Frick- Tu prend une classe de française? Yeah, I googled the curses. Unfortunately, my accelerated class focuses on medical vocabulary… Why? I don't know. Ask my professor. And I hope you did/do well on your physics exam! I know that science is faaarr from my strong suit. And Tumblr… Don't get me started. I STILL DON'T UNDERSTAND AND JUST….. GRRR.

ConcreteAngel- Somehow I detect a whiff of sarcasm… And I hacked into your DA.

Italia- You have no idea how much your review brightened my day. :) Someone actually understands! (No one can EVER spell my name… I get like Kaley and Kaileigh and Caylee but no one ever freaking things of KAYLEE.)

I realized that last chapter was pretty non-romantic, so I hope this one makes my little reviewer/reader buddies happy :) (And yes, I pick favorites, so if you review, you are my best friend)

WARNING: If you're not a big fan of male/male attraction (it's mild, I promise), then you can skip the Henri part.


It was June first, 1842, ten years after the day before Lemarque's death. Henri was fairly close to giving up on his hopeless search. He realized now that there was almost no way that she would be alive. From what he'd gathered, she was poor, and without Les Amis's support, she would no doubt return to poverty and starvation.

He stopped by a tavern in the poorer part of the city, ordering a mug of ale while his smooth fingers traced the now familiar lines of the portrait. He was sure that his fingertips were to come away covered with dark residue, but he cared not. All that existed was the paper beneath his touch and the ale burning his throat. He could all too easily ignore the trails of sweat that poured down his forehead, and he could also pretend that his ankle wasn't bothering him like it tended to on hot days.

Around Henri, the tavern grew crowded as the summer day's light vanished into the Parisian skyline. Throngs of students and workmen came into the small establishment, often ordering small drinks so that their pay wouldn't be too affected. Henri, had he bothered to look towards the newcomers, would have felt a grudging respect for the laborers. While they were grimy and sweaty and tired from working for meager pay, Henri was relatively relaxed as he worked for higher pay. He would have thought of all this, but he wasn't paying any attention.

He was in this distracted state when the low voice of a young workman spoke from nearby. He looked up to meet a pair of light eyes surrounded by dirty blond hair. The workman was barely in his twenties, by the looks of his gangly form and round cheeks. He seemed familiar, and in his musings it took Henri a while to remember that the boy had spoken.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" he asked, and the boy pointed at the portrait on the table. Eagerly, Henri reached for it and held it so the boy could get a better look at it.

"I know her, I do." He repeated. Another workman came up behind him and nodded grimly.

"As do I."

"Well, gentlemen, sit down, I'll buy your drinks." Henri said all too eagerly. The first man raised his eyebrows in critique, while the other chuckled softly and took a seat.

"My friend here is so proud that he's earning money in a righteous manner that he likes to buy things himself." The second man took Henri's breath away for just a moment. Even beneath the grime acquired from a long, labourous day, the boy (for really, he wasn't older than twenty-five) was stunning. He had thick, coarse chocolate-colored hair that lay without flaw on his head. He had a broad forehead with a few blemish scars that just added to his natural appeal. He had a slightly thick mouth and a straight nose. His cheekbones were bold and daring, his neck was strong and his eyebrows were foreboding and yet friendly at the same time. But the most shocking thing about him was his eyes. Despite his dark coloring, he had eyes the color of sapphires. The bluest blue Henri had ever seen.

Remembering many things that advised him to ignore his instincts, Henri spoke with a voice that sounded slightly choked. "Ah, I see. Well, Monsieur," He addressed the blond one, "Consider this a reward for your participation in my investigation… Of sorts."

"What are you investigating her for?" The stunning one asked, his eyes hardening. Henri shook his head cautiously to assure the two that it wasn't for anything bad.

"I'm merely a curious art collector. I came upon this piece-"

"In the café Musain." The blond one filled in, nodding slowly. He seemed sad as he said, "I think she was friends with my sister a long time ago."

"And, while the subject of sisters is on the table," The brunette said, "She's mine."

Surprised that his answer came so easily, Henri quickly asked, "What are your names, Messiuers?"

"Gavroche." The blond one, Gavroche, said with a self-assured air. The second one stuck his hand towards Henri. The older man took it with some hesitance.

"Dubhghlas."

"Do you mind if I ask you boys a few questions concerning Mademoiselle Ceara?"


In the meantime, whilst Henri was interrogating Gavroche and Dubhghlas, the second painting sat slightly out of sight in the spare room. Since in the midst of things this painting was never seen by Henri, the readers will have to form their own opinion on this particular work. Now, some might think that the story escalated quickly by just looking at the painting, but after some quiet deliberation, it ought to be noted that this story passed in relatively normal timing.

