Disclaimer: Victor Hugo owns Les Miserables.

Author's Note: Thank you all so much for the kind reviews! Since there's interest, I will continue posting chapters. The pace is a bit slow at the beginning because there are a lot of characters. To try to clear up a few things for those who asked, the boys don't have the same names as they do in the Brick because they're reincarnates; they aren't from the same family, they wouldn't have the same family name. I'm trying to keep them true to themselves, to their core soul, while also allowing for them to have grown up in a different time period with no memories of who they were. They're also going to be interacting with their/each other's past selves, so having two names will be helpful for that. Everyone's name starts with the same letter as their name in the Brick, as a helpful hint. The setting is a not-very-distant US future, AU in that it assumes a rightward-swinging result of the next election and potential international incidents that may or may not actually occur. As to what's going on with the Shadow… well, that's the plot, and will hopefully become more clear as things continue.

Part Two: Meetings

He's beautiful.

It's not a new revelation. Enjolras is always beautiful. Why should that change here, in this place, in the face of death? Why should having his blond hair hanging wild around his face, stained with blood and weighted down with sweat, detract from his beauty? Why should the red spots staining his white shirt, thickening, darkening, mixing in a hundred shades of red and black on his hands, mean anything?

They don't. Not next to those blue eyes, blazing in hope and faith and determined spirit even as he stares down the men who will murder him.

Enjolras has always been a warrior angel.

As Grantaire stands and announces himself to the firing squad, he thinks he truly feels, for the first time in a long time, the bright flames of faith in his own heart.

XXX

"Grant!"

Jona's elbow catches him hard in the side, and Grant blinks his eyes open, not sure where he is or what's happening for one long moment.

Jona's voice hisses in his ear. "There's only thirty-odd people in recitation. Sleep-talking is definitely going to get us some unwanted attention. Besides, I'm bored, too. If you're going to talk, at least do it to me."

Right. Class. Organic chemistry, and he owes Jona several months worth of pain for ever convincing him to sign up for it. If the doctor-to-be wants to torture himself with this stuff, he should do it on his own.

"So?" Jona waits until the TA has turned away with a disgruntled, disheartened sigh before whispering the word to Grant.

"So what?" Trying to figure out what problem the TA is possibly illustrating on the board, Grant frowns down at his own notes. Maybe he should have had a little less to drink before attempting his homework. He's fairly certain carbon rings aren't supposed to have tiny dragons looped around each of the six sides.

"So what were you dreaming about? And since when have you been taking French?" Jona smiles brightly at their recitation leader when the long-suffering woman turns to glare at him.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Je suis something something. I couldn't make out the rest of it, but you definitely said something in French." Jona reaches over, poking Grant in the arm with his pen. "You said 'I am… important words Jona failed to translate' in French, to be exact."

"Since when do you speak French?" Correcting where the oxygen owls are pecking at the dragon carbons will take too much effort, so Grant just sketches in the correct answer next to his failed attempt.

"Since I took it for two years in high school. Hence why I recognize a little bit, but only a little bit. Just enough to be dangerous." Another easy grin slides across Jona's face. "Enough to ask for a ménage a trois, not enough to ask if everyone's been tested for STDs."

"Way more than I needed to know, man."

Any further comments from Jona are cut off by his being called to the board to attempt the next problem, and Grant struggles to follow what Jona did and where corrections are needed. He's not going to fail this class. Not after it's already paid for with hard-earned money.

The rest of recitation is a blur of concepts that almost but don't quite make sense. Grant faithfully copies down everything from the board. Well, mostly faithfully. The halogen groups used by the TA don't have demon horns or vicious pointy teeth, but it makes it easier for him to remember what they're supposed to do.

"I wish this wasn't a requirement for me." Jona rises and stretches as soon as recitation's over, shoving his notebooks into his backpack and bending down to do stretch some more. "These chairs have got to be the worst in the entire school, orthopedically speaking. I can feel my spine and neck becoming more misaligned with each passing minute! Plus I really don't see how this is going to help me, since I have no intention of ever going into research. Not that research is necessarily bad, per se, but there's enough people in need of basic medical care to keep me occupied for decades already, and knowing how the chloride in the antibiotics that we've been using for decades acts isn't going to have much bearing on what I do."

"Careful with the speech-making. We've still got a few hours to go before that." Struggling not to yawn, Grant carefully closes his notebook. They're just little doodles and sketches, but he likes the creatures he drew on the chemical formulae. Maybe he'll use some of them as references and do larger images later.

