Okay, I think you've had enough of a breather, so here's another barricade fic! *throws confetti, then hides* Please don't kill me!

Also, my apologies for my use of "Enjy" in the chapter title. I didn't have enough space to write all three of their names, so I had to make do.

Much love,

Unicadia

Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac – the three leaders, the pillars of the Friends of the ABC. Feuilly depicted them discussing a matter over a long table. Courfeyrac and Combeferre stand in the foreground, Courfeyrac pointing to a map of Paris, his expression fierce, and Combeferre, his arms folded, his eyes cold. These two frame Enjolras, who sits at the end of the table, his feet up, his face serene, a smile on his lips. They will come to a consensus. They always did.

"The people will come," said Enjolras, gazing over the men of the barricade. His eyes flickered once to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who stood close beside him, his best friends. "We have ignited a spark here which will burst into a flame! The people will march along beside us, and bring down the injustice which plagues us all."

Combeferre cleared his throat. "You give them much credit," he said in a low voice.

Enjolras ignored him. "Do you hear the people sing?"

The men roared in assent, shaking the guns in their hands.

"Vive la France!" Enjolras shouted, and the men took up the refrain.

"Vive la France!"

Afterwards, Combeferre and Courfeyrac took Enjolras aside. Combeferre placed his hands on Enjolras' shoulders. "I have much faith in our countrymen, friend. But what if they don't come?"

Enjolras didn't meet Combeferre's steady blue gaze. "Why wouldn't they? They receive the brunt of the king's follies. They are Feuilly's people. He is passionate for the Cause." His voice dropped. "Perhaps more so than myself."

Courfeyrac spoke, his usually cheerful face serious. "Yes, but Feuilly is a rare man, noble and strong." He paused. "He is also a redhead. But he is not all the people of Paris. Most of them are cowards. It is they who left Feuilly starve in the streets when he was orphaned. You know this."

Enjolras glared at Courfeyrac. "Have more faith, André. You sound like my grandfather. Or worse, like Marius."

Combeferre sighed. "We're trying to be realistic."

Enjolras shook him off. "Realists only get mankind so far. Eventually, dreamers take their place. Go talk to Prouvaire."

"I think you have it mixed up. First dreamers catalyze events, and then realists see them through."

"Why are we discussing this now, now when there's no turning back?" Enjolras turned back to the barricade.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac watched him go. "I have mentioned it before," said Combeferre. "Multiple times. You must have forgotten."

Enjolras turned once to look back at his two friends, his expression a mixture of anger – and guilt.

Dawn broke over the barricade.

The people had not come.

Enjolras fired shot after shot at their assailants, his mind clouded and numb. His arms and hands repeated the same motion, over and over, mechanical, cock, click, squeeze, the jolt, the ringing, pass down the old rifle, take the new one, again. He hadn't thought anything since the fight began. One horrible image blurred before his eyes. Courfeyrac, the Center, the round, bright Center, dead. Like Bahorel and Father Mabeuf and Prouvaire and Gavroche – why had he even been there? But he still had Combeferre, his Guide, though, and he cursed himself, he hadn't even listened to him. Out of the corner of his eye, above him, he saw Combeferre, reaching down over something. He dared looking up – one brief moment, just making sure his Guide was all right.

Three seconds.

Three bayonets.

They caught Combeferre's body, and he shuddered into them, fragile, like the moths he drew. They pulled away, leaving him slipping into his blood.

Enjolras didn't even realize he had thrown down his rifle and was scrambling up the barricade, screaming, "Etienne!" until Feuilly grabbed him and wrestled him back down before he met the same fate. As Feuilly pushed him toward the wine shop for cover, Enjolras' cloudy mind bled within him, and he thought –

I was dead wrong.