A/N Huge grovelling apologies for the wait. I had a MASSIVE college assignment to finish that could make or break my first year grades so I had to really focus on that. On the plus side, I've now got two weeks off! Yay!

Okay, going to stop rambling now. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, especially World About to Dawn and Sarahbob, your reviews always make me smile! Sorry for Feuilly by the way. Hope this chapter will make up for it.

Let the story continue…enjoy!

Disclaimer: Can't be bothered with witty disclaimers any more. Not Victor Hugo.

Chapter Fourteen

Raucous sounds of merriment continued to echo through the streets well into the early hours of the morning. After Feuilly's emotional collapse in the street, Aimee had insisted that all three of them return to Enjolras' apartment; all desire to celebrate rapidly disappearing. Much to Enjolras' relief, their friend ceased to cry and had simply stumbled limply between them, occasionally whimpering his beloved's name, as they staggered back home through the dirty, slushy snow.

Upon arrival they had placed Feuilly in Enjolras' bed and he had fallen asleep instantly; a mixture of exhaustion and alcohol taking their toll. What surprised Aimee most was that Enjolras hardly uttered two words for the rest of that evening, choosing instead to stretch out on the sofa and feign sleep. She knew him well enough to know when he wanted to be left alone, and so she had bid him a quiet goodnight and departed to prepare for bed. All that she hoped was that this silence was not a return to the despondency she thought they had overcome earlier in the evening.

Valiantly, she had attempted to sleep, but that night slumber eluded her completely. The few times she was successful in dozing off, whispered words and screams echoing through her thoughts would cruelly disturb her. Instead she lay awake, staring blindly up at her ceiling. The evening continued to repeat itself continuously in her head, from Enjolras' despair to the moment just before the fireworks. Closing her eyes, she found that if she focused hard enough she was still able to feel the warmth of his body, still see the intensity and slight nervousness in his eyes as he had leaned closer…

Uncomfortable with the path her thoughts were leading her down, Aimee abandoned her search for rest and threw back the covers. Hurriedly pulling on a set of her warmest woollen stockings, she wrapped herself in an old, brown jacket she had borrowed from Enjolras and never given back. Opening her door silently, she padded through to the living room. The sight that met her there did very little to halt her decidedly romantic turn of thought. The light from the glowing fire fell softly across Enjolras' features, giving him a time-worn, noble air, whilst at the same time reminding her that he was once somebody's child.

The sound of violent retching drew her out of her wonderings and she hurried to Enjolras' room, glad that Enjolras had had the forethought to place a bucket by the bed. Apparently, numerous counts of caring for a drunken Grantaire had taught him about the after effects of wine.

The artisan was hung off the edge of the bed, one hand balancing himself on the floor, the other knotted in the tangled coverlet. Kneeling beside him she gently smoothed Feuilly's hair away from his damp forehead and was a little surprised when he flinched away at her touch.

"M'sorry," he muttered, seemingly unable to meet her eyes.

"You have nothing to apologize for," she soothed, handing him a glass of water, another of Enjolras' inspired ideas.

"I feel so…angry and helpless and useless all at once." His grey eyes met hers, filled with unspoken anguish, "I'd almost forgotten what it was like to be treated as a guttersnipe, as a…a nothing, as a miserable…and to then be reminded of it at such a time and in such a manner…" His shoulders sank and he seemed to deflate. "She didn't do anything," he whispered lowly, the hurt expressed in the statement pulling at Aimee's heart. "She didn't say anything, not even as I walked out of the house, she just stood there. She was courting me without her father's permission, as if she was ashamed of me, of who I am…"

"Have you ever consider," Aimee suggested, helping him back upright onto the bed, "that she courted you in secret because she knew how her family would react, but loved you too much to let you go?"

Feuilly threw her a sceptical look.

"Ignore me then," Aimee capitulated, "but never apologize for being yourself. Do you hear me, Alexandre Feuilly?"

