A/N: Hello everybody! Here's a little story for your pleasure. It will probably come in two to three parts only. I hope you enjoy! (By the way, Etienne means "crowned".) :D

Two Ideals, Two Men, Two Bodies

Switched

Part One: The Casting of Characters

Bonjour. I would like to tell you a story, a story that I find rather interesting. Of course, you already know what it is about. Two men, two very different men with different passions and different characters, swap places. By this I mean they swap bodies and bodies alone, while their characters and their passions remain as they had been.

And as you can see, this is all very interesting.

My name, friend, is Etienne Courfeyrac. Heaven knows why my mother named me Etienne. I live in a little tenement that is crumbling to pieces. My own room consists of a mattress and a desk that has been covered with so many papers and books that I no longer remember what the surface looks like. I have a little bread and milk for breakfast, a little bread and milk for dinner, and a little bread without the milk for supper. Heaven knows why my mother named me Etienne.

There is one particular thing in my poor, dull life that shines like the faint light of my candle amidst the darkness of my apartment; that happens to be the hours I spend in the Café Musain.

Here, I enjoy the company of friends, various types of friends: students, drunkards, rich young men, fanmakers. We are all united in a single purpose: revolution (I don't think I have to explain to you what that means. I would rather you tell me if the word made you shudder, laugh, or made you feel nothing at all). Well, that is all you need to know. I would rather not get into details about just what our little revolution is all about. Ask one of the King's men and he would spit out such words as "treacherous" or "seditious". Ask one of the Friends of the ABC, and he will begin talking and never stop talking, so that you will have to miss all three of your meals just because of one question. Out of this long, long speech, you will perhaps catch such words as "freedom" or "equality".

That is only one-eighth of a speech I would have made had you asked me about the word "revolution".

Here is how the story began:

I was on my way to the Café Musain after a hearty breakfast of milk and bread with a certain friend of mine, Marius Pontmercy. He's a nice fellow, a little shy and a little quiet, but friendly nonetheless.

The first time I saw him, he was sitting near a fountain, reading a book. There was something restless about him; despite the quiet black eyes intent upon their manuscript, the complete attention he had in this large book in his hands—so absorbed was he that I thought I could see the wheels in his brain turning round with sparks of interest and fixation—despite all this, I could see the restless hand that ran up his thick, black hair continually and the licking of his dry, full lips every now and then.

I saw immediately that this man was in need of something, and I wanted to give him that something. But I had to know the man before I could discover what he was lacking.

So I stepped forward.

"What are you doing, Monsieur?" I asked him.

"Sitting here."

"Why?"

"I have no place to stay."

"What are you?"

"I'm a student of the law."

"You seem very decent, Monsieur."

At this he shrugged and said, "I am a decent person, I suppose."

I laughed and asked him if he might want to join me for dinner. This led to my offer of a little apartment in which he could stay. "It's a bit small and there aren't much people living there but it's better than nothing." He readily agreed and a hearty friendship followed.

It was with this man that I walked to the Café Musain.

"Really, Marius, you shouldn't be so reserved!" I was saying, "You should be more happy, more passionate!"

"Passionate about what?" he asked timidly.

"Well, passionate about… about life! You should be passionate about at least one thing, you know. Love? You are young, you are handsome! And there are many beautiful French women here in Paris! It is the city of love, no? Is there someone you know? Someone you consider more than a friend?"

He blushed and replied in the negative.

"Hum! You are an odd young man! Perhaps religion