And we're back with chapter two! This is the emotional part, so be prepared (maybe with a tissue box). This is mostly Grantaire with a little National Guard thrown in, but Gavroche will be making a reappearance in future chapters. Yay!

Thanks to the (4) people who reviewed! To Emma, AnimeWolfAlienRaptor4, Gavroche T, and Kchan88, thank you so much for the positive reviews! I really appreciate it.

This is a pretty fast update, later it'll probably be a chapter a week. It's just that my mind overflows with ideas in the beginning, and then the dreaded writer's block makes it's appearance! :( Haven't hit that yet, and I hope I won't. But let's get on with the story already!

Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables in any way. I am neither a musical genius nor dead, so there you go. All I own are my OC's, Jean-Pierre Gaspard and introducing…*spotlight* Arsenault! New OC in this chapter. (By the way, I found out where I got Jean-Pierre from. Originally he was Jean-Luc Gaspard, from the movie Mr. and Mrs. Smith. He was mentioned in passing after their fight (in the movie, not this fanfic). So I'm gonna stop now because this note is really getting too long.) Enjoy and review!

It was done. The boy, whoever he was, had fallen. Jean-Pierre Gaspard felt a vindictive – and cowardly – rush of accomplishment as he watched the gamin jerk and fall. He could tell that his comrades felt it too; it was written on their faces, in their cruel smiles. The captain burst into laughter, and Gaspard and the others joined in.

"How can you laugh?" A voice demanded, and the mirth fell into an icy silence. It was Arsenault – of course it was. Ever since the whining brat had joined the National Guard, he had been complaining, saying the Guard had no morals and no sense of right or wrong. He was just making excuses for not having the balls to shoot someone, Gaspard thought dismissively. For the life of him, he didn't know why Arsenault had been allowed to stay in the Guard for so long without firing so much as one bullet at the enemy.

"A child – a mere child! – has just been slaughtered, murdered, and you have the gall to laugh?!" Gaspard sneered at him. They had every right in the world to kill that boy – he was helping those idiotic bastards at the barricade! Next Arsenault would be asking them to cease fighting and negotiate with the rebels. Gaspard snorted derisively.

His thoughts were interrupted by Arsenault's voice. "Twenty guns against an undefended child – what honor is there in that? Tell me, does that make you feel righteous? Does that make you feel like heroes? That you have murdered an innocent boy? What honor is there in that?" Nobody answered, not even the captain. Gaspard wasn't surprised; every time Arsenault had spoken out, the captain stood and watched. He didn't understand how those in command could just let an idiot spew forth his moronic views of the world. Gaspard had had enough. One more word out of that mouth, and he would tear Arsenault apart.

"The answer is, there is no honor in slaughtering a child. You are a bunch of cowards, too afraid to pick on someone your own size! Then, when you find someone smaller and weaker, you gang up on them twenty to one! What happened to the National Guard that was just and good and would not fire upon a boy not ten years of age? What happened to the National Guard that everyone looked up to and felt respect for, instead of fear?" That did it. Gaspard shot to his feet, grinning briefly to himself before letting his face fall into a mask of icy indifference.

"What would you know of honor, bricon?" He spat the word out. "You, who have never slain a man?"

"So you must kill to gain honor, now?" Arsenault faced the entire National Guard. "I remember when I was boy and my father would tell tales of honor and glory. The heroes of old, defending castle and country with their lives, never took life wantonly. They spared the innocent, imprisoned the guilty, but never took a life unless there was no other choice. They would rather have died than take an innocent life. Let me ask all of you: can any of you honestly say you would rather die than kill an innocent?" He waited, his head held high. Nobody moved.

"I thought as much." He turned to the captain. "I am sorry, but I cannot remain in the company of such men. I resign." Gaspard waited for the captain to explode – resignation from the National Guard was unheard of – but he did nothing. It is up to me, as usual. He stepped forward until he was face to face with Arsenault.

"Where will you go, faible?" He hissed. "Will you join the rebels, tell them our secrets?" He spat in his face. "Putain traître!"

Arsenault calmly pushed past Gaspard. He wiped his face, almost disdainfully. He faced the army again. "I will go find the poor child, to see if he is still living. Then I shall return home." He bowed. "Thank you." Without another word, he turned and walked into the fog.

"Ha!" Gaspard shouted after him. "The gamin does not have a chance! He was shot by twenty bullets; he is not invincible!" He spat again. Arsenault did not turn back, disappearing into the mist.

