A/N: Many thanks to my friend for the editing. Not slash.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Les Misérables.

The candle lends its guttering light to the worn pages beneath my fingers, droplets of wax gathering like beggars around its warmth. Time passes, they harden there, and the light grows dimmer, until I must reach out to pull it closer, huddled in its flicker of illumination.

The rain drums ceaselessly against the window, but I am long since deaf to its distraction. Such disturbances are of no problem to me; I have passed many nights in this way, and I have found that the silence has its own song, its own sweet melody.

No, it is at the feverish scratching of your quill that I look up from my book. The noise grates a little on my ears, and I find myself wondering that you are still here, not home in bed as you should be. I stifle a yawn, brushing my hair from my forehead. It is late, perhaps midnight, and my attention is beginning to wander from the task in hand. Sighing, I let the book slip soundlessly onto the table, and rest my hands behind my neck, stretching a little.

"You are not going home?" I ask quietly, not wanting to startle you. Indeed, you are so engrossed in your work that I doubt that you're aware of my presence. I am not then surprised when you do not answer. A smile ghosts on my lips and I sink deeper into the chair. So often have I been told that I fail to listen when I am working. The thought strikes me suddenly, and I wonder how it is possible for two men to be so alike yet so completely different.

There you are, sitting across the room from me, lost in your world of poetry, and I think that it is no wonder the sky is so dark tonight, you have stolen the stars from their kingdom; they linger in your eyes with such a fire that I feel when I think of the republic.

Yes, despite our differences, we are alike.

Absent-mindedly tugging at my cravat, I contemplate what it would be to be a romantic, a bohemian, like you. Is it really so different, can man really gain so much freedom from art, from philosophy? Perhaps I would ask you, but you are still scribbling away. But then again, even if you were not, perhaps I would not question you, you who call me Apollo, who wonder if I care. You are fooled by the mask that is my shield against the world, as those who do not know you cannot see past your flamboyant exuberance. I care. Even if you cannot see it, I care. I would weep for every beggar on the street if I knew how, I would embrace you like the friend you are if I could just let go of this façade, if I could let it shatter on the cobbles like the fragments of my emotions I can never show. But you are free, while we are in chains, and I feel a stab of envy that I soon crush because I chose my path and one day we will all be free.

A sudden silence brings me back to reality. You have stopped writing, and, resisting the urge to turn to you, I become aware of your gaze as I watch the raindrops run down the windowpane, washing away the grime of the Paris daytime. There is something melancholy about the moment, the spell of night time is broken and I think that perhaps you are not so free after all. There is a difference in your movements now; you move quietly, as if you are afraid of me. Stirring, I turn to face you, and the light of passion is gone from your eyes. You see the darkness for the first time. You take in the storm, the cold, and something hardens within you. The poet has left his fantasy world.

You rise, gathering up your papers and tucking them into your coat. There is a reluctance in your step as you drift over to the door, staring out without inspiration into the gloomy night. Your feet drag with the chains that bind you to reality, tying you down like a caged bird, longing to fly free.

"You are not going home?" you ask me, turning at the door to face me again.

I shake my head slowly, suppressing a smile as you repeat my earlier words. Then the night swallows you and I am alone again, and the darkness creeps into my bones. Closing my book, I rise to leave, lingering for a moment in the door where you stood.

Yes, despite our differences, we are alike.

A/N: Please read & review