A/N: First attempt at an Amis modern AU, so please be nice. Also, Les Mis doesn't belong to me.

Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital, 2015

"Enjolras? En? You said he was waking up."

"He has shown signs, Mademoiselle Enjolras- movement behind the eyelids, some flickering, detections of higher mental awareness than we have seen in him the past five years."

"But- we rushed over here especially." He knew that voice; loved that voice.

"I'm sorry. It could be some time. He wasn't going to open his eyes immediately, say hello, demand some breakfast." The man's aristocratic accent had the stuffy, authoritative tone one might associate with doctors, lawyers, government officials. It irritated him to hear it. Why should he speak in such a patronising way to the girl- who clearly meant so much to him, the way her voice rang and chimed alarm bells of recognition and importance in his mind, if he could just remember why.

"There's no need for that." A third voice, another man, soft, calm, but firm. Perfectly eloquent and, again, recognisable. He just wanted to open his eyes and see them, to put faces to the voices he knew…

"I can call you when- if- he wakes up, if that would be preferable."

"I think we'll sit here for a bit, if you don't mind." The girl replied. "I like to spend time with him- even when he's sleeping."

He could almost see her in his mind's eye, the picture just a little too blurry and jaded to fully make out her identity- he knew the voice so well. Little jolts of memory went off like a chain of dominoes in his head; a tinkling laugh, a head of golden curls, a crinkled smile. Suddenly, he wanted to see her so badly, his chest ached. His eyes felt trapped though, as though the lids were sewn shut. They weren't heavy, just stuck together somehow.

He felt cool, slender fingers take hold of his hand. He had been so caught up in his mind, in the voices that had so recently appeared, that he had forgotten about the rest of his body. He supposed it was still there; he just hadn't felt it for so long- now there was a hand holding his own, and the realisation that his nerves weren't completely numb. Not anymore.

He wriggled his toes experimentally, and felt something warm and crinkly, like a bedsheet, rustling with his movement.

"He just moved!" The female voice exclaimed, her grip on his hand tightening. "I- I think- can you hear me, Enjolras, can you hear me?!"

Yes! Yes, I can hear you.

"Enjolras? Enjolras, brother. Are you there? Can you hear us?"

I know your voice. I can hear you. I can't see you. I can't talk, not right now.

He tried to open his eyes, but they were still stuck, as though they had been glued that way. He wriggled his toes again, in way of response.

"You saw that, right, Jean?"

Jean?

"He certainly moved." How could such a familiar voice belong to a name he had no recollection of? Was he losing his memory?

In reckless hope, Enjolras attempted to move his fingers, to tighten his grip on the hand in his own. It must have worked, for the female gave a sharp intake of breath.

"You can hear me- you are there, aren't you, Enjolras? Médecin- I think he's trying to wake up." So he was in hospital then. What had happened? Had something gone wrong with his eyes?

His lips tingled, his tongue felt warm and listless in his mouth. He tried to move them, but was unsure if anything happened.

"Mes yeux," He tried experimentally, voice croaky and breathless. A doctor must have arrived, someone was pressing fingers to his wrist, and hooking him up to some kind of machine.

"He was moving- and he just spoke- he's definitely trying to wake up."

"Monsieur Enjolras? Can you hear me? Monsieur?"

"Oui."

Frantic and excitable discussion ensued, as Enjolras' brain worked overtime. So many voices- there must be at least five people in the room, if only he could open his eyes and see. What if he was blind?

"Mes yeux," He said again, louder and more desperately this time. Life seemed to be spreading from his lips, tingling all over his face. His eyes felt lighter, even more weightless than before. They began to flicker.

Brightness. Everything was white, so bright, so colourful, that after a millisecond of seeing he had to press them tightly shut again.

"The light- it's very bright," He said.

"Enjolras! Mon frère!" The girl cried, as other voices discussed hurriedly in the background- "Turn the lights out, and draw the curtains- get the brain activity monitor…"

Frère. Brother.

"Enjolras?" Came the man's voice again, the one he recognised. Jean.

"Sylvie? Sylvie, is that you? What's happening?" Enjolras blinked. The room was darker now, though still unbearably colourful, and so much movement- so different to the darkness he had become so accustomed to.