Grantaire slowly clawed his way back up to reality, the grief weighing on him like a brick. His friends were clustered around him, looking worried. A sigh of relief escaped a few lips when they saw he was awake. Some were still crying, and the rest had tears in their eyes.

Grantaire took a slow, shuddering breath. A need to release his emotion swept over him, and he sat up so suddenly that Combeferre almost fell over.

"Lie down, Grantaire. You need rest." Enjolras sounded different, like he had aged fifty years. He gently pushed Grantaire back onto the table they were using as a bed. "You've been out of it for almost fifteen minutes."

Grantaire didn't fight against Enjolras, lying back down. His eyes were filled with an emotion that had never been there before: burning anguish barely held in check by the force of his will. "I'm going to kill those bastards," he said. Grantaire was proud of how calm and controlled he sounded, when really he was straining to keep his head clear.

"I'll help. We'll all help," said a white-faced Courfeyrac. His cheeks were streaked with tears that still dripped down. His voice trembled and threatened to break. "We'll get those sons of bitches who…who would kill…" He turned away, his body shaking.

This was almost too much for Grantaire, and his fragile hold on the world wavered. He fought it back and concentrated on revenge. Ah, revenge…what a sweet and cruel word. Yet nothing could compensate for…for his death, not even torturing those cowards who would fire on an undefended child.

Gavroche.

A flood of memories overwhelmed Grantaire's mind, taking him three months back.

"Y'know, Grantaire, I do believe you drink too much," Gavroche had commented, watching Grantaire down his third bottle of whisky that night.

"I'm fine," he said, amazingly still sober. Usually, he would already be piss-drunk by then, but he always made an effort to appear somewhat presentable in front of Gavroche. "It doesn't affect me, when I don't want it to." He took another swig.

"And you want it to affect you sometimes?" Gavroche looked unconvinced. Grantaire grinned.

"Here, let me show you." Gavroche stepped back, and Grantaire laughed. "I'm not gonna hurt you, you silly little gamin." He put the bottle on the table and closed his eyes. He let the alcohol sweep over the barriers in his mind he had carefully constructed years before, ready for use at a moment's notice. His brain was already feeling foggy. "See? Told ya." He walked forward, but ended up staggering instead.

Gavroche looked on in delight. It was absolutely hilarious to watch Grantaire staggering about, bumping into people and muttering slurred apologies. He knew it was real; Grantaire had never been a great actor. "Okay, 'Taire!" he finally said. His felt his sides bursting with laughter. "I believe you!"

Grantaire stumbled back and closed his eyes again, swaying slightly. This was the hard part, but he was sure it would work. He mentally forced the alcoholic effects out of his mind, sweeping them out and restoring the barriers. When he opened his eyes, he was back to normal.

Gavroche laughed loudly. "You…you…you…hahaha!" he choked on his mirth. Grantaire sauntered over, grinning, and tousled the boy's unruly dark brown hair. "Hey!" he said happily, dodging away.

"Grantaire…Grantaire!" A voice intruded on his memories, washing them away. Joly peered at him worriedly. "Are you alright?"

"Yes…Yes, I'm…I'm fine…"Grantaire felt tears fill his eyes. He forced them back. The Amis were silent, watching him apprehensively as if he were mad. He sighed and closed his eyes, thinking. He had always had a strange effect on Grantaire, making him weirdly protective. Even when he was almost driven mad by that sharp tongue, he couldn't bear to lay a hand on the dear little gamin. If it was anyone else, he would have knocked them flat out. But never him, he would die before he laid a hand on Gavroche.

Gavroche.

It was amazing how two insignificant syllables could cause so much pain, even in his mind. Your loved ones never really leave you, he thought with a twisted smile. They never really did, at least the pain didn't. Did I love him, then? He was like a brother to me. Grantaire mused on those words. Like a brother. I loved him like a brother. He realized that he was using the past tense, and another bolt of pain hit him.

Grantaire slammed his head back on the table, trying to clear his mind of the agonizing thoughts. Of course, it didn't work; he could never forget the boy. Why did it have to be him? Why did he have to die? Grantaire replayed his last moments over and over, praying for him, watching him spasm and fall, oh God oh God…

"WHY DID IT HAVE TO BE HIM!" Grantaire howled, causing his friends to jump. He couldn't hold it in anymore; it burst out like the breaking of a dam. Tears, hot and salty, ran down his cheeks and flowed onto his neck and clothes. He wept and wept, gripping his hair. Grantaire felt the comforting hands of his comrades, patting him on the back, rubbing his shoulder, embracing him. They whispered soothing words to him: it's okay, you're okay, I know it hurts now, but it'll pass. But they were wrong, it wasn't okay, he wasn't okay, the pain would never go away without him. He would always feel the grief whenever something reminded him of his best friend, his brother. Gavroche.