The painting, should its linen cover be removed, was done with harsh and angry strokes of paint despite the happy nature and general lightness of the piece of art. The colors concerning the subjects of the painting were light, however the background consisted of colors associated with sadness and anger. In the center of what was painted to appear like a spotlight was a couple.

The girl was short; the top of her caramel-colored crown didn't even quite reach the height of the man's shoulder. The man was tall, whether in comparison or in general, it was hard to tell. His upright posture made him seem even taller, and the lightly painted shadows highlighted his bold and raised chin. The girl had dimples cutting into her pretty face, and she seemed absolutely carefree against the proud stance of her partner. However, the man had a smile etched into his cheeks, his blue eyes sparkling with something akin to laughter.

There was no label, but the date was clearly written. March, 1832.


"Monsieur, pray tell, what are you doing?" She asked, softly. At Enjolras's orders, Ceara took to spending her nights on the table in the café. Les Amis met regularly once a week, and only occasionally was there someone for her to spend time with in the café. (Quite frankly, Louison made poor company)

Enjolras looked up, his eyes bleary. As if deeming her question unworthy of an answer, he turned back to the work spread about on the table. Impatient and wondering why her make-shift bed was taken, Ceara quite promptly climbed on top of the table and stuck her feet on top of Enjolras's paper. He sighed and tried in vain to push away her strangely pretty feet.

Now that she had his attention, she turned around so that her elbows were on either side of his paper with her chin in her hands. Enjolras looked down at her with a strange, calculating thought brewing in his eyes.

"Can I help you?" He asked, tersely.

"Why are you here, Monsieur?" She titled her head slightly. The candlelight caught her clear eyes and made them gleam with an ethereal beauty that stole all coherent thoughts from Enjolras's well-oiled brain.

"It is a public café, Ceara." He said with a hint of sarcasm. He enunciated her name, trying to get the point across that she could just call him by his last name as everyone else did. In fact, she called the others by their last names and nick-names (respectively). It was just him.

"Yes, it is." She rolled her eyes. "I never said it wasn't. But why are you here with a hopeless waif like me when you could be out dancing with your friends?"

"You are not a hopel-"

"Not the point I was trying to make, Monsieur." She sat up with some difficulty, and Enjolras noticed the way her arms shook with the effort. His brows furrowed and he frowned at her.

"When did you last eat?" He asked. She shrugged, discreetly wiping a little bit of sweat from her forehead.

"You are trying to change the subject," When he tried to open his mouth to object to this assumption, she daringly placed her pointer finger over his perfect lips. "Do not bother trying to insist that you are not."

"You are right." He said with some hesitance. Ceara threw back her head and released a peal of laughter.

"Oh, what a day! Monsieur Marcel Enjolras admits to a street urchin that he was wrong!" She dissolved into a fit of giggles, only for her to suddenly pale and clutch the edge of the table. Enjolras lunged forward and gently took her elbow in his grasp. He helped her to sit down in the nearest chair.

"You really must eat something. I doubt that you are well." He insisted, laying the back of his hand over her brow like he'd seen Joly do to Bossuet when he coughed one-too-many times in a meeting.

She waved him away with a strained smile. "I am fine. I believe that it is you who is unwell, because you admitted to being wrong."

"Ah, but you see, I never said anything, so am I really wrong or are you simply right?" He pointed out, reaching for a rag that Louison left hanging over the back of one of the chairs.

"Is there a difference?" Ceara snorted, and Enjolras smiled in a demeaning way that made a frown dip into her face.

"Yes, you'll find that there is much of a difference." Enjolras gently dabbed at her forehead with the rag, cleaning the sweat that clung to her eyebrows. "Are you sure that you are feeling well?"

"Yes, I am. You're here, after all." She said, casually, nearly causing Enjolras to drop the rag. As if realizing what she said, she blushed furiously and batted his frozen hand from her face. Enjolras took the hint and left her for just a moment to call for Louison to bring some beef soup and a mug of brandy.

Once the food was placed in front of her (the clever serving girl, to get on Enjolras's good side, had placed a free chunk of white bread on the side of the tray), Ceara devoured the bread. She ignored the soup spoon and instead lifted the bowl to her lips and drank greedily. She did not remove the bowl from her face until the last drop of broth was trickling down her throat. Once she placed it down, she realized how rude she must have seemed.

Enjolras had turned back to his paper, though, which left Ceara some privacy in which to eat in any way that she pleased without fear of being judged. However, had she looked closely, she would have seen the way his eyes were watching her from beneath his blond eyelashes and how his pen hadn't moved once.

