Author's Note: I do not know where this came from, but it got stuck in my head and I had to write it down. Somewhat holiday-related, but not entirely.

The moment he sees the number, he knows something is wrong. When that number dares to make an appearance on his cell phone, he knows that there is never good news on the other side.

It's because of that association that he almost doesn't bother to answer the call.

He does pick it up, preparing himself for what is to come, because he knows that if he doesn't, it will only be a matter of time before one of his friends will be contacting him, telling him the news with dread. He could just leave work now and head over to save everyone the trouble of wasting their breaths.

During the conversation, he does his best to keep a straight face, trying not to tip off his coworkers of what is going on. He nods, asking a few questions without much emotion, casting glances around the room to make sure nobody notices the moment his façade crumbles.

On the inside, with every word he hears from the other side, he feels a part of him break, a slight pain in his chest. His head starts to spin, his muscles start to ache. He can feel the tears swelling up in his eyes, and does his best not to let them fall.

The instant the call ends, he picks up his coat and his keys and heads straight for the door. He does not bother to tell anyone what was going on, not even his boss, figuring they will all know the reason in a few days, anyhow. He does not even bother to straighten up his desk, something he is known for within the office, and if that does not at least tip someone off…he doesn't care.

It is the snow that slows his commute, the snowflakes coming down in blankets as he drives down the highway at a snail's pace behind the heavy traffic. On most days with weather such as this, he would only bother to blame the snow and the risk of hitting a patch of ice on these slick roads, but he is aware of the true cause of this slow down up ahead, and he continues in his struggle to keep his mind focused on reaching his destination safely, all while trying not to break down.

The cheerful Christmas music on the radio, meant to brighten everyone's spirits at this time of year, does not help the situation much either.

It doesn't bother him in the way it would bother most people. He's almost certain he has heard the optimistic tunes of being home for the holidays a few weeks before Thanksgiving, enough of it for him to be sick of it before the true Christmas season even starts, as are most of the people he knows. That's not the reason.

The truth is, this time of year has never been kind to him.

Three years earlier…

It had been a dumb choice, really. The moment he received that invitation from Marius and his soon-to-be wife, he should have declined, or say that work would stop him from attending their Christmas/engagement party, almost three weeks before Christmas day. It would not necessarily be a lie, per say, only a reason to avoid such "frivolous occasions," as Courfeyrac called it when Enjolras refused to attend many social gatherings of any sort.

Yet, here he was, in one of best suits, on the front doorstep of Marius' grandfather's mansion, doing his best not to criticize the one percent. A part of him expects a butler or some other sort of servant to answer the door, only to be greeted by Marius and who he can assume is his fiancée. What was her name again? Colette? Courgette?

"Hello, Enjolras." Marius says cheerfully, stepping to the side a bit. "So glad you could make it."

"Mabeuf gave me the night off." Enjolras replies with a curt nod.

"And what a blessing that is!" The man is in good spirits tonight, but that is not unusual. "Oh, I almost forgot! Enjolras, Cosette. Cosette, Enjolras."

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you." Cosette smiles, shaking Enjolras' hand. "Marius has told me so much about you!"

"I'm sure he has." Enjolras manages to say, all while trying not send a glare the man's way.

Awkward introductions aside, he is lead into the large living room, which is decked with garland, tinsel, and fake decorative candles (probably a measure in case Grantaire, Courfeyrac, or Joly drink more than they should, or in the case Bossuet should experience one of his accidents), as well as the tall, decorated tree by the front window that almost reaches the top of the vaulted ceilings. He comes to the conclusion that he was the last to arrive, though he is almost certain he arrived ten minutes early. At least, according to his watch and invitation.

"Oh, look who's here!" Courfeyrac is the first to notice his presence, and therefore is the one to call attention to it, much to Enjolras' dismay. He would have rather just snuck in without the attention being drawn to him, but nonetheless, he manages to get by, answering the many hellos with his own and a slight nod of the head before taking the free seat beside Combeferre.

"Ran out of work to do?" Combeferre asks Enjolras casually as everyone else returns to their own conversations.

"No," Enjolras answers, before accepting the glass of wine Cosette offered to him. "Mabeuf told me to leave, that I deserved a break."

"He isn't wrong." Corinne, Combeferre's wife, pipes up. "You haven't stopped to take a breather in a long while."

He can hear the unspoken words at the end of Corinne's sentence, and he tries to hide the memories those unspoken words called back to mind. One day at a time, he tells himself, one day at a time.

