I cannot thank you all enough for your feedback, and support, and encouragement! Thank you so much for continuing to read this story. It means so much to me!

Let me take a moment to say something about Les Mis ships: Why the heck don't more people ship Grantaire/Eponine? I feel like they are so perfect for each other, they are two of Les Mis's most popular characters, and hardly anyone pairs them together. Why, I don't know.

Of course, I love Enjolnine (as a lot of you know), but Enjolras and Eponine are complete opposites, which makes the ship very interesting; however, Grantaire and Eponine actually have a lot in common if you just stop to think about it for a minute. (The book even suggests that Eponine might have been an alcoholic.) Again, I love Enjolnine, but if we are going off the canon characters, I think it is far more likely that Eponine and Grantaire would end up in a relationship than her and Enjolras... or Enjolras and anyone besides "Patria" for that matter. Grantaire is a womanizer and he's had a ton of mistresses, and Eponine definitely is not pure either. To be perfectly honest—besides actual canon ships—I think Grantine/Eponine is the most likely of all.

So what this all comes down to: Yes, there is a little bit of Grantaire/Eponine coming up. If you like that idea, excellent! If not, I apologize, and maybe I can change your opinion before this story is over! ;)

(One more note that I forgot to include before the last chapter: The Cafe Musain, where there really was a battle in 1832, is really a McDonald's today.)

Thanks again, everybody!

CHAPTER II

~BURNING HEART~

The truck screamed as the driver slammed on the breaks, and the large tires slid to a sudden halt.

It would not have hit her. Even had she not moved, she would not have been hit. However, the car—the truck—came close enough to leave her terrified, her heart pounding, and her limbs trembling. Even after the vehicle had stopped and she knew that she was not going to die tonight, her heart slammed violently and painfully inside of her chest, thrashing about like a helpless animal caught in a hunter's trap, a tiny mouse caught in the coils of a snake. The snake is charming, and he is deceptive. He is lethal. This is how he takes his prey.

Éponine looked wide-eyed through the open window of the truck, across the passenger's seat, which was closest to her, and she saw a familiar face smirking out at her from behind the wheel. "Hey!" he said brightly as if nothing was wrong, as if he had not almost run her over. Pleased with her reaction and the petrified expression on her face, he grinned mischievously and his eyes sparked with impish satisfaction. At once, it became obvious to her that he pulled in front of her purposely, perhaps to talk to her, or perhaps merely for the thrill of scaring her almost to death.

Quite literally almost to death.

Her frightened expression vanished and immediately transformed into a glower of fury. "Grantaire!" Éponine screamed at him. Her voice quivered with anger, much like the way lightning trembles wrathfully through the grey clouds before it strikes. She was furious, but she could not pretend that she was not relieved at the same time. "What the hell is the matter with you!? You almost ran me over, you idiot! Are you drunk!?"

He seemed to find her rage quite amusing. He had always found a woman in fury to be very appealing. It was terrifying, no doubt, but at the same time quite arousing. As he watched Éponine scream at him, he could not help but notice how darn attractive she was. He smiled as if she was not yelling at him and replied with a smooth tongue, "Not yet."

She let out something between a scoff of disgust and growl of unadulterated wrath, a sound like a rabid animal that is about to devour its prey. She rolled her eyes blatantly as she turned her back on him. Without another word, she strode off and continued on her way down the street, her steps long, her pace fast, her hips swaying as they led her body. Grantaire was captivated.

"Hey, Ponine!" he called after her. He leaned out the window to keep her in sight. He breathed in the smoky scent of his cigarette as he opened his mouth to shout to her, "Come on, I'll give you a ride."

"I can walk," she snapped back without even a glance over her shoulder.

"I wasn't asking you, I was telling you. Now get in."

Éponine ignored him. She acted as if she had not even heard him, but he knew she had. As she stepped in front of the truck in another attempt to cross the street. Grantaire revved the engine, and the truck lurched forward with a thunderous snarl. Éponine flinched and turned reflectively, afraid that she would have to jump out of the way again. She did not. The truck was resting again, and through the glass windshield she saw Grantaire laugh.

She sighed angrily through grit teeth. Groaning in annoyance, shaking her head at his childishness, and rolling her eyes in ridicule, she knew that this man was not going to leave her alone until she gave in. So she did. Se moved quickly and abruptly, like one in rage, around the truck and yanked open the heavy door. Grantaire offered her his hand, but she didn't take it. She pulled herself up into the high vehicle, which was stained with the familiar smells of alcohol and cigarette smoke. She collapsed into the passenger's seat. Her face like stone, she fixed her eyes on the dark city through the windshield, and she did not glance at the man sitting beside her. Grantaire leaned over and reached across her to grab her seatbelt, but she swatted him away with one hand and buckled herself.

Grantaire sighed softly. His heart sighed as well. Éponine sent him a hard, unmoved, pitiless, and unforgiving glare. Grantaire shifted uncomfortably, put the car in gear with the stick shift, and looked at the road. Éponine continued to glare at him until he was no longer looking at her. Yet, as she turned away from him, for some reason that she, herself, could not quite logically explain, she was suppressing a smile that was tugging at her lips.

