Courfeyrac opened the envelope with shaking hands, not sure if he really wanted to read what was inside. He withdrew a folded piece of paper and then turned the envelope upside down. A handful of coins fell onto the bedspread.

"It's…it's a letter from Claude," Courfeyrac said tremulously as he unfolded the paper.

"Read it, mon ami," said Combeferre tearfully, as they all came to stand around the weeping law student. Courfeyrac cleared his throat, fighting for composure, and began to read the letter aloud.

"My dear, dear friends,

If you have only just received this, then I have no doubt that I, by now, died. I beg of you, do not grieve over much for me. I am not worth it.

I have known for a few days now that my life is drawing to a close, but I could not bear to share that information with you and cause you more worry, especially when everyone was so anxious about Julien. I am sure that he will make a full recovery and, when he does, please let him know how glad I would have been to see him well again.

The money in the envelope is this week's rent and a little extra. Please give it to Madame Dupont and convey my most sincere thanks for the hospitality and unending kindness she has always shown me.

I expect you are wondering why I did not use the money to send for a doctor before the illness got so terrible, but I was simply too proud to fall behind on my payments and live off someone else's charity. You all often told me that I was too proud and stubborn for my own good, so perhaps it is only fitting that it was my downfall. But still, there is no use looking back now and wishing I'd done things differently.

You are probably also wondering why I didn't come to borrow, when you'd so generously offered to help me on countless occasions. You must understand the enormous amount of respect I have for each and every one of you, which prevented me from treating you in such a way. You will think me even more pig headed for this, I'm sure – and I see know that you're right - but I couldn't use my friends as a source of income and I was foolishly determined to get through everything on my own. So please; Etienne, Christophe – do not feel yourselves to blame for my death. My pride was my fatal flaw.

I suppose all that remains now is for me to thank you from the bottom of my heart for the warmth and friendship you have all showed me these past three years. You are truly the best and dearest friends a man could ever hope to be blessed with and I cannot describe to you how much I have enjoyed our meetings. I beg of you, please don't forget me completely.

And Julien, if you have recovered to read this, please take my advice, mon ami. I know you are as stubborn as I am, but do not let your pride destroy you as I have. The others all love and respect you – don't be afraid to open up to them and let them know your worries. They will always stand by you, and help you if they can. Do not give up on your cause. You are the future of France, Julien – I know it, and so do they – you have no idea how much I regret that I will not be there to see it.

I have no doubt, mes amis, that we will all see each other again, beyond this world. And neither illness, nor politics, nor injustice will be able to trouble us there. I can promise that my heart will sing when I am once again in your company. Until then, my dear friends, please believe me to be

most sincerely and affectionately yours,

Claude LeClair."

Courfeyrac's voice shattered as he finished the letter and he buried his face in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably. Prouvaire, who had cried the whole way through it, sat down beside him and hugged him tightly, and the two sobbed in each other's embrace.

Joly, who was crying inconsolably, went to wash the dried blood from LeClair's face. Combeferre came to help, but his vision was so blurred with tears, he couldn't do anything at all. "He could have saved himself with that rent money, Etienne!" sobbed Joly, tears running down his flushed face. "If he'd only borrowed from us! Or if we'd come here earlier…" He couldn't finish the sentence because his throat was too tight.

"There's no use in thinking that!" said Combeferre shakily, wiping the tears from his eyes. "We cannot bring him back, Christophe; we've got to accept that he is gone."

"I can't believe it's happened like this!" wailed Prouvaire into Courfeyrac's jacket.

"I know, Jehan, I know," said Joly, trying to pull himself together as he picked up another bit of paper from the bedspread. "None of us expected this!"

The piece of paper turned out to be Claude's will. He wanted his medical equipment to be divided between Combeferre and Joly; the carbine that had been his father's, the one thing he couldn't bear to pawn, to go to Enjolras, his red leather-bound Voltaire to Prouvaire and so on. He bequeathed something to each of the friends. Due to his poverty, they were small and everyday things, but they were so heartbreakingly touching. Combeferre knew that that one carbine meant more to Enjolras than ten times the large sum of money left to him by his uncle when he died a few years ago.

"I think we should go now," said Combeferre, straightening up and breathing shallowly. "One of us will have to fetch an undertaker and one will have to go to the chapel and…we're going to have to let the others know."

"I'm going to stay with him," said Joly, determined even in tears. "I don't want him to be alone, not now."

"All right," said Combeferre gently, as the others made their way out of the door. He looked back suddenly. "Julien?"

