated it is right! And no real warnings…mentions of a boy in a dress, but in a completely innocent way. Really.

Disclaimer: Les Miserables and all associated characters are not mine.

New Year's Revelations

"So you want to know what I think?"

This was the question that Bahorel proposed to the rest of the Amis, seated around Enjolras' living room on whatever they could find that was comfortable enough to perch on. Somebody had brought alcohol; they must have, because Enjolras would certainly not keep any of that vile substance within a hundred feet of his house.

When nobody answered Bahorel, he crossed his arms, took a sip of his wine, and continued: "Well, I think that since we are supposed to be brothers here, and it is New Year's Eve, that instead of making some far-reaching and unrealistic resolutions, why don't we partake in a little bonding exercise?" When this still received no response, he sighed and said, "I propose that we each tell everyone else something about us that they don't know yet. Can I get some response from somebody?" He finally said, sounding annoyed.

"I'm up for it if everyone else is," Courfeyrac finally broke in. "I mean, we've got nothing to hide, have we?"

"Precisely my thoughts," Bahorel smiled.

"Well, if you're so set on the idea, why don't you go first?" Enjolras was glowering at him, no doubt wondering how this seemingly innocent proposal could turn horribly awry. Bahorel's proposals often ended in either a fight or something getting broken. Neither were pleasant prospects, seeing as how Enjolras would no doubt be left cleaning up the mess left by everyone else. He must have been crazy to think that all of them could have a pleasant New Year's gathering in his house.

Bahorel nodded thoughtfully. "Well, why not?" he shrugged. "Alright, then. In my younger days, I was a devout Royalist," he said, waiting to gauge the response.

"Well," Courfeyrac cleared his throat. "Never would have seen that. What changed your mind?"

"You know, I could not really say," Bahorel mused. "I suppose my family has never really cared about politics one way or the others; being farmers, they have had little to complain about, so what I heard was more or less positive reviews about the monarchy. Every time revolution flared up in Paris, all it did was cause people in the country to shake their heads…things took a long time to move from the city outward, and often by the time they did, most people had forgotten what the dispute was ever about. It was only after I came to Paris that I realized what was truly going on. Courfeyrac?" He raised an eyebrow.

"My turn, is it?" Courfeyrac laughed and leant back in his chair, crossing his legs. "Alright, then. My family has always been deeply immersed in music, and as such, expected me to carry on the noble tradition. But, seeing as how I couldn't sing…"

"And still can't," Combeferre muttered, causing Courfeyrac to shoot him a glare.

"Ignoring that little side-comment, seeing as how I have no ability to carry a tune, they decided to see if I could actually play anything. As such…" he paused for effect, "they enrolled me in music lessons when I was six, and I attended faithfully for about eleven years. I daresay I'm quite good."

"And? What do you play?" Bahorel asked.

"Well, I…well…violin," he admitted, causing Bahorel to burst out laughing. "Laugh if you will, but I don't see you playing any Mozart," he huffed.

"It's not…I have nothing against the violin," Bahorel assured him. "It's just…you playing the violin!"

"Alright, alright," Courfeyrac waved off the other man. "Combeferre?"

"When I was a child, I was deathly afraid of blood. I couldn't even see a little of it without feeling sick to my stomach and needing to lie down," Combeferre admitted, resting his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers.

"But you're a surgeon!" Bossuet exclaimed, looking incredulous.

"I'm aware of that," Combeferre smiled. "I suppose at some point it merely went away; like many irrational childhood fears. Needless to say, I could not be in the job I am in if I still felt that way."

"No indeed," Bossuet looked thoughtful. "And I'm afraid my story isn't nearly so profound. In fact, it's a little embarrassing. Most of you know that I'm originally from Meaux, but I don't believe I've ever told you why I moved to Paris.

"You see, near my village was a very famous old mill. Many people in the region felt that it distinguished them from any other country village in the area, so they were very protective of it. Well, one night I was travelling home in the dark and I…tripped over something. My lantern went flying and…"

"You burnt the mill down?!" Feuilly clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter.

"Oh, Eagle," Courfeyrac sighed. "Only you. Only you could ever pull off something like that."

"Well, I wasn't too popular with the locals after that, and seeing as how I already had a horrible reputation for being unlucky and no family to speak of, I decided that moving to a large city could only help me," he concluded with a sheepish grin. "Joly, go, before I die of embarrassment."

