Disclaimer: Les Misérables is not mine

"Let us fight, Apollo! There is a revolution to be won!"

Someone, he can't see who in the rush, grabs him by the shoulder excitedly, determined to fight. Enjolras just nods and continues overlooking the frenzy that is taking place in the streets. Furniture is flying out of windows, crashing loudly on the ground, splintering into pieces that will make up their barricade of freedom. He watches as a piano falls out of a third story window- wincing at the crash it makes. He sees a young boy out of the corner of his eye wince as well. The boy is wearing clothes that are least two sizes too big, covered in dirt and grime. What used to be a tan, threadbare coat is now brown; it's wrapped around his slender waist, hanging just above the boy's knees. The boy hurries back to work- collecting the wood pieces and heading towards the barricade, arms full. Enjolras' breath catches in his throat and he stops, staring. He can identify that tiny waist anywhere.

Éponine.

Some part of him is terrified for her; he knows that irrationality runs through her veins, pumping side by side with her love for Marius. Her ability to be unpredictable (and her passion, he admits to himself, even though it is never directed at him) is what appealed to him in the first place, and it comes as no surprise to Enjolras to see her here, red cap atop her head, shoving splintered piano pieces into the nooks and crannies of this barricade. His barricade. Their barricade.

The other part of him is happy that she's here. Éponine is the blood that runs through his veins. He lives and breathes for her, not this damned revolution, not for his beloved Patria, but for the girl with ragged clothes and knotted chestnut hair. This entire fight is for her people, for her, yet he is selfish. He is glad that she's here, risking her life for his cause, because it means that she might care for him a little. Maybe she believes that he can do this, even though he doubts himself.

He knows that they are all going to die. While Les Amis may joke that he is a marble statue, made of unwavering stone, both sharp and cold- he knows that he is mere flesh and blood. Bullets will pierce his body and he is going to die for the one thing he ever stood for. The revolution may succeed, he thinks, but only at the price of their lives.

There is still hope for tomorrow, his brain whispers, but it is a tomorrow that you shall never see.

Courfeyrac informs him that the barricade is finished, that there is no furniture left. Nothing else can possibly be added, so now it's time. He shakes off his thoughts and suddenly he becomes their fearless leader, the one that is knowledgeable of all things and can bring about a revolution with just his words.

His makeshift troop gathers around him, and he examines the look on their faces as he preaches about faith and hope and bravery and fear- things he's not quite sure he believes in anymore. Enjolras makes sure to spend extra time examining her brown eyes, the slope of her nose, the curl of her lips as she smirks at him, catching him in his act. He glances away, his final words being met with loud cheers and shouts of "Vive la France!" from his friends. He steps off his podium and tells everyone to get back to work. The group scatters, taking up their respective positions with a light gleaming behind their eyes, determined to win.

Éponine rushes past him, heading off to do who knows what, but he grabs her arm and turns her towards him, not quite sure what he wants from her.

"Bonjour, Enjolras. Fancy meeting you here, huh?" she quips with a smile upon her face. He loves her smile and the dimples that appear on her thin cheeks . He takes a moment to relish in the fact that for once, this smile is directed at him and not Marius. She quietly slips out of his grip while she addresses him. Almost instantly he misses the contact .

"Éponine, you shouldn't be here." He doesn't know what else to say. He's torn between asking her leave and begging her stay. "It's dangerous."

Her smile fades (he secretly wishes it for to come back, just to see it one more time), but a fierce determination appears in her eyes. Suddenly, her face is one of a warrior, of a fighter, not one of a dirty gamine, alone on the streets.

"I know what I'm getting myself into, monsieur. I may be a street rat but I ain't dumb." She's not a street rat, he thinks, at least not to him.

He begins to tell her so. "No, you're not-" but she interrupts him, eyes burning, mouth pulled tight.

"This is a death wish, I know, but I'm not like you. I have no home to go to, no fancy things to protect. My family doesn't care whether I'm alive or dead- so why should I go running back to them? I want to make a difference and I can't do that out there on the streets. Please, don't make me leave. You're fighting for my people, Enjolras, the least you could do is let me stay and help." She finishes, letting out a breath she'd been holding in. He looks down at her, dumbstruck. Her speeches, while ordinary compared to his grandiose way of speaking, can rival his anyday. The amount of passion that burns through her consumes him, making his brain fuzzy and his heart beat fast.

He loves her, and she will never love him.

Fighting with her is a losing battle. He is no match to her wit and quick thinking, so he doesn't even try. Somewhere deep inside of him, he doesn't want to. He wants her here, fighting along side of him for a better France. Resigned, he just nods and reaches out to touch her. He quickly withdraws his hand though, because he knows that he has no right to touch her hand or kiss her palm or gently move his fingertips across her sunken cheeks. Her heart doesn't belong to him.

"Be careful," he says, staring deep into her eyes.

She nods, her smile coming back to her face, dimples popping back into place. With one last glance at Enjolras, she spins around, running off in the direction of Marius. He smiles in return because he's happy that he made her smile like that, and that she's willingly giving up her life to stay with him.

He leans against the nearest building, catching his breath and collecting his thoughts. He doesn't remember when it happened- when he fell in love with Éponine. She would come around with Marius, usually taking up residence in the dark corner of the café. One day, he overheard her telling Marius about the flaws in his plans. Her ideas were sound, so he pulled her aside, desperate to hear her opinion on his revolution. That was the first time he heard her speak with such passion, such determination. That night he went home and fell asleep to dreams of her and him walking through a new Paris, hand in hand.

After that, it just made sense to him. Here she was, the living, breathing epitome of his Patria. In her he saw something he failed to see in the other Amis. Éponine was determined and passionate and stubborn and most of all, she knew things. She understood life on the streets better than any of them, and with her guidance, he was able to refine his speeches and make them bigger and better than before. She single handedly changed him and his revolution. On those late nights at the Musain, huddled over papers by candlelight, Éponine brought the marble statue's heart to life. It started to beat again for her. Only for her.

Uh, hi?

I don't know if you noticed but I love commas, okay? Don't hold it against me, it's just how I am. If you don't enjoy them then please leave peacefully. Commas will be featured quite a bit.

Anyway, I'm new to the Les Mis fanfic club, but my E/E fangirl could not be contained, so alas, here I am.

I hope you liked this chapter- there's two more to go. This is a three-shot (and it's already written!) so the updates will come. Please let me know how I did (I'm a newb and need all the constructive criticism I can get) and don't be afraid to tell me I suck or that I know nothing. The only things I know for sure are that a) I'd let Enjolras storm my barricade any day and that b) Aaron Tveit has the best ass on 42nd street.

That's all. Enjoy!