A/N: Sorry for the delay, guys. I…don't have a very good excuse, unless you count writers' block and ADHD.

Anyway, the chapter's not that long, simply because I'm grasping for something to happen outside of Jehan's relationship with the Feuilly family. Any suggestions are totally welcome. Enjoy!

Jehan sighed There was literally nothing to do in his flat. He had stayed up half the night trying (and failing) to come up with more verses for the poem he had started, and then he had slept until noon, which was really very pleasant, and now? Now, he was sitting on his couch and staring out the window in the direction of Montparnasse.

"Perhaps I'll go and take a walk," he said to himself. When he had decided on this, he set down his pen and grabbed his coat. The early June air was warm but not too hot, and it made Jehan wonder why he should be condemned to wear a coat when it might make him sweat. This train of thought was not common for him, and it surprised him a little, but he continued down this thread to wonder why women were required to wear such heavy skirts in such heat, and to pity them. Once again, this wasn't normal. He questioned the change for a moment before moving on.

"A sou for my child, Monsieur?" a beggar woman called to him as he approached her.

Jehan, who had spent eighteen years walking past beggars with his nose in the air, stopped and pulled a five-franc piece out of his pocket. "Here," he told the woman.

"Thank you, Monsieur! So generous!" the beggar cried. "How good you are, Monsieur. Thank you!"

She grinned toothlessly at him before rushing off towards where four children, presumably hers, were standing. Jehan walked on, but he could not get her face, her smile, out of his head. Before he knew it, his mind was spinning rhymes out of control, and he had to make a mad dash back to his flat to write them down before he forgot them all. He didn't even have time to take off his blasted coat before he grabbed his pen from under the coffee table (he had thrown it there in a rage the night before) and started scribbling on his paper.

It took him an hour to, first of all, sort out everything in his head, and then organize it into verse. When he was done, he had only two more stanzas of his poem from the night before.

Her soul, a self-sustaining flame.
She hopes, and knows no fear.
She smiles at life, that cheerless game.
Her future is not clear.

Perhaps, I'll take her as a muse.
Perhaps she will inspire
A flame in me that I can use
To wake up lost desire.

Jehan put his pen down, not entirely satisfied but too hungry to care. Again, he grabbed his coat (which he had flung off of his shoulders in a poetic frenzy) and headed towards the city center.

He was wandering through the merchants' district when someone called his name.

"Hey! Prouvaire!"

He turned and saw Alexandre Feuilly running towards him. "Feuilly!" he exclaimed.

"My sister came home screaming at me yesterday," the man told him.

"I'm so sorry," Jehan said. "I shouldn't have brought up what Grantaire told me."

"How could you have known?" Feuilly asked. "If you're interested, though, I could take you to meet some of the men."

"I hardly know what the meetings are about," Jehan said. "Luca and Grantaire have given me such mixed stories that I don't know what to believe."

"Let's not talk about this here," Feuilly murmured. "I think I can find Enjolras, if you're willing to walk a little further for your lunch."

"Uh, sure, I guess."

Jehan allowed himself to be led to a café on the corner of an unfamiliar street. Feuilly entered first and headed straight to the back of the main room. He opened a door that led to a narrow passageway.

"Where exactly are you taking me?" Jehan asked.

"To our revolution," Feuilly whispered with a smile.

The passageway dead-ended at a small door, which Feuilly opened with a small key.

"Come on in," the man invited, and Jehan hardly thought as he entered a small room full of men who appeared to be no older than he.

"That one in the corner," Feuilly said, pointing to an angelic figure near the back, "is our leader, Marcelin Enjolras. There beside him is Dorian Combeferre, and Sebastian Courfeyrac is the one playing dominoes across the room. Shall I introduce you?"

Jehan nodded.

"Enjolras," Feuilly called. The angel-man looked up. "This is my sister's friend Monsieur Prouvaire. Come and speak to him, won't you?"

Enjolras stood up from his seat in the shadows, appearing now as a tall, blond fellow instead of a seraph. The one Feuilly had called Combeferre stood with him, and both walked towards the newcomer.

"Dorian Combeferre," the man said, reaching out his hand once the pair had reached Jehan.

"Jean Prouvaire," he returned. "I'm sorry, Messieurs, but I've only come to find out a little more. A Monsieur Grantaire mentioned you to me first, and then Mademoiselle Feuilly screamed at me about overthrowing the French monarchy. If you'll excuse me, I'm very confused."

"Not a problem at all," Combeferre told him. Enjolras was yet to speak. "Why don't you sit?"

The students told him exactly what they were doing, and Jehan thought it sounded a little more like what Luca had described than the pretty picture Grantaire had painted for him. All the same, he left the back room feeling moved by Enjolras' passionate words and thoroughly convinced by Combeferre's rational ones. He decided that he would return. Sure, the little painter in the back of his head was screaming furiously at him, but what was a girl going to do to stop him from changing the world?