Enjolras had not moved since Courfeyrac began to read the letter. He was still shaking and ghostly pale. He looked like he was in shock; his face an emotionless marble carving, his eyes distant globes of ice.

"Julien." Combeferre said again softly, going over and putting a strong arm around his friend. That brought him out of his daze at least, and he looked up at Combeferre, who was brought to tears again when he saw the intense pain in Enjolras's eyes. "Come on, mon ami, we must tell the others."

Enjolras nodded dumbly, and was led out of the room.

The Amis of the ABC clubbed together to give Claude LeClair a decent funeral. They all gave willingly, and though the likes of Enjolras and Combeferre and the other wealthier students gave large amounts, the smaller sums contributed by Feuilly and L'Aigle were just as poignant. Even Grantaire gave as much, if not more, than he could afford and went without a single drink for more than a week as a result, which was perhaps the most touching gesture of all.

It was a small service in the university chapel. All the amis were there, of course, and Madame Dupont, as well as many of the medical students who'd shared classes with LeClair. He had been a very popular young man.

None of the Amis except the white-faced Enjolras could hold back their tears during the funeral. They all wept quietly, tears of heartbroken grief streaming down their faces, but Joly seemed to be taking it worst. The young hypochondriac's shoulder's shook and his eyes were red beyond belief. To everyone's utter surprise, it was Bahorel…Bahorel…who put his arm around him and whispered words of comfort, despite the ferocious arguments they'd had in the past. Combeferre saw this and wished that he could smile. LeClair would have been delighted to see that.

Prouvaire read a poem he'd written for LeClair halfway through the service. He stood up, cleared his throat, and tried to speak through his tears.

"He was a young man with so much to give

With a heart of gold; so full of love.

And although denied his chance to live,

Is free now, like a dove."

The fair-haired poet read on, bringing more tears to everyone's eyes until, in the very last line, his voice gave way and he dissolved into sobbing.

"God bless you, Claude!" he whispered, and returned to his seat. A distraught Feuilly put his arm around Prouvaire's shoulders and squeezed him tightly.

"He would have been so proud of you, Jehan," he whispered, and then broke down in tears himself.

After the service was over, and poor LeClair laid to rest, the Amis decided to go back to Courfeyrac's flat and discuss what would be a fitting tribute to their friend. The last of the other attendees had gone and, having laid flowers and said their separate prayers for LeClair, the amis were ready to depart now themselves. There was only one problem…

Enjolras had vanished.

"I'll look for him," said Combeferre at once. "I don't think he's taking this too well."

He hastened back into the churchyard and frantically searched for about five minutes before he looked over to the bench beside the wall and saw a figure in black sitting there with his head in his hands. The shimmering blond hair gave away the identity at once.

"Julien!" Combeferre hurried over but stopped in his tracks when he realised that Enjolras was crying. Not just crying, but sobbing; so hard that he must have been in physical pain. Each cry seemed to come from the depths of his heart and it brought back painful memories to Combeferre, of a day eight years before.

O+ Flashback +O

On the day of Nicolas Enjolras's funeral, his younger brother Julien honestly did try his best to hold back his tears in the church. He bit his tongue and swallowed his sobs until he had almost choked on them. But even so, the tears ran down his cheeks, making his eyes red and swollen, and his breathing erratic.

Etienne Combeferre, who was sitting in the next pew with his father, mother and sisters, watched his best friend cry and noticed the way the stony faced Monsieur Enjolras glared at his youngest son for showing so much emotion. Then he remembered the bear-hug that his own father, Dr Combeferre, had given him that morning.

"It is all right to grieve, Etienne," he had told his son gently. "It is natural to mourn him. You must not be ashamed of your tears, son."

The difference in their fathers' reactions seemed a brutal contrast to young Etienne, even more so when they returned to the Enjolras estate. Julien's father had taken him aside and furiously scolded his grief-stricken son. He told him that he'd disgraced the family by 'weeping like an infant' and that he should be thoroughly ashamed of himself.

"I…I'm sorry, Papa," Julien had said, scrubbing at his damp eyes. "I did not mean to let you down."

And when Etienne Combeferre looked for his friend quarter of an hour later, he was nowhere to be found. He hunted high and low before trying the gardens and found Julien there, hunched up beneath a tree, crying himself insensible.

Etienne hesitated briefly, wondering if he should fetch René, Julien's eldest brother and ten years his senior, who was very fond of Julien and would not scold him. Rather, he would hug him as his father should have done, and tell him that it was all right to cry for Nicolas.

