A/N: I'll make this quick, This is a colab between me and my friend Courtney. It is set after the events of Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins, but before the epilogue of that book. It has (most?) of the Les Miserable characters, but they have been aged down because they need to be teens. There will also be some Hunger Games characters, although they will not be the focus. Yes, this is Slash, Enjolras and Grantaire.

The torture devices that had so terrified them before had now become just part of the landscape of slippery shadows on slippery walls. If they were trying to plant fear into the souls of the unworthy, they should have at least put a bit more effort into it, Grantaire mused. He was, in all honesty, bored.

He perfected the coin tricks with a penny he'd found attached to walls, he cracked a dark joke nobody felt at liberty to laugh at.

In his rare streak of honesty he admitted he wasn't really interested in this whole charade. Pointless, and over-the-top, it felt bitter and dull. This wasn't really like any of the other Hunger Games; even the Quarter Quell hasn't got anything on this ragtag revenge scheme. This was blunt, blunter than anything other Games; the aim wasn't to crush rebellions or beat the capitol's name into the breaking backs of the citizens. The aim was to simply and purely kill them. There would be no victor. There would be no hope to kindle and crush; no nothing. See, it was to give the fathers and mothers of the capitol's children a taste of their own medicine.

But it wasn't like his father was of importance, now he's gone and kicked the bucket. But the districts couldn't pick and choose; most of the capitol higher-ups didn't have time, or were too rich to bother with mere mortal's pastimes.

Grantaire hopes it will help them sleep easier.

The other "tributes" are a pretty pathetic bunch. About as much muscle as a skeleton. He wasn't much to talk, but why break the habit of a lifetime.

The light streams in as the doors open and a young man stumbles in, bleary-eyed and fragile. Tufts of blonde hair and wide blue eyes like a doe, the doors close and he is blind, fumbling with the side of the steel wall, trying to find something to hold onto.

"Hey," Grantaire tries, his voice craggy and raw. More time had passed than he'd thought. "Welcome to wannabe hell."

The guy scowls and continues trying to find something on the flat wall, but eventually slides down and sits. The other tributes make room. How quaint.

Blondie blinks and tries to focus on Grantaire. His eyes narrow and widen and his eyes seem to catch all possible light despite the unflattering gloom. His squinting was getting kind of annoying, but Grantaire just averted his eyes.

"Who are you?" Blond Curly-Wurly asks.

"Grantaire." Grantaire just sort-of assumed he was talking to him.

"Grantaire who?"

"Does it really matter?" Grantaire growled, sitting back against the wall and focussing his attention on the penny. It's really just a dark grey circle in the dark, but he acts as if it transfixes him.

"I'm Enjolras."

"Good for you."

Silence falls since Pretty-Boy seems to be the only one who actually wants to talk. Grantaire turns the coin over in his hands more times than he can count.

"Don't worry." Blondie says quite suddenly.

"Why would I worry? We're just going to die." Grantaire says. He can't help himself. This guy is just too happy for someone condemned to death.

"We're not though. We can survive this. We've survived so far, haven't we?"

Grantaire shrugged. "I survived this far by luck and luck alone."

"We're alive." The guy leans forward; and his mop half-obscures his face.

Grantaire cackles quietly. "If you can call this alive." He glares at the newbie. "Look around you, Blondie; Wake up and smell the burning. Everything that was isn't anymore. The Capitol, it—it's dead now. It's a broken, burning, hell. Everything—including us—is broken. You, me, your dad, and your family we're, they're all—"

It happens before Grantaire can even register movement. He is pinned against the wall, eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose with Enjolras, his glare magnified to fill his vision. Enjolras slaps his chest with the flat of his hand but the pain and shock barely register in his dazed mind.

"Not everything." Enjolras barks.

He slaps his chest again.

"Unbroken." He says, setting Grantaire back down.

Oh, loyalty feels a lot like love these days.

They were herded to the Training Facility; the bright glare of the overhead lights either burnt into their eyes or painted them in to the shadows. With a touch of originality this room was silver, instead of greying, and huge like an aircraft bunker.

Grantaire tried to hang back and observe, but the tributes all pushed him forward, clustering behind him like shy children. With a stab of pity, he realised most of them were. Enjolras didn't seem to mind addressing a crowd, he was practically beaming. He led them around the stations and guessed at what they were and how to use them properly. He had a lot of academic knowledge but practically all he was is clumsily determined.

Eventually the group managed to split up and fumble around trying to work on their own. Grantaire didn't see the point of training for only two days, but he found the rack of weapons as well as anyone else. He glanced over the sharp curves of metal and held a long wicked knife. It fell easily in his hands and the weigh was reassuring.

He turned and cast his eyes across the rafters. He noticed a man in the observation room, with pale hair and paler skin and milky blue eyes. Grantaire squinted at him, trying to place his feeling of familiarity with—ah. The Star-Crossed Lover from District Twelve, the other wing of the Mockingjay, had graced them with his presence.

Grantaire had an urge to bow, but resisted. He was curious, and took a few steps closer, until he was close enough to see the burns that cascaded across his features were he wasn't patched up. The man's gaze followed him with a sort of restless worry, bordering on fear.

Too little, too late, Mr. Mrs-Revolution.

He wasn't sure he'd even wanted it to happen, but he didn't stop it. His thumb pressed his little finger and he pressed his fingers against his lips. He raised three fingers, unflinchingly locking eyes and staring deep into his baby-blue eyes. His arm did not shake or move, it was if he was a marble statue.

The Star-Crossed Lover blinked first, zig-zagging away and closing the door quickly behind him.

Grantaire turned, and saw Enjolras staring at him. Grantaire grinned, but Enjolras looked with a mixture of disappointment and sadness, enough to chill even Grantaire's cold soul.

Grantaire opened his mouth to ask what he had done wrong, but the words didn't seem to want to more from the lump in his throat. The silence stretched on and Grantaire eventually closed his mouth. Enjolras, painfully slow and with frightening control, slowly, slowly, shook his head and turned to correct a young boy trying to make a fire.

Dinner was served, presumably only to stop them dying of hunger or thirst before the big event. Even though Grantaire could hear the muffled growls from the other tributes, they stared at the table in such an odd mixture of surprise and fear it was almost like the table had grown teeth and they were expecting the food to eat them.

But then again, the food on the table wasn't exactly what anyone here was expecting (except maybe Enjolras, who was digging in merrily); Shrivelled squirrels, dried-out bread, forest berries, skinny turkeys, and water. Grantaire was resigned to eating it more out of consumption of food rather than enjoying it, but the others only poked it experimentally after a while, like it was a bomb.

Grantaire got annoyed after awhile and aimed his knife at them. "Eat." He ordered, as gruffly sincere as ever, "Eat this or I'll eat you."

The tributes hesitated but a few of them started to pick bits and pieces from the table, and the rest crumbled under hunger and peer-pressure. Soon everyone was eating, sure, with grimaces, but eating none the less. Grantaire finds the jug with the wine, which entertains him quite liberally for the duration of the meal.

When the meal ends, the Grey Soldiers return to herd the people through the winding white labyrinth of hallways, but this time, from what Grantaire's fuzzy memory supplies, in a different direction to before. The reflected look of slight worry confirms this. Grantaire glances at Enjolras but he doesn't look worried.

Or, at least, no more worried than usual.