A Les Miserables Fanfic

Enjolras fared well in his first few days at Combeferre and Courfeyrac's school. Unlike other new students, who walked the halls like deer waiting for the wolves to attack, Enjolras walked a purposeful stride and his head held high. He was quiet and attentive in his classes, and only ever spoke out of turn when a debate was sparked, particularly about the government. His views on the republic often earned him glares from his teachers, but most admired him for his dedication.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre helped lead Enjolras to his classes, but in truth he became the leader of their little group. His passion and his way with words caused him to form something of a following. A boy named Lesgles had told him that he agreed with his views on the republic, and Courfeyrac and Combeferre's belief in the republic, which had been shaky before, was now pure and strong. Such was the strength of Enjolras's passion for the republic.

About a week and a half after he joined the school, Enjolras had finished his lunch with Combeferre and Courfeyrac and was about to go inside when he heard angry shouting. He turned to see what was happening, his eyes scanning the schoolyard, Combeferre and Courfeyrac following suit. A few yards away, three boys were ganging up on a lone brown-haired boy, their eyes cold and their laughter cruel. One boy, a tall boy with raven-black hair and cold brown eyes sneered, "You think I'm going to let you get away with this? My father's out of a job now because of your scumbag father!"

His eyes wide with panic, the victim tried to escape, but the black haired boy grabbed him roughly by the shirt, throwing him to the ground. The brunette whimpered in fear as the other boys closed in on him.

Enjolras had had enough. With a firm, purposeful stride, he came to stand between the boys and their victim. He spoke in an icily calm voice. "Let him go."

The black-haired boy looked surprised for a moment, surprise quickly turning to disdain. "Or what?" He asked with a sneer.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac came up silently behind the blond. Enjolras answered the leader in a tone of conviction, "Have you nothing better to do with your time than attack those weaker than you? Look at him! He's your fellow man, another human just like you, and you've got him trembling at your feet. Is that how you want to be remembered? The shadows looming over others until the day they turn to laugh at you instead of cry in fear? Look at your friends beside you now. Do you think that, if everyone else turned on you, they would stay at your side? What loyalty can you ever gain through this? Through force, you can only ever inspire fear. And no fear will hold forever." These words, which would have sounded weak and fake from any other mouth, soared lightly from his. They rang with conviction, they soared with passion, they sounded of clear truth. Enjolras's blue eyes flashed with anger, and he stood calmly in front of the brunette victim, his arms folded boldly in front of his chest. His eyes challenged the gang to make the next move.

The black-haired leader looked a little sheepish, casting a side glance at his friends, who were looking down at the ground, their anger replaced with guilt. The leader turned back to Enjolras and said in a weak show of disdain, "Fine, we're leaving. But you better watch your back, kid."

Enjolras replied with little interest, "I'll keep that in mind." He doubted they would come after him. They were cowards, only going after the weak. They wouldn't pick a fight with someone who clearly had no fear of them. Even if they did, he would be ready for them. He watched them with his unyielding gaze as they slunk off.

Once they were gone, he turned to the boy they had been harassing. He was a small boy with curly dark brown hair and wide brown eyes. His face wasn't what one could call handsome, but there was a charm in his youthful face, his wide brown eyes lighting up as he gazed upon his saviour. The boy said shyly, "Thanks for helping me."

Enjolras nodded. "No problem." He held out his hand, helping the boy to his feet. "What's your name?"

The boy said shyly, "P-paul Grantaire."

Combeferre, who still watched where the gang had disappeared, said, "I think we should be getting back inside. We'll be late for class soon."

Enjolras nodded. "Very well. Would you like to come with us?" He asked the boy. Silently, Grantaire nodded, still looking at Enjolras with awe in his eyes. The blond led his friends back into the school, Grantaire trailing nervously behind them. The next few classes were easy enough. The black-haired boy was in one of Enjolras's classes, and he sat glaring at Enjolras with anger in his eyes. Enjolras returned his glare calmly, until the boy looked away in defeat.

The next few weeks passed with Enjolras continuing to spend his time with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. It was satisfying to have someone like Combeferre to talk to about the republic, someone who's intelligance matched Enjolras's and who's debates were well-thought and intriuging. Courfeyrac, for all his flirting and jokes, had his heart in the right place, and could become very passionate in his debates about freedom when the mood took him.