Grantaire let his foot fall heavily on the pedal, and the truck jerked into sudden, whip-like acceleration. Éponine grunted as they sped at least ten miles over the speed limit down the road. For a moment, there was only the steady reverberation of truck, the low groan of the engine, and the sound of air rushing past the open windows. They each stared ahead, watching the road rather than each other. Grantaire was uncomfortably aware of the silence and tension that had fallen between them. She was still angry then…

Perhaps only to break this maddening silence, Grantaire tapped his finger tips against the steering wheel. He had one hand on the wheel, and the other rested in open window, grasping a cigarette between his fingers. He brought it to his lips and inhaled deeply, pulling the smoke into his lungs, filling his chest to the brim with the fiery sting. It burned his throat and irritated his lungs, but at this point he was used to both of these things, and it no longer bothered him. He let his breath out in a heavy sigh, and the truck was filled with the scent that Enjolras hated so much. If he had been here, he probably would have gagged. Éponine did not seem to mind.

"You want a smoke?" Grantaire muttered after a moment in attempt to start up a conversation. He held his lit cigarette, the same which had just been in his mouth, out and offered it to Éponine.

Hardly glancing at him, she answered stiffly. "No." Éponine was not a "smoker," but Grantaire had seen her smoking before, usually when she was with the Patron-Minette or Montparnasse (often when she was with this gang, it was not merely cigarettes that they were smoking). She also smoked sometimes when she needed something to occupy her mind and sometimes when she hated her miserable life and herself and needed to feel that fire burning her lungs. Sometimes, she breathed in the smoke and did not let it out. She held her breath and closed her eyes. Then she could feel her lungs burning up, and she perceived that she could feel her broken heart burning as well. She could feel it withering and dying into a blackened and worn out cinder. On day, when her heart was nothing more than a shriveled curdle of ash, she imagined that she would be unable to feel the pain anymore.

Grantaire let out a single, humorless laugh. "Of course not," he dryly addressed the road in front of him. He stepped on the clutch with his left foot and shifted the gearstick. "Girls can't smoke. They're too soft."

Éponine turned her head to stare at him in offense. He did not turn his head, but he was watching her out of the corner of his eye. Éponine knew this was what he wanted, but she did not care. She did not much pride left, and she would not let this swindler steal that which she still clung to. Thus, acting on the impulse of defiance and anger, she snatched the cigarette abruptly and roughly from his hand, stuffed it between her teeth, and took a long drag—it was like breathing in fire. She could feel it burning her throat and constricting her chest. She did not care. She did not cough. She liked it.

Grantaire grinned faintly and nodded in approval. As he turned his head to meet her gaze, perhaps under the false impression that they were on good terms again, Éponine blew a deep mouthful of smoke into his face. Yet, in contrary to what one might expect, rather than coughing, or cringing, or drawing away, Grantaire reacted as he might have if this pretty woman leaned over and gave him a kiss. He let out a low, long sigh, almost like a moan of pleasure, and he closed his eyes as he blissfully breathed in the perfume of the reek. Perhaps he was hoping to flatter her, to make her laugh or to make her smile, to win her over.

Éponine was not impressed. When he opened his eyes, he smiled at Éponine. She glared back at him. Then she turned away and stared stubbornly at the road once more. She drew smoke and flame into her lungs another time, and she flicked the still-smoldering cigarette out the window. It landed on side of the black road and continued to burn.

A few minutes passed in silence, silence for all but the groan of the engine and the breath of the wind. Grantaire drove around Paris with no particular destination in mind. He was supposed to be meeting the boys at the bar—they were probably already there and wondering where the heck he was—but now that he had Éponine in the front seat of his truck, his male friends were no longer priority. They could wait.

Perhaps five minutes passed in agony before Grantaire tried again. "So…" he began, unsuccessfully attempting to sound lighthearted. "What do you plan on doing tonight?"

She answered cruelly, "Nothing that concerns you."

"Nothing, great!" said Grantaire as if he had not heard that last bit. "I'm doing nothing as well. Maybe, we should do nothing together?"

"No."

"Why not?" said Grantaire. He gave her a charming—and a very tempting—grin, which she saw but did not return. "Come on, Ponine. It'll be fun. My roommate moved out last week, so we've got the entire apartment to ourselves. Just you and me. We'll have a good time."

"I said no, Grantaire. I don't want to."

"Aww, come on," he pressured her. He took one hand off of the wheel, and he reached over to tenderly stroke her uncovered arm. "You won't regret it, my love."

"No."

He let his hand travel down her body, and he began to caress her naked leg. "Why not?"

"Because I don't love you."

Ouch. This girl was a tough one. She did not put anything gently. She called it as it was, and she did not care if it was cruel. Life was cruel. And she was brutal. Ironically, that was one of the reasons he liked her so much. A smile appeared on his lips, and he chuckled softly. "Really?" he laughed under his breath. He was going to say more, but she cut him off.

"And you don't love me."

"Sure I do," he remarked, speaking as if choosing a woman to love was a matter as casual and insignificant as choosing what to eat for lunch.

"No more than you love every other woman you see."

Grantaire was quiet for a moment as he considered this and tried to decide if it was true. "Whatever," was finally the reply he settled on—whether it was truthful or not—and it made Éponine scoff. Pointedly, she grabbed his wrist and removed the hand that was rubbing her thigh. She tossed his hand off of her as if it was a dirty piece of trash that had been blown in her direction by the wind. She scooted closer to the open window and further away from him.