The hour goes on, conversations continue, from one person to the next. Stories of years' past here and there, as well as the cliché, "How have you been?" and "Interesting weather we've been having, don't you think?" The room is full of joy and laughter, especially as Joly attempts to tell the story of what he experienced while working the ER's night shift on Black Friday as Bossuet accidently trips over Feuilly's feet and nearly falls into the tree.

Once dinner is called, it is no surprise to him how quickly the living room empties to the dining room, as everyone takes their assigned seat, which Marius and Cosette had made place-holders to direct them to their seats. Enjolras is not too surprised when he finds that Combeferre is seated on one side of him, while the brunette on the other side is a stranger to him. However, she is not exactly a complete stranger, as he has seen her before, when the Amis decide to group together and go out for dinner somewhere. She normally is not far from Marius' side, but as Marius is seated at the far side of the table, the usual does not apply to tonight.

As dinner begins, the conversations carry on. Halfway through his meal, though, his head perks up at the sound of his name coming from across the table.

"Quite possibly, Azelma." Jehan replies to the auburn-haired woman beside him. "Enjolras, have you met Éponine?"

"Hm?" He did not catch the entire conversation, as Jehan gestures to the strange brunette Enjolras has beside him. "Oh, hm, yes, I believe I have, though I do not believe we have been properly introduced."

"As far as I know." Éponine answers with a slight tilt of her head. "And Enjolras, is it? That's a different name."

"It's my last name, actually, and it is what I prefer to go by." Enjolras replies a bit stiffly, a part of him just wanting this bit of small talk to end. If he can tell anything by the look on Jehan's face and how the room has quieted down ever-so slightly, he is not about to get stuck in one of his friends' ways to set him up.

"Oh." the brunette says quietly before taking a sip of wine from her glass, before she looks in Jehan's direction. "It's a group thing, isn't it?"

Jehan nods as he finishes taking a swallow of wine. "For the most part, yes, a trend that seems to have stuck around beyond our college years. However, most of us don't mind either way; only he prefers to be called by his surname."

"Why is that?" Éponine asks, and just as Enjolras is about to form a reply, Jehan does so for him.

"Well, actually, he didn't seem to mind up until two years ago."

Éponine this time directs her questions to the man beside her. "Why? What happened two years ago?"

She doesn't know, and it's an innocent question, he reminds himself as he thinks of how to reply, though on one hand he knows Jehan, in a way, directed the conversation down this road. It is not that difficult of a question to answer, and it has been awhile since…

"I would rather not talk about it" is what comes out of his mouth tightly, and the brunette seated next to him respects his wish, only responding with a small nod of the head.

He does not exchange words with her the rest of the night, not as if that bothers him at all.

The driving on the highway is brutal, between the weather and the traffic, and he grows impatient. If anything, he's anxious, because once he gets there, he does not have a certain idea of what he'll find. Nothing specific, only a vague concept.

He constantly replays the phone conversation in his head as he continues driving at the speed of a turtle. Actually, at this rate, the turtle might be faster. Perhaps he should pull over and begin walking, and a part of him actually considers it, but of course, it's practically impossible for him to maneuver his car that way, being in the middle lane of a three-laned highway that is simply packed with cars. It's almost a wonder he hasn't been bumped by the minivan behind him.

"She'll be all right." he tells himself aloud. "Everything is going to be just fine."

As much as the positive words ease his mind, it's only a matter of seconds before the dark thoughts return to his mind once again.

A few days following Marius and Cosette's double-occasioned party, he finds himself in the bitter cold, wrapped in his long black coat, a red crocheted scarf around his neck. The sky is a pale gray, but otherwise clear, and there is about an inch or two of white powder beneath his feet, enough to cover the ground and still have a bit of grass peeking through.

Many would find it a little odd to find a young man such as himself to be wandering the grounds of a cemetery, simply because of his age to the snow beneath his feet. Who are the many to assume, though? They are only strangers; they know nothing of his life, from birth to now. Other than seeing his face on the street, they know nothing.

Walking among the stones marked for the dead is not a past time he enjoys. It is not something he does recreationally, as he knows some teens come here in the middle of the night or even broad daylight, their sole purpose being to cause mischief, acts that he claims are disrespectful. The dead are buried beneath their feet and their stones marked for memory, not for those willing to cause harm on the living.