"And you're not going to listen to me if I start talking, anyway." Jona tosses Grant a knowing look as they exit the stuffy classroom, emerging into a warm spring day. Hard to imagine that the semester's already close to ending, but the pale green buds on the trees and the riots of flowers attempting to emerge in the flowerbeds show spring has well and truly gripped New England. "You come to listen to one man only, and he most definitely isn't me."

"That's not fair." Grant can feel his face warming despite his protests—maybe because of the protests—and takes a deep breath. "I listen to all of you. I am equal opportunity when it comes to listening and poking holes in your arguments."

"Uh huh." Jona pats his shoulder. "And you just sketch him because he happens to be the only one who stands up when you've thought to bring out your sketchbook. And you just happened to follow him to the meetings in the first place because he's your roommate."

"That one's true." Grant frowns at his friend, adjusting his backpack uncomfortably. "He was my roommate—is my roommate—and it was impossible to miss what he was involved in, so I figured I might as well see for myself."

"And the pictures?"

"I keep telling you not to look at what I'm drawing unless I say you can!" Letting out an exasperated sigh, Grant glares at the other man. "Don't blame me if you don't like what you see."

"Who said I didn't like it?" Jona's smile is gentler, now, less teasing. "You draw a fair likeness of him, and it's obviously sketched with love."

"Now you're flattering me." Giving Jona's shoulder a small shove, Grant studies the ground. "I can't capture what makes him… him, try as I might. There's a grace and a belief and a power there that just… slips through my fingers. Any artist who saw him speak would want to draw it."

"So much love, and him so blind to it." Shaking his head, Jona raises his eyes to the grey clouds threatening rain. "May I never be as blind as Eric in matters of the heart."

"Don't… that's not… ah, Jona, don't say things like that about me, or about him, and especially about me and him. I respect him. I want to believe what he says."

"You say when sober, but at other times your words skew decidedly darker."

Ignoring the interruption, and the new heat of shame it brings to his face as he remembers saying things he wishes he hadn't, Grant continues. "I believe in him. I'll help him if I can, because I believe in him. That doesn't mean I love him."

"It does." Jona dances sideways, away from another shove. "It means you love him a great deal, like I said. It doesn't mean you want to sleep with him, true, but if you listen to him when he's preaching then love and sex are two separate things. Hence why I'm quite certain Eric loves the lot of us that he's gathered around him, while I'm also quite certain he wouldn't know a sexual advance from us until we got an airplane to sky-write our intentions for all to see."

"Can we please choose another topic to talk about?" He has not had nearly enough alcohol today to be talking to someone about his relationship with Eric. Or his lack of a relationship, really, because though he follows Eric to most of Eric's meetings, Eric seems more to tolerate than enjoy his presence.

"All right. So when did you learn French?"

"I don't know French." At this rate they're going to have a very long walk back to the dorms. "Whatever you thought you heard me say, you're hallucinating it."

"Maybe. Quite possible, even. Hallucinating is one of the side effects of sleep deprivation, and I'm sure I haven't been getting nearly enough sleep. Certainly not enough good-quality REM sleep." Jona shivers lightly, and Grant's not entirely convinced it's from the light wind that dances around them for a moment. "I'll have to keep myself on alert for any other evidence of hallucinations."

"Jona, you aren't really hallucinating. You're…" Being himself, and Grant finds himself smiling as he considers the other man. "You're a very strange man, you know?"

"Same back at you." Grinning ear to ear, Jona turns so that he's walking backward, facing Grant. "You're coming to the meeting tonight? You don't have to work?"

"I'll be there. I'll be the one hiding in the back corner guarding the drinks, as per usual."

He doesn't mention anything about Eric being the one to talk tonight.

He doesn't need to, and Jona's kind enough to refrain from kicking that dead horse.

XXX

"—the need to ensure all of our brothers and sisters feel safe, confident, comfortable and able to embrace all aspects of themselves. Only when every man is free can any man be truly free, whether the freedom is from the tyranny of government corruption or the tyranny of shackled hearts and minds."

Eric speaks with passion, his blond hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, his blue eyes sharp and bright as crystals as he paces about the stage. He's dressed simply but elegantly, in black pants and a pale cream-colored short-sleeved shirt. His arms have some muscle to them, the slimmer, lither muscles of a swimmer or an acrobat, and Grant frowns down at the image on the paper. It looks too young, too vulnerable. Eric looks young, yes, but it's a deceptive youth, something that those fierce eyes rip away as soon as they lock on your soul.

"—any other questions, or interested in helping in other ways, come speak with me. There's always work for every willing hand."