"Oui! Oui, mon frère, c'est moi!" Sylvie exclaimed excitedly. His little sister, Sylvie, with her bright laugh and sky-blue eyes and gold hair so like his own. He knew that voice. His eyes were open fully now, it was blurry, but he could see. He knew that face.

Sylvie leaned forward and kissed him passionately on either cheek. "It's been so long." She said, voice thick with emotion.

"Sylvie- what's happening? Where am I?" Enjolras demanded, trying to prop himself up in bed, only to be pounced on by two overbearing doctors. "Why am I here?"

"Don't answer him." One of the doctors said immediately.

"The time for questions is later, Monsieur." Another said. "I think you two should leave, for now, so we can get him settled, accustomed-"

"I don't want to!" Sylvie whined.

"Sylvie- if the doctors say it's best, they probably do know." Calm but firm, Jean again. Enjolras had almost forgotten about him. With some effort, he turned his neck so he was facing the direction of the familiar voice. A slender man sat the other side of the bed to his sister, tall and reasonably pale, with a smattering of freckles, and long red hair. It was shorter, however, than he remembered it- messy and shoulder-length, as opposed to a long red plait down his back.

"JEHAN?" Enjolras asked incredulously, eyebrows flying up his forehead. "Mon ami!" He had forgotten, Jehan, his real name was Jean. Jean Prouvaire.

"Oui, Enjolras, my friend. It's Jehan."

"His memory seems to be in perfect order," One of the doctors was saying.

"You two really should leave now," Said another. Sylvie looked distraught, but squeezed his hand and promised she'd be back tomorrow. As she left, Enjolras noticed her taking Jehan's hand. Something felt wrong about that, though he couldn't figure out why. "I can't wait to tell all the others- can we call them now?" She was gushing. Of course, the others. His friends. But he had only seen them all yesterday, surely? Though, perhaps he had been out for rather a long time. He couldn't quite remember why he was here at all.

"Get. My. Sister. Back." Enjolras snarled at the snarky male doctor, his fingers gripped around the other man's wrist. He looked slightly fearful. Good.

Within the twelve hours he had been awake, the authoritative Doctor man had become the bane of Enjolras' existence. He wore glasses, perched on the edge of his nose, and had lips that seemed to be constantly pursed. Not to mention, he was a giant fuckbag.

"Visiting hours are over, Monsieur. Now, would you like to read something? Your sister tells me you were very literary before the accident-"

"Listen, pal." Enjolras spat venomously. "I just found out it's 2020 and I've woken up after a five-year nap. Get me my sister." He narrowed his eyes for effect.

The doctor caved.

Within half an hour, Sylvie had arrived, this time alone. Enjolras tried not to be upset. He had hoped his sister may bring along Jehan or another of his friends; he so longed to see them- especially now he knew how long it had been since they last spoke. Would they have changed; what would be happening in their lives? Would he recognise them at all?

"Bonjour, Enjolras," His sister greeted him brightly, settling down on the chair next to his bed. Studying her carefully, he noticed some changes- her curly blonde hair was longer than he remembered, her face more gaunt-looking. She had lost weight. He hoped it wasn't from worrying. "I heard you found out about the whole 'five-years-out-of-action' thing, so I bought you today's paper." She handed him the newspaper with a smile, and he thanked her. Looking at the date, however- glaring out at him from under the newspaper name- made him feel sick to the stomach. It sat there, in thick black ink, mocking him. You've missed five years of your life.

The headline read, "RIOTS IN PARIS AFTER FOUR POLICEMEN TAKEN HOSTAGE BY TERRORISTS".

Enjolras sighed. Five years, and his country was still a mess of conflicting opinions and violence. Oh, France.

"I'll read it some other time," He said, placing it on the table next to his bed. He reached out and took his sister's hands in his own. "Please, Sylvie, tell me about you. About our friends. About our life. Has anything happened?"

Sylvie's eyes glassed over, and she looked to her shoes, squeezing his fingers with her own.

"So much has happened." She stated simply. "So many things- I needed you so badly, En."

