Thank you so so much to everyone to has read this so far, and especially the two very nice people who left a review. I know I'm still sort of getting used to writing Les Miz, but I'm trying my best, and really enjoying it too! Anyway, I hope you like this chapter!
Gavroche had been seeing Enjolras fairly regularly. He had begun to hang around that café he had seen Enjolras disappear into, hoping to run into the older man again, and he had not been disappointed. Only days after their first meeting, Gavroche caught sight of Enjolras again, and not only did the man remember him, but he called him over.
"Gavroche, how are you?" he asked, and Gavroche noticed, upon their second encounter, how tired the older boy looked. He had dark circles under his eyes, and a very weary smile, which Gavroche had seen disappear the moment they'd parted.
"Well, monsieur, well," Gavroche answered enthusiastically. "How are your plans for the moral economy? You see, I remember, I told you I would!"
Enjolras nodded, tired smile still present. "That is excellent Gavroche, truly. And to answer your question—they are alive, shall we say, alive under immense pressure of destruction. But I assure you, I will not let them die. So long as there are people like us, they cannot die." Gavroche stared up at him, in awe of what this man was able to do with words. The things he said gave Gavroche hope, and not just the kind of dull hope that was tossed around among the street children, the hope that none of them had never really believed in. His opinion of Enjolras leaped from respect to reverence.
"Anyway, I have much to attend to, so I'm afraid I must take my leave. You will try and stay safe, yes? I will see about getting you a some more food next time, if you think you would like that." And with an almost unnoticeable wink—Gavroche wasn't quite sure if he'd imagined it—and a pat on Gavroche's shoulder, Enjolras was gone, leaving Gavroche practically beaming. This man, he decided right then, was his hero.
And, as he had predicted, the two became friends. They saw each other again and again, the elder often with food, the younger always with a thirst for information about plans for change. Some days, their meetings would be brief: words of greeting, an exchange of news, and parting. Other days, when Enjolras was less busy, he would buy Gavroche an entire meal, and they would talk about things. Gavroche might educate the older boy on the underground workings of life on the streets, and Enjolras might continue giving Gavroche lessons about government, and the king, and most enticingly, revolution. Gavroche could never get enough of these talks. He loved the way Enjolras spoke to him like an adult, not a stupid little child, and the way he listened carefully to all of his opinions. And although Enjolras never hesitated to disagree when he thought Gavroche was wrong, Gavroche didn't mind. It made him feel like his ideas mattered. He loved the way Enjolras never seemed to run out of words; they just kept floating out of his mouth in perfect rhythm, and always carrying such importance, as if the words themselves could change the world. Gavroche even loved Enjolras's unique personality and ways of showing affection—although he wasn't the warmest man in the world, and was always reserved in his emotion, Gavroche liked his guarded smiles and serious expressions, his tired eyes and messy hair. Here, Gavroche thought, was a member of the bourgeoisie who deserved his wealth. And Gavroche appreciated the fact that he now had someone looking out for him; he was secretly pleased whenever Enjolras sternly told him to stay out of trouble or lectured him about the safety (or lack thereof) of certain areas of the city. Gavroche never paid him any heed, of course, he could very well look out for himself, but he appreciated the concern nevertheless. And on one occasion, on a particularly lonely day, Gavroche had even been on the receiving end of a short, one-armed embrace. It had only been once, and the moment had passed quickly, but Gavroche had been fine with that; he'd never been one to rely on shows of affection. Enjolras's trust and companionship was been more than enough.
Gavroche often noticed Enjolras surrounded by a group of other young men, whether it was on the street walking together or sitting in the café Enjolras so often went to, and he heard Enjolras reference his "friends" on numerous occasions, but he never had much interest in meeting them. Gavroche supposed they must be all right, if they were Enjolras's friends, and they helped him with plans for his revolution, as he said they did, but Gavroche was firmly of the opinion that Enjolras could take on the king all by himself and win. He didn't need any friends to do it. And so Gavroche never gave the subject much thought.
