She waits for you, dear love, she waits. For you to pick up the pieces and put them back into place.

For you to waltz through the door and to say, "I'm here. Don't worry. My love, you look so pretty in that lace."

She waits, dear love, she waits. For the child with your hair, for the one she sorely misses.

She waits, dear love, she waits. "But take your time," she says, "For I'll always be in this place."


Dark, thick fog clouded through the streets of France. Shutters clattered closed and the occasional stray cat curled around the ankles of Enjorlas' boots. He cursed as he nearly tripped, holding the bundle closer to his chest. The bread was his lifeline; he couldn't loose it now. The familiar, and thoroughly comforting, lights of the ABC Cafè shined brightly around the corner, warming his heart more than the bread ever could. For learning was his love, France was his mistress, and the men he surrounded himself with were his brothers. A loud cheer greeted him as he skirted through the door.

Courferyac put his paper down and smiled broadly. "It's about time you came back!" he jumped up, rushing for the two loaves of bread Enjorlas set down on the table.

Joly laughed and followed suit, ripping off a hunk of the loaf. "Oh, yes, we were worried sick. 'Bout to send out Lesgles to find you!" the rest of the ABC Society laughed, patting the blushing Lesgles on the back; for Lesgles was known to be the unlucky one of the group.

Enjorlas rolled his eyes, glancing around the room. "Where is Marius?" he asked, dreading the answer. Twice. Twice the young boy had not shown up for the meetings. He was far away whenever he was present, and even further away when he was not.

"Marius?" Grantaire scoffed. "Is there even a Marius anymore?"

"Don't be a sour puss," Joly whispered, handing him the last of the bread. "Marius tries his best."Grantaire shrugged, handing half of his piece to Gavroche, who sat underneath the sole table in the Cafè.

"Gavroche," Feuilly attempted to change the subject, "how is your sister? Eponine, was it?"

Gavroche crawled out from under the table. "Sister? I ain't got not sister; no family t'all."

"Don't lie, Gavroche," Grantaire frowned.

"Well," the boy softened. "I've got a sister, a mum, a da'. But I fend for myself, I do."

"And rightfully so! The people of France need the freedom to live as they please and to do as they-"

"Oh, Enjorlas, please, let us have one night without a revolution speech. I am tired, and all I really want is a nice plump woman." Grantaire took a swig of his wine.

Enjorlas gritted his teeth together. "Unfortunately, for you, there are no plump women around any longer because they can't-" he sighed, breaking himself off. Maybe they're right. Maybe they do need a break. As he took a good hard look at the faces of the men around him, he finally noticed the dark rings under their eyes from too much planning, studying, or writing; he noticed the lines that weren't there when they had all first met, and he noticed, too, the light fading from their once vivid eyes. He was too eager about their possible freedom to notice the toll it was taking. If this was what was happening to them, what could he possibly look like? He must work twice as harder, always up late, thinking, hardly letting a morsel cross his lips (most of the time he just forgot to eat). Enjorlas nodded quickly. "Okay. Okay. Please go, and run wild for the night-" a collective murmurer ran through the men. "But do not impregnate some poor soul. We can't have any doubles of you running around. God help us all!"

The men laughed, a real laugh, for the first time in awhile, before they began to file out of the room, drinks in hand. Enjorlas stayed put at the table, his hands steepled under his chin, eyes closed. Prouvaire remained for a moment, his hand resting on Enjorlas' shoulder. "You should come out, too," he said, voice gentle.

Enjorlas considered it for a fraction of a second, but there was much work to be done before they could rise and fight. He shook his head violently. "No!" his near-shout scared him, as it did Prouvaire. Taking a shaky breath, he waved one of the youngest men away. "No. No. I am fine. You go on."

Provaire, nearly shaking in his boots, rushed out of the room, bumping into Marius along the way, mumbling about poems to be finished and money to be earned. Marius laughed underneath his breath as he watched the lad scurry away like a mouse. As he climbed the steps to the top floor of the Cafè, he wasn't surprised at all to see Enjorlas alone.

"You haven't gone?" he asked, taking a seat far enough away so Enjorlas couldn't throw something at him if he entered into a rampage like he so often did.

"No."

"You should have. You look like Death."

"And you," Enjorlas turned to the boy. "Look like Life."

"Because I get out of here once and awhile. I feel as strongly as you do, Enjorlas, but I know when my heart and brain have had enough for one day."

Enjorlas scoffed. "I've never had enough."

Marius was so often puzzled by the older man. He was strong, and clever, and brave. He cared for the men of the ABC more than anyone ever could, but he would sometimes.. become so distant and cold, and his charisma would wither into the shell of a man he really was. Enjorlas could strike up excitement and the best type of fear in the most resolved bishop or nun and get them to join the revolution in three sentences if he wanted. But when all was said in done, Marius figured he was one of the saddest men on the planet. And also one of the greatest.


Enjorlas finally broke. He left the ABC after Marius' ramblings about some angel name Cosette. He stalked through the streets, angrily slamming shutters that had been left open, awakening the children inside.

Women. They always seem to get in the way.

After his mother hardly even looked at him, Enjorlas found it hard to trust women, much less love them. Oh, of course, he found sort comfort in a quick roll, but nothing ever lasted. Maybe, though, he often told himself, I'll find her one day,. And everything will fall into place. But that thought became less and less comforting as the days grew closer to the revolution. He would gladly give up his life for his country, and no woman would stop that.

As Enjorlas rounded yet another corner, he heard the sound of crying. Internally groaning, he thought of turning back; Marius would skin him alive if he came back, though. So he soldiered on in the cold, trying not to pay attention to the frail figured, huddled against the wall.

Then she looked up and Enjorlas stopped in his track, taking his hands from his pockets.

This. This is what he fought for. This is what he was trying to get rid of. The poor crying souls on the corner. The ones forgotten and opressed.

"Please, Monsieur," she began, masking the shaking in her voice. "Do not stare."

He faltered. "Right. Yes. Right. I'm sorry." then he paused. Had he seen her somewhere before? "Are.. are you Eponine?"

"Yes.." she said carefully.

He smiled slightly, holding out his hands. "Then you'd best come with me."


Hooray! My first Les Mis fanfic! If you could kindly leave what you thought, I'd be much obliged. :) Thanks so much!

~ Jessie