I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm so alive! And this is totally not True Blood. Anyway, I've been sucked into my Les Mis phase...again. So I hashed out this oneshot. I know I should be working on Hallelujah, but I'm really just stuck. Chapter 11 is not looking very good. I'm sorry. Hopefully, all this Les Mis writing will get my True Blood creative juices going. On we go!

Right, this is based off of the musical.

When the last of the bullets sank into his torso, he stumbled back. Off of the barricades and onto the street. He fell to his knees before landing on his back, his head cushioned by something much too soft for stone and warm. The shouts and screams around him barely registered as he glanced into the last face he'd see.

"You're still here." Éponine nodded, weak.

"I was waiting, Monsi-" Too cold. Neither of them wanted to be cold. "Enjolras."

Enjolras smiled faintly. He closed his eyes, not yet ready to sleep for eternity. He felt her fingers graze his forehead, brushing his hair away from his eyes. He turned his head toward her, grasping her other hand - the one that had found its way onto his chest.

Her hands were cold and his were still a little warm. Small comforts.

"He's a fool you know." Enjolras could feel his fingers going numb. He rubbed his thumb over the frail hand on his chest. "Blind. Marius."

Éponine's eyes glittered with laughter. "As are you." Her gaze landed on another man at the barricade, a shattered bottle at his feet.

"You will have love, 'Ponine." More of a question than a statement. "Now, or in another lifetime."

"In another lifetime then, 'Jolras." He coughed, the pain edging into the forefront of his mind. He focused on her fingers as they trailed through his hair; on the welcome weight of her palm on his chest. "Both of us."

"Why'd you stay?" Or his more fervent question: Why'd you wait for me?

"Someone had to. 'Vroche decided to run off. Scoundrel, he is." He felt her take a deep breath, her hand clutching his and he understood. For you, Enjolras. I couldn't let you go alone.

"Don't be afraid, 'Ponine." He opened his eyes again, staring into Éponine's muddy, brown gaze.

"I'm not." She gave him another close-mouthed smile, lying through her teeth.

"I'm sorry I failed you." Éponine looked at the young revolutionary in surprise.

"You did not. You could not."

"Patria. You are Patria." You always have been. Tears filled her eyes. "I was supposed to save you."

Éponine shook her head softly. "You did not fail Patria. Your revolution, your words, they sing in the hearts of the people."

"I still failed you." He took another deep breath, noticing how difficult it was. "I didn't get to save you."

"Your heart was enough." Enjolras nodded. The pair sat in silence, waiting.

"Enjolras?" The young man looked up at the gamine. He was surprised to find tears falling down her cheeks before landing on his. "I'm so sorry."

He could find no strength to lift his arm to wipe her dirty cheeks so he squeezed the hand he held. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently against his. "I'm here, 'Ponine."

"I'm so scared." She whispered, her breath tickling his ear. He felt the shiver course through her thin body. He shut his eyes, willing away his tears for Éponine. "I'm so afraid."

"Don't be." He gently tugged on the end of her long, brown hair. "I'm here, 'Ponine. I'm not leaving you." He felt his tears fall from his eyes. "I'm here."

The gamine said nothing. She instead lifted her head to press her lips against the corner of his mouth before pushing herself up to lean against the barricade once again. He could feel her strain to catch a breath and both felt the sudden cold settle into their bodies.

"I'm going to close my eyes now." Enjolras didn't know if he nodded, but he closed his eyes too.

"I'm right here, 'Ponine." She clasped her hand around his, but felt nothing.

"Is this goodbye, Enjolras?"

Slowly lifting his hand, he tenderly pressed Éponine's palm to his lips. "No. Never."

And then the cold was gone. It was so warm. So gloriously warm.

When the people crawled along the barricades, searching for things to steal and dead to bury, a quiet painter found them there. The red flag of the revolution twisted around the pair, cloaking Éponine's head, covering the stain of death on their clothes. He held her hand in his, pressed against his heart. They had found them at last - Patria and her marble revolutionary in their final embrace.