Until, of course, one day he was forced to. It was an autumn evening, after a long and difficult day. Gavroche had gotten into a small skirmish with some of the other boys on the street the previous day, had gotten shoved the wrong way, and fallen hard on his right shoulder at an awkward angle, and ever since, he'd been in serious pain. These things happened sometimes, but that didn't make them any more bearable.
He made his way through the city, trying not to move his shoulder and hoping to catch the eye of a kindhearted baker and perhaps earn himself some dinner, when he crashed directly into Enjolras, who, as usual, was striding through Paris with purpose and determination.
Gritting his teeth through the stab of pain in his arm that had emerged upon the collision, Gavroche muttered a greeting. "Evenin', Enjolras."
The older man was clearly startled by the crash, and ran a hand absently through his hair. "Hello, Gavroche," Enjolras said, gently moving the child back. "Everything all right?"
"I suppose," Gavroche sighed, using his good arm to straighten his jacket. "City's rough, you know. But I'll live, I'm tough."
"Of course," Enjolras answered, and even through his pain, Gavroche found satisfaction in the way his hero accepted his proclamation of strength without question.
"Well, I'm on my way to a meeting with my friends tonight, so I'm going to have to make this encounter a short one. Have a good night Gavroche." And then Enjolras made the unfortunate mistake of clasping Gavroche's injured shoulder, and it was too much for the boy. He cried out in pain, immediately swearing afterwards to make up for his lapse in bravery.
"You're hurt," Enjolras said immediately, eyes narrowing. "What happened?"
"S'nothing', 'm fine," Gavroche gasped. "You have to go, Enjolras, don't-"
"You clearly are not fine, Gavroche, don't lie. Can you move your arm at all?"
Rolling his eyes, Gavroche scoffed. "'Course I can, look." Taking a deep breath, he reached out his arm, feeling tears spring to his eyes at the incredible pain it caused. But he fought them; the thing he most prided himself on was his strength, and he knew he was more than capable of dealing with this by himself. After all the bad things that had happened to him, after living on the streets alone and being hungry and cold and without any family, Gavroche had survived, and he hadn't needed anyone's help. And in this moment, too, he didn't want anyone's help, even his hero's. Gavroche's strength was all he had. No one was going to take it away from him.
"See?" Gavroche said. "Perfectly alright, barely any pain."
"Yes, I'm sure," Enjolras said drily. "Look, you know these friends I often speak of? One of them is a medical student, and although I would not quite yet call him a doctor, I am certain he knows quite a bit about bones. If you would accompany me to the café, I have no doubt that he will be happy to help you."
Gavroche began shaking his head as soon as Enjolras mentioned his friends. He had to prove to himself—Enjolras too, but mostly himself—that he could handle this. Yes, the pain was excruciating, but Gavroche would live. He always had.
Enjolras crouched down and put a hand on his good shoulder, and Gavroche tensed. It was much harder to handle things alone when he had the option of help.
"Gavroche, listen to me, I'm no doctor, but there's something badly wrong with your shoulder and you need help. I understand you don't want to ask for it, and that's fine, and I will respect your wishes, if you truly decide against coming with me, but I'm asking you, as your friend, to please come. I promise you that I can get you help. And you do not have to pretend, I can see that you're in a great deal of pain. You don't have to deal with that on your own, and you most certainly do not have to prove anything to me. I'm already greatly impressed by your bravery, Gavroche, truly."
Gavroche looked up at the last sentence. Enjolras was impressed with his bravery? No one had ever told him he was brave before; that was the reason Gavroche had been so adamant about being able to believe it himself. But now that he had someone else's confirmation of his strength, Gavroche considered. Would it make him weak to allow someone to help him? Enjolras said no, it wouldn't. And Enjolras seemed to know everything.
"Okay, I'll go," Gavroche said quietly. And little did he know that he was about to, for the first time, meet a group of people he would be able to call his family.