He was not looking at her but she continued regardless. "You are noble and intelligent and determined and hard-working and loyal to fault. If that girl was not willing to fight for you, was unable to see past the narrow-mindedness of society, then she didn't deserve you!"

"It doesn't stop it hurting, though." His bitter words finished the conversation and she simply had to content herself with squeezing hand understandingly and leaving him in peace.

She was initially going to return to her room, but as she passed the still slumbering Enjolras, she felt strangely reluctant. Never before had she been able to see him asleep. The few times that they had dozed off on the sofa, she was the first to fall asleep and the last to awaken so seeing him like this, laid out so quiet, so still, was a novel experience for her. Attempting to be as quiet as possible, and feeling not a little self-conscious, Aimee settled herself in the chair across from him, allowing herself for the first time to really truly look at him.

A high forehead, creased slightly from constant thought. Heavy eyebrows above deeply set eyes that when open were capable of a multitude of emotions within moments. A straight, well-proportioned nose often crinkled in irritation or determination. Well-defined cheekbones coupled with a strong clean-cut jawline. Soft pink lips, the lower one slightly thicker than the upper, that were capable of forming verbal missiles of fire and brimstone or light words of teasing banter.

What it would be like to kiss him?

The thought snapped Aimee out of her reverie and she felt herself flush in embarrassment even though she was alone. Rising quickly, she scurried back to her room and tried to force herself to sleep. It didn't work.

The snow melted, all traces of the street parties were cleared away and life returned to its familiar trudging pace. It was several more days until the rest of the Amis were scheduled to return to Paris and to say that, for Aimee, those days felt like torture would be an understatement. She missed her friends, missed their company, their voices, their laughter, their light. It didn't help that Enjolras had once again buried himself in his work, spending all of his time crafting the speech he would give to the Amis at the next meeting. He was desperate for it to be perfect, trying to hunt down the appropriate words to reignite their passion. Every draft he read to her, claiming to want her input, but rarely seeming to actually listen.

"You're over thinking it, Julien." She had been sat on the sofa, watching him as he paced in front of her, his curls in an even more tangled state of disarray than normal. "Just tell them what it is you are feeling, the same way you told me."

"Would you suggest it with or without the pathetic crying?" he snapped sarcastically at her, proceeding to lock himself in his room for the rest of the day.

Several drafts and a few uncomfortable silences later, the day of the meeting dawned.

The two of them arrived half an hour early, as was Enjolras' custom, discovering that Grantaire was already there at his normal corner table, still half sober. If she was being honest, Aimee was actually quite fond of Grantaire when he wasn't completely drunk, finding that his drunken cynicism hid an intelligent mind and a limitless knowledge of art, the Classics and Greek mythology.

"How was your Christmas?" she asked brightly, sitting down next to him as she removed her scarf and pulled off her gloves.

He grunted and did a hand gesture that seemed to indicate it had not been a particularly joyful experience, only to pause when he saw her hand. "What did you do?" His voice was laced with suspicion and his eyes were suddenly studying her far too intently.

Aimee flushed as she glanced down at the still healing cuts that criss crossed her fingers and palm. She had grown so used to only being around Enjolras that she hadn't considered that the Amis would notice and ask questions.

"Just an accident," she mumbled, knowing that he wouldn't believe her. She glanced up at him, pleading with her eyes for him not to draw attention to it with the others. His answering look of understanding surprised her and he raised his bottle in a silent salute of acceptance.

Just then the door crashed inwards and a familiar figure strutted in. "The fun has arrived!"

"Jerome!" Aimee shrieked and launched herself at her best friend. With a wide grin he swept her up in a fierce embrace and swung her around in dizzying circles, their laughter mingling together. Eventually, Courfeyrac placed her back on her feet, both of them feeling dizzy. She stooped quickly to retrieve his hat which had been knocked off in the scuffle, and so neither of them saw the glare that Enjolras directed at Courfeyrac, his blue eyes sparking with anger. The only person to take notice was Grantaire, whose response was to merely chuckle and take another drink.