She tore her gaze away from his impressive, if tired, figure. Instead she focused on the brown drink in her mug as she sipped slowly. After she felt reasonably stronger, she brought up her initial question upon seeing her companion (of sorts) in the café.

"Why are you here while the others are out and about?"

He ignored her again, but she saw the slightest tinge of red coloring the back of his neck. She brightened considerably. Whatever reason he had for not spending jovial times with his friends, it was good. She leapt to her feet and grasped his hands, which caused his eyes to meet hers.

She pouted. "Oh, do tell me!"

"Fine." He grunted, taking his hands away from hers (with a good amount of reluctance, it must be added). He carefully shuffled his papers into an organized stack and proceeded to place them in his briefcase. Once he was done with the task, he looked back into her expectant eyes and sighed. "I can't dance."

"That's all?" She seemed somewhat disappointed for a moment before her features lit up. Enjolras could never understand the strange creatures called 'women', what with their constant emotional changes and strangely muddled feelings. "I can teach you!"

"Uh, what? No, Ceara, I don't think-" He tried to protest, but she pulled him to his feet, giggling to herself.

"Oh, don't be such a bother. It will be fun!" The happiness on her face convinced him, for he would never want to do anything to cause that emotion to leave her. "Here," she carefully guided one of his hands to rest on her waist. He carefully tightened his grasp there, his thumb digging into her flat stomach and his long fingers splayed on her back.

She then took his other hand and entwined their fingers. Her unoccupied arm reached (she had to reach considerably far. To accommodate her better, Enjolras subtly stooped slightly) and her hand gently lay across his shoulders.

"Now," her voice was softer and almost shy as she began to move her feet. "One, two, three. One, two three," She guided them in a messy circle around the table. Once they finished, Enjolras looked down, a touch embarrassed.

"I told you I was terrible, no?" He laughed nervously and she made a slight grimacing face.

"Oh it's only because you are not having fun!" She said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"I apologize that I do not consider dancing to be fun." He snorted.

"Just try!" She ordered him. He laughed a little at her amusingly commanding tone and did his best. On this round, with her movements lucid and graceful and laughter bubbling in his chest, it was considerably less disastrous.

"Alouette, gentille alouette, Alouette, je te plumerai." She began to sing gently and it was with her light voice filling the café that Enjolras began to truly dance for the first time in his life. It was easy for him, with her delicate hand fitting so sweetly in his and her tapered waist nudging his palm. He was more aware of her closeness at that moment than of any other time.

He actually smiled down at her and she looked away, red coloring the apples of her cheeks. Yes, to anyone less oblivious, it would be noticeable that Ceara liked Enjolras in a different way than she did the other boys. While she thought of them as her elder brothers, Enjolras held a different place in her heart. To the boys, it was fairly obvious that Enjolras cared for Ceara in a way that was very different from the way that siblings cared for each other.

But the two of them were very blind to those things, so they danced in a dangerously teasing manner that was platonic and loving at the same time. They had the air of chaste attraction around them, one that would charm any bystander. However, the only person who was watching them was a character who was the only one who would have negative feelings aimed towards the couple in their stolen minutes of bliss.

Indeed, Grantaire had retreated into the alley by the Musain to dispose of the contents of his stomach in a less-than-pleasurable manner. Upon looking up, his heart ached after seeing the two of them in the window, gentle love simmering in his muses' presence.

He stumbled to his flat in a whirling emotional cloud of despair and pain, barely able to bare the terrible reality of what he saw in the window. To cure his heart to the best of his ability, the inebriated Grantaire took out his frustrations with a well-used brush and cheap paint.

Back in the Musain, Ceara sweetly curled into a ball on the table. After Enjolras's dancing lesson, she found herself to be quite tired. With the hearty meal still warming her stomach and the warmth of the Musain's back room seeping into her skin, she felt more at home than she had before disease struck her household.

Enjolras stayed a little bit after she fell asleep, remembering the way her lips curved into a happy smile when he began to sing along with her as well as the way they moved easily together despite their height differences. When he finally took his leave, he made sure that the stove in the corner was still providing heat. As he touched the doorknob, he went against his better thoughts and swiftly placed a gentle kiss on Ceara's sleeping head. Upon the gentle touch, she smiled sleepily.

Enjolras left the Musain that night after bestowing his first kiss.


So, I made my own little blog on our account. (everysongthatwillstayunsung dot tumblr dot com). I need someone to guide me personally because this stupid site makes me really mad.

Annnyyway. In my absence from this story I wrote two angsty one-shots. One was Enjonine (my first attempt with that EVER) and the second was Courf/Eponine. Check 'em out, please?

See you in the reviews!