Eric doesn't bother walking over to the stairs situated at either end of the stage, instead jumping down from the podium to the floor with ease. For long seconds a circle several feet in diameter surrounds him, people hesitating to approach him; then he's enveloped by a sea of humanity, and Grant sighs, finding it almost impossible to get a good look at Eric amidst the throng.

"Damn, but he could talk a chicken into plucking its own feathers and jumping into the oven." Barry sighs as he throws his large frame into the seat next to Grant. "I always feel like I've just gotten off a roller-coaster when he's done."

"He's very good at getting people interested, at least for a few minutes." Sketching in a few loose strands of hair, Grant frowns down at the image before snapping his sketchbook closed. "I think there's over twice as many people now as he had at the end of first year. Granted, that's half of what he had at the beginning of second year, but he can't expect them to keep coming to ogle him when he doesn't ever throw them a bone. If he just wore a few layers of clothes, and slowly took them off over the course of his speech, I'm sure he could increase attendance —"

"You've been drinking, and the picture didn't turn out the way you wanted, did it?" Barry's face falls in sympathy. "If you'd like, I can take a look at it, try to give you some suggestions."

Grant stares at him for a moment, then reaches up to rub at his eyes. "No. That's all right. I think I humiliated myself enough with that last rant to cover the evening. Showing off failed artwork would just add insult to injury."

"It's not the first time someone's suggested Eric show some skin to get more attention." Barry grins. "But Eric very strongly vetoed that suggestion, saying that if people aren't coming for the cause then they shouldn't be counted anyway. The man's very… come on, artist. Find the word for me. Proud isn't quite right, and neither's determined, though I suppose they both work."

"I draw. I don't write. You're going to need someone else for that." Grant continues to frown down at the closed notebook in his hand. "Though if you want me to just start throwing flattering words at Eric, I can. He might like it more than my last interjections during one of his meetings."

"Yeah, well…" Barry seems to consider before shaking his head. Lifting one hand, he points to a group of three men hanging back from the edges of the crowd around Eric. "See those guys?"

"Yeah." They're all around the same age, though it's hard to really get a good idea of age on campus. Everyone tended to look late teens or early twenties, since most of them were. "What about them?"

"The one with the glasses there is Conlan. He's got a group of his own, Stand Proud. I heard he was interested in talking to Eric about doing some collaborations, but I didn't think I'd actually see him around this quickly." The crowd of people around Eric has thinned somewhat, most of the students leaving with small stacks of pamphlets and fliers courtesy of Eric, Jona or Lyle. "I should get back up there, especially if Eric's going to be accosted by potential business partners. We're going to stick around, have a meeting to determine our course of action what with finals week coming up and the next semester already looming. You planning on staying, or hitting the bars?"

"I've brought enough of my own to hold me here." Fishing under his seat, Grant snags one of his remaining cans of beer. "Maybe I'll even have something useful to contribute to the discussion. Then Eric can be my designated walker to make sure I get home safely."

"Sounds good." Barry claps a hand to Grant's shoulder before bounding back down to where Eric is.

Opening the sketchbook, Grant tries once more to get the image to hold just a tiny bit of the spark that flares from Eric in everything he does.

It doesn't work, like always, but somehow there's release in just the effort.

XXX

"That was quite the impassioned speech you gave."

The man stands tall and straight, looking more formal than he really ought to in black jeans and a dark grey polo shirt. He wears glasses, and Eric finds himself wondering if it's because the man doesn't like contacts or if it's because he likes the looks of the glasses as he reaches out to shake the stranger's hand.

Then he looks past the glasses, into grey eyes that seem far too familiar, and the world stops for a moment.

(For God's sake, he could be your brother!)

"Hi." The man's voice is deeper than Eric expected, softer as well, tone hovering around faintly amused though there's a hint of concern around the man's eyes. "You give quite the interesting presentation. Eric, correct?"

"Yeah." Letting go of the man's hand, Eric tries to shake away the strange connection he feels to this man, as well as the even more inexplicable flash of guilt. "And thanks for the compliment. I like to think it's the message that makes it interesting, and that I just act as a hopefully acceptable messenger."

"We certainly liked what we saw. I'm Conlan, Con to my friends, and this is Cori and Finny." Con gestures first to his left, where a grinning man with fluffy light brown hair waves, and then to his right, where a thinner red-haired man in well-worn jeans and a t-shirt stands somewhat awkwardly. "We're three-fifths of the executive board of Stand Proud."

"Ah." Eric frowns in thought, rummaging through his memory to try to place the familiar name.