"You seem much happier," Courfeyrac commented, pleased to see some light back in her eyes and a glow to her cheeks. His smile dropped as his quick eyes spotted the cuts almost immediately. "What happened?" he asked, concern in his voice as he studied her hand.

She snatched it away quicker than was necessary and forced a smile, "I smashed a glass while I was washing up one day; there was blood everywhere." She winced, hoping her voice sounded more convincing to him than it did to her.

Courfeyrac had no chance to question her as Combeferre, who had overheard, butted into the conversation. "Did you remove all the glass?" he asked as he gripped her wrist gently to examine the wounds.

"Julien, um, Enjolras helped me," she replied weakly. Combeferre gave her one of his looks, a long and steady look that seemed to stare straight into her soul.

"Hm." The young doctor did not sound convinced as he dropped her hand and gave her another piecing look. "If you'll excuse me I'm just going to go and catch up with Enjolras." He nodded a farewell and crossed the room quickly.

As he walked away, Aimee caught Courfeyrac peering at her suspiciously. "What?"

"End of the meeting, you, me, serious talking, understand?" his mouth quirked, "I want to know what you and Julien have been up to."

Aimee glared at him, but suddenly noticed that he was accompanied by far more bags than he had gone away with. "How many gifts did you get?" she teased, feigning shock, "There had better be something for me in there!" Despite her jesting tone, she could not help but note the odd look that momentarily shadowed his face.

"I'll tell you about it later," he muttered, just as Bahoral appeared beside them to catch Aimee up a bear hug.

The rest of the Amis arrived in quick succession after that. Well, all bar one.

"Where is Marius?" Aimee couldn't help but pick up on the nervous undertone in Enjolras' voice, though it was well masked by irritation. "He did get the right date for meeting, didn't he?"

The room turned as one as the door swung open, most expecting to see Marius standing there. However, it was Eponine who stood framed in the doorway and, most surprisingly, she was alone. When asked where Marius was she simply shrugged, only Aimee noticing how her face lost colour and her eyes clouded. Ignoring all other questions she placed herself in her normal corner and refused eye contact with the rest of the room.

"How was your time with the marble man then?" Courfeyrac queried, "Did the two of you speak of anything other than politics and revolution?"

Aimee was nestled up against Courfeyrac's shoulder, but moved away and frowned disapprovingly at his question. "I don't like it when you call him that," she reprimanded, "and I don't think he likes it much either. He's not a statue, or a god, he's just as human as the rest of us."

Courfeyrac's eyebrows rose at her defence of their leader, before a slight realization dawned in them. Aimee flushed and looked away, not liking how he smiled mischievously, then settled herself back into her original position. She knew exactly what he was thinking, and he was wrong. She was not falling for Enjolras.

Enjolras noticed Aimee looking at him oddly from her place next to Courfeyrac and wondered what the exchange between the two of them had been about.

"Julien?" Combeferre questioned from next to him. His friend seemed to have disappeared inside his head for a moment.

Enjolras snapped his head round so fast he almost got whiplash. "Yes?"

"I said, are you ready to start? A lot of us want to get home before it goes dark and some of us still have all our bags with us."

Enjolras felt himself sag a little inside. Suddenly, the speech he had worked on so hard to complete now seemed pointless; the words dry and hollow. Did they even care anymore? Of course, he said none of this out loud; instead he just swallowed thickly and nodded once before clambering up onto the table.

Every eye in the room was instantly on him and he took a deep breath. "Friends…"

"...Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears," Grantaire muttered from the corner, causing most of the room to snigger.

