Warning for violence, character death, mentions of non-con/rape. And for this chapter, bad language.
Disclaimer: I make no profit from this stuff.

Chapter Two: Rage against the dying of the light

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night
- Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas

A dark figure approached Jehan.

He was not any older than twenty, with a youthful, pretty face and green eyes which spoke of horror and seemed to glint maliciously in the night. His lips were red like cherries and his black hair was slicked back under a smart black hat. Over his shoulder rested an expensive-looking, thick jacket which he carried casually, as if he cared little for the biting cold, and in his other hand he carried a pretentious-looking cane. The man had the air of a dandy or a gamin, but he seemed to be more than that – he was a gamin turned vagabond, and a vagabond turned assassin. From the scars on his face and the knife he had sheathed at his belt, Jehan could tell that he was a deadly criminal, perhaps a member of the infamous Patron-Minette. And it seemed that, despite his age, he already had several corpses on his track.

Jehan slowly backed away from Estelle's body, rather stupidly going further down the alley so that he was now cornered. He glanced remorsefully at the dead girl and then looked pleadingly at the stranger. "I- I didn't kill her," he said, voice trembling. "I can explain."

The man laughed good-naturedly, but his laughter seemed off, as if he were making fun of Jehan – or as if he knew something he didn't. "I'm sure you didn't," he replied, nonchalantly leaning his elbow on the cane he carried. He gave Jehan a kind of suspicious, all-knowing look, raising his eyebrows as if he didn't believe him. "I could report you, Prouvaire," he continued, and the poet's eyes widened.

"No – I swear I didn't – I wanted to help – " Jehan stuttered, nervously tucking his long hair behind his ears. Then it dawned on him; the criminal had used his last name. How on earth did he know it? "Wait a moment… how do you know my name?" he asked, already looking for an escape route from the alleyway. There were none. Great. Now he was stuck here with a possible murderer, in an alley where a girl had just been killed, in the part of Paris where no one cared enough to help if they heard screams.

The man grinned – and Jehan wasn't sure if the smile was flirtatious, teasing or simply mad. Perhaps it was a mixture of all three. He couldn't deny that, despite how dangerous he appeared, this stranger was charming – he faintly reminded Jehan of Enjolras, if he had taken a different path, or perhaps Courfeyrac. But Jehan didn't want to think about how good-looking the man was; after all, it was likely he was about to kill him. "I am rather… familiar, you could say, with a friend of yours, and I've seen you with him before. In fact, why don't you give my regards to a Monsieur de Courfeyrac? Tell him last night was very entertaining, that we should do it again sometime, and that I hope he has recovered nicely. Send him love from Montparnasse." He smiled the same nasty, sick grin again and Jehan's stomach turned over.

Montparnasse.

He was infamous. The leader of the Patron-Minette gang was known for being controlling, manipulative and murderous… and Jehan was standing right in front of him. Recently, Courfeyrac had been warning him about walking alone at night, and now he saw why.

Oh mon Dieu, he thought. What has Courfeyrac gotten himself into? What has he gotten me into?

However, Jehan couldn't stop himself from feeling a burning jealousy at Montparnasse's words. Had Courf slept with every man and woman in Paris? Did he not care for his safety? What the hell was he doing with a notorious criminal?

Looking over at Estelle again, Jehan closed his eyes and breathed deeply. And if his breathing was slightly panicked and ragged, he ignored it. He could feel an impending sense of doom – and Montparnasse was making him incredibly uncomfortable. He needed to escape before he was assaulted or, God forbid, killed like the poor girl. "Ok… ok, I'll just be going then," Prouvaire muttered, trying to push past the criminal, feeling bad for leaving Estelle's body out here, abandoned in the snow, but fearing for his own life.

Montparnasse let him walk past for a moment, cruelly giving him hope, then in one swift movement he dropped his jacket and cane, grabbed Jehan's arm and pulled him back, shoving him against the wall. The student gave a pained shout and struggled a bit until he felt something cool and sharp against his neck.

The knife glinted silver in the dark.

Jehan gasped and suddenly stilled.

"No, I don't think you will," Montparnasse said smoothly. He lightly pressed the blade into the other's neck, not too deep but enough that tiny drops of blood stained Jehan's white collar. The cut stung painfully and the poet winced but didn't lash out at Montparnasse.

"Leave me alone," Jehan whispered. "What have I ever done to you?"

And it was true. Jean Prouvaire was the most innocent of all the Amis – he was good, and pure. He grew wrote poetry about love, played the flute and pitied women. In the summer he grew flowers on the balcony of his apartment and weaved them into his friends', his mother's and childrens' hair. If Jehan ever did anything to deserve this then Enjolras worshipped Grantaire.

"You haven't done anything to me," the criminal sneered. "But de Courfeyrac has. So I want to hit him – " at this he punched Jehan in the gut, making him double over "- where it hurts. By hurting his weak, pathetic little boyfriend."

Despite the fact that it was used as an insult, Jehan couldn't stop himself from feeling victorious because Montparnasse had called Courfeyrac his boyfriend. He wished it was true, though. "Really… mature," Jehan said sarcastically. He grimaced as Montparnasse punched him in the face, making his nose bleed. More blood poured onto his shirt. Damn it, I liked that shirt, Prouvaire thought fleetingly. "Very logical choice, beating up someone who's never offended you just to get revenge on your lover."