At her reaction, Grantaire turned to her and said bluntly, "Look, Ponine, you cannot wait around for Marius forever." Her eyes darted to Grantaire, and they blazed like fire as she penetrated him with a wrathful glare. She opened her mouth in indignation, but before she could snap something vile, he said something that hit her in the heart like a bullet, "Marius and Cosette are getting engaged. He's going to propose soon, and we all know Cosette will say yes."

The angry expression on her face turned into one of sheer pain. For a moment, Grantaire thought she was going to break down, shatter like glass, and cry. He had never seen her shed even a tear. It shocked him and startled him to think that she might weep right now, right here in front of him. It concerned him. Deep in his selfish heart, it might have hurt him. He regretted that he told her.

But Éponine did not cry. In seconds, she got a hold of herself, and she channeled her sorrow into anger. "Who told you that!?" he demanded in fury, as if she believed Grantaire had made it all up only to upset her.

"Marius."

"Mari…" Her voice faded, and her lip trembled. The expression of hurt, agony, returned to her face, even deeper this time. She looked helpless, weak, terrified. Her eyes widened, and the color drained from her skin. She looked as if someone had stabbed her in the heart, and now she was bleeding out. Grantaire had never seen her like this. As indifferent as he usually considered himself, it hurt him. Now he really wished that he had kept shut his big mouth.

"He…" she said in the softest voice he had heard all night. "He did not tell me…" Her voice broke like her heart when she said that last word.

"He did not tell anyone," Grantaire said quickly, trying to reassure, to comfort her, trying to fix what he had clumsily knocked over and broken, even when he knew nothing he could say now could undo what he had said already. The damage was done. Now there was no going back. There was no fixing it. "I only know, because I was with him when he bought the ring."

Éponine fixed her eyes on the darkness through the glass before her. She starred intently at the black asphalt as if she saw a reflection of her own fate and her own death upon it. Perhaps she did. Just like that dark street, her future was black. She nodded silently. Silence resumed its place between them for a moment. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, Éponine asked, "Has he asked yet?"

"No." But they both knew that did not matter. Cosette would say yes the second he proposed.

"When is he going to ask her?"

Grantaire answered grimly, "Next weekend when they are at the beach together."

Éponine nodded again. When he turned to stare at her, Grantaire saw no tears in her dark eyes or on her pretty face, but when she let out her next breath it shook like a sobbing body, and a soft whimpering sound emitted from somewhere deep within her throat, as if she was already crying.

"Come on, Ponine," Grantaire said gently, doing the best he could to make an attempt at comforting this girl. He was very experienced with girls, but that was one category he had absolutely no experience and no talent in: comforting a girl in pain. He did not think he had ever tried. "Forget about Marius. You don't need him. You are better off without him. You deserve someone better than that. Someone who will give you the attention and the love that a beautiful woman like you deserves."

Éponine still did not say anything. She drew in and let out a slow and heavy breath through her nose. It seemed as if, and was very possible, that she was trying to keep herself from crying. She tried to restrain the emotions that fought wildly in her chest and fought to break free. She could not cry. As much as she wanted to, she would not let herself cry. Crying was useless. Weak. It would not change anything. It would only make things worse, and it would only take from her whatever pride she still clung to. No, she would not cry. She would stay strong. At least, she would stay strong until she was no longer with Grantaire. Only once he was gone and she was alone in some dark corner of some forgotten street would she let herself fall apart.

"Ponine…" Grantaire was still driving, but he didn't care. He scooted closer to her, getting as close to her as possible while keeping his foot on the pedal. "Look, Ponine." She still did not look at him. "Marius is nothing special. He's not worth it." He reached out for her again, but this time his hand came to rest over her hand. He was a bit surprised and positively delighted when she did not pull away. Slowly, he curled his fingers around her hand. He held it tightly. "Listen to me," he said softly, looking at Éponine, looking at the road only out of the corner of his eye. What did it matter?—Éponine was watching the road for him. "I can make you forget him. I can love you better than Marius ever could." Maybe this was not the best time for a joke, but perhaps it would brighten her spirits. He gave it a shot. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm ninety-nine percent sure that Marius and Cosette are still virgins. So really he isn't as great a lover as you think."

Éponine turned her head. He looked into her eyes, and his heart rose in hope. He saw her expression, and his hopes fell again.

Éponine looked at him sternly. She said firmly and coldly, "I still haven't forgiven you."

Grantaire swallowed. He let go of her hand and placed it on the wheel. He looked out through the windshield again. An uncomfortable quiet passed between them, before he said as if oblivious, "About what?"

She shot him a cold glare. "You know what."

This was a false claim. He knew what she was referring to, of course, but he still did not know exactly what had happened. About a month ago, the two of them had a rather casual and very short-lived love affair. It was like most of Grantaire's relationships: full of pretend, deceit, deception, false hope, broken promises, and drunken declarations of love. Grantaire was a womanizer, a charmer, and a deceiver. Like the serpent. He met a pretty girl, he had a drink with her, he spoke to her with his smooth tongue of lies, he pretended to love her, he won her over, he stole her heart, he took her, and in a day or two he left her. He broke more hearts than he could count. He whispered "I love you" following more names than he could remember. On more than one occasion, a woman saw him in the street, furiously approached him, slapped him across the face, and strut off without a word. Then one of his friends would muttered, "Who was she?" and Grantaire would grumble honestly in reply, "No idea."