"Tell me, Sylvie. Sil vous plaît."

"Oh, Enjolras," She cried, her eyes watering now, and a single tear rolling down her right cheek. "It's papa. He died last year."

Enjolras felt a winded sensation, as though a bullet had struck him in the stomach. Instinctively, he reached up and clasped a hand to his chest, breathing heavily. He ran it through his hair, before taking his sister's hand again, and staring earnestly into her eyes. "When? How?"

Sylvie was crying now. "Just after christmas. He got sick. Really ill."

"Oh, Sylvie." His sister collapsed into his arms, and he rubbed her back and stroked her hair comfortingly. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there."

"I didn't know what to do," She sobbed, clutching him tightly. "I came to talk to you, and held your hand and told you all about it and how much I needed you there and how hard the funeral was, and how much he wanted to say goodbye to you. You have no idea how much I wanted you to wake up, in the final days of his life- it was his dying wish to hear your voice again."

Enjolras too was crying now, his father's face in his mind. His father who had been his role model as a child, and his best friend as an adult. His advisor, his assistant, his mentor, his friend. His father who had held him, a nineteen-year-old boy, as he cried at his mother's death. His father who had always been there no matter what. Now gone.

"I can't get my head around all this, Syl." Enjolras confessed, once his sister had composed himself, and the few tears he had shed had dried on his face. "I've missed so much. So much has changed. I feel like a stranger to this world."

"We can change that," She said, with some determination, clasping his hands. "We'll get you all caught up, don't you worry about that. You've got some visitors coming this afternoon, by the way!"

"Visitors?" Enjolras' eyes widened. "Seriously? Sylvie- I don't think I'm ready-" While the idea of seeing people he knew after so long terrified him, it also ignited a spark of excitement in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps she had contacted Combeferre. He was so desperate to see his best friend again. Or maybe Courf, and he would bring Jehan along. Courfeyrac was dating Jehan, he remembered that now. He remembered almost everything, about every single one of his friends. He could see their faces in his mind.

"Who is it? Who's coming?" He asked curiously.

He wondered if his closest friends would have changed much. How would they have got on without him, Combeferre and Courfeyrac?

His sister just smirked and raised her eyebrows. "I'll see you tomorrow. You can tell me how it goes this afternoon." She kissed him on both cheeks and waltzed out of the room, leaving Enjolras to entertain himself until the arrival of his mystery guests.

Pontmercy?

He was a nice guy and all, but on what fucking planet is it a good idea to expose a guy who has just been in a five-year coma to a guy like Pontmercy?

It was Cosette who came in the door first, looking beautiful as ever. She hadn't changed much- perhaps become a little softer around the edges- but she still had that day-brightening smile, the deep blue eyes that Marius had fallen sickeningly in love with. Her hair was pinned in a practical bun on her head, and she looked tired.

It soon became apparent why. In one hand, she carried a bouquet of flowers- the ones wrapped in cellophane you get from the supermarket. The other arm had a baby carrier slung over it, a small child of only a few months sleeping inside. So, Monsieur and Mademoiselle Pontmercy had been busy since the wedding.

Marius followed, a rambunctious male toddler of around three perched on his shoulders, tugging at his father's hair. A girl who didn't look much older was dangling off her father's arm, and a final child of one or two was propped up on the tall man's hip. Marius was grinning at his children, in a rather pained, long-suffering manner.

Merde. Marius and Cosette had been going at it more than he had thought.

"Enjolras!" Cosette exclaimed. She carefully placed the baby carrier on the floor and rushed towards his bed, kissing him on both cheeks and thrusting the flowers into his hands. "It's been so long- we've missed you so much!"

"Mama?" The girl child piped up, tugging on her mother's skirt. "Is that a man or a woman?" Enjolras raised his eyebrows, and Cosette laughed awkwardly.

"A man, chéri."

"But his hair is longer than yours!"

"Well, they haven't cut it for a while, he's been sleeping so long." Cosette said quickly. She crossed the room to gather up the younger boy from his father's arms.

"Mon dieu, Marius, where is Henri's coat?"