His purpose at the cemetery has four reasons, reasons important enough for him to leave the warm and cozy confines of his small, two-bedroom apartment for the frigid air that is blowing into his face. These reasons have him visiting three parts of the forest of stones, not that the longer amount of time there will bother him much. It is something he has done for years now. When he was a child, there were two reasons and one location, and then two years ago had the addition of two reasons and two locations.

There are few reminders to his purpose for being at the cemetery, but when he is reminded, the pain hits him hard, the feeling one may get if they had been struck by a car. With those he lost as a child, the hurt has lessened, but their memories still remain within his mind. The two deaths in recent years, however, are still fresh in his mind. His thoughts of them put a heavy feeling in his chest, and on an occasion or two, Combeferre had to calm him down from the panic grief had caused him.

The first familiar stone he comes upon is the one from many years, the headstone marking the grave of his parents. He stops and stares at it for a moment, recalling old memories before things went wrong, before the memories of the good times shared only brought on pain. His mother helping him when he scraped his knee after falling off his bike. Sitting on his father's lap, watching him going through papers from the office. Singing songs while the three of them were gathered around the piano.

He was not even ten when he lost the both of them, when his own life had nearly been lost.

He kneels down in front of the stone, placing a pair of pink carnations in front of the stone, and for a while, he just sits there. His cold, gloved fingers graze upon the carved names within the stone, recalling the last moments he spent with them alive.

It had been Christmas night, the three of them on their way home from a party hosted by one of his father's coworkers. The snow was coming down in blankets, covering enough of the road to make it difficult to figure out what was and was not the road. His mother was marveling over the decorations and the food, his father nodding along as he took careful attention on the road. His child self was sitting in the back seat, watching the snowflakes cover the ground, hugging tightly a ragged plush cat he had carried around with him for as long as he could remember.

He had felt the car jerk and slide every now and again, and being a child, not thinking anything of it. If it had caused him any concern then, he certainly could not recall it now.

He does not remember how far away they were from home when he heard his mother scream, perking him up after being half asleep. He does remember how the car suddenly slid to the wrong side of the road, the feeling of being jostled a bit when their car came in contact with a minivan head-on. He remembers catching a glimpse of the other vehicle sliding to the side of road uncontrollably as their car spun in the middle of the road before they came into contact with another car, the force of the collision apparently having been enough to knock them off the road, sending them down a hill as they had just missed the guard rails. He can remember the feeling of rolling before his world turned black.

"Enjolras?"

He tries not to act startled at the sound of the voice, before turning his head to see Éponine standing a few feet behind him. He had been so deep in his thoughts that he had not even heard her approach.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you." She begins to back away, preparing to make a quick getaway to prevent disturbing him further, but when he raises his hand slightly, she pauses mid-step.

"It's fine." he tells her, slowly standing up before brushing the snow off his pants. "You don't need to worry about it."

"Are you sure?" she seems cautious and still appears ready to leave him in peace, while on the other hand, she seems hesitant. "I'd really hate to be keeping you from paying your respects."

"You are not, I promise." he says, before glancing back at his parents' grave. A few snowflakes had already fallen upon the two flowers he had set there only minutes ago. "Éponine, is it?"

She nods, looking somewhat surprised. "You remember me, then?"

I certainly haven't forgotten you, he thinks to himself. "Yes."

Before he realizes it, the two of them are walking side-by-side among the rows of stones, carrying on conversation as if they were a pair of good old friends, instead of meeting properly for the first time only a few short nights' ago. When they nearly walk by one of the graves he intended to visit, he pauses mid-sentence and excuses himself. He does not know how long he left her there alone, and when she asks if he would like her to leave to allow some privacy, he tells her she doesn't have to, a response that surprises even him. Before moving on, he gently places a single marigold in front of the stone.

She is the one who stops next, and she asks him if she could be alone for a little while, a request he does not deny her. He tells her he is only going to be a few rows over, and waits for her replying nod before walking over to his intended spot.

He stares at the stone in silence for a time, his mind too lost in its depths of memories. He kneels downs, placing a dark crimson rose in front of the stone, his eyes looking downward in sorrowful remembrance.

At least ten minutes go by before Éponine is standing behind him, her brown eyes red and puffy, tear stains leaving faint trails of mascara on her face. He does not question her tears, nor does she him.

He dreads the moment he reaches the end of the congestion of the highway, when he can see the flashing lights and a pair of mangled cars, one that is only too familiar to him. It only makes the truth come too close to a reality he wishes didn't exist.

He almost pulls over to see if she's there, but he knows she is long gone by now.

He only hopes that once he arrives at the hospital, she is still there.