"Not much to laugh about with me, I'm afraid," the medic smiled regretfully. "You see, the reason I'm so paranoid about every little anomaly in my body is because of something that happened when I was a child. I…when I was about six, I contracted a rather nasty bout of pneumonia. The doctors were sure I was going to die; it was a miracle that I pulled through without any real lasting damage, but they warned my parents that I would likely be sickly for the rest of my life.

"I certainly did get ill more often than any of the other children where I lived, but even though nothing drastic has happened since then, I always feel like it will," he looked at the floor.

Courfeyrac and Bahorel looked guilty; no doubt feeling bad for teasing Joly about his hypochondria. Bossuet appeared to look at his friend in a new light, and put an arm around his shoulders. Joly smiled at him gratefully. "I'm not complaining about it; I just thought…that you should know. But by all means, this doesn't mean that every time I complain about a twitch in my foot you should rush me to the hospital."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Courfeyrac smiled back. "So who's next? Feuilly, ruch" he commanded.

"Don't you spout Polish at me," Feuilly snorted. "Besides, your pronunciation is appalling. But to the point, and I will only say this if you all promise not to throw a knife at me when you hear it…" he glanced around, waiting for the chorus of nods. When they came, he continued, "Alright, then. For a good many years, I was…I was part of Patron-Minette," he finished, and, as he expected, there were more than a few gasps.

"What?" Courfeyrac nearly dropped his glass. "Feuilly, why…"

"Because it afforded the greatest chance of staying alive," Feuilly replied calmly. "I was never proud of what we did; I tried to not take part in the more drastic events, but the truth is I've done some things that, in one way or another, I regret doing," he explained. "And, as you well know, nobody leaves Patron-Minette alive. So although I keep a low profile within the group; I would never chance them finding out that I am still in the city and not participating; if they ever ask me for help, I'm obliged to give it. You learn a lot of information that way, though, because the only reason people turn to crime is because they are oppressed. Very few of them are actually malicious at heart; they are around, of course, but many of them are like me: impoverished, orphaned, and left with no other option if they want to live to see tomorrow," he finished, staring around as if daring anyone to oppose him.

"I think you're very brave," Prouvaire finally said, reaching to gently lay a hand on the older man's knee.

"Thank you, Jehan. Dziękowanie," he said to Courfeyrac, smiling.

"Which means…?"

"Thank you, of course. I figure that the least you can do if you want to learn Polish is learn it from me," Feuilly smiled.

"Of course. Dziękowanie," Courfeyrac repeated, trying very hard to make it sound the way Feuilly had. "Was I close, at least?"

"Close enough. We'll work on it," Feuilly assured him. "And you, Jehan?" he turned back to the poet, who looked almost afraid of what he was going to say.

"Okay. Well," he stopped for a moment and drew a deep breath before continuing. "I have a sister…her name is Aurore, and she is two years older than me. Everyone has always mentioned to us that the two of us look so alike that we could be twins, but of course they always have the added implication that I look somewhat…"

"Feminine?" Courfeyrac smiled.

"Yes, if you must put it that way," Prouvaire sighed. "But to the point: Aurore decided that my father would be so oblivious to anything outside his normal circumstances that if I were to go in and speak to him wearing my sister's clothing, he would not know the difference. And it worked," he conceded. "I must have spoken to him for about an hour; horribly uncomfortable in a dress, but I'm thankful my sister has always been more concerned with functionality and style and I wasn't wearing anything too garish, but Papa did not seem to notice the difference. We've never told him, and he's never suspected anything," Prouvaire finished, a little afraid of the response he would get.

There was complete silence for a few seconds until Courfeyrac, Bossuet and Bahorel started laughing riotously. Prouvaire glowered at them but remained silent, and eventually their laughter subsided.

"Sorry, Jehan," Bossuet was still chuckling quietly. "It's not that it's that funny…well, it is, I mean, but…it's just…how could somebody not realize that…" he started laughing again.

"Oh, it was really quite convincing. Even I could hardly recognize myself," Prouvaire added.

"What I would have given to have been there!" Courfeyrac sighed. "You are one brave man, Jehan Prouvaire."

"I think perhaps 'foolish' would be more appropriate," Prouvaire said with a smile.