"Gavroche!" He put all the crushing grief, the hot anguish, and the fiery anger into that one word. Then he fell silent.

Grantaire was empty, everything was gone. His emotion, his tears, Gavroche – all gone. He had nothing to live for anymore. Except…

Hope gripped him tightly, even though he did not want to feel it. To have hope, and then have that hope destroyed by the cold unfeeling truth…that would kill him in a very real sense. But he couldn't help it. There was still hope.

He straightened suddenly. When Gavroche had fallen, he had succumbed to the blackness. But he hadn't seen Gavroche stay down, had he? There was a chance, however small, that Gavroche was still alive – terribly wounded, but alive. Perhaps he was crawling to the barricade even now, or lying there, twitching.

Grantaire jumped off the table, brushing past his friends without a second glance. He sped out the barricade, climbing over it hastily. He sprinted flat out to the spot where he had seen Gavroche fall, seen him fall, but hadn't seen him stay down. He found himself praying again, Please let him be there, please let him be alive let him be alive let him be alive let him be alive…

When he got there, he simply stared, not wanting to believe his eyes.

As soon as Arsenault's form disappeared, the captain roughly grabbed Gaspard by the collar of his jacket and dragged him over to the side, where the others couldn't hear. He was released with a shove that sent him sprawling into the dirt.

"Doddering fool!" the captain spat. "Do you have any idea what you have done? Do you?" Gaspard was confused. He had just chased a traitor from the National Guard, and the captain was pushing down and yelling at him? He hadn't done anything to incite such anger, had he?

The captain stabbed a finger in the direction of the mist. "You don't know who he is, do you? Well, let me tell you, my friend." He crouched down and shoved his face into Gaspard's. "That is the son-in-law of one of the greatest donors to the Guard. He is the son-in-law of the person who gives 150,000 francs a year for supplies, guns, and ammunition. Why do you think none of us had reprimanded him for being a prancing, preaching softie?" He snorted. "It was all about the money, as always. The Guard never has enough. His father-in-law offered double the usual amount for this year, if we would humor him. And we had, until you and your stupidity came along!" The captain stood up, brushing off his trousers. "Look, you're a good man and a good soldier, Gaspard. But know this: never do something I don't tell you to, at least not while you're in the service of the Nation Guard. Got it?" Gaspard nodded. "Good. Now get your sorry ass over there with the others."

Gaspard stood up and loped over to the clustered soldiers. "What was that about?" whispered a voice. He gave a noncommittal grunt that clearly meant none of your business. Then he felt it – that creeping feeling on the back of his neck that told him there was prey about. Slowly, he turned to face the fog. There, right where the boy had fallen, was a shape – the shape of a man.

He knew at once that it couldn't be Arsenault; he was slim as a twig. This man was more heavily built and looked powerful. But something about the set of his shoulders told Gaspard that this man, whoever he was, was tired or bore the weight of sorrow – or both. The man would not notice the Guard, Gaspard was sure of it. The man wouldn't take notice if the devil himself were to tango naked with an angel. His lips curved into the same cruel smile that had been upon his face before he shot the boy.

The same twenty men stood up silently. The same twenty guns took careful aim.

And scene! I'm not sure if that counts as a cliffhanger or not (okay, it was definitely a cliffhanger, but please don't kill me). Sorry about the National Guard bashing, but they've got to be villainous for obvious reasons (come on, they shot Gavroche!). Next chapter will have more of Gavroche, promise. I'm not sure yet if he'll be in spirit form or living form, TBD.

And maybe the next chapter will also include naked tangoing (is that a word?) between the devil and an angel. Ya never know!

But in all seriousness that I am capable of (which is not a lot), Gavroche will be appearing in the next chapter. You have my word (which is not very reassuring if you know me, but it's all you're getting). I need to stop using parenthesises (is that a word either?), huh?

Maybe you've realized that I'm a little crazy by now, and enjoy writing shamelessly long notes in the beginning and end of chapters. C'est la vie!

French translations: bricon = fool, faible = weakling, putain traître = f**king traitor. Not very nice, that's for sure. Oh, and c'est la vie = that's life!

Thanks for reading, and as always, please review! Bye! :)

P.S.

Gaspard really needs to take a chill pill, huh? He sure likes to spit out words and saliva! Now, bye!