Pleasedon'tkillmepleasedon'tkillmepleasedon'tkillmepleasedon'tkillme

This is really…really bad. I tried, I really did. I honestly tried, but this is just…I don't even know.

Not proof read (because I'm a lazy potato)

Several months later…

Jehan and Grantaire sat upon the silver cobble steps that lead up to the stone bridge, stretching gracefully over the scenic waters of the seine. They had been sitting in silence for quite a while now. But it was a pure kind of silence. The silence you get when you need to feel as though you're not alone in this Godforsaken world. This form of silence can only be shared between two individuals who are, in a way, connected, bound by soul emotion and thought. Not that they'd ever admit it, but Jehan and Grantaire were able to share this type of rare connection for reasons not even they could understand.

The clouds hung from the blue sheet of unblemished sky like a set or a painting, almost as if it weren't truly there, like everything Jean saw before him was merely an elusion created to keep his mind within sanity. Everything seemed so surreal, so idiosyncratic. It felt almost as though the young poet were seeing the world in a whole different light.

"Do you believe in God, Prouvaire?" Grantaire had broken the silence between the two. Jean continued to stare up at the sky, as though he was pondering the question, but in reality the answer was simple enough.

"I don't know what I believe in anymore." he replied, though to Grantaire's surprise, he had pulled an smile across his lips, however, it was no longer a smile that beamed youth and radiance as it once had, but a smile that merely showed a man who'd experienced pain for the first time. "It's hard to decipher my true feelings to what I want to believe and what I actually believe."

"I believe that if God truly were in existence, then he wouldn't have taken light from darkness." Though Jehan hadn't always understood Grantaire to the full extent, he felt a somewhat comfort to see an ounce of humanity within the cynic.

The sun had begun its decent from the highest point within the sky. Prouvaire had wished for the golden warmth of sun to stay forever, though, he knew all things pure eventually have to die. It was a natural fact that perfection is a mere flaw in itself. "You never believed in God from the start." Jehan stated, though not taking his eyes off the sky.

"I may not have believed in God, but I still believed in something…and now that something is gone forever." Grantaire's voice spoke with a hollow tone, almost as though his very soul had been torn from his body. "He's a fool you know."

Jehan looked at the man in confusion. "I'm not sure I fully understand."

"Enjolras. He has no morals. He's a fool for thinking this world could possibly stay the same without him. He's a fool for believing that no one would care if he just gave into the weight on his back. He's a fool for even trying in the first place…pure idiocy that I never expected from him." Grantaire felt his blood turn cold, suddenly feeling rather nauseous.

"I don't think it's quite fair to insult the man who is no longer here. Enjolras was a great man, but no matter how much you believed in him, it would never make him immortal. You see him as a God, but he's simply a human with the courage of a God. I would crack under the pressure, as would anyone. The way I see it, Enjolras was the utmost, greatest leader a band of mindless students could ask for, and God, here you are insulting him for what?" Grantaire didn't reply. He simply stared at the ground, wondering if he stared long enough, would he fall through. Sadly, he had no such luck.

"Not that I don't appreciate your concern for me, but it's really quite unnecessary." Enjolras batted Cosette's hand away from his forehead in irritation. Cosette frowned at him as he made his way across the room to grab his black jacket that rested neatly against the edge of the hand-weaved rocking chair.

"Honestly Julien, you shouldn't be leaving the house if you're ill. You'll freeze to death." Cosette wined, attempting to usher the man back off to bed.

"How many times must I tell you, it's just Enjolras." He stated in slight annoyance. It'd been about three months since Monsieur Fauchelevent and his daughter took in a lost revolutionary, gave him the gift of food, shelter and a bed to sleep in.

And, although Enjolras would never care to admit to it, it was the greatest gift any man had ever given him. After almost ending his own life, he found himself unable to go back to the life he once had. He couldn't possibly show his face to the men who once saw him as fearless. He didn't deserve such a title. They thought him dead, and that's how it would stay.

"Well, at least tell Papa where you're going." Cosette said with a glint of concern. Enjolras and Cosette had grown somewhat close. It was expected, after all, Enjolras was practically the only company Cosette got throughout the day. He acted as a somewhat brother to her, and Fauchelevent was perfectly fine with that. Cosette had grown happier, and she had become livelier.

Enjolras simply nodded as Cosette adjusted the collar of his coat. "What's wrong?"

"You're not wearing red today?" She asked.

Enjolras seemed to laugh out of the corner of his mouth. "I think that old things seen the last of its days. I'll have to get a new one by the winter."

Cosette hummed. "It's a shame. Red seems to suit you."

Enjolras momentarily hesitated, though it was hardly noticeable. "I know it does, but every color eventually fades."

"For god's sake Lads, we've been over this." Courfeyrac stated, bringing his glass down against the edge of the tabletop with a loud clank, spilling some excess alcohol upon the wooden tabletop. Courfeyrac sat informally slouched over the table with Pontmercy and Grantaire opposite him. Feuilly stood behind Marius' chair. Combeferre sat between the two sides, a book resting in his hand, as he appeared to be paying not the slightest attention to the display before him. "The friends of the ABC are over."

"Okay, I understand that Enjolras' passing has created undeniable tension between all of us, and there will never come a day when we don't greave his death." Feuilly said solemnly. "But don't you think he would have wanted us to continue his dream? Day and night, all that man ever talked about was his vision of a new world and now you're just going to let all of it disappear?"

"Enjolras didn't value his dreams. He saw through it, and so he lost his own life to his own moral thought." Courfeyrac slurred, the alcohol running slightly dry.

"Oh come on. That letter was utter shit!" Grantaire huffed in pure exasperation. "Do you really think Enjolras would actually want his dream to die? He's no longer here, which is all the more reason to let his revolution live on."

"Why are you even here, Grantaire? You never believed in what our leader stood for, so why don't you just go home?" Courfeyrac stood from his chair to meet eye to eye with the man.

"I stay because this fucked up revolution is the only thing I have left of Apollo, and I'm not just going to sit here and let you kill that as well!" Grantaire seemed to have cracked, unable to contain the rest of his sanity. Oddly enough, Grantaire had been affected rather severely after hearing of Enjolras' death. He'd moved out of town for the first month, and then moved in with Prouvaire, who seemed to be the source of understanding.

"You haven't any idea what Enjolras is or ever was. You couldn't possibly say such words about a man you hardly know, R." Courfeyrac hissed, shaking every ounce of pain that hit him off of his shoulder.

"Enough, I've heard enough." Combeferre snapped his book shut and placed it upon the table. He stood up and seemed somewhat distressed, like he'd taken off his mask of serenity to reveal his true emotion. "Enjolras is gone. There's nothing to say of it. However, now that he's resting, it makes me the new leader of the friends of the ABC. As new leader, I propose this. Every Tuesday night, there will be an open house on current affairs concerning the wellbeing of the poor citizens of Paris. All those who wish to attend may do so. I'm not saying that Les Amis is resuming. I'm merely proposing a startup line. This conversation is over, all of you go home and speak nothing of it."

Jehan had been absent throughout the entire night. Why? Over the past two months, Prouvaire had been laboring over a new novel he'd started, which he'd dedicated to his leader. You see Jehan had never before experienced the pain of losing someone who'd felt dear to him. And, in all honesty, Enjolras had been a great role model for the young poet. After hearing of his death, he wasn't quite sure how he was meant to deal with all of these emotions flooding into his mind at the very same time.

So, likewise, he found himself expressing it though pen and paper.

And soon enough, the young poets call brought back something he never expected.

TBC (I guess?)