A/N: So as much as I desperately wish I could report otherwise, I'm still not Victor Hugo. This is my second fanfic attempt, and it is very different than the first. This will hopefully become a multi-chapter thing with a new one every week. Please R&R and I hope you enjoy!

Between

The silence was the first thing he remembered. Before he could even open his eyes, he was acutely aware of it. It was the kind of silence most people never experience in their entire lives. The strange thing about it was it wasn't silence in the normal sense. Silence is defined as lack of sound, but this silence was so substantial it almost had a sound of its own. It was absolute. It was nearly tangible. The café Musain had been many things, but never silent. And surely never this kind of silent. This unsettled him. He struggled for a moment to open his eyes, but it was as if he had no control over them. He wasn't sure why, but somehow he remained strangely calm about this new development.

He experimented with his limbs. First he wiggled his toes. It felt as if they didn't exist until he thought about them…like they were appearing right on the spot. He was overcome with the sensation that nothing around him was permanent. Indeed this impermanence stretched to encompass him as well. He couldn't pinpoint any solid thing on his body or around him until he thought of it. As he realized he needed to be sitting somewhere, he felt a floor beneath him that hadn't been there before. As he wondered what room he was in, a wall materialized behind his back.

For some reason, he had absolutely no doubt that he was in the Musain, although had anyone asked him he surely wouldn't have been able to come up with a coherent reason why. He still couldn't get his eyes to open. It was as if he was expected to fully create his surroundings before he was allowed to view them. He pondered the fact that he should probably be wearing clothes, and suddenly became aware of the distinct scratch of fabric against skin. Without the luxury of sight, the desire to smell came next. Wherever it was, this place needed a smell. No sooner had he thought it, but the smell of gunpowder laced with absinthe wafted up to his nostrils.

It is said that smell is the strongest of the five senses. Perhaps this is true, for in that second, a thousand sharp but unconnected details came rushing back like a swarm of insects and converged on him all at once.

Gunfire.

Shouting.

Explosions.

Screams.

Blood. So much blood.

And…a man…

A vision appeared in his minds eye so brilliant he wondered if maybe he had regained sight after all. This man – this vision – was familiar. Achingly familiar. A pure, marble-like face. The face looked as if it could have been cold, but the only expression gracing its features was pure, unbridled passion. He was left breathless by his own hallucination. And then, a name was suggested from the back of his mind.

Enjolras.

It was as if the scattered puzzle of his brain was put to right in that single word. In a split second he knew, and he understood. He remembered. The meetings. Les Amis. His friends. The battle. Building the barricade. The soldiers. So many soldiers. And…his Enjolras standing there, flag in hand, beside the open window. His Enjolras defiantly staring down a dozen national guardsmen. His Enjolras seeing him, grabbing his hand, smiling…permitting it. He felt a deep pain in his chest unlike anything he had felt before. It was worse than the bullets, for it had been much quicker and he had had Enjolras then. He doubled over in agony. It took him a second before he realized that it must be like everything else in this place – as soon as he thought something, it manifested itself physically. Thinking of Enjolras in this place was literally breaking his heart.

Suddenly, a sound broke the silence. It took him a moment to realize that it was a human voice. He had almost forgotten what it was like to hear. He thought maybe he was hallucinating. But he wasn't. It was there, and it was saying his name.

It was a familiar voice, but he couldn't place it. It was deep and low and little bit frightening. At this thought, he was suddenly aware of hair on his arms, as it was standing on end. It occurred to him to try to speak.

"Yes?" he responded. He expected his voice to be hoarse from lack of use, but it was surprisingly smooth.

Grantaire, the voice hissed. It still retained its familiar quality, but it…it hissed. He was confused, but not for long because the voice continued.

Skeptic. Drunkard. Worthless cynic. You slept while your friends died. How dare you think yourself worthy to die with him? How dare you think yourself worthy to stand beside one so pure and majestic, and press your worthless hand to his virtuous one? How dare you think that one so great needed you to die beside him? What gave you the right instead of any of the others?

He forgot he could speak. The words knocked all the fight out of him. He slumped back against the wall, suddenly physically weak.

Jehan. Shall we talk about Jehan? They took him away. He died afraid and alone, but he died with the words of revolution and defiance on his lips.

He felt himself begin to shake. He covered his ears and realized before he knew what he was doing that he was rocking back and forth. Still, the voice pushed on.

The firing squad went after him. The gentle poet, tortured. Ripped apart by bullets. His body was barely recognizable as human. The mangled corpse….

But then, another voice was distinctly heard.

"Grantaire? Grantaire? R? Where are you?"

It was sweet and gentle. Soft, and delicate, and…

"Jehan!" he choked out, realizing he was in tears.

He realized another thing. He could…open his eyes…

And sure enough. There, in front of him, was Jehan. He was wearing the same clothes he had died in, but they were clean and pressed with not so much as a wrinkle or a speck of dust. No blood, no sign of torture there. Just…Jehan. His eyes sparkled a little more brilliantly than he remembered; his hair was a richer shade of brown; his skin a glowing pale; but above all, his smile…

"Grantaire!"

Grantiare moved to embrace him, but the smile disappeared. "No, Grantaire. You cannot touch me. See? Try."

He did. He flung his arms around what should have been his friend. Should have been. But they closed around mere air. Grantaire let out a confused moan of frustration.

Jehan smiled sadly. "Oh, Grantaire. I cannot stay long. You see, I am already on the other side."

"Other…you mean…heaven?" Grantaire asked slowly.

