Disclaimer: If I owned Les Miz, I'd wouldn't be typing this because I'd be in an insane asylum, because I would be haunted by Victor Hugo's angry ghost. I don't own the Outsiders because I'm simply not that awesome.

Methinks Chapter 2 will satitifyeth thou more than the beslubbering Chapter 1.

Location: Back room of the Cafe Musain in Paris, France Time: About 10 p.m Happening: Whatta ya know? Dear ole Enjolras is on his table making a speech....

"Citizens, yes you as well Grantaire, know how great this chance is! With futuristic 'greasers' to help Bossuet and I here the Republic shall draw near!" Our Fearless Leader shouted.

Abruptly looking up from a letter he'd received from one Ponyboy Curtis, Jehan exclaimed, "That rhymed!" Patronizingly, Combeferre pat him on the shoulder.

"Yes, Jehan that did rhyme." Turning to face Enjolras once more, he said, "Yes, and we seven are going because-"

"Because Two-Bit Matthews wrote that future girls are even easier than the grisettes of the Place Cambrai!" Courfeyrac ever so rudely interrupted, waving Two-Bit's letter to R around, triumphantly. Bahorel stood up, aghast.

"Well..." He glanced back at his letter from Dally. "Dallas Winston wrote that too!" Courfeyrac nodded.

"Yes, but Dallas Winston rolls drunks for fun."

"Speaking of that," said Feuilly, finished with Steve's letter, glanced over at Grantaire's slumped over body, "why have we never rolled him for anything?"

"Maybe because-" Enjolras began, maybe a tad haughtily. Grantaire though finished the sentence for him, mumbling most of it.

"'Cause there's nothing to roll me for." After a slight murmur of agreement from the Friends, Enjolras began again.

"Has everyone finished reading their letters?" He asked, referring to the little intro-letters everyone, but he and Bossuet, had received from the gang. A decidedly unenthusiastic chorus of "Yes" replied. Enjolras continued. "Have you all written your own to them?" Another chorus of monotonous "Yes"'s answered. "Then give them to me, and I'll hand them off to that gamin, Gavroche, who'll give them to Monsieur Hugo."

"Why can't you do it yourself, Monsieur le Smoothface?" called Gavroche's energetic voice from behind the back room's door. Bossuet leaped up to open the door, but before he made it there, he tripped over a chair leg. Before he completely crashed to the floor, his hand reached the doorknob. Using the doorknob as leverage to pull himself up, he finally opened the door for the hyper Gavroche. Obviously, Gavroche's energy enabled him to run right into the room, knocking Bossuet over again.

"Every time." Bossuet muttered, laughing.

"I can't do it myself, because I have business to attend to." Enjolras informed Gavroche, jumping down from the table, landing catlike on his two feet. Taking a watch from his fob, he said, "Which I should be attending to now." Putting the watch back, he went around collecting the Friends' letters to the "greasers." He looked suspiciously at Grantaire's, seeing the pheases 'blond man' and 'hell from me' written in it. Quickly he shot the drunkard a glare, and handed the letters to Gavroche, whispering to him secretly, "Don't be afraid if you...ah, accidentally drop Grantaire's letter in the Seine." He winked one blue eye at the little boy and discreetly slipped him a silver 5-franc piece.

"Sure," Gavroche said, sarcastically, patting Enjolras's shoulder, like Combeferre had Jehan. Then, he turned around and skipped, with an almost Cockney liveliness, out the door saying, "Au revoir! Mes momes are probably waiting for me!"

When he was out of that room, which he dubbed "La Maison a la Revolution", he stopped in the main room of the Cafe.

I wonder what Monsieur le Smoothface's "business" is? Letting his curiosity rule him, Gavroche tucked the letters into his oversized coat, and went outside. He stepped to the side of the door, flattened himself against the wall, and then slid down onto the pavement. In his best crouching position, he hid his face in his coat and tried his best to look like some old beggar. Cold city wind nipped at his nose, but he was not discouraged. Passerby looked down their noses at him; he saluted them by sticking out his tongue. Where is he?

Yelling began to float into Gavroche's alert ears. It sounded like men fighting. What else was new? At first, Gavroche paid no attention to it. This was Paris; not one night went by with out some people squabbling. But now the voices seemed familiar. Both were his friends of sorts, and older. One of the men was indisputably Enjolras. He listen closer.

He heard Enjolras say, "The Friends of the ABC will never be in league with Patron-Minette."

Patron-Minette? Gavroche thought. Being his clever self, he put two and two together and realized that the other man had to be...Montparnasse!

Montparnasse replied cooly, but still loudly. Apparently, he couldn't afford to lose face, as it sounded to Gavroche. "You hate authority as much as we do. You, too, would relish in its demise."

"We hate the regime, not authority, and I'm certain that we want it more than you." Gavroche smirked to himself. Enjolras was showing some real spine there. Montparnasse would not falter though.

"We want it-" He started, but Enjolras was quicker.

"You want it for yourselves; not for the people, not for notre patrie! You don't care about the Republic. All you care about is getting the more fashionable waistcoat." Gavroche was about to laugh, because this, lucky for him, this wasn't the first time he'd 'seen' Montparnasse humiliated. There was a loud thump, sounding like a body being slammed against a wall. To Gavroche's surprise, though somehow he knew it would be, Montparnasse who strode out of the side alley, next to the Cafe Musain, triumphant. Gavroche made himself look inconspicous, not attracting any attention to himself, for the first time in a while. But, Montparnasse was taking his time walking down the street, whistling an oddly cheery tune, shining his knife with a handkerchief. The handkerchief turned red.

When "that damn dandy", in the words of Gavroche, was finally out of sight, he crept into the alley and saw Enjolras, slumped against the alley wall. Blood had dripped from the top of his right shoulder, in a straight line, down to his palm. The tips of his blond hair, his shirt, and now Gavroche's wooden shoes were doused in it. It was like looking at a dying angel or god. His golden head rose up slowly, and his glassy blue eyes bored into the boy's.

"Get those letters to Monsieur Hugo." He said slowly. "I'm fine." Gavroche was skeptical. "Go!" Gavroche ran.

O.o