A/N: Hey guys! :-) This little plot bunny started gnawing at me last week, so I knew I had to get it out of my system! I have no idea how long this will be honestly, but I'm already almost done with chapter two! Definitely inspired by all of the fantastic É/E writers on here and on Tumblr! Particularly Concetta, who writes the best fanfic I have read to date. If you have the time, go read "Our Little Lives!" Then message me. I need someone to fangirl about it with ;-) One other thing, I have very little knowledge of France so don't judge too hard on that aspect of things! I only know what I have read of it, which isn't much. Anyway, on with the story!

CHAPTER ONE | FORGETTING

Enjolras' flat was silent, save for the crackling fire that blazed in the fireplace across the room. It filled the apartment with a sense of warmth that he took for granted. He laid across the comfortable couch, a book open on his chest with his head back on the armrest and his feet kicked up on the other. One slipper had fallen off in his sleep.

A small cat was curled up across the room, all gray and furry and comfortable in a plush bed spun from sheep's wool. In the kitchen, a bowl of dry food and water sat cleanly beside the refrigerator, which was stocked with wine and bread and fresh vegetables.

The apartment was bare, otherwise. Not that one would think it distasteful, because the walls were all painted a warm beige and the hardwood floors were shined; every appliance appeared new, and the furniture was tidy.

And yet, it was all too clean. The art hanging on the walls was very ordinary, the books on the shelf were mostly dictionaries, thesauri, and (many) books on the history of the inner-workings of France's government. In fact, the book that Enjolras had fallen asleep with was a historical autobiography about a man who participated in the French Revolution in the 1800s. And although Enjolras found these things interesting, it was all very plain and expected.

Snow was beginning to fall outside, and Christmas carols were being sung a block away. The heart of France at this time of year was one of the most comfortable places to be.

Enjolras stirred at the sound of the music outside, inhaling deeply as the foggy state of sleep wore off. Dark circles that used to line his eyes had faded to a dull shadow, barely visible unless he started to fall behind on his sleep again.

The memories of what happened years ago had begun to dissipate. The less he thought about it, the better. Life grew easier with each day that passed, marking the passage of time. Details slipped – their laughs, voices, the crinkle of their eyes when they drank too much – and the nighttime didn't seem to last as long.

"Tchk, tchk, tchk," he called softly, the small gray ball of sleeping fur starting at the sound before stretching and making its way toward the couch. It nuzzled against his hand, beginning to purr, then wandered off toward another dark corner of the house it could peacefully sleep in.

With a restful sigh, Enjolras sat up on the couch, stretching his long legs as he did so. The book that had once rested on his chest fell to the floor, which he picked up. He paced to the bookshelf and tucked it back in the place he had first retrieved it from.

And then he stood, with his hands rested on his waist, listening to the dull murmur of Chants de Noël. He moved to the window, leaning on it with one arm outstretched above his head; his hand pressed to the glass and created a foggy handprint. This was the winter of 1967, and never had a time in Enjolras' life been more peaceful.

Suddenly, the phone began to ring from the table beside the small television set. Enjolras hated the phone, but because of the constant threat that it could be important, he begrudgingly answered it.

"Bonsoir," he answered quickly, already annoyed.

"Ah, Enjolras," the thick voice of his boss, Henri Dupont, echoed. "Bonsoir, I take it you are well?"

"Most well," he replied, although he wasn't one for small talk. "What is the nature of your call?"

A hearty laugh erupted through the receiver, as though Dupont could tell Enjolras did not like being disturbed so late at night – particularly by phone. "My boy, you've got to learn to work on your over-the-phone manners! Anyhow, I have a story I'd like you to start work on first thing in the morning." A quick pause interrupted his words, and then came the shuffling of papers. "You remember Monsieur Aimè, the proprietor of the new steel mill in Clamart? Well he's just called in response to us inquiring an interview, and I wanted you to see to it that you get a full column about the place in tomorrow's issue."

Enjolras was suddenly perplexed, trying to wrack his brain for any information about the place at all. He didn't get out of Paris much, as he worked at the Le Figaro, one of the more substantial papers issued daily in France. He couldn't remember anyone mentioning anything about a new steel mill recently, but he didn't often work on stories – he was more of a man "behind the scenes."

