A/N- Eponine here is the same Eponine appearance-wise as the one in Castles on Clouds. If you haven't read that, go to my profile, look up CoC under my list of ongoing stories, and click the link in the description to see the painting on which I based Eponine's appearance for that story.

For those of you who haven't read the book, according to Hugo (whom I think I would consider an authoritative source LOL) the Amis were certainly already in their formative stages this quickly after the July Revolution.

Chapter 1
October 26th, 1830

Enjolras was deeply absorbed in the book in front of him. He had read it before, but Aristotle was always worth a reread. Unconsciously, his lips shaped the words he was reading as his eyes moved across the page. "We must now consider the views of those who are agreed in accepting the general principle that a life of goodness is most desirable, but divided in their opinion about the right way of living that life. Two different schools of opinion have thus to be..."

"Monsieur Enjolras?" The soft, slightly raspy voice issued from his left, and a hand pulled on his sleeve.

He glanced up and just barely repressed a grimace at the mournful sight before him. It was Pontmercy's little friend, the gamine who had the annoying habit of following the young man around like a lost puppy and staring at him longingly with those large brown eyes that seemed even bigger than the really were because of her emaciated appearance. He was pretty sure that Marius was the only one who hadn't figured out that the girl had feelings for him.

"What is it?" he asked tiredly. Lord in heaven, he had enough to do without dealing with whatever... what was her name? Something odd... some name from an old story... oh, it would come to him eventually...

She bit her lip and blushed, which almost made her look pretty. "Is Monsieur Marius going to be here soon?" she asked.

"No, Courfeyrac said he was likely to be late tonight."

"Why?" she asked, eyes widening still further. "Is he alright?"

Enjolras sighed. Leave me alone, he thought. Go away and let me finish this chapter before the meeting starts... "No, he's perfectly fine. He just has a rather lengthy thesis due for Blondeau tomorrow, and he's procrastinated as usual." Éponine! That was her name! Yes, he knew he'd remember it eventually! "You're welcome to wait for him, Éponine, if you'll be quiet and not get in our way."

Éponine grinned broadly. "Oh, I promise I'll be quiet!" she exclaimed. "I've a lot of practice at keeping still; my father doesn't like us getting too noisy when he's home!"

"Yes, I'm sure," Enjolras said absently, his book already luring his eyes away from her.

He heard the clunk of boots that seemed to indicate that she had gone away to perch on a chair in the corner, and shook his head. He felt badly for the poor girl, he supposed. He did not know much about her beyond what was obvious to the eyes, and her painfully obvious infatuation with Pontmercy. Still, she seemed a good sort. Pathetic and horribly abased, to be sure, but Pontmercy spoke well of her and that was a high enough recommendation that the rest of the Amis did not mind her constant presence at the back of the group. If anything, she served as a reminder of what they were trying to achieve (of what, he thought painfully, he had thought they had already achieved not even three whole months previously).

And that was as far as that train of thought got before the words on the page sucked him inexorably back in. "Two different schools of opinion have thus to be discussed. One is the school which eschews political office, distinguishing the life of the individual freeman from that of the politician and preferring..."

He did not, as it transpired, manage to finish his chapters before the last stragglers came boisterously through the door (including, he was displeased to note, the drunkard Grantaire), obliging him to return his bookmark to its duty and pay attention to what was going on.

As he circulated through the little clusters of people absorbed in individual conversations that always begin to form in crowded rooms, he wondered at the back of his mind how this had even happened. In July, it had seemed like everything was solved. One Louis-Philippe later though, and here he was, not only a part of the opposition to the monarchy, but actually apparently a leader of the movement (even if said movement only existed in taverns and the backs of cafes). He decided it was probably Combeferre's fault. Combeferre had been the one to introduce him to Courfeyrac, and it had all happened nearly by itself after that.

He supposed if he remembered to later, he would have to thank Combeferre. It was always better to do something instead of just think about it, and certainly it was better to be doing as part of a concerted whole, rather than one lone man stewing away in private outrage.

The evening passed in the usual manner, full of discussion and the occasional burst of ire from one party or another. Around nine-thirty, Pontmercy stumbled into the room, looking as if he had been run through a press, his cravat hanging askew and his hair sticking up in odd places. His dark eyes were bloodshot and exhausted.

"The second-year thesis for Blondeau?" Christophe Bahorel guessed immediately.

Marius nodded wearily. Before he had time to say anything, Éponine was at his side, hanging on his arm and pulling him quickly over to her little table in the corner. Enjolras vaguely observed the pair out of the corner of his eye for a moment, watching her apparently fuss over him, before his attention was distracted by a man who had just poked his head in the door.

The young man looked to be about Enjolras's own age or perhaps a bit older, with curly light brown hair and friendly hazel eyes. His clothes were threadbare and he wore spectacles, and his expression was a little nervous. "Is this... is this the, uh meeting of les Amis de l'ABC?" he asked cautiously.

"Welcome, friend!" Courfeyrac said warmly, though careful not to confirm or deny what the newcomer had asked. "What is your name?"

"I am called Patrice Feuilly. I heard of the Amis from a neighbor of mine a few days ago... Raoul Montagne?"

At the familiar name, Courfeyrac's caution fell away. "Ah, yes, we know Raoul quite well! And he thought to send you our way? How good of him. Come in, Patrice Feuilly, make yourself right at home! Allow me to introduce you to our fine company!" And with his usual attitude of warmth and magnetic charm, Courfeyrac led the bewildered young man through the room, talking cheerily and rapidly in a manner Enjolras suspected had been perfected for the sole purpose of making anyone and everyone feel welcome. Courfeyrac was good at that. Within minutes, Feuilly seemed as at home as if he'd been coming to their meetings all along, and Pontmercy was asleep on the table, with his gamine friend running her fingers through his hair with a look of bliss on her face.