"Sorry, darling, I must have left it in the car- I was too busy trying to-"

"-Find the entrance to the hospital? Take your seatbelt off? Remember to breathe?!" Cosette finished for him with exasperation, and Marius just ran a hand through his hair, ignoring his wife. He knew he was a scatter brain. His head was too full of other things.

"Well, if he catches a cold now, it's your fault." She added, plonking her young son onto the chair next to the bed. The older-looking boy, having clambered down from his father's shoulders, was now crawling over Enjolras' bed, moving up until he had sat on the man's stomach. Enjolras frowned.

"Salut, Monsieur!" He gurgled happily.

"Salut, young unidentified Pontmercy child." Enjolras replied shortly. "Would you mind-"

"Jean!" Cosette exclaimed, grabbing the boy under the arms and scooping him off the bed. "I'm so sorry- was he hurting you? He's big for his age. ISABELLE- stop poking the baby!"

"Uh, sorry about this," Marius said a little awkwardly, approaching the bed. "The children are a little raucous."

"You don't say," Enjolras replied, peeling Henri- or was it Jean- away from his hair. They were all little Pontmercy's, through and through- with faces cluttered with freckles and tall, gangly limbs. With the exception of the fabulous head of golden hair one of the boys had, each child also had Marius' mousy locks, and, apparently, his ability to be incredibly irritating at the worst possible time.

"Now, what have you brought for Monsieur Enjolras, Isabelle?" Cosette was saying, obviously trying to promote her children being polite and well-mannered little people like herself.

Isabelle flushed up to her ears. "Um- I- I made this for you." She reached into the pocket of her coat, fumbling around awkwardly.

"You don't have to wear it," Pontmercy whispered.

Isabelle produced a knobbly red scarf. It wasn't particularly long, and varied in width all the way down it, as though stitches had been dropped and then picked up again. The knitting was uneven and the colour of red altered slightly halfway down- like one colour wool had ran out and the next one had been slightly different.

"Mama taught me to knit," She said, thrusting it into his arms and hurrying shyly away.

"It's wonderful!" Enjolras said, trying not to sound too fake as he wrapped the scarf around his neck. He had never been good with children, but he had to try, for Pontmercy- he had made the effort to come and visit him, after all.

The scarf was suffocating in the stifling room and itchy against his bare neck.

"I love it," He said, practically through gritted teeth. It was worth it for the way the little girl beamed.

By the time Marius, Cosette and their brood had finally gone, Enjolras was stifling, itchy, exasperated and exhausted. He yanked the scarf away from his neck hastily, but placed it carefully on the bedside table none the less. He closed his eyes gently and led back into his pillow, relishing the silence of the now again empty hotel room.

When he woke up, it was to find that almost three hours had passed, and night had fallen. There was a nurse in the room, pulling the curtains shut and checking up on all the machines that were still measuring his heart rate and brain activity and other things. "Good nap, Monsieur?" She asked sweetly, approaching the bed to fluff his pillows up behind him. "Would you like a tray of food brought up?" She was pretty, with reddish hair that was pulled up tightly, and blue eyes that almost matched the colour of her scrubs. They reminded him of someone- the way they sparkled so brilliantly, so akin to the exact colour of the sky. Mesmerising blue eyes like these lingered somewhere in the recesses of his memory; he tried to reach back and bring them forward, connect them to a face, but it was all too foggy.

"Yes please," Enjolras replied. "And something to read. I finished this paper."

She nodded understandingly, and left the room, closing the door gently behind her. In the dim light provided by the lamp in the corner, Enjolras could see that she had put Cosette's flowers in a vase with water on the windowsill. They were white irises.

He stretched, extending his arms above his head in a lazy, cat-like manner. Reaching back, he grabbed his thick blonde hair in his hand and ran his fingers down it to the ends. It had gotten long, and felt knotty and dry.

He heaved himself up out of the bed, taking a few moments to steady himself on wobbly feet. It was as though he had been on a lengthly sea voyage, the way his head spun and legs quivered weakly. It took at least a minute more to slowly manoeuvre his way towards the hospital room's ensuite bathroom, steading himself on the bed and then the wall. What the hell was up with him? Does a five year coma really render you this immobile?