His fling with Éponine had not been so different from the rest. Yet, he must have seen something in her that he did not see in other women, because ever since he let her go, he had been trying desperately and vainly to get her back… not to say he didn't have relations with other women in the meantime. He did not consider himself "in love" with Éponine, but he liked her. He liked her a lot. She captivated him. Éponine was different from other girls. She was unique and interesting. He liked that about her. She was a hot flame, and every time she looked at him it ignited the fire of his passion. Perhaps he did not love her the way a man should love a woman, but he certainly desired her. He desired her more than any woman he had ever desired before. Last month, he got a small taste of her love, and ever since he had been starving with restless—even reckless, to the point of maddening—hunger for more. He wanted her. Bad.

There was a vast problem with this, however. Their one-night stand had not ended well. They were both very drunk that night, and Grantaire was drunker than Éponine. When he woke up the next morning, Éponine was already gone, she had stormed out and left him alone in his bed, she was bitter and furious, she avoided him, she would not speak to him—she had treated him coldly like this ever since—and Grantaire could hardly remember anything that had happened the night before. He did not know what he had done to get her so angry. However, he had not told this piece of information to Éponine, who thought he remembered everything just the way she did.

Grantaire grit his teeth. He hesitated for a moment and tapped his fingers against the wheel again. At last, without taking his eyes off of the road, trying to sound insouciant, he muttered, "Maybe, you could jog my memory…"

She scoffed. "If you really don't know, than you are pretty damn stupid."

He let out a heavy sigh and dragged one hand over his face. "Look, Ponine, I said I was sorry." He said he was sorry at least five times now, but not one of those times did he know what he was apologizing for. "Can't we just let it go?"

She did not budge. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because."

"Because what?"

Éponine turned to him suddenly. She glared at him with fury and hatred. Then she said bluntly and hatefully, "You took advantage of me."

"What!?" Grantaire cried. His foot slammed forcefully upon the breaks. The truck jolted to a stop in the middle of the empty road, causing them both to lurch forward in their seats. He turned to her abruptly in alarm, and he met her eyes. Éponine's face was still like stone. Grantaire's face was etched in terrified astonishment, and his eyes were overcome with panic. "No, I didn't," he immediately denied, but he looked like a man in shock who cannot bring himself to believe the horror he sees right before his eyes. In this half-second, his heart was pounding, he body became weak, his mind because and dizzy, and he prayed to whatever God might be able to hear him—he did not believe in any particular god—that her words were false.

"You know what you did," she snapped back without pity.

"But I didn't—" he stuttered. "I wouldn't— I would never! …I didn't actually take advantage of you…" Like a frightened child, he whimpered helplessly, "I didn't, did I?"

Her hard expression changed slightly. Her dark eyebrows knit, and she frowned at him, puzzled by this last remark. She stared at him. "You know what happened, Grantaire."

"But I… I did not… I didn't…" He closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh of frustration and defeat. When he opened his eyes again, he forced himself to look into the beautiful brown, cold, and forgiving-less, eyes of Éponine. "Look, Éponine," he began grudgingly, but he knew it had to be said, "I was very drunk that night and…"

Éponine's expression changed, and he saw a look of realization appear in her eyes. Finally, after all of this time, she figured it out. At last, she knew the truth. Very straightly, calmly, without any trance of emotion in her voice, she observed the facts, "You can't remember what happened, can you?"

Grantaire winced and looked away. "Um…" he grumbled through clenched teeth. Now he felt very embarrassed and ashamed on top of extremely guilty and afraid. "Like I said, I was really drunk… like really drunk, and I—"

Éponine laughed. Grantaire turned his head, and watched her throw back her head and laugh in something between bitterness and mockery. "And you say girls are too soft!" she jeered as she met his gaze with a smirk. "I drank just as much as you did, and I—"

"No, you didn't," he objected defensively. "I drank more than twice as much as you did."

"Like hell you did!"

"I did! I had been drinking all day before you even showed up at the bar!"

She scoffed under her breath and shook her head, as she turned away from Grantaire and looked into the darkness outside of the truck. "Enjolras is right about you," she said quietly after a moment.

He slowly let out a tense breath. "What does that mean?"

She still did not look at him. "You drink too much. One day you are going to do something really stupid, and you won't be able to fix it."

Silence returned.

A bit irritated and very anxious, thirsting for an answer as a dehydrated man thirsts for a drop of cold water, Grantaire shifted in his seat. When he was turned almost completely sideways, one foot still on the break, his body toward her, his arm stretched out on the seat behind them, he locked his eyes on Éponine once more. She was not looking at him. He asked flatly, "So what happened? Did I… Did I hurt you?"

"No," said Éponine quietly. She moved her head very slightly and looked at him sideways. A faint smile began to appear on her lips, and she said in an almost teasing manner, "You couldn't hurt me if you tried."

Grantaire sighed. He turned away from Éponine and looked out at the road again, even though the truck was no longer moving. He did not know what that meant. He was still unsure of what had happened. He did not know if he should be revealed or cursing himself, and begging for forgiveness, and swearing never to have another drink again. Miserably, he mumbled, "I thought you wanted to."