But instead, knowing he'd be questioned as to Julien's whereabouts if he went back inside, Etienne went forward alone and put his hand on the weeping boy's shoulder.

"Julien, what are you doing out here, petit?" he asked, then kicked himself mentally – 'petit' had been Nicolas's nickname for his little brother.

"Papa says I mustn't cry in front of everyone," Julien hiccupped, tears leaving shining lines on his face. "But I miss my brother, 'Tienne! I miss him so much!"

Etienne broke down in tears too. Nicolas had been a good friend. The three of them had played together almost every day since they were infants. He put his arms around Julien and the two of them wept in each other's embrace until they lost track of time. Luckily, it was René who discovered them and when he did, he hugged them both tightly and simply let them cry.

"That's it, little brother," he'd said, rubbing Julien's back. "Let it out. Never mind what Papa said, there's nothing to be ashamed of. I miss him too."

And to protect them from his father's wrath, René waited until their eyes were dry before taking them back inside.

O+ End of flashback +O

It broke Combeferre's heart to see Enjolras weeping in such a manner again; hidden away as if frightened to show his feelings. The young doctor knew then that, no matter how hard he and René had tried to tell him otherwise, Julien had never forgotten his father's cruel words.

"Julien," he said softly, sitting down beside him and putting an arm around Enjolras's heaving shoulders. His friend raised his head. With his swollen eyes and tear-stained face, he looked like he was eleven years old once more. "You shouldn't weep alone. We're all going to miss him; you have nothing to be ashamed of."

"It's my…fault…he…died!" Enjolras sobbed was in such a state that he could hardly speak. Combeferre was gobsmacked. He hadn't expected this!

"What are you talking about?" he asked, tightening his arm around the blond. "Julien, how on earth could it be your fault?"

"If I…hadn't b-been so…stubborn and p-pigheaded!" choked Enjolras, with another wrenching sob. "If I'd just…listened to you…and seen a doctor…I wouldn't have gone to the Musain! You'd…you'd have n-noticed he was ill! If I hadn't been ill, he'd have…t-told you what was wrong with him! He didn't want you to worry… since everyone was…worried about me…but if I hadn't fainted…they'd have noticed…his absence at the…F-Friday meeting! It's because of me…there wasn't one! If I hadn't…b-b-been sick…we'd have had one and been able…to help him! It's my fault for getting sick! I wish I had…died instead! It's my…fault! It's m-my fault!" And he began to sob hysterically into his hands. Combeferre grabbed him in a fierce embrace and held him tightly, letting his normally grave-faced friend sob into his shoulder.

"Julien, don't ever let me hear you say that again!" he said shakily, rubbing his friend's back as René had done years earlier. "You are not to blame, do you hear me? You can't hold yourself responsible because you became ill! Remember what you always tell Grantaire – 'I'm no God; I'm as human as you are'? You're not Apollo, Julien, you're human! Every human is susceptible to illness!"

"But I should have admitted it!" Enjolras sobbed painfully. "I as good as killed him!"

"Claude didn't want to be dependent on anyone, Julien!" said Combeferre gently. "He wouldn't have told us, whether you were ill or not. He was independent and strong-spirited. He wanted to get by on his own. He had his pride – he said so in that letter, remember? He said that no one was to blame for this!"

Enjolras just clung to Combeferre tighter and cried even harder. Combeferre smoothed down his hair gently, never letting him go.

"You did not kill Claude, Julien!" he said firmly. "The government killed him. The injustice killed him. He'd have sent for a doctor if he could have afforded one. If you hadn't seen one, you might have died too! Ssssh now, mon ami. You are not to blame. Let it go. Social injustice is responsible; nobody else."

Enjolras cried in his friends arms for several long minutes before he eventually calmed down. He'd wept so much that he'd given himself the hiccups. And Combeferre still held him, whispering comforting words and telling him he was not to blame.

Suddenly, he sat back and looked into Combeferre's chocolate-coloured eyes with his own red swollen ones. He took a deep breath, and hiccupped again.

"I will not let this injustice go unanswered, Etienne," he said, in something similar to his normal, calm voice. "I will not let Claude's death be meaningless. One day, I will make a stand and fight against the injustice in France."

Combeferre looked round to see the remainder of the Amis standing behind him. They'd come to see where the two of them had gone to. Cleary, they'd heard Enjolras's last few sentences and there was approval and determination written on every face.

"I know you will, Julien," Combeferre gave a soft smile as he reached up to dry Enjolras's tears away. "And we will all be right behind you!"