The shower room was as hospital-esque as he had expected- very white and clean, with red emergency cords next to the toilet and in the shower, and bars and a plastic disabled seat in the shower. There were a number of small bottles of toiletries lined up on a shelf inside the cubicle, like one might find in hotels.

Enjolras undressed quickly- as he peeled the hospital gown over his head in one swift movement, he began to contemplate the practicality of dresses. So that's why Cosette wore them all the time. So much faster than buttoning shirts, buckling belts, tying ties and fastening cufflinks- yet both forms of attire were considered equally formal. Perhaps he should bring this up at the next Amis meeting. Inequality in clothing.

It took him some time to work out how to adjust the temperature and pressure of the shower, but soon had it going to his liking. He stood under the hot running water, feeling it relax his muscles and bring new life to limbs that had been so long out of action. After a while, his legs began to ache, and he felt embarrassed when he had to sit down on the plastic seat in order to shower comfortably. Living like a pathetic invalid, at the meagre age of twenty-nine.

He shampooed and conditioned thoroughly, before stepping out and methodically rubbing a towel through his long hair, dark brown from the water. He wrapped the towel around his waist and stood in front of the mirror, assessing his reflection.

He had lost a lot of weight, in his coma. He supposed the drips they fed you on when you were too unconscious to eat yourself must provide the basic nutrition needed for survival, but contain few fats or sugars or anything that could cause excessive weight gain. It wasn't the same- liquid food. Compared to how he had eaten before- a life full of the finest French cuisine. He would stop by at that nice café down the road from his flat on the way to work and get a coffee and croissant to go, and lunch would usually be baguette with something- meat, cheese, fruit- and more coffee. There were always nice restaurants, nice things to eat, when it came to dinner- or something simple at home, he wasn't a bad cook himself.

He hadn't realised how much he had missed food, until he remembered it now. His stomach rumbled at the thought. The hospital food wasn't quite as satisfying as it could be.

His hair really was too long. He dried it a bit using the hairdryer attached to the wall (nearly jumping out of his skin when he finally worked out how to turn it on) before grabbing a tiny pair of nail scissors from the cupboard above the sink. Just a trim, for now, before he could get it done professionally.

He left the top how it was- there was no use trying to cut the hairs around his face himself- instead shearing the excess length at the bottom of the hair off in as straight a line as he could. When it was about chin length, albeit slightly jaggedy, he set the scissors down, satisfied. He ran a hand through it, pushing it back. That felt better.

He unlocked the door to the ensuite and stepped back out into the main room, just as the door opened and the young nurse stepped inside.

Her eyes widened at the sight of him- crap, he was only wearing a towel- and she almost dropped the tray she was carrying. "Monsieur, you're not supposed to be up!" She said frantically, obviously trying to ignore the flush creeping up her cheeks. Enjolras could feel his own face reddening. "You're meant to still be resting- please, get back into bed, Merde- erm, excusez-moi-"

"Sincerest apologies, Mademoiselle. I just needed to wash. I felt so dirty, and my hair so long."

"I understand. Still, I will have to report that you have over-exerted yourself physically today… please, get back into bed, I've brought food for you."

When he had pulled another hospital gown own, the embarrassed nurse immersing herself in straightening the picture on the far wall as he did so, and got back into bed, she brought him over the plastic tray. Propping him up on the pillows behind him, she smiled and asked if he wanted anything else.

"No, this is fine, Merci."

He looked glumly down at the bowl of soup. They had provided a chunk of baguette and some of those little packages of butter you get in hotels, but it was quite stale and nothing like the bread of Enjolras' daydreams. Hot, fresh from the Boulangerie…

When he finished eating, he tried to distract himself from his own thoughts with the magazine the nurse had bought, but it was boring and had nothing of any worth inside. The hospital, he decided, was like a hotel- with mini shampoo and mini butter and room service. Just like a hotel, with the same feeling of imprisonment, just you didn't have to pay for it. Enjolras had never liked hotels.

Hope you liked it- please leave a review if you did! I hope to upload pretty often, but I'm quite busy most of the time with work and school etc so it all depends on what's going on for me!