"You're the main organizers of the Pride parade each year. You do a lot of good work with the LGBT community on campus and in the surrounding area." Barry's deep voice provides the information with grace, enough respect and admiration in his tone to keep it from being obvious that he's filling in for Eric's deficiency.

A deficiency he shouldn't have, and Eric shrugs, trying to brush off the last of the… whatever-it-was that struck him when he looked into Con's eyes. "I've seen some of the hand-outs you've created. It's good work—easy to understand, simple enough for those from a less enlightened background to grasp without sacrificing the overall message."

"Well, when the overall message is that people should be free to love and be who they are so long as they're not hurting anyone… it's not a terribly difficult message to grasp, one would hope." Con raises his right hand, pulling at a lock of dark brown hair for a few seconds and smiling almost sheepishly.

"It isn't, and it won't be. We're winning that war, one step at a time." Eric says it with the same determination he always does, the same certainty, and sees the smile on Con's face shift from sheepish to pleased and… fierce? Perhaps too dramatic and confrontational a word for this man, but it's what springs to Eric's mind. "Did you guys come for pleasure or work?"

"Both, actually. It's always a pleasure to hear someone else speak the words you want spoken, and then we thought we'd talk with you and yours about potentially collaborating on some projects next year."

"Why next year?" Taking a look around, Eric reassures himself that nearly everyone else has left. Those who are still present seem content within their own groups, none of them staring over at him with the hesitancy and uncertainty that those new to the cause have as they debate approaching. "If you want you're welcome to come with us. We were going to have our own executive meeting."

"I was thinking next year because the semester's almost over and getting anyone to do anything other than drink and study at this point is rather difficult…" Con hesitates, shrugging as he looks between his two companions. "But if you have ideas for last-minute events or for projects over the summer, we'd certainly be glad to hear them."

"Ideas are never something he's in short supply of." Lyle grins, gathering up the remaining fliers and filing them away properly. "Or energy. Just be prepared—oh, damn it all."

Eric dives for the box too late, the water bottle that Lyle had tipped over having already poured out half of its contents onto the papers. Wincing, he hastily pulls the few papers that are still dry out of the box. "Lyle, I swear, you must have done something to Lady Luck to make her hate you."

"If I did, it must have been in a past life." Sighing, Lyle uses his sleeve in a vain attempt to mop up some of the water. "Because I've had this luck for as long as I can remember."

"Fortuna may be blind as Justice, but she can smell a good target from a mile away, and you, my friend, are a good target." Grant throws an arm around Lyle, almost sending both of them crashing to the ground.

"Grant, help him clean up." Frowning at his erstwhile roommate, trying to tell how drunk he is from how unsteady his movements are, Eric tries not to let his frustration with the situation show. "Then you can both join us next door. All right?"

"Both of us?" Grant straightens, smiling broadly. "I mean, Lyle, of course, but you really mean to include me—"

"You're always welcome, Grant." Shoving the rescued papers into his bag, Eric slings it onto his shoulder. "You just seem intent on giving me reasons to regret it half the time."

"Sorry." Grant mumbles the word to a point on the ground at his feet, and Eric has the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that he's kicked a helpless animal.

"Don't be sorry." Placing a hand on Grant's shoulder, he waits until his roommate meets his eyes to smile at him. "Do better. You're a smart man, a good man, and you've listened to enough of my talks by now to understand the importance of what we're trying to do. Stand with me. I know you're capable of it."

"Yeah." It's impossible to read the expressions on Grant's face. Joy, in that first brush of his smile, but then doubt, uncertainty, and Eric barely resists the urge to sigh as he turns back to their guests.

"Come with me, then. The room next store has halfway decent chairs, and if we're really going to be comparing notes we may be here for a while."

XXX

"Well, that was interesting. Though if I never have to see the inside of a classroom again, it will be too soon." Cori skitters a few steps ahead of them, his hands above his head as he spins in a circle and looks at the stars. "Meaning tomorrow is really going to be a beast. I didn't believe it was possible to have someone even more knowledgeable and interested in justice and equality than you, Con, but I think we found him."

"He's certainly bright." Con smiles, watching his friend's antics. "A lot of knowledge and a lot of fire, and he's good at getting people to listen."

"That's because he is smoking hot and has a six out of five in his charisma." Cori falls back into step with them, grinning ear to ear.

"That's not what I meant." Giving Cori a long-suffering look, he turns to Finny. "What did you think?"