"I did… and I didn't."

"What is that supposed to mean? I thought you said…"

"I was drunk," she answered simply. "You knew that. But I didn't know what I was doing."

"Oh."

She turned her head. As if controlling him with some type of spell, he had no choice but to turn his own head and stare into her eyes again. She looked straight into his eyes and said starkly, "I wouldn't have been in the same room with you if I was somber. I never loved you, Grantaire."

Grantaire cringed slightly. She was tough. She was harsh. He opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. What was he supposed to say to that?

"And those things you said to me were lies."

"I can't remember what I said," he admitted glumly through grinding teeth, "but I believe you."

"You don't love me."

He did not answer.

"You used me."

He did.

That cursed silence returned.

Grantaire sighed heavily. The masquerade was over. The role had been played, and he was done acting. He could not remember the last time he had looked at a woman and addressed her with complete sincerity, complete honesty, complete truthfulness, completely as himself, without a hidden intension or a wicked thought, without any interest in personal gain, without anything but an open heart and empty hands. He looked at Éponine this way now.

"Éponine, I'm sorry," Grantaire said, and these words came straight from his pained heart. She could hear the sincerity in the sorrow and the regret in his voice. She could see it in his eyes. She knew he was telling the truth. "I never meant to… I was drunk, and I…" He sighed and dropped his eyes, unable to look at her any longer. "I'm sorry," he said again. There was nothing else to say. "I screwed up… bad. Can you…" He glanced up at her as he whispered, "Can you forgive me?"

Éponine did not answer. Without a word, she turned away from him and looked out the windshield once more. She acted as if she was still angry. Yet, by the warm gleam in her eyes, by the shadow of a smile on her lips, he knew that she was not holding a real grudge anymore. She forgave him.

…

Combeferre and Enjolras said goodbye to Jehan, wished him well, promised to text—or call, in Enjolras's case—him over the summer, and they got back into the car and drove off. Feuilly had already been dropped off at his house, and only these two best friends remained.

The windows were rolled up and the air-condition was turned on, so the car was mostly silent. Only the faint hum of the car could be heard. Yet, this silent was not uncomfortable. For friends as close as these, as close as brothers, silence is no comfortable than conversation. When they were together, no matter where they were or what was happening, they were at home. They were at peace.

Combeferre glanced sideways to look at his friend. "You look tired, Enjolras," he said gently. "Maybe, you should not drive home tonight."

Without taking his eyes off of the road—Enjolras was a very careful driver—he shook his head. "I will be alright, Combeferre. Do not worry."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded. "Absolutely."

Combeferre remained doubtful. "How far is Uzès from here?"

Enjolras answered indifferently, "About six and a half hours. Sometimes seven with traffic."

This was not at all reassuring. Combeferre looked at the digital time on the dashboard. "It's past midnight now, Enjolras," he said with doubt and concern. "Seven hours from now it will be, what? seven thirty in the morning? You'll be driving all night, for goodness sake! And you've hardly slept this week, studying for your exams, and cleaning your flat, and packing, and everything else… and the Revolution. You must be exhausted."

Enjolras shrugged slightly. "There won't be any traffic at this time of night. I will be on the road longer if I leave in the morning."

"Maybe, but at least I won't have to worry about you falling asleep behind the wheel."

"I have never fallen asleep behind the wheel," said Enjolras confidently. "I will be fine."

Combeferre frowned. "Why don't you wait, Enjolras? Please. For me. So I don't have to worry about you all night."

"I have no choice, Combeferre. I have to move be out of my flat by one o'clock in the morning."

"Then stay with me tonight. I don't have to move out until next weekend."

Enjolras allowed himself to glance away from the road so he could give Combeferre a small smile. "Thank you, Combeferre," he said sincerely. "But I should get home. I haven't been home since last September; I stayed on campus at Christmas. It's been almost a year." He turned his eyes ahead of him again. "You do not need to worry about me," he went on. "I will be carful. If I get too tired, I will pull over somewhere. Besides, my parents live in the country. Uzès is a small town. There are not many cars on the road."

Combeferre nodded. He was comforted by Enjolras's words. Enjolras had a way with words. Whenever he said something—even when it was something as ambitious as a revived government, a just society, and a free, truly free, country—Combeferre could not help but believe him. No one could. Not even the cynic Grantaire.

"Wow," he mused as he gazed out the windshield and considered what Enjolras had said to him. "You are right: you have not been to your home in almost ten mouths. I bet you will be glad to be home."

To Combeferre's surprise, Enjolras was silent for a moment before he answered. "I will miss you and the boys," he said at last, still looking at the city before him. "But it will be nice to see my mother again. I've missed her."

"And your father?" Combeferre said without thinking, not imagining that Enjolras had purposely left his father out of the conversation.

Enjolras's face was unreadable and his voice was like stone when he answered rigidly, "We never got along."

"Oh…" Combeferre fell silent, feeling a bit uncomfortable. He wished he had not said anything. However, at the same time, he could not help but wonder about Enjolras's father, about his past. Even to his best friend, who was practically his bother, Enjolras said very little of his childhood. Come to think of it, Combeferre did not think he had ever heard Enjolras mention his father before. Not until tonight.