Enjolras felt himself falter, something he had never allowed Grantaire's comments to do to him before. He glared furiously in the drunkard's direction then looked around the room to ensure he was in possession of everyone's full attention. As he prepared to begin again, his eyes met Aimee's for a brief moment and his thoughts instantly flew back to the night he had bared his soul to her. The occupants of the room glanced at each other in confusion as he stood on the table, silent and unmoving, seemingly turned to the marble statue they so often likened him to. The noble fire in his eyes, that so often accompanied his rallying speeches, seemed to waver and fade to be replaced by a softer, warmer glow. Quietly, he stepped down off the table, his mind, for the first time in week, totally clear.

"Why are we here?" he addressed the room as a whole, reading their confused expressions, picking out Aimee's pleased smile from among them.

No one answered him, not even Combeferre, who looked as bewildered at the unexpected change in their leader as everyone else. He repeated the question as he began to move around the room, walking among them instead of standing above them. "Why are we here?"

Courfeyrac was the first to venture a response. "Are we referring to physically, metaphorically, theologically…?"

"Why are we the Les Amis de l'ABC?" he specified, "Why do we meet?" He stood at the front of the room again. "Why do we bother? Why don't we all just go home, climb into bed, and forget?"

"Aren't we here to create a better future for France?" Combeferre had finally spoken.

Enjolras whirled on his friend, not angry, but challenging. "Why do you speak that as a question? Are you uncertain?"

"No!" Combeferre denied hotly. "We meet as a group to attempt to secure a better future for France. There. Is that more positive for you?" he demanded, "What on earth has gotten into you, Enjolras?"

For a moment Enjolras froze, the uncertainty and the worry rising up again as if to engulf him. If he told them, would they ridicule him? Have him removed as leader? His eyes met Aimee's again, and he drew from the confidence shining in those green depths.

"I feel as if I am losing you all." His voice was low, but the shocked expressions of his friends indicated that they had heard. "We plan, yes, but what else have we done? What actual action have we taken? I blame myself as your leader…," he raised a hand to their protests, secretly reassured that they believed in him that much, "no, no, it is true." He took a breath, preparing to share his deepest insecurity, his greatest fear. "We were so close to action in '32, so close," he paused, "but I am thankful every day that we did not go through with our plans." A murmur of confusion rippled around the room and so he elaborated. "They were ill-conceived, faulty and would most likely have resulted in our deaths. It was when I realized this fact that I began to doubt, that I…well, I was afraid." There, he had admitted it. It was out. There was silence, each in the room holding their breath, mesmerized by this familiar stranger walking amongst them.

"It was only as I looked back that I realized how easily we would have been over run, how you all would have died for a dream that I had planted in your minds. As time passed I felt as if we began to drift apart, in our cause at least. We are still friends, but is that all we are; friends of each other and no longer the friends of the people?" He let his gaze roam around the room, meeting the eyes of each person there. "It would be so easy for us to forget about our dream, you know. Many of us are almost ready to leave university, get jobs, and start families. Which is why I ask, why are we here? What is it in each of you that drove you to here? Why are you willing to risk your future, your life, for a better future for France?"

There was silence in the room after his final question, and Enjolras worried that he had misjudged the situation, had handled it all wrong, and he waited for the angry words to start, the accusations, the feelings of betrayal for thinking so little of them.

It was Jehan who spoke first, gentle, thoughtful Jehan, with his strange dress sense and his confounded ferret. "I am here because I hate sadness," he spoke quietly, staring into his glass, Ophelia's head peeking over the table edge, "I hate the despair and grief I see on the faces of people every day who have done nothing to deserve it." He raised his eyes to his friends, "But I am not only driven by sadness, oh no, I am driven forwards by the faces of those gamin children I see every day, who, despite their circumstances, still find joy in the slightest of things. Even when they are desperately hungry they still find time to laugh and play. I fight because I am both inspired and humbled by the resilience of the human spirit," he looked Enjolras straight in the eye, "I think I had forgotten that somewhere. I thank you, Enjolras, for reminding me of that, and I will follow you wherever you lead us, to hell and back again if needs be."

