AN: So I know it's been a while but I got this idea from a gif-set off Tumblr. Hope you enjoy this little one-shot! If you did, favorite and tell me what you think!

Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables, if I did, I'd be dead. 3

The minute your soulmate is born, your heart beats in time to theirs. It's weird, really, how one second your heart is beating calmly under the serene sound of classical music floating from your sister's room when suddenly it picks up speed. And it's racing. It's running. And you take in deep breaths to calm your beating heart and you don't know what's happening and you're scared. You're scared that you might be dying, that your heart is about to burst, that you're going to collapse because you're heart's going to explode.

But you don't.

You grab the cloth over your heart and try to whack it into peace. It doesn't work. So you run to your mother, only increasing the thundering pace of your heart, and you cry and tell her you love her and that you think you're going to die because your heart is racing and it started out of nothing and it won't stop.

The worry that shades your mother's eyes quickly disappears as she gives you a gentle smile and pulls you into her embrace. She explains that you weren't dying. At all. But that your soulmate, somewhere out there must be doing something to make their heart race. Something so emotionally strong that even his own heart can feel it.

You barely understand. All you take back to your spot in the living room is that your heart would beat in time with your soulmate's when you or your soulmate experience really strong emotions. And that it's normal. And that you aren't going to die because of it.

Years later, you're used to it. Because, apparently, your soulmate is really strong when it comes to releasing their emotions. You've even been able to categorize your soulmate's different types of heartbeats.

There's the double-thump pattern—you think they feel it when they're nervous or starting to feel dread or fear. Then the single-thump, evenly spaced beat—when your soulmate's excited, happy, running on an exhilarating-sort of adrenaline, or any of the like, you guess. Then the erratic thump thump thump—that's when they're pumped with a dread-filled adrenaline or angry. And there were more, you know, but you don't have time to reflect on that now. Any other time but now.

Now, you have a protest to plan.

Your comrades trickle out of the café, leaving you with your best mate—your right-hand man and confidant—and the drunk of the group.

"Enjolras," he calls you and you nod to let him know you're listening, but you don't look up from the papers you're shuffling through. "Are you alright?"

At this question, you do look up. Of course you're alright. You're more than that, even. You're about to lead one of the first projects you've ever truly cared about, how couldn't you be?

You voice your thoughts, "Of course I'm alright, 'Ferre. Did I seem odd today?"

He shakes his head, "Oh, nothing. It's just that you were pushing your hand over your heart a few minutes ago. I thought, perhaps you were feeling ill?"

"I am fine, my friend," you assure him and explain candidly. "It is an old habit, I'm afraid. When my soulmate takes the beating of our hearts, it's normally terribly fast so I've grown accustomed to pushing it down and taking deep breaths."

You see Combeferre's eyes widen, and you are surprised at his reaction. Wasn't it common knowledge that your heart beats in sync with your soulmate's?

"You can feel your soulmate's heartbeat?" he asks, a tinge of awe in his voice, you notice.

"Can't you?" you reply, confused. You've always assumed everyone could feel their soulmate's heartbeat at times.

Combeferre shakes his head and your brows draw together in confusion.

"Enjolras, they say you can only feel your soulmate's heartbeat once before you two meet again—only then will your hearts always be in sync," Combeferre explains. "It's—What you're going through isn't normal."

You don't reply to that. What could you possibly say? Instead, you wish Combeferre goodnight and help Grantaire home.

In the passenger seat of your car, Grantaire speaks up for the first time that night.

"Apollo," he slurs, wriggling in his seat. "Don't listen to Co-be-err, he doesn't know nothing."

"I find that hard to believe considering he's my best friend and a medical student," you reply brusquely, keeping your eyes on the road.

"No, no, I mean about the mates," he continues. "He doesn't know nothing about so-ulmates."

"Oh, and you do?" you scowl, tired of the conversation. "Just go to sleep Grantaire, or stop talking before I make you walk home."