When they passed the café, Combeferre asked Enjolras to pull over, saying that he wanted to get a drink. Enjolras agreed without question, and a few minutes later, Combeferre returned with two large coffees: one with sugar and cream for himself and one black for Enjolras. That was how he liked it.

Enjolras smiled as he accepted his cup. "Thank you," he said genuinely. He really did appreciate it. Of course, he would not tell Combeferre and worry him any more, but he really was very tired.

"Be carful, it's hot," Combeferre warned him as he sat down in the passenger's seat and took a sip from his own cup. Enjolras nodded and he took a sip himself. "Hopefully that will keep you awake," he added with a smile.

Enjolras nodded. He returned the smile. "It will."

They remained parked on the side of the road for the next fifteen minutes while they sipped their coffee and talked peacefully together. They were brothers, these two friends. If blood was not a boundary, they were brothers. They spent nearly every minute together during the school year, and now that summer had come they probably would not see each other very much at all. It was a sad parting. Even while they were happy, they were sad.

When it was nearing one o'clock, Enjolras sighed and started his car again. He had to get out of his flat and get on the road. He and Combeferre stayed in the same building, which was very convenient tonight and all through the year. Combeferre helped Enjolras get the lasts of his things together, load his car with bags and suitcases, and then, in the parking lot, they said goodbye.

"I'll text you," Combeferre promised Enjolras.

"Call me," he corrected. "I don't know how to text."

Combeferre smiled and nodded. "Alright," he said with a quiet chuckle. "Maybe we should teach you. I know Courfeyrac plans on it."

Enjolras shook his head and waved his hand. "Tell him not to bother. It's easier to call anyway."

Combeferre smiled and nodded. "I'll be sure to."

Enjolras nodded. He glanced at his watch, and he sighed. "Goodbye, Combeferre. I will miss you."

"I will miss you too, Enjolras. But we'll keep in touch over the summer, and I'll see you again in September."

"Before that," said Enjolras shaking his head. "All of us need to meet up sometimes over the summer."

Combeferre eagerly agreed.

They shook hands, but as if that was not enough then they embraced. Enjolras clung to his brother tightly while it lasted, and he was reluctant to let him go. He closed his eyes as he hugged Combeferre and Combeferre hugged him. He was going to miss him. He was going to miss him a lot. His heart ached just thinking about it. For a fraction of a second, he even considered giving in and saying he would stay with Combeferre until tomorrow morning. But he could not do that. He had to get home.

So, five minutes later, Enjolras was in his car again. This time, he was by himself. He was driving alone down through the dark Parisian streets, heading for the boarder of the city, heading south, heading home. The half-empty coffee that Combeferre had bought him was sitting in the cup-holder between the driver's and empty passenger's seat. Enjolras let out a deep sigh. He was tired. He was exhausted. He reached for his coffee and brought it to his lips.

...

They were both drunk—not nearly drunk as they had been on their last night together, but drunk nonetheless—when Grantaire's truck finally pulled up in front of the filthy building Éponine lived in with her parents. Yet, now they were past the euphoria of intoxication and the dysphasia was setting in. They each felt tired, groggy, and ill. When he got back to his apartment, Grantaire would go straight to bed, and he would wake up in the morning with a dreadful hangover.

He and Éponine had spent the last hour in a pub, drinking, getting drunk, and getting drunker. They passed most of the time insulting and mocking Cosette and Marius—even though Grantaire was good friends with both of them, and Éponine was deeply in love with one of them. By the end of it, they were joking, and smiling, and laughing. Even after she learned of Marius's engagement, Éponine was smiling again. That alone made this entire night worth it. It was worth every second.

Every time Éponine smiled at him, Grantaire felt his heart lodge itself in his throat and his entire body was overcome with the reckless desire to snatch her up in his arms, pull her toward him, and devour her pretty mouth with his lips. However, keeping in mind their last night together, remembering the result, and constantly hearing her cold words, "I never loved you, Grantaire," in his head, he restrained himself. Now they were finally friends again, and Grantaire was not going to ruin it another time.

He frowned at the Gorbeau Tenement, the dump where the Thènardier's lived. It was an isolated place on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by abandoned homes and empty fields. (Thènardier chose to live in such a secluded place for obvious reasons: so he could conspire and commit his crimes without drawling the attention of the police.) Grantaire knew Éponine's parents would be there, probably just waiting for their daughter to walk through the door, waiting to make money off of her. Perhaps Grantaire used Éponine. Perhaps Montparnasse and the Patron-Minette used her too, more than used her but violated her and disgraced her. Still, no one used her so much as her own parents, who sent her outside into the streets in hardly any clothing and in the freezing cold, threatening her and ordering her to return with thirty francs before sunrise.

"Éponine, are you sure you don't want to come over my place tonight?" Grantaire asked turning to look at her. For the first time, when said this he was thinking of her instead of himself. "We could just watch a movie or something. Or we could just go to bed. That sounds good to me, I'm pretty wrecked. I can sleep on the couch, if you want."

"No, that's okay," said Éponine quietly. She unbuckled her seatbelt and, with much effort, weak muscles, and unsteady hands, she managed to push open the heavy door. "I want to go home." She wanted to be alone. As the carefreeness her drunkenness provided her with faded, so did her spirits. She was sad again. She was sad about Marius. She wanted to be alone. Grantaire understood.

