HEY GUESS WHAT I FINISHED CHAPTER 7 EARLY BECAUSE I DIDN'T WANT TO STOP SO HERE HAVE ANOTHER CHAPTER GUYS

More angst. Thanks to pr1fan for the idea! Oh, but I swear there is little angst left in the story. For now. For now...


Despite being curled up on my bed in my bedroom, away from the school and back home with Maman and Claude, I didn't feel at home. I missed Enjolras. I regretted running. What would he think of me after this? Would he still love me, or would he assume that I had called off our engagement?

Maman said nothing on the matter, but cared for me as she had before. She kept referring to Enjolras as my fiancée, which made me feel better. She scolded me for drinking, but said nothing more. I was pleased.

I listened to the gentle tunes of my favourite band The Killers, fiddling with my engagement ring. It was still my most prized possession, but now I was scared I would never get to marry Enjolras.

There was a soft knock at the door, and I turned off my music. Maman poked her head in, smiling softly.

"Chéri," she said quietly, "could I please tell you something?"

I sat up slowly, putting the ring back on my finger. I wasn't ready to face the music if Enjolras wanted me out. She sat beside me, her arm going around me.

"It's time I tell you the truth about…your father."

I blinked, looking to her in surprise. "My father?"

She nodded.

My mind automatically turned on to him. I had a photo of him, one from before I was born. My père had died when my mère was pregnant with me. Alcohol had killed him — he had been an alcoholic, just as I was, but he had died due to internal bleeding. I knew very little about him because I had never met him, but Maman told me I had inherited his pale skin and curly hair.

"What about him?"

"Nicholas, chéri, you know I love you. And you know I want what's best for you. But…The man I told you was your father…He was just a picture of a man I found in a magazine."

My eyes widened. "Then…Then who was my father?"

"Chéri—"

"Stop calling me that, just tell me!"

She hesitated before explaining to me. Her voice remained soft, almost afraid, as she spoke. Maman had been a young, young lady when she met my father for the first time — she was eighteen, he was twenty-three. It was a brief meeting, but they had shared a moment. A few years passed and they unknowingly met again. Getting by was tough, and she had ignored university; she had no choice but to turn to prostitution, only because she was broke and had no other way of getting money. My père had brought her home, they slept together, and that was that.

She didn't expect to get pregnant, I was nothing but a mistake. Initially I was to be aborted. Then I was to be out up for adoption. But my père sent her money, expecting her to be pregnant. It was enough to buy a home, to get baby supplies to take care of me, and enough money to feed us for a few years. According to Maman, he still sent child support. His name was Jacques, and he had picked out my name.

This was all devastating to me. How was I supposed to react? Another disappointment in my life, the second in a few days. I shook my head, standing up and turning towards the door.

"Nicholas, where are you going?"

"Anywhere but here." I opened the door and stormed out, down the stairs, and out of the house. I didn't have a particular place in mind, I just wanted to walk around. I needed a break. My hands stayed in my pockets, my fingers brushing over the razor blade I kept in my pocket. That urge that I hadn't felt in a long time came back. I suddenly felt the urge to cut again. I glanced around, then ducked down another road.

It had been a long time since I had been exploring the neighbourhood I grew up in, and I was still slightly terrified of this street. This is where the criminals of the area lived, the bullies. I found an alleyway, empty as one of my bottles, and leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath as I withdrew the razor blade.

It started as an inner debate. Do I do it? Do I toss the razor into that trash can nearby? I hated inner conflict, I really did. Stressed me out more than I imagined.

A few minutes passed, and suddenly I heard laughing. Laughing. I dropped the bloodied blade to the ground, turning to see my former torturers. Jean-Luc, Yves, and Michel. I straightened my back despite the stinging on my wrists, the blood wiping across my pants.

"Where's Léonard?" I grumbled.

"Hospital, getting those scars removed." Jean-Luc smirked, moving closer to me. I stood my ground. "Didn't think you'd see us again, did you?"

"Frankly, no, I didn't."

"Where's that boyfriend of yours, huh?"

"He's back at the school."

"Ah, then there's no one to protect you when I do this."

He hit me, hard. I coughed and curled up a little, but I was ready for the next hit. I blocked him, crossing my arms in an 'X' in front of my body as a shield. When they saw me fight back, Yves and Michel came to aid him. In a short time, I was sporting various cuts and bruises in addition to the cuts on my wrists. I couldn't stand, it was too painful.