"Well, foolish or not, it sounds brilliant," Bahorel assured him. "Alright…who's going to confess next?" He turned to Enjolras, who raised an eyebrow and stared at Grantaire who, while seated in the same room, seemed oblivious to the entire conversation that had just occurred. "Grantaire? Care to regale us?"

"Hmm?" Grantaire glanced up. "Oh. Right. Well, I suppose…" he hiccupped. "I suppose the only thing for me to tell is that…when I was a child and went to school, the teachers often informed me that I had a head for learning. I could store anything and quote the most obscure references," he took another swig of wine. "They said…they said that I could become anything I wanted…I was always the smartest boy in the class," he added, looking somewhere between proud and ashamed.

"And you chose to become a drunken lout. How productive," Enjolras snapped scathingly, "And don't spill any wine on my carpet, because I will make you clean it," he threatened.

"I have a good memory, but I fear that I have no initiative to use it for anything useful. And what about you, dearest Apollo? Afraid to divulge your deepest secrets?" Grantaire slurred then, holding his glass out in a mock-toast.

"As the host, I believe that I should get the opportunity to speak last," Enjolras replied, turning his gaze on Marius, who had been silent up until that point. The truth was, he did not feel inclined to really comment all that much because he hardly knew anything about any of them, and so did not feel that his opinion was truly valid. He cleared his throat and said, "Well, I…"

"Go ahead. We're all friends here," Courfeyrac urged him on.

"There's not much to tell, I suppose. You already know most of my past," Marius turned to Courfeyrac. "And besides that…well, there's the fact that I'm a Baron, but…"

"Wait, wait, wait. A Baron?" Courfeyrac looked incredulous. "You never told me that! I'm rather offended!"

"You never asked," Marius pointed out.

"Well, I asked about your family!"

"It hardly matters," Marius assured him. "After all, it's hardly like it's a prestigious title. My father died a poor man; it was in my mother's family where all the money was to be had. The title was merely passed on to me when my father died."

"But how did he become a Baron?" Courfeyrac pressed. "There had to have been something…"

"Well, yes…Emperor Napoleon gave him the title for his service on the battlefield," Marius cleared his throat. "Now I know how you all feel about that, so, as I said, I am a Baron in title only. It means nothing."

"So you say," Courfeyrac shrugged, clearly unconvinced. "True, it would hold no stock with the king, but…"

"If you want to use me to get you women, Courfeyrac, the answer is no," Marius stated, crossing his arms. Enjolras gave him an approving nod, and Courfeyrac glared at both of them before leaning back in his chair again.

"Your turn, then, Apollo," he gestured to Enjolras. "Come on, then. What deep, dark secret are you harbouring?"

"Hardly deep or dark. It's just…I suppose the most shocking thing about my life that all of you do not know is that I had a fiancée once."

Courfeyrac nearly fell out of his chair at these words, and Grantaire proceeded to slop wine all down the front of his shirt; luckily catching it before it hit any of the furniture.

"You? Engaged?" He sounded incredulous.

"Yes. It's not what you think," Enjolras assured them. "My parents believed that this girl and I were a good match; it was an arranged thing. Naturally, she was smitten with the way that I looked, as all women seem to be…for one reason or another. Of course, once I had made it clear in whatever way possible that I had no desire for her in any way, shape, or form, she eventually ran back to her parents and asked them to call off the marriage. They agreed, and I moved to Paris to prevent something like that from ever happening again," he concluded with a slight smile.

"Well," Bahorel broke in again. "Now that we've all gone through this bonding exercise, I propose a toast: to enduring friendship, the Republic, good company…"

"And everlasting drink!" Grantaire piped up, ignoring the frosty gaze that Enjolras turned his way.

"That as well," Bahorel agreed. "To Les Amis."

The others echoed and drank to this; toasting with whatever was in their respective glasses. Just as they had finished, the bells over at Notre Dame chimed out the midnight hour.

"Happy 1831, everyone," Feuilly smiled.

"Now," Courfeyrac turned back to Enjolras. "I want you to tell me more about this short-lived engagement of yours. What was she like?"

Enjolras groaned, but knew that Courfeyrac would not let go of the question until he got an answer, so he resigned himself to telling the tale.

FIN

So, that is the end of another fic. And I suppose the only thing to say now is this: Happy New Year, everyone! Make sure you make resolutions you can keep:). Oh, and feel free to drop me a review on the way out. They are always greatly appreciated!