"Just hear out," he insists and you give in to his drunk request, giving him a slight nod. "See, what Co-be—what '-erre said was what ev'ry 'un else knows. But we, we're spacial."

"You mean special," you correct automatically before asking, "What makes us special?"

"You, yer one of 'em rare so-ulmate-fr'm-birth typies, me," he jabs a thumb at his chest. "I don't feel nothing."

"Grantaire, of course you feel stuff," you roll your eyes at his ridiculous statement. "You couldn't stop cursing and yelling at the pain when you hit your knee on the counter two days ago."

"Stupid coun'er," Grantaire growls at the window. "But that's not what mean. I can't feel heartbeat."

"What?" you raise a skeptical brow at him before reaching over and feeling for his pulse on his wrist. "I can feel your heartbeat. It's steady."

"You can feel heartbeat," he corrects you, and you surprise yourself by not getting so irked at this. "But I can'ts. I run, I cry, I laugh—no heartbeat."

"Well, what does that mean?" you ask, half-believing him and half-thinking his words nonsense.

"I don't have so-ulmate. I don't get love."

A week later, you're running with the crowd. Your protest has gone wrong. Horribly wrong. And you curse every being that supported its downfall. You are frustrated. Disappointed. Angry. Because it wasn't supposed to end like this. But all you can do now is run.

And so you run.

Your heart beats angrily in your chest and this time, you know it's your own. This is your heartbeat. This thunderous pace is. your. heart. Not your soulmate's, but your own. And for the first time, you feel as if you have two hearts. As if there's an extra beat in your chest. And you know, this time, for the first time in your life, that YOU are in control of the beat. You are in control of the pace. You are in control of your heart.

Somehow, your feet carry you into an alleyway and you can see a crowded opening just waiting for you with open arms when suddenly—suddenly —cops. Many cops. A lot of cops. Cops.

With another protest to plan—a hopefully more successful one, you think—you cannot afford jail time. So you try to turn on your heel but something pulls you back and soon you're being pulled into a dumpster, pinned against a mountain of trash. Covered in darkness, you feel a callous hand cover your mouth and a raspy, but definitely female voice whisper, "I won't hurt you."

And then you feel it. Not only in your chest, but under the hand you were using to push the woman off you.

A stop. A stutter. And then that single-thump, evenly spaced beat.

It. Was. Her.

And you know she felt it, too, because as soon as you had felt it, her hand had flown off your mouth.

"You," she breathes. "No wonder your heart was racing so fast. You were that crazy, idiot protester."

"Crazy idiot?" were the first words that splutter out of your mouth. "And who, exactly, are you?"

"I'm just the chick who happened to save your royal idiocy from being thrown in a cell," she retorts. "And, man, are you heavy."

"It's a good thing I never asked for your help, then!" you yell and she reprimands you with a shush before lifting the dumpster's lid and checking if it was clear.

Soon enough, you are back on the ground and terribly filthy but thankfully not in jail. Under the sunlight, you could clearly see her features. Short, tanned skin, small face, long, messy brown tresses, and swirling brown eyes.

She stands her ground across from you, arms crossed as she openly stares at you as well.

The staring stops when she snorts and you tilt your head questioningly.

"My soulmate is a handsome, ungrateful git," she rolls her eyes before she turns on her heel and starts walking away, grumbling. "Great. Just great."

"And you think having a kidnapping, crazy strong soulmate is great news for me?" you retort and she turns to glare at you with fire in her eyes and suddenly, you're frozen where you are.

"This 'kidnapping, crazy strong' girl is named Éponine, you ungrateful git, Éponine Jondrette," she bites before continuing to walk away.

"Enjolras," you find yourself saying, your foot taking a step forward. "Lionel Enjolras."

And you don't know why you're feet are following her, but you go with it, and soon enough you two are sitting in the corner of the Café Musain, heatedly debating about the best way to reform education.

Your heart beats a familiar pattern.