The day had finally arrived: the revolution had started. Shots fired on the Pont d'Austerlitz set the wheels turning, and Les Amis de l'ABC had rushed back to build their barricade in front of the Corinth. In the commotion, no one had noticed the new addition to their ranks.

This new addition was small, dirty, and rather effeminate. The floppy felt had he wore didn't match the old tan coat he had, the elbows of which were out completely. Had one looked closely, they would have noticed that his boots were a few sizes too big. Thankfully no one was looking in his direction; instead, all eyes were trained on Enjolras, the chief.

These two, the new comer and Enjolras, were opposites in every sense of the word at first glance. Where Enjolras was clean, this young boy was filthy. Enjolras' clothes were fine, colourful, and well put-together while the boys' were mismatched, old, and of the cheapest fabrics. The dull brown of the stranger's hair sharply contrasted the gleaming blond curls of the leader's. However, the fire that blazed from Enjolras' icy blue eyes was reflected in the deep brown depths of this boy's.

"Here upon these stones we shall build our barricade, gentlemen!" cried Enjolras, his booming voice echoing through the little street. His men began to tear at things, to pile up anything they could get their hands on.

From a little ways away from the Corinth, Courfeyrac's voice was heard calling to a group of women who were looking down excitedly at the action below, "We need as much furniture as you can throw down!" He was, as usual, being flirtatious but it wasn't grating Enjolras' nerves this time, as he was producing results. Chairs, bedframes, bookshelves – you name it, it was falling from windows or being carried through doorways and out to the growing barricade.

Enjolras was surveying the progress, helping in whatever ways he could while still maintaining the ability to give orders. He was pacing back and forth, counting his men once, twice, thrice, his eyes never settling on one thing for too long. It wasn't until the third time he counted them that he noticed the waif. He couldn't help but notice either, as the boy had his eyes locked on Enjolras' from where he stood in the shadows of a doorframe.

"M'sieur Enjolras!" called the stranger when he was certain that Enjolras was looking at him. His voice was rough as though he had spent much of his short life drinking, and Enjolras felt as though he had heard that voice somewhere. When he made no sign of answering his call, the boy jerked his chin to Enjolras as an indication that he wished to speak with him.

He stopped his pacing, shocked at the boldness with which this stranger had addressed him. Enjolras left his spot in front of the Corinth and slowly made his way across the crowded street, intrigued and also a little wounded by the lack of respect. When he stood before the boy, he glared down at his dirty face, scrutinizing it. It didn't take long before he recognized those features, despite the misleading guise, and his blue eyes grew wide with surprise and indignation.

"Éponine!" he whispered, shocked. He grabbed her by the elbow and led her further away from the crowd by the barricade, worried that they may recognize her as he had. He stopped when they had reached the start of an alley, satisfied that they were out of earshot. His hand was still on her elbow.

"How did you know? I thought this was genius. Gavroche helped me, y'see," she explained, her cheeks heating up at having been caught.

"This is no place for a woman, mademoiselle," Enjolras replied gravely, ignoring her question. He would know her face anywhere, but that wasn't something for Éponine to know.

"And this is no place for a man like you, monsieur," she mocked, emphasizing the correct pronunciation of "monsieur." The colour rose in Enjolras' cheeks, a clear indication that she was beginning to annoy him.

He looked down and realized that he was still clutching her elbow. The pink turned to red and his embarrassment masked his irritation, earning him a laugh from Éponine. Enjolras' eyes snapped back to her face and his hand dropped from her arm, balling into a fist by his side. Though he was glaring menacingly at her, Éponine saw no threat in those blue eyes, only something suspiciously tender and open. It gave her courage.

"I believe in you," she blurted.

"Excuse me?"

"I believe in you, m'sieur Enjolras," Éponine explained, her words slow as though speaking to a child. Her husky voice saying his name while they were standing so close sent a strange shiver down his spine. Enjolras shook his head, confused and angry with himself.

"Thank you, mademoiselle, but would you do me a favor?" he asked, his words clipped and more harsh that he had intended them to be.

"Anything. Polish your boots!" she responded eagerly, her dark brown eyes lighting up.

"Go home, Éponine."

The light in her eyes dimmed, but did not disappear. His words chased the smile from her face, like a gust of wind blowing a leaf from a tree. Enjolras instantly felt the cold knife of regret in his heart, and it was all he could do to keep himself from reaching out to touch her face. He had to continue to be rude, to be strong; she wouldn't die at his barricade.

"What if I don't want to? What if I want to be here, to help you?"

Enjolras shook his head, his mouth a thin line across his marble face. He crossed his arms, tucking his hands in his armpits to ensure that he wouldn't do anything to betray himself.

"I'll go home, promise," she said finally, her shoulders sagging in defeat. "But first, may I tell you something, m'sieur?"

He couldn't help but nod eagerly, the excitement in her voice piquing his interest. Dare he let himself hope? Éponine took a steadying breath and straightened her floppy hat before continuing.

"You're a good man, Enjolras. In fact, better than most I know." Éponine smiled in spite of herself, and her eyes seemed to lose focus, to be looking at something other than the grimy alley wall behind Enjolras' head. "Because of this, I don't want to see you die – not here, not now, not so young. I want to be here, to help you; so that I can know that I did all that I could to save a great man like you. Monsieur, you're the best chance my people have – the best chance that I have."

The gravity of her confession hit Enjolras like a pile of bricks and he almost physically staggered beneath the weight of his myriad of emotions. She was willing to die for him – wasn't that enough? After all, the French are glad to die for love; this must mean something. While Enjolras was groping for a response, his gift of oration failing him in his time of need, Éponine took his silence as a dismissal.

"I'm sorry to have said that, m'sieur," she said, bowing her head respectfully and making a move to leave the alley.

Before she could take more than two steps however, Enjolras caught her frail hand in his. He could feel her rapid heartbeat and noted with vague satisfaction that it echoed his.

Uncertain of what he was doing, of why he had done it, Enjolras swallowed hard in an effort to calm his nerves. Nothing had made sense to him since he had met Éponine, but there was one thing he knew in that moment to be irrefutably true: if he was to die, he didn't want to die without her.

"Stay."

A/N: So, what'd you think? I was tempted to make this into a fic, but then I remembered that I had my other one... But still, I might revisit this. If I would, it wouldn't be happy like my other one's going to be. Not at all. So! Give me your opinions, my lovely readers. Critique me, be rude, be awesome like you usually are. Thanks! Have a lovely night.