"Alright then…" He fished his phone out of his back pocket and squinted at the bright screen when it illuminated and hit his eyes. He stared at the numbers for a moment, struggling to make them out through his blurry vision. It was past one a.m. That at least gave him a little bit of hope. Maybe the Thènardiers would already be asleep. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow," he said with a heavy heart, stuffing his phone back in his pocket and raising his eyes to look at her. "Definitely soon if not tomorrow."

She nodded once as she climbed out of the truck and closed the door. "See ya," she slurred through the open window. "Goodnight."

""Night."

She turned her back to the truck, and he watched her walk, in somewhat of a swaying line, into the building and disappeared. The door closed behind her, and he was left staring at a dark, seemingly abandoned, ruin. He sighed, and turned away.

He stepped on the clutch, shifted the stick, and turned the key to start up the engine once more. He let his foot fall heavily on the petal—more heavily than he intended, because his drunkenness was throwing off his perception and judgment—and his truck charged headlong down the empty street. He knew that he was going over the speed limit, but he didn't care. It would take him a good twenty minutes to get from here to Rue Rambuteau, where he was supposed to meet the others at the bar, and he was already running two hours late. Besides, his black truck was the only car vehicle on the road. He was not worried.

He got a bit confused, however, when he was making his way through the labyrinth of narrow streets. When he passed an open field and started moving toward the country rather than the city, he knew he had taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way. He swore under his breath and, on this narrow road and with his hazy mind, had trouble turning around his massive truck. He finally managed and with a huff started off in the direction from which he had come. He only drove for perhaps five minutes, and he became aware of an annoying vibration in the pocket of his pants. A few seconds passed before he realized that it was his cell phone and that someone was calling him.

With one hand on the wheel, one foot on the pedal, he took out his phone and tried to read the name lighting up on the screen. He couldn't. The small letters were fuzzy, and they jumbled together like links in a chain. Sighing, he swiped an unsteady finger across the screen and raised the phone to his ear. "Yeah?"

"Grantaire!" It was Courfeyrac. He was practically screaming into the other line.

"Ow! Jesus, Courfeyrac!" Grantaire snapped as he cringed. "Why do you have to scream!? You'll blow out my eardrums."

"Where the heck are you!?" demanded Courfeyrac just as loudly, ignoring Grantaire's grumbling. "We've been here for over two hours, and you're still not here!"

"Yeah, sorry, I'm on my way now."

"Where are you?"

"I gave Éponine a ride home."

"That should not have taken you two freakin' hours, Grantaire!"

"Yes, well, we had some… business to take care of first."

"Uh-huh…" Courfeyrac muttered vaguely in reply, not sure that he wanted to know the meaning of this "business" that Grantaire referred to. He did not ask. "Is she home now?"

"Yeah, I dropped her off about ten minutes ago." Grantaire squinted into the world around him, trying to read the street signs and trying to figure out where he was. He did not recognize this place. Great. This was just perfect…

"Ten minutes!?" complained Courfeyrac in his ear. "Seriously, Grantaire?" He groaned in annoyance. "Hey, guys, guess what? Grantaire just dropped Éponine off ten minutes ago." Grantaire heard the rest of his friends groaning and complaining in the background.

"Where is he now?" he heard Bahorel holler. "How much longer do we have to wait for him to get over here?"

"When will you be here," said Courfeyrac into his phone again, and he grumbled in obvious exaggeration, "If you just dropped off Éponine, it could take you another half hour to get here."

Grantaire turned the wheel, and he found himself driving down a completely abandoned road. It stretched on as far as he could see into the darkness in a straight path. There was nothing but trees lining and a few side streets merging onto the left side of the road and nothing but open fields, shadowy night, and a sky of silver stars on the right. Now, he was really lost. He had no idea where he was. He cursed under his breath. To Courfeyrac, he answered shortly, "Yeah, probably not, and don't talk so loud! I already have a headache."

Silence came from the other phone for a moment. "Grantaire, are you alright?" Courfeyrac finally said, talking softer this time. There must have been something in Grantaire's voice that gave him away, because Courfeyrac's next question came bluntly, "Are you drunk?"

Grantaire grunted and rolled his eyes. "That's none of your concern, Courfeyrac," he rudely blew him off. This was as good as saying, Yes, I am drunk.

"Grantaire!" cried Courfeyrac. In harsh disapproval, like a father scolding his child, he added, "And you're driving?"

"Yes, I am driving," snapped Grantaire, getting annoyed with Courfeyrac, with everyone complaining about him drinking, about getting lost, about this entire night.

"Grantaire…"

"What!?"

"Just…" said Courfeyrac a bit hesitantly. "Just be careful."

"I always am." Even as he said this, Grantaire did not realize how heavily his foot was weighing on the pedal. The speed limit, which he could not read with his sight this foggy, was only thirty miles per hour, and Grantaire was going over fifty. His truck sped on over twenty miles over the speed limit.

Courfeyrac laughed bitterly. "No, you're not. You're never careful."

"Whatever."

"Just get here safely, Grantaire. Don't do anything dumb."

"I won't."

"Trying to drive while you're drunk is dumb."