The word 'lover' felt sour on his tongue. The gang member's words from earlier were still spinning around in his mind. Last night was entertaining, we should do it again sometime, I hope he's recovered nicely. We should do it again sometime. Again, Jehan felt like he might vomit.

Montparnasse looked angry and slightly humiliated… that wasn't a good sign. "You have no idea what he's done, do you? Your precious Courf is a lying, cheating bastard…"

Jehan's heart clenched. He could tolerate being insulted, but when someone insulted his friends – especially Courfeyrac – well, he wasn't terrified of Montparnasse anymore. He was furious. But a tiny part of him still wondered if it was true – did the law student have a different, darker side to him? He was romantically involved with a murderer… did he have multiple lovers? Did Jehan mean nothing to him?

Jehan spat on Montparnasse's shiny, polished shoes. "Va te faire foutre," he said bravely (or perhaps stupidly). The French Literature student felt proud of himself for standing up for himself and his Amis, and also for using such crude language. He rarely swore but when he did it was satisfying.

"You'll regret that," Montparnasse hissed, and regret it he did. In the space of one second, the criminal dragged Jehan onto the ground by his hair and kicked him in the stomach with his boot. It was pain like he had never felt before and, as Montparnasse kicked him over and over again, each time harder and harder on his ribs, Jehan coughed and gasped. He tried to fight back by extending his foot out to trip the other over, but it didn't work and he just spasmed with pain, blood dripping from his nose, from his chest, and from his mouth as he coughed it up.

"Stop," he moaned. "Please… "

"No one's coming to save you," Montparnasse murmured in Jehan's ear. He stroked the poet's hair almost affectionately, or perhaps regretfully, as if he really didn't want to hurt him. It was a creepy action, and felt almost violating. Jehan flinched back, expecting to be hit again. "Your lover boy doesn't care about you now. You're nothing."

And then Jehan could only watch, eyes wide, as the infamous leader of the Patron-Minette reached for his knife again – and then there was complete agony as it pierced his stomach.

Jehan couldn't even scream.

All he did was make a pained gurgling sound as he spat up some blood and grasped at the weapon embedded in his body. He didn't remove it, but instead stared up into the eyes of a vengeful, triumphant Montparnasse. His vision was already turning dark, and he forced himself to not pass out.

"I killed the girl too," the criminal boasted. "But not before I took away her virginity… and I must say, she was a good fu-"

He was interrupted by an enraged shout from Prouvaire, who tried to sit up, ready to strangle Montparnasse to death with his bare hands for committing such an awful crime against such a beautiful woman – but Jehan fell back, his agony catching up with him. White hot flares of pain struck him and he bit his tongue to stop himself from screaming and giving Montparnasse the satisfaction of knowing he'd won.

All of a sudden, there were footsteps crunching in the snow from outside the alley, and Jehan's heart soared. Finally, someone was here to help him. He was saved. He would live.

"Help!" he yelled hoarsely, crying out as Montparnasse slapped him and then pulled the knife out of his stomach, wiping the blood on his trousers. Jehan saw purple stars and tried his hardest to stay awake.

"Shut up," the criminal hissed. "You're going to get me caught."

The footsteps got closer and sped up. Montparnasse, deciding that it was no longer worth it to stay, hurriedly grabbed the cane and jacket he had earlier dropped and fled in the opposite direction. Jehan's saviour didn't bother following him and instead appeared at the entrance to the alleyway.

"Oh mon Dieu!" the person exclaimed… and his voice was surprisingly familiar. He rushed to Jehan's side and, with shaking hands, applied pressure to the wound. Jehan blinked up at the familiar stranger, dazed, to see a head of curly hair and dark eyes which often inspired his poems. "Mon ami," Courfeyrac cried. "I'm sorry! This is all my fault!"

"No-" Prouvaire gasped, grasping the other student's hand with his own, soaking it in blood but not caring. "It is the fault of none but Montparnasse. I do not blame you, mon amour."

Courfeyrac nodded frantically, tears in his eyes. "Don't you dare die on me, Jean Prouvaire. You're too young and beautiful to die. If you die, let it be in the revolution, with a gunshot wound and a shout of 'Vive la France,' when we will bring peace to all of mankind…"

The blood started to merge into the snow, creating a sickening red painting the colour of crimson alizarin oil paints – and it joined with Estelle's crusted blood. Jehan sobbed.

"… and we'll fight for womankind as well, of course, and the gamins like Gavroche who roam the streets. Never again will anyone die like-"

"-Estelle," Jehan said breathlessly. "Remember her for me, will you?"

"No," Courfeyrac replied stubbornly. "I won't. You will be here to remember her, I promise you that."

Jehan glanced over at the lifeless girl who was blanketed by the snow. She looked like an angel.

Perhaps now he would be joining her.

Jehan could feel his strength fading. The snowflakes which fell were no longer cold, and his body was numb to the pain.

He closed his eyes, and didn't even feel the snow as it coated his eyelashes like it had done to Estelle before.

Courfeyrac screamed and cradled Jehan's still body in his hands.

French translations: mon Dieu - my God
va te faire foutre - fuck you/go fuck yourself
mon amour - my love
vive la France - long live France
(and sorry for the end of this chapter!)