"How do you like that?" Jean-Luc cackled. He bent down so he was level with me. I noticed his arm was by his pocket. I looked away, but he grabbed my chin and made me look at him. His eyes were full of fiery hate, and a coldness I had never noticed before. "Without your little boyfriend, you can't do anything. You can't fight." There was a gleam of light and I noticed what was in his hand. It looked to be a knife. "What if I re-carved that lovely mark on your back, hm?"

"Jean-Luc, we got something better," Michel offered.

Both of us looked to him. In his hand was a shining metal baseball bat. I did what I could to scramble back, shaking my head frantically. "No, no, please don't…"

Jean-Luc took the bat, looking it over. "I forgot, your dad brought this back for you from his trip to America…" He smirked, looking to me. He swung it once, then whistled. "Feels nice."

Without warning he bashed me on the shoulder with it, and I cried out in pain and hit the ground. Again, he hit me, this time on the side. Without a doubt, a rib had cracked. Maybe two. I winced in pain, biting my lip to the point where my mouth began to taste like metal. I clutched onto the wall, trying to lift myself up. But he struck me down again, this time the bat hitting my knee. This was the worst of the pain, and that combined with the pain of the razor digging into my scalp. I cursed myself for dropping it to the ground, for even bringing it and using it. My shaking hand tossed it aside, and one final blow was delivered to my other side. Another broken rib or two. I coughed up blood, all feeling lost in my knee now.

It seemed to me, however, that Yves had had enough. He ran out of the alley, and there was no doubt the sound I heard shortly after was the sound of him vomiting. It seemed to be enough for Michel too, because he was gone in seconds flat. It was just me and Jean-Luc now. And even with a broken knee and two to five broken ribs, this was the final showdown.

"I should kill you right now, while I have the chance," he said, tossing the bat aside to sit me up. I hissed in pain, but for once my tears did not betray me. I cried no tears because I no longer had any tears to shed. I swallowed, looking up at him.

"I will die with honour," I said, finding that Enjolras had rubbed off on me to a strong degree. I offered my best smile, which was weak but still proud all the same. "Vive les persécutés!"

The cold metal of the bat gently brushed the side of my head. He pulled it back, getting ready to hit my head. I closed my eyes and waited for it to come.

"O-Over there, officer!"

The bat never came.

I turned my head and saw Yves and Michel standing with an officer. I glanced at Jean-Luc. He dropped the bat and made a run for it. The two boys ran after him as the cop hurried to my side.

"An ambulance is on it's way, son. You're going to be okay."

I nodded, glancing over at the three boys. In the distance, I heard the ambulance's siren. Enjolras was the first person that came to mind, and I moved to stand, forgetting all about my leg. I grunted, wincing, and the cop pushed me back.

"What's wrong, sun?"

"My fiancée, I...I have to let him know where I am. My phone's at home…"

"Do you know his number?"

I nodded. He pulled out his own phone, pushing it into my hand. Frantically, hands trembling, I dialed his number and called it.

"Bonjour, c'est Edward Enjolras. Qui suis-je parler avec et comment allez-vous aujourd'hui?"

"Enjolras, my Apollo," I breathed.

His tone suddenly became worried, frantic. "Grantaire, you idiot, where have you been?! I've been worried sick, nobody has seen you since you left the hospital the other day, where are you? Are you all right? What happened to your phone? Whose phone are you using? God, I miss you. I'm so sorry for hitting you, it was so stupid of me to but you weren't listening and I-I just don't think I'm ready to give you up, I don't think I ever will be…"

"Shut up," I said, unable to help the fond smile that touched my lips. "I-I think I'm fine, I have to go to the hospital—"

"Then you aren't fine! Where are you? Let me come to you, I want to be with you."

"Back home with Maman."

It was quiet for a moment, then he hummed. "I'll be there tonight. Don't worry."

There was a long pause, and he said in a soft, small, and frightened voice, "I love you."

I felt myself getting weaker, and I knew there was little time before I fainted. I had to let him know, though. "I love you too, Apollo. I…I love you more. I have to go for now, the ambulance is here. Call my mère for me, please…"

He hummed again. "I will. I will. Stay safe, my Dionysus. I love you."