A/N: Yes, I know this chapter is short, but it kind of had to be. Their backstory that I keep on alluding to is coming soon, so don't worry if you're still a little in the dark! Basically, this is just a necessary chapter that I couldn't skip over. Chapter 14 is already written though, and I'm going to post it later today! (Also, a big thank you to everyone who comments, and to agnesgreys on Tumblr for making a graphic based on a scene in chapter 11!)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN | THE PISTOLS

The Doors' record was spinning on the player in the corner while the smell of cigarettes hung in the air, a cloud wafting in the air above the bed. It was early morning, well past one o'clock, and Marius Pontmercy was laying in bed. He was smiling for no apparent reason, other than the fact that his sheets still smelled like her – floral, sweet, and delicate. He took a deep breath in and became lost in thought.

He was consumed in the feeling of being dragged under the surface until he was drowning, gasping for air, but he didn't seem to mind. It was nice to feel so hopelessly passionate about something for once.

His thoughts were preoccupied with thoughts of summertime in Paris, with Cosette's love lighting his days – and in many ways, it already felt like July.

But as his mind began to run through the motions, over and over as Cosette danced in his mind like a colorful whirlwind, the sound of a distant shot rang in his ears and he looked up. Hanging above the dresser across the room was a pistol, which had originally been part of a set of two, but its brother had been given away to a dear friend of Marius' some time ago. There was no telling where in the world it was, or if it even existed anymore, at all.

The sound of a distant ignition of gunpowder and the sound of hysteria in its wake echoed inside Marius' head.

Just a memory, he reminded himself, but became so uncomfortable sitting there placidly that he suddenly felt the need to stand.

Marius paced about the room, remembering Cosette and how she had laughed when he told her it must be love – even if it had only been a week – and the look in her eyes after he kissed her, full on the mouth. It was warm, but not heated, frantic, or forced. When she was with him, everything seemed easy.

But when left alone with his thoughts, it was easy to forget the good things.

The sound of the needle hitting the center of the record scratched and he moved to it. He lifted the vinyl and slid it back into its sleeve, then rested it atop the heaping pile of records that floated about his house, never in one place for any longer than a few days.

He took one last drag of his cigarette and put it out in the ashtray near the window. Then, he made his way across the room, took one last long look at the pistol, and remembered the way it had felt in his hand that night. Cold and powerful, yet he was powerless all the same.

A hand came up to his shoulder and he felt for the place where an old wound had healed to a scar, roughly the size of a bullet. Escaping by the skin of his teeth, the doctor had said, whom his grandfather had ordered to their home to treat Marius' injuries in secrecy before they moved across France – fleeing from any trace of Marius' involvement in the massacre. They were starting over from scratch, alone.

One last memory flashed in his mind before the phone rang (which of course was Cosette, calling to remind him of their New Year's Eve plans that he was not, under any circumstances, allowed to bail out on).

But this memory was as fleeting as it was painful.

A pair of eyes, gray, and a tight smile. Blond, messy hair with thick-rimmed glasses and a loud, passionate voice that made everyone in the room stop and listen. The smell of wine and cigarettes – A café, he reminded himself – and muted laughter in the background.

The boy in his mind was tall and strong, and although only nineteen, he seemed to have lived a hundred lives before.

And then, as the smoke finally fell in the room, and as the phone began ringing off its hook, Marius' eyes refocused and he remembered that the boy from his memories was no more alive than the rest of his friends who had died that night, and he was the only one left.

We were like brothers, he thought as he cleared his throat to answer the phone.

Enjolras.

xxxxxxxxxx

Across town, Enjolras slept with a crease in his forehead, a constant furrowed brow acompanying his uneasy slumber. His flat was quiet, just as it always was, and Petit was out in the living room, sleeping on the couch that still smelled like nicotine and cherries.

But just under his bed, underneath all of the photographs and hand-written letters, laid a cigar box. It hadn't been opened in a long while; dust was beginning to collect on its surfaces.

Inside that box was a pistol.