Perhaps that was why he was so surprised that Dupont was giving him a story – one with potential, one that could be great – a story about a town's economic prosperity because of a new mill full of employment opportunities. Families that would go fed instead of hungry. Warm, not frozen.

A memory flashed in his head.

Enjolras' eyes fluttered shut once before shaking it off. Don't think too deep, he reminded himself. It will just get worse. Don't go back to that place in '65.

"I'll take that silence as a good sign," Dupont chortled. "You're to be at the mill tomorrow, early as six o'clock, late as seven. They'll be expecting you."

The corners of his lips twitched upward. "I'll be there, Monsieur."

"Good."

Click.

Slowly, Enjolras lowered the phone from his ear and hung it back on the receiver. His smile widened, eclipsing his mouth in a broad grin. His teeth even showed a little. Two hands found his mass of blond, curly hair, tugging at it lightly, and he fell backward on the couch. The room's warm glow was catching, and his cheeks reddened a little.

For the first time in a long time, Enjolras felt hopeful.

xxxxxxxxxx

In Clamart, a waxing roar fell over the city. It was not a natural sound, as that of a lion or of some harsh wind whistling on a blustery day. People on the streets stopped, looking upward as if they would see what had caused the disruption. Briefly, the ground shook.

It was the sound of a factory's gears clenching, pausing work for a day. Gray rolls of steam and smoke billowed upward into the sky as an outpour of workers began to trickle out of the building's exits. These people were caked in dirt, from their feet to the underside of their fingernails to their faces. In contrast, their eyes appeared whiter than knuckles trying to grip the machinery inside the mill, trying to control it so it didn't make a swipe at their fingers.

Beneath the glow of a city falling asleep, a girl walked from the factory. Her dark hair was pinned back into a low bun with a few hairs pulled forward by the labors of the day. Her eyelids were halfway open as she pulled her tattered jacket closer to her chest.

The cobblestone streets were rough on her ankles; she had to watch her every step, keeping her eyes guided on the ground. She pretended not to notice the dirty looks that followed her home from girls with mod hairdos, looking like the American girls in fashion magazines. The long, sweeping hairstyles and flat-ironed bobs surrounding her felt suffocating.

Boys on bikes sped past her with wheels whipping loudly around and around and around. The night sky was dark, and in the distance, she could hear carolers singing "Douce Nuit." Hazy memories from her childhood rushed to the forefront of her mind, during Christmastime when she would find fifteen presents from Père Noël beneath the tree. Back when her father would hold her in his lap and call her childish names that expressed endearment.

He would often still call her names, but these names were different.

She neared the apartment that smelled of cigarette smoke and garbage, the one at the front of the alleyway where homeless men slept in makeshift cardboard homes.

Don't stare, she thought to herself mildly. You could be him.

The few francs in her pocket crinkled as she gripped them tightly. Her other hand grabbed the doorknob to the apartment (which was almost always left unlocked) and jerked it roughly to the right on account of it being consistently caught.

"Maman," the girl, who couldn't yet be twenty, called to her mother. "I'm home."

Her mother was in the living room, a glass of cheap liquor clutched in her grip as she played a round of solitaire. After a moment had passed, a look of disgust grazed her face and she threw the cards into a pile on the carpet. From the corner, the sound of old, tinny harpsichords played a low and rueful melody on the record player.

"Welcome home, little Madimoiselle." Her tone held much irritation. "You got the money?" she asked sharply, not blinking or tearing her gaze away from the glass in her hand, which moved to swish the clear drink around. "Well? Hand it over."

Without thought, she handed over the money in her pocket – what little she had earned – and stepped back. Éponine's mother tisked as she the girl began to leave the room. "What the hell is this gonna buy?"

A sinking feeling entered Éponine's chest as she closed her bedroom door shut behind her. The carolers still rang in her ears, singing memories of old Christmastime when she wasn't caked in dirt and didn't have to give her parents money just to keep them all alive.

Her back leaned up against the door before slowly sliding down it to the floor. In the living room, she heard heavy footfalls and the gruff, familiar tone of her drunken father. His voice mingled with that of her mother, whose voices grew and grew until a loud slap intervened.

Éponine pinched her eyes shut.

How can you remember when everyone around you makes it so easy to forget?