Enjolras inclined his head in thanks, suddenly unable to speak as he felt tears prick the back of his eyes.

Courfeyrac rose next, surveying the room, "I am here because I believe that everyone deserve a chance to live, to thrive. I feel such anger whenever I observe the way that rich treat the people of the street, brushing off even the most desperate as if they don't even exist. How they walk past a woman holding a child, both of them starving, and not raise a finger to help." He paused in thought, eyes shadowed. "I know there will always be cruelty," he admitted, "and I know that human society is in and of itself flawed, but I am here because I must try and make some kind of difference, some sort of sense of the world."

Combeferre's eyes never left Enjolras' face as he spoke. "I have found that illness brings us all to the same level. A wound is still a wound whether it is obtained by a beggar or by the king himself, we all bleed. I want to heal this country the same way I wish to heal my patients." A fire rose in the normally mild-mannered young man as he continued. "I want a society where all are treated equally, where all can find comfort from pain and distress. As Jehan said, I think I had forgotten my reasons for being here, lost in the struggle of every day and I am sorry that you feel we have been drifting away from you; away from cause." He smiled slightly, "We do not think any less of you for telling us this, my friend; in fact, I think I respect you more, if that is even possible."

"I come here because I here I feel safe." Eponine's quiet but steady voice surprised everyone. "I used to think that you were all foolish, school boy dreamers, and, to a certain extent, I still think that." She raised her eyes from where they had rested on the table top, "But if there is even a chance that you can change something, I want to be a part of it. So many people, like me, have to work themselves bloody to try and clamber out of the gutter only to have the rich people push them back again. I want to be a part of a world where there is equality, where there is help for the people who actually try to better themselves." Her voice fell. "I want to be a part of a world where love is not stipulated by class, or fortune, but is simply love."

"I second that," Feuilly stood up, "I agree with every word each of you has said. But I am also here because of my friends, because of you. Without all of you I am nothing, a nobody, an unsuitable match for the woman I love." At these words his voice faltered. "With you…I am simply me. But thanks to all of you, it is the best of me."

"I fight for those who cannot fight for themselves," Bahorel spoke up, "I've never liked bullies and the upper classes are little more than that; cowardly bullies." He grinned. "It's also kind of fun."

Joly rolled his eyes at the comment. "I only wish to help, to heal, to make someone's life a little better. Healing the whole country? Is not the whole country simply a collection of many lives, all waiting to be healed?"

Bossuet thumped his best friend on the shoulder in agreement. "I may not have much luck, with anything, but there are many less fortunate than I. I may not have much money, but at least I have some. My clothes may be ragged, but at least I have clothes. There is always someone further down the ladder from you; what is wrong with pulling them up next to you?"

"I'm here for the booze," Grantaire offered from the corner, earning himself a glare from everyone. "Well, alright, the booze and the company, and, okay, maybe for the revolutionary nonsense you lot come out with….," he took a long drink, "but mostly the booze."

With Grantaire's words, a heavy silence fell over the room which no one seemed no know how to break. Instinctively, all eyes turned to Enjolras, but he too seemed a little lost on this new journey of honesty.

Unsteadily, Aimee rose to her feet, but forced herself to meet each pair of eyes resting upon her. "I am here because I have nowhere else to go. You are my home, my family, my life. I don't know where your plans will take us; I only know that I will be thankful every day for the rest of my life that it was you who found me." Involuntarily her eyes searched for Enjolras'. As their eyes met, a small smile lifted the corner of his mouth.

Bahoral lurched to his feet, his glass held aloft. "Well… tonight has been interesting. So, here's to life, love, and changing the world. Vive la Revolution! Vive la France!"

They all rose to their feet to join him, their voices ringing with a harmony that had been absent for too long.

A/N That was really tense! Hope the wait was worth it. Ah, I can finally sleep now; the voices in my head have quietened down. Please review!

Until next time, mes amis!

Libz