A/N: Aaaand we're back! Thank you so so much for all you guys that reviewed and followed you seriously made my day! (And thanks Amar1N for pointing that grammar thing out, I didn't even notice I did that. This is why I need to learn to proof read). I'm trying to update this quickly but there will likely be no rhyme or reason as to when so just bear with me.

Tell me what you think, reviews make me really happy and constructive critism would be greatly appreciated!

Disclaimer: I do not own them, they belong to the amazing Victor Hugo. If I did the Barricade Boys would've survived the revolution.

Enjolras's stomach lurched as he felt himself fall through the air. This is it, he though, I'm going to die. But before he could fall too far he felt a hand grasp his tightly, resulting in a sharp pain in his shoulder as his fall was abruptly stopped. He looked up and saw the stranger leaning over the railing, gripping Enjolras's hand with both of his, a look of pure horror on his face. "Give me your other hand!" he cried. But Enjolras didn't make a move to cooperate.

He wanted to die. He was already halfway there, if he just took his hand out of the stranger's grasp it would all be over, simple as that. But, then he looked at the stranger's, the young man's, face again and saw all the emotions there- the fear, the sadness, and he realized that if he were to let go then this stranger, this good citizen, would be burdened with insurmountable guilt because of him. Because he let go, because he was too selfish to take the stranger's feelings into account.

So, Enjolras reached his other hand up, and allowed himself to be pulled up and over the railing, and fall into a heap on the stone ground. He looked at the boy that had just saved his life. He was sitting on the ground a few feet from Enjolras, chest heaving and hands shaking slightly. Enjolras, for one, felt nothing. He did not shake, his breathing was not abnormal; he was completely and totally numb.

Enjolras continued to look at the stranger, who was staring at the ground trying to gain his composure. After a few moments the man looked up and met Enjolras's gaze, a look of sorrow in his hazel colored eyes.

Enjolras was the first to look away, unable to handle the judgments the man was undoubtedly making about him. The man reached towards him, and Enjolras flinched instinctively, half expecting him to strike him. But, instead, he gently placed his hand on Enjolras's shoulder, a touch more gentle and friendly than any he had felt in years, and looked at Enjolras with a look of sorrow and compassion. "Are you alright?" he asked softly.

Enjolras didn't trust himself to speak. Not in years had he heard someone talk to him so lovingly. Not with malice in their voice but with compassion. With words not meant to wound but to comfort. For the second time that day he felt tears form in his eyes, threatening to fall. Enjolras looked away, refusing to let the man see his weakness. Using all the strength he could muster, he swallowed past the lump in his throat to reply. "Yes. I'm fine, monsieur, thank you," he said, still unwilling to look back at the man, and unable to keep his voice form breaking slightly when he said "fine."

The man looked at Enjolras disbelievingly. "You don't look fine to me," he said, his voice full of concern. "Let me help you, please."

Enjolras felt a hint of anger bubble up inside him. This man didn't know him. He had no right to butt into his personal business. Why would he even want to? It had to be some kind of trick, Enjolras decided. The man was probably just trying to get him in trouble with his father. That was it. That had to be it. No one would ever actually care about his problems.

Enjolras stood, still pointedly ignoring the stranger's gaze. "Well, I am. Now, I thank you for your help, monsieur, but I really must be going."

Enjolras began to walk away from the man but was stopped by a hand gently grasping his arm.

Enjolras flinched, instinctively preparing to defend himself like he has had to do so many times, but no attack came. The only thing that did, were words spoken gently. "Please, monsieur, I only wish to help."

The level of concern and sincerity in the man's voice had the troubled young man reevaluating his previous judgments about the stranger's motives. Maybe he did want to help, but why? There had to be a reason, there was always a reason. "Why?" Enjolras asked, so softly that the older man had to strain to hear him.

"Because that's what people do for each other," he replied, so confidently that Enjolras himself almost believed it.

Enjolras finally turned and met the man's gaze, not even bothering to hide the tears glistening in his eyes anymore, though he said nothing. "Please," the stranger began, "allow me to at least walk you home, so you don't get into any more… trouble."

Enjolras just nodded slightly and turned in the direction of "home." He walked slowly, staring at the ground and thinking about all that had just happened, still trying to decipher the man's motives for doing this. The other man just walked beside Enjolras, not too close but not too far, and somehow managing to stay in step with Enjolras's sluggish pace.

"My name is Guillaume, by the way. Guillaume Combeferre," the man said.

"Enjolras."

"Well it is nice to meet you, monsieur Enjolras," Combeferre said. Enjolras didn't reply, and Combeferre did not try and make him. He just stood by the young man as a silent comfort as they walked back into town.