Enjolras left the Cafe Musain that evening as part of a group composed of himself, Combeferre, Grantaire, and the newcomer Feuilly, who had proved to be quite the talker, and amazingly well-informed. Grantaire was leaning heavily on Enjolras, singing loudly and surprisingly well for someone as intoxicated as he was.

"Good Lord, how much have you had?" Enjolras muttered angrily, trying to push the drunkard off him.

"Not near enough!" Grantaire cried jubilantly, breaking off in the middle of some very lewd alternate lyrics to the tune of the Marseillaise. He attempted to put his arm around Enjolras's shoulder and only succeeded in losing his balance; he would have fallen if Combeferre had not reached across very quickly and steadied him.

Feuilly looked skeptically at Grantaire. "Is he always like this?" he asked.

"Yes," Enjolras growled.

"No," Combeferre overrode emphatically. "He's actually quite pleasant when he's sober. Well, he's a good fellow when he's drunk, but when he's coherent it's much easier to talk to him. Enjolras just doesn't like him because he can't stand his lack of ideals."

Enjolras rolled his eyes. "If he doesn't care about the cause, he would do much better to stay out of our way, rather than cause a scene at practically every meeting."

"You, Antoine, are exaggerating."

"And I'm also the one who will end up half-carrying him home, so I'll thank you to let me continue."

"Perhaps it would be best to just call a fiacre for him," Combeferre suggested.

Enjolras shook his head. "At this hour? Unlikely. I'll take him home," he said with the air of a martyr.

This he did, and it took less time than he had anticipated to haul the intoxicated man up the stairs and into his apartment. He deposited the mumbling Grantaire on his sofa and left him there, caring little that he would wake up with a sore neck to match his sore head, and exited the building as quickly as possible, making for his own street, thinking that if he were lucky, Combeferre would still be awake and they could continue the discussion on the subject of literary trends they'd been having earlier in the day.

When he arrived at the door of his building, the concierge addressed him politely: "Monsieur, I have your mail."

"Thank you," he said absently, taking the envelope the portly little man was offering and heading for the stairs. Once inside his apartment, he looked at the letter, addressed in his father's handwriting. He slit the envelope open and pulled out the single sheet of paper contained therein, which was covered in the same writing. He began reading, not expecting much of interest (letters from his parents rarely contained any), but halfway down the page he stopped, blinked, and forced himself to start again from the beginning, sure he must have misread somehow.

He hadn't.

"Merde."

"Are you serious?" Combeferre asked twenty minutes later. They were sitting next door in his parlor, and Enjolras was staring at the piece of paper in his hand in utter disbelief. He had abandoned his hat and his coat, and was sitting with his shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbow, the picture of stunned agitation.

"So it would appear," Enjolras replied. "My wonderful parents have decided that it time for my days as a bachelor to come to a rather abrupt end."

Combeferre seemed torn between sympathy and laughter. "I cannot picture you married," he said.

"I have absolutely no interest in the whole institution," Enjolras said darkly. "I haven't the time for that sort of nonsense! I have things to do!"

"I seem to recall you being quite the romantic, once upon a time," Combeferre teased.

"Yes, when we were thirteen," Enjolras protested. "I grew out of it, and I sincerely wish you would forget!"

Combeferre smiled. "Not a chance, mon ami."

"And of all the women in France they could have arranged a marriage with, it had to be Hyacinthe Guillory! Good God, François, do you remember when we were all children...?"

"She followed you everywhere."

"Yes! I swear, she was the most annoying creature on the face of God's good Earth! And time has not improved her, if I recall."

"Well," Combeferre said thoughtfully, "She is quite beautiful, after all."

"Beautiful!" Enjolras exploded. "What do I care for a beautiful girl? All beautiful girls are just alike! I'll have none of this!"

His friend looked at him. "I've often wondered, Antoine, where this aversion to romance comes from."

"It comes," Enjolras said, with the weary patience of one getting very tired of explaining the same point repeatedly, "from a great many things, François, as you know only too well. It's a waste of time, and besides, it's not as if there is a woman out there really worth the expense or the bother! Don't think I don't recall how long you moped all those years ago when that girl you were trying to court got married right out from under you! I see no reason to put myself through it all, for a reward that isn't worth the cost. I have more important things to worry about."

"So jaded," Combeferre said, a sad smile on his face. "It is worth it, Antoine, whether you'd like to believe it or not. You just hold your standards much too high."

"My standards are not the point," Enjolras said, "Especially seeing as my right to choose has just been ripped out from under me."

He was quiet for a long moment, then burst out loudly, "It's not as if this is really about my mother being worried about me remaining a bachelor for life, either! This bears all the hallmarks of my father's interference. He thinks if he forces me into a marriage at once, I'll have to come home and play at being the good royalist son he always wanted. He's trying to manipulate me!"

Combeferre gazed at him steadily. "Then the question is... are you going to let him?"

"No."

A/N- Question of the Day: why do so many people assume that Enjy and 'Ferre have known each other for so long? I mean, it's an assumption I'm so not challenging (quite the opposite, as you can tell), but where does it come from? It's not like there's anything in the book to indicate they knew each other before coming to Paris, and Combeferre (like most of the Amis except Enjy and R) hardly exists in the musical! You should leave your thoughts in a review...

Also, is there by chance anyone out there who understands the irony of the name Hyacinthe?