"God, Courfeyrac, who are you, my father!? Leave me alone! I'll be there soon, alright? I'm going to hang up now."

"Alright, sure. Oh, wait, Grantaire!?"

"Yeah?"

"I have to tell you something…"

"What?"

"You can't tell anyone."

"Alright, what?"

"You cannot tell Éponine."

"Alright, I won't tell anyone, what is it?"

"You cannot tell anyone, Grantaire. Marius told me not to tell anyone; I just have to tell you so I can tell you not to tell Éponine."

"Alright, Courf, what!?" But, with dread and regret, Grantaire thought he already knew where this was going.

"Marius told me that this next weekend he is going to propose to Cosette."

Yup. That's what he thought. That's what he feared.

Grantaire let out a heavy breath as a sickened feeling came into his stomach, partially from the large amount of alcohol he had already consumed that night but mostly from the current situation. He answered hollowly, "Yeah, I know."

"You do!? How!? Marius told you before he told me!? But I'm his best friend!"

"I was with him when he bought the ring."

"Oh."

"When'd he tell you?"

"Not long ago on the phone. He told me that he wanted to go to the beach with Cosette alone so he could propose to her."

"I see."

As if he expected this to be Grantaire's next move, Courfeyrac warned him again, "You cannot tell Éponine, you know, Grantaire."

Grantaire absently tapped his fingertips against the steering wheel and gazed, although seeing very little of the world around him, through the glass windshield. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to admit, "I already told her."

"What!?"

"God, Courfeyrac, would you stop yelling!?"

"Why the heck would you tell her, Grantaire!?" Courfeyrac cried in a panic. "What on earth were you thinking!? Do you know how much she loved him!?"

"She was going to find out sooner of later anyway, Courfeyrac," snapped Grantaire in offense and annoyance. "Why hide it from her only to break her heart later?"

"You should have let Marius tell her!"

"What's the difference?"

"There's a big difference!"

"I don't see how."

Courfeyrac groaned furiously. "Grantaire, you are impossible!" He fell quiet and thought for a moment, and Grantaire realized that he was driving with an entire half of his truck over the yellow line. He quickly straightened out the vehicle into the correct lane. Courfeyrac asked much softer, "What did Éponine say?"

"She said… I don't know. She didn't say much."

"How did she take it?"

"Fine, I guess."

"Fine, really?" said Courfeyrac incredulously. "Did she cry?"

"No."

"Well, that's good, I guess… Did she get angry?"

"Kind of."

"What did she do?"

"I don't know, Courfeyrac," Grantaire grumbled. He closed his eyes and momentarily took his hand off the wheel to run it over his face and rub his eyes. He did not realize that he was driving over the line again. He did not realize that he was going more than sixty miles per hour. He did not realize that he was nearing an intersection. He did not even see the headlights approaching from the other direction.

…

Enjolras drank the last sip of coffee. He sighed as he set the empty container in the cup-holder. It did help to alert his senseless a bit, but nonetheless he was exhausted. Every muscle, every bone, his entire body ached. All he wanted to do was lie down and go to sleep. Yet, he refused to let his eyelids grow heavy. He had a long drive ahead of him, and he did not want to have to pull over and sleep on the side of the road. Still, if he got too tired, he would not have a choice.

He arrived at the intersection and gently stepped on the breaks. Even though there was not a single car behind him, he switched on his blinker to indicate that he would be turning right. When his little car came to a full stop, he looked both ways. The road was completely empty to the left, but to the right he could see a pair of headlights approaching. The car, although nearing quickly, was still a safe distance away, so Enjolras eased off of the breaks and put his foot on the accelerator.

He expected the approaching vehicle to slow down as he pulled out in front of it and began to turn. But it didn't. The truck barreled toward him like a rabid beast, charging at full speed with the sole desires to attack, destroy, and kill.

Enjolras's brow furrowed in concern. "God," he grumbled under his breath. Whoever was driving that car was defiantly going over the speed limit—a lot over the speed limit. In fact, as he looked at the beasty vehicle, a truck, Enjolras did not think the diver planned on slowing down. As if getting a head-start so it could ram him at full force, the truck's speed was only increasing. The driver did not plan on stopping. Enjolras wondered if the man saw him at all.

Enjolras dropped his foot harder on the accelerator and turned the wheel quickly, trying to get out of the intersection and into his lane quickly, before this maniac driver slammed into him. He had to admit that it scared him. The truck was coming at him so speedily—it was like a metal bullet flying through darkness, heading for its victim, thirsty for blood, hungry to kill—that for a moment he feared he was not going to make it in time. He did.

Enjolras sighed. He let out his breath, which he did not until now realize he was holding. His heart flooded with relief. He silently thanked God. He made it into the left lane just before the truck passed him on his right.

He cast a dark and unhappy glare at the loud truck as it blundered toward him in the other lane. Only for a moment he glowered at the vehicle and its drunken driver, a dark silhouette beyond the windshield. Then he fixed his eyes on the road again. So Enjolras did not see it coming when, just as it was about to pass him, the monstrous black truck, moving at a speed of more than seventy miles an hour, lashed out like a lion pouncing on its prey, and moved over the yellow line. As if springing to life, the truck leapt out in front of him.

For a fraction of a second, Enjolras was blinded by the headlights. His heart plummeted into his belly. Then he felt the impact.