So, I'm deciding to post my new story! Can't promise how frequent updates will come, however, due to the fact that it's a WIP. I have about five chapters written, and I know where it's going, so all that remains is for me to find the time outside of my job to write them down.

And, as with most of my stories, I really don't know how good it is…usually my first chapter is one of the weakest ones, because I'm just starting with an idea, but let me know!

This story can kind of be considered a prequel to "Ghosts of the Past," being as it's based on the same set of Amis. I've tried to keep the facts as true as possible so that one story doesn't contradict the other, but that can be rather hard to do at times.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and don't be afraid to leave a review. After all, we all love reviews!

And I've tried to make it non-slash, for those of you who don't like that kind of thing, so there are no romantic relationships…if it changes, I'll post a warning. Right now, it's the kind of fluffy-brotherly-friendship-platonic love kind of thing.

Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Les Miz.

Chapter One

"Enjolras! Hurry up!"

The woman was stern-looking, André thought. Dark brown hair and a severe profile made her look intimidating, and her crossed arms and the scowl on her face did little to help.

But as harsh as she appeared, she had little on the man next to her. He was tall and stocky; his black hair just beginning to grey at the temples. His thick black moustache set his face in a perpetual frown, and André, peeking out from behind his father's legs, wondered what sort of person their son would prove to be.

These were their new neighbours; supposedly relatives of the king. That in itself was frightening to the boy, but more so was the fact that their young son was more than likely to be André's only playmate. What if they did not get along?

André did not have long to ponder, however, as a figure appeared at the head of the staircase. André blinked. This was their son? He looked nothing like either of his parents. His hair was golden and his eyes were bright as sapphires. He wore a serious expression, and there was an aura of experience about him that belied his young age.

"There you are! That was very rude of you to keep our company waiting!"

"Yes, Mother. Forgive me, Mother."

The boy's tone was subservient, but there was a fire in his young eyes that made his apology less-than-convincing. His mother seemed satisfied with the response, but his father turned to the boy and, in a tone that brooked no-nonsense, said: "Now, son, these are our new neighbours. You and the boy can go outside and do what you like, but do not bother us until you are given permission. Is that clear?"

André winced at the frostiness in the man's tone, but the boy hardly seemed to notice as he replied, "Of course, Father."

The lad inclined his head respectfully and walked out the door as André's mother looked at her son with a kindly smile. "Go on and play, André. We won't be long."

André smiled in return and followed the other boy out. "So," the lad turned. "You're to be our new neighbours, then?"

"So it would seem. I'm André Combeferre," André held out a hand.

The other appraised him with a cool gaze before accepting the handshake. "Enjolras."

"Just 'Enjolras?'"

The look the other gave him was enough to still any further questions on the matter.

"O-okay. Are your parents always that…strict?"

"We are relatives of the king. We must be professional in all of our actions if we want to properly represent France."

The speech was so obviously rehearsed that André had to stifle a laugh. "Well,…what is there to do for fun?"

"Fun? As in, playing? Games are for children."

"And are you not a child?"

"I am a noble. I have no time for children's games."

André was a tad frustrated with the other boy's attitude, but he was persistent. And so, he kept trying.

"Well, what do you like to do?"

"Think, mostly. It is one of the few liberties I am allowed. There's a small grove not far from here with a stream where I like to go. Would you like to see it?"

At last, some progress! "I would," André agreed. As they walked, he inquired, "How old are you, Enjolras?"

"Seven."

André tried to mask the surprised look he knew was on his face. Enjolras acted as if he were twice that age; possible more. "Oh."

"Many people say that I am mature for my age," he continued. "I suppose it has to do with the fact that I never see many other children, but that hardly matters. What of yourself? Why are you moving out here?"

"My parents grew weary of the city, I suppose. We all wanted more space."

"Paris…what is it like?"

"You've never been?"

"My parents hardly allow me to roam off of our land. They are somewhat overprotective." His step faltered as he turned to face André. "I suppose I have hardly been playing the gracious host. You see, I do not get many visitors. My cousin comes over on occasion, but that is all. I guess I do not know how it feels to have a friend."

André nodded, his young mind absorbing what he had been told and translating it into the only emotion he found acceptable: pity.

"There were many children where I grew up, but I really only had one close friend. His parents took him on holiday recently, so he will not have heard of our move. I do hope I can see him again," André explained. "My sister stayed in Paris; but then, she is ten years older than me."

The look Enjolras gave him was filled with confusion. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because that is what friends do. Friends can tell each other anything."

"And…we are…friends?"

André smiled. "Of course."

And the smile Enjolras gave him in return told him that he was doing the right thing.

000

"There! Good as new! Just try not to trip on that root again."

Combeferre stood from bandaging the boy's ankle, placing the spare linen back into his bag.

"Thank you, André," the boy's mother smiled at the young man.

"No trouble at all, ma'am. He should be right as rain in no time at all; his ankle was merely twisted."

"But you must accept payment for…"

Combeferre cut the man off with a wave of his hand. "I'm not even a real doctor. I could not possibly be paid for my work."