"I think I like him." Finny speaks slowly, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. "He really listens to you when you correct him. He's got some intersectionality issues—he's rich and white and straight, and I think he'll step on some toes because of that with some of his talk, but… he means well. His heart's in it, fully and totally, and if tonight was any indication he's good at getting people to care. No comment on his looks, I'll leave that to Cori, and also no comment on what I'm assuming was a gaming reference."

"Only assuming? Knowing me all this time, and you still don't speak all my languages. So sad." Cori grins as he speaks, though he places his hand over his heart as though wounded. "Come on, Con, admit he was hot. When he was pacing around on that stage, singing the magnum opus of the cultural revolution… yeah, I would have done him in a heartbeat."

"You don't always have to be such a stereotype, you know." Covering his face with his hand, Con tries to ignore his roommate for a moment.

"I thought we were fighting for the rights of everyone to be whatever they'd like to be. If that includes me being a stereotype, well… here I am." Cori's expression changes abruptly from serious back to his usual grin. "It's not like I'm trying to take away your bi card because you're the exact opposite of a stereotype or something."

"I don't like judging people on their looks." Con frowns. "It's degrading and dehumanizing."

"It's totally human. It's placing them into categories and assigning them merit and value based upon their looks and ignoring everything else about them that's dehumanizing." Still grinning ear to ear, Cori throws his arm over Con's shoulders. "And I know it's not your thing, and I know you don't find androgyny as intriguing as I do, which is totally backward since you're bi, but whatever, so we'll just leave it at that. We've had enough serious conversation tonight, and the promise of plenty more to come over the summer and next semester. I think we've just seen the start of a beautiful partnership."

"I'll drink to that." Returning Cori's embrace on one side, Con puts his arm around Finny's shoulders on the other. Finny doesn't react, continuing to stare thoughtfully at the ground as though it has some secret to share with them. It's not like him to be so quiet. "Is something bothering you, Finny?"

"Not really. Not as such. I liked the guy. I think he'd be a hard guy not to like. Just…" Finny shrugs, thin shoulders rippling under his threadbare shirt. "When the two of you met, did you sense anything… odd, Con?"

"Odd…"

(A blond man cries, a single tear, and it's that tear that breaks his heart as much as the enemy's body hitting the ground. His friend, his brother, beautiful and terrible, and he can't bring himself to apologize for what he said though he knows it hurt. This isn't what they wanted. This isn't—)

"Con?" Cori's voice, concerned, almost scared, brings him out of his reverie. "Con, you all right? You went kind of… stiff there. And you look like you've seen a ghost."

"I…" It's a dream, a fragment of a dream, and he can't hold on to it. Doesn't want to hold on to it, really, because it hurt too much just brushing against it, and he shrugs free of the others. "I'm fine."

"Really?" Finny stares at him, head tilted slightly to the side. "You look like he did. Paler. Shaken. Uncertain. Afraid."

"He wasn't afraid." Con finds his hands clenched into fists as he rounds on the other man, and abruptly takes a step back. Why? What bothers him so much about the idea of saying Eric was afraid? He's known the man for a few hours. "Maybe… disconcerted. Maybe distracted. Maybe uncertain. But not afraid."

"All right." Finny shrugs. "It's not that big a deal, I suppose. I just thought it was interesting. I didn't know if maybe the two of you knew each other from something else, or if he'd seen you before, or… I don't know."

"No. I hadn't met him before today." Though it doesn't feel like that. It feels like he's known Eric forever, like he was just waiting to find the man, like the few hours they spent bouncing ideas back and forth were how things have always been meant to be. Shaking the odd sensation away, falling back into step with the other two, Con shivers. New England springs could get cold at night when they wanted to. "I think I'll enjoy our time spent working together, though."

"Agreed." Cori hooks his elbow through Con's, drawing him forward at a slightly brisker pace. "We'll have two drinks when we get back to the dorm, then. One to old friends, and one to new friends who will become old friends."

"I like it." Con smiles at his roommate. "Though I'm pretty certain you're just looking for an excuse to drink."

Cori's grin widens, something Con isn't sure should be physically possible. "Did I mention that I think I'm also going to enjoy having Grant at these meetings? The man manages to make alcohol appear as though by magic."

"It's quite a useful parlor trick." Finny links his arm with Con's, as well. "One that more student meetings should have on hand."

Sighing, Con tilts his head back to look at the stars. "You guys are awful sometimes. You know that, right?"

"That's right." Cori leans his head against Con's shoulder. "And you love us this way."

There's really nothing to say to that, because it's unabashedly and unashamedly true, so they walk the rest of the way in companionable silence.