For every one of those days, the threesome was followed by Grantaire. The boy grew less shy with each moment he spent in their company, his brown eyes lighting up whenever they spoke to him. Enjolras in particular seemed to inspire awe in the younger student. Grantaire's eyes gleamed whenever Enjolras spoke of the Republic, listening to his tone and watching his face rather then listen to the words. He never offered any input, which irked Enjolras somewhat, but he listened attentively, and Enjolras found he had grown accustomed to Grantaire's presence. Indeed, it was something of a comfort to have the student there, trailing behind him like a puppy, a constant presence. There was nothing particuarly admirable about Grantaire; he was fearful, he offered no beliefs or morals, and he was a follower. But he was charming in his own way, always smiling and occasionally supplying a joke or two. Enjolras found he was even beginning to enjoy the other student's company.

Grantaire, on his part, revered Enjolras. Everything about the blonde fascinated him; his conviction, his passion, his speeches, his unwavering loyalty to the fallen republic. He had no belief in the republic himself, or in anything, but listening to Enjolras's words soar, he almost believed he did. Listening to Enjolras speak, he could forget about his strict, grim-faced father and his weak, timid mother. He could forget about everything and lose himself in that inspiring voice. He likened Enjolras to the Greek Gods; he called him "Apollo" and followed him everywhere.

About a month after the blond rescued Grantaire, the latter stopped the former in the hallway after the last class of the day ended. Enjolras's shadow had been noticably absent all day before that, and Enjolras had been mildly worried, though he admitted to nothing. Enjolras was surprised to see that Grantaire's eyes were red, as if he had been crying. This was explained in a few words. "We're moving." He said, his usual smile gone, replaced with a hesitantly sad frown. "My dad bought a company in Bourges. It'll be easier for him if he's there instead of here. We're leaving later today."

Enjolras was caught off guard for a moment. The idea of not having the fellow student trailing after him ever again made him feel a little empty. He was as much Enjolras's friend as Combeferre or Courfeyrac, even if their views differed. He composed himself, however, and said in a calm voice, "Congradulations. I wish you and your family luck."

Grantaire looked a little hurt by this, though Enjolras couldn't fathom why. The brunette looked down and mumbled, "I'll miss you."

The blond raised his eyebrows at this remark. Enjolras wasn't a person who generally dealt well with emotions, either his own or others'. He replied stiffly, "I'll let the others know you're leaving."

Grantaire looked up, hesitation in his eyes, and something else that Enjolras could not name. Grantaire opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, his face flushing. He gave the blond a sad smile. "Goodbye, Enjolras." He turned and walked away, his shoulders slumped dejectedly.

Enjolras watched him go in silence, his blue eyes fixed on the point where Grantaire had vanished even after he was gone. "Goodbye." He said quietly.

Three years passed. Les Amis had been formed, with six members making regular appearances and an eighth considering joining. One cold winter morning, Enjolras led Combeferre and Courfeyrac into the Musain Cafe. Bossuet, and Joly were seated at the same table, apparently immersed in a conversation about Joly's latest ailment. Feuilly, the tentative newcomer, was conversing with another man some ways away. That was all normal.

But something new caught Enjolras's eye; a single form was sitting with his head lying dejectedly on his folded arms, a few empty bottles littered around his table. His face was red from the wine and unshaven, and his hair was greasy and disheveled. His clothes were unkempt and dirty. Enjolras felt disgust at looking upon him, but pity as well.

The blonde came over to Feuilly and his companion and asked in a low voice, "Who is that man there?"

Feuilly looked somewhat disdainfully at the unconscious form. "Oh, him? He said his name's Paul Grantaire. He seemed interested when he heard you were running the meetings. Do you know him?"

Enjolras froze. Grantaire? He stared at the drunken man, trying to find a trace of the smiling boy he remembered. The student who had once listened to Enjolras's words with a wide smile and gleaming eyes now sat hunched over the table, dried drool at the corner of his mouth. Enjolras looked at the man with pity mixed with disgust. Is this what you have become, Grantaire? Is this what you wanted out of life? He watched with mild disdain as Grantaire shifted in his sleep, knocking a bottle aside with his elbow. What brought you to this? What have you suffered through?

He answered Feuilly with a short, "I knew him once." Then he turned and walked over to where the rest of Les Amis waited, forcing himself not to look back. He could not look at the drunken man; the memory of his once smiling face, the memory of the smiling student he had once been was too painful. It was only a memory now, irreclaimable, lost forever to the void.

Someone suggested that I continue this, so I did. I am a ER shipper, so there is subtext to be found here, but nothing blatant, so read it as you will. I might post some ER stuff one day, if my human-romance writing skills get better. Anyway, the idea of the Grand R following Enjolras around like a little lost puppy was just too adorable to stay in my head.

If there are any inacuracies or inconsitencies or suggestions on how to improve the writing, please share. I welcome all critique.

All characters (c) Victor Hugo and the guys who made the musical

Idea and writing (c) Me