Jehan nodded. "I suppose that is how most people would know it. Yes, Grantaire, I am in heaven."

"But…where am I?"

"Between," the poet answered simply.

Grantaire shook his head. "No. No. This is the Musain. It was all a dream. You're a dream. I had too much absinthe, and...and it's late, and pretty soon Courfeyrac or Combeferre or Joly will come and wake me and say it's morning and we'll all be back planning for the revolution, and Enjolras-" his voice broke there, for he knew. Of course he knew.

"They are all with me, Grantaire. You are the only one left behind."

"But why? Why is this the Musain and why am I awake and why are you here if I'm not going to make it to heaven?" He cried, getting steadily more worked up. "I never planned to make it to heaven. I made a point not to believe in heaven! Just leave me alone to rot in limbo or hell or wherever I'm going. This is making it worse, Jehan. You're…you're killing me again…" he finished in a pleading whisper.

Had he paid attention to Jehan's face, he might have noticed the pain and sympathy written all over it. But he didn't. He noticed nothing but his own pain and grief.

"Grantaire. It's not my decision. It's your own."

"My own?" he snapped. "You think I'd choose to stay here all by myself? Why the hell am I here, Jehan? If you're not going to help me, get out and leave me alone."

Jehan looked at him sadly. "It is the Musain because it becomes whatever place you want it to be the most. As for why you are between…you are the one holding yourself back, Grantaire. You are the smartest man I know. When you were sober, you could be the most charming as well. You were kind and pure and I know you have a heart and a soul. You wouldn't have died the way you did if you didn't. But you don't believe in yourself enough. You depend on us too much, and you need to show yourself that you don't need us."

"Do you mean…I'm stuck here…alone?!" he cried, his panic growing. "Jehan! No! Don't leave me alone forever!"

Jehan shook his head. "I can't stay forever. But I am here for another reason. I am here to show you that, once, your world was full of joy and light."

"The world is never full of joy and light, Jehan. I spent our whole lives trying to get you to take off the damn blinders and see that the world is a terrible terrible place and always will be," he snapped.

"Ah, but you didn't always believe that, did you?"

And suddenly, he couldn't see again. There was a strange whirling sensation, and he felt himself no longer in the Musain. There was grass beneath his feet, and a flowery smell in the air, and a warm breeze blowing through the trees, and…

"Emile!"

Emile. That was his name, although it hadn't been used in years. Not since she had called him that….

"Sophronie!" he cried, and ran toward the voice. Jehan chuckled sadly. "She is but a shadow as well," he said softly.

He opened his eyes and there she was. His light. His life. His little sister. His Sophronie. She was a beautiful, delicate creature, and he was struck by it all the more for her youth and knowing it had been years since he had seen her. She was fair skinned, and her loose, dark curls resembled his own. He was about to turn and shout at Jehan for bringing him here if he couldn't even talk to her when…he saw himself. He couldn't have been more than 12. She was four years younger, but they were inseparable – they were darkness and light, the sun and the moon, air and water. They were different as different could be, but this served only to strengthen their bond.

He watched as the younger version of himself ran to his little Sophronie and spun her around, her white lacy dress trailing beside her as she laughed. Ah, what a laugh. It was musical and softly caressing, like angels or doves or butterflies' wings.

Sophronie was beautiful, while Emile was not. Sophronie was clever, but not applied enough to be considered 'intelligent' in the conventional way. Emile was eloquent and genius-level intelligent. She was good with the physical and emotional, while he was good at manipulating words and ideas. They completed each other.

He watched as they sat together. He braided flowers into her cascading curls as she sang and laughed. Then, they lay back and looked at the clouds.

"That one looks like a castle," she said with a giggle. He turned and looked at her with a smile.

"How would you know what a castle looks like, silly girl?" The affection was clear in his gaze and his voice.

She shrugged, and continued to play with the daisy in her delicate fingers.

"One day, I'll build you a castle. You'll see."

She rolled over and propped her head up on her elbows. "Will you, Emile? Oh, will you?!"

He chuckled, and it was a surprisingly rich sound for a boy so young. "Yes, my dear Sophronie. I'll be leaving for school soon, but when I get smart, I can get rich. And when I'm rich, I'll build you a castle and we'll live there forever and ever."

She smiled radiantly. "I'd like that, Emile." Then she closed her eyes and began to hum again. The scene faded with the song, until suddenly, the hard floor of the Musain was beneath him once more.

"You were happy, once," said Jehan quietly. Grantaire turned to him, and his eyes were suddenly full of tears.

"What are you trying to do to me, Jehan? You know what happened to her. You know why."

"Can't you understand? The joy is in remembering…" he said softly.

"Remembering?" cried Grantaire. "I remember perfectly. I remember that I went off to school and when I returned, Sophronie was married off. Sixteen years old and married off to some Bonapartist. I remember going to find her and having her pregnant. I remember the bruises around her face and the way the light went out of her eyes." He paused, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the tears from coming. "I remember burying my sweet little sister because that wretch of a man my family married her off to without me even knowing beat her to death and broke her spirit. That is what I remember, Jehan. My little sister is dead. You want me to be happy?" He spat the final words with fury. When he finally opened his eyes, though, Jehan was gone. "JEHAN!" he cried frantically. Suddenly, a force from nowhere knocked him down and pinned him against the wall. Right where he died. He couldn't see again. The hissing voice was back.

Well done. it jeered. You've pushed him away again.

"JEHAN!"

He's gone, you stupid fool. Gone.