The farmer nodded, pleased that his already-small income would not take a hit due to medical bills. The truth was, Combeferre hardly had the heart to charge for his services; not when those he was serving had almost nothing. Combeferre shouldered his bag and moved to the door, thankful that he had the skill to help. One of the old farmers close to where he lived had been a surgeon in Napoleon's time, and he had taught Combeferre all he could. Still, Combeferre wanted to take real classes in Paris, but he had promised not to move back to the city until Enjolras was ready to come with him.

"Thank you again, lad! God bless you!"

Combeferre lifted his hand in a wave while his thoughts brought him back to his friend. Their relationship had blossomed over the last nine years until the two were almost inseparable. Enjolras was still somewhat moody and serious but Combeferre had, albeit rarely, seen the other side of him, and he had truly come to treasure their friendship.

He smiled to himself, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear. No matter how he tried, he could never get the one piece to stay tied back.

He was greeted by his mother almost as soon as he walked through the front door. It still rankled that his mother was a good half-inch taller than him; and, at eighteen, he was hardly likely to grow any more.

"André! It's a good thing you're home! You're leaving for Paris tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Combeferre repeated. "Why?"

"I couldn't say. Enjolras did not elaborate on much; only said that it was urgent you leave as soon as possible and that you could stay with him until you found a place of your own. He seemed…fairly out of sorts," his mother admitted.

Out of sorts? That wasn't like Enjolras at all; Combeferre had never known him to doubt himself on anything. "I'm going to talk to him." Immediately making up his mind, Combeferre paused only to put his bag down before rushing back out the door. He knew where to go: to the grove.

Entering the woods, he spotted the tell-tale flash of gold in the high branches of sprawling tree. "Enjolras?" Climbing up beside the younger man, he attempted to figure out what was bothering his friend. He immediately saw what his mother was talking about, at any rate: Enjolras seemed to be string out into space; his eyes unfocussed, as if witnessing something that wasn't truly there.

"André."

His voice was cold; distant. And even though Combeferre knew that he would deny anything being wrong, he couldn't help but try to get some answers.

"What's wrong? Why are we leaving so suddenly?"

"Nothing you need to be concerned about. Family matters."

Combeferre pulled back, a little surprised at the high level of coldness and detachment he felt from the other. Even though it was expected, it still stung.

"You know you can tell me anything." It was feeble, and he knew it, but it was something that had to be said.

"Not this time. It doesn't concern you." Enjolras pointedly did not look at his friend.

"But maybe I could help…"

"Just leave me alone."

The words cut deep, but Combeferre tried not to let it show. "I'll see you tomorrow, then." He dropped to the ground, lingering for a moment in hope of a response.

He never got one.

000

The carriage ride to Paris was uncomfortable, to say the least. Few words were spoken, and eventually Enjolras fell asleep; leaning against the wall of the fiacre.

Combeferre studied him in the silence, attempting to figure out what had caused the sudden departure and mood fluctuation. His friend looked as if he had not slept in days; something serious must have been bothering him.

And for his parents, who rarely let him out of their sight, to let him leave for Paris so easily? Something was wrong, to be sure.

In his heart, Combeferre had almost expected the cold response he had gotten. Enjolras was much like his father in that way; he never let his emotions surface. When he was troubled, he kept it inside; to him, showing his true feelings was a sign of weakness.

And if there was one thing Enjolras loather more than anything, it was being touched. His parents were hardly the type to show affection, and he flinched away from even the slightest contact; though sometimes it may have been what he most needed. Combeferre doubted that he had even ever shared a friendly embrace with the younger man.

With that thought in mind, Combeferre eased himself across the carriage and sat close to the other man, reaching an arm around his shoulders and preparing himself for the tongue-lashing he would likely receive when the boy woke up.

000

Enjolras opened his eyes as the carriage rolled to a stop, feeling an unusual amount of comfort for falling asleep in a bumpy fiacre. When he realized how close Combeferre was and the position that they were in, the part of him that his parents had raised was about ready to give the older man a piece of his mind, but the more human side of him realized with a bit of a shock that it felt…nice to have somebody hold him.

He wished he could tell his friend why they had left so suddenly, but he had been betrayed by somebody he had trusted with his life and, if it were possible, had closed himself up even more to the world and people around him. It felt safer to know that you had only yourself to depend on. That way, nobody could hurt you.

Not that he thought André would ever betray him. The would-be surgeon was quite possible that best thing to have ever happened to him. Personality—wise, they were polar opposites, but that had never seemed to hinder their relationship.

Perhaps one day, when Enjolras had accepted the truth for himself…perhaps then he could tell André.

The man in question, realizing that carriage had stopped, started to get up. Enjolras quickly closed his eyes and feigned sleep, not letting the other know he had even been awake. Combeferre moved back to the other seat to gather his belongings, thankful that Enjolras had not appeared to have woken up.

As soon as Combeferre moved aside, Enjolras opened his eyes again and asked, in what he hoped was a sleep-ladened voice, "Are we there?"

Combeferre glanced at him and nodded, and together they stepped out of the fiacre and into a new life.