Hey guys, so here's the next chapter, and it's a little bit longer! It would really really mean a lot to me if some of you lovely people could give me some feedback, because I don't think that this is my best piece of writing by a long stretch, but I just can't seem to make it go differently... Would love some opinions :) And other than that, I hope you *enjoy* (if that's the right word for this particular fic!) Merci, much love xx

"'Ferre...?" The soft whisper, combined with gentle stroking of his hair woke him early the next morning, squinting in the half light.
"'Ferre wake up... I think I've done something stupid..." His roommate was knelt beside the best, watching him with an intensity that worried him, his tired brain snapping into alertness. There had to be something wrong for the blonde leader to wake him, the only person who he had come to accept waking him was Jehan, when he wanted an opinion on a piece of poetry. Or maybe Joly…
"Wassup E...? Talk to me... I'm not called the guide for nothing..." He laughed, though it came out as a completely different sound when Enjolras turned side on to him, and he realised that almost half of the blonde curls had disappeared, the skin looking angrier and more tender than it had just a few short hours ago.
"What on earth have you done..." Bowing his head meekly he took the other man's hand and led him to his own room, showing a devastated Combeferre his brand new golden carpet. The tall man's voice was barely a whisper, making him sound more like a child who'd done something wrong.
"I'm sorry…"

The Café Musain was strangely quiet; Combeferre, after refusing to leave Enjolras at home alone, was now sat at their table, watching Jehan pretending to be engrossed in his poetry while he tracked the blonde's pacing movements back and forth in front of him, twisting a bright red beanie in his hands. Blue eyes danced around the room before dropping to the floor, revealing the true anxiety that was hidden behind the marble façade. Enjolras was afraid of what his friends might say. It had taken kind little Jehan presenting him with the hat he was now clinging to like a lifebelt for him to even agree to Combeferre's demand that he come out, as well as his room-mate threatening to burn his precious French flag; the present he had received from Les Amis on his sixteenth birthday and the only possession other than his books that Enjolras truly valued. The flag still held a huge sentimental value for him, even if he wouldn't admit it, because it was the very first gift he had ever been given. However, now, Enjolras was plagued by guilt. How could he inspire his friends, never mind anyone else, looking like this? How could he allow himself to be so weak..? But still he did it. The more stressed he became, the thicker the curls that he tugged at. He didn't feel the pain of it anymore, just the sickening sense of guilt and uselessness that settled in his stomach.

Jehan leaned into Combeferre's sturdy shoulder, gazing over at his friend as his large eyes prickled with unshed tears. Watching a person one idolises tear themselves apart is an agonising thing, he concluded. He knew Enjolras had the habit of retreating into himself sometimes, locking himself in his room with enough coffee to keep a small army awake for several months, despite his friends' concern. But that was what the blonde was, they all knew that, they knew how he worked. Enjolras was fighting against an army in his mind, constantly battling against himself to attain ever higher grades. They had always worried about him, but usually he left the battle relatively unscathed. Unfortunately, it seemed that the other army was winning this time.

His façade was cracking, but Enjolras was damned if he would let them see. He was the leader, the strong one, he couldn't let them believe he was suffering! Especially from a breakdown, good God above, he'd rather run himself through with a fork than allow that to happen. Thank goodness for Jehan and his hat, he could keep hiding all traces of his weakness. He was Enjolras, the leader, the rebel, the passion. He was the one with impeccable grades but a desire for more. He wanted to be recognised, for people to appreciate him. I just want them to know who I am… His mind drifted to Grantaire who would no doubt arrive at any moment, ready with some smart remark. Even the thought of the teasing he endured from him made his heart ache tonight. Deep down, he desperately wanted to make the cynic believe. If he could do that, then maybe his family could believe in him too, and his teachers… Everyone. If a few lost hairs were to be the side effect of his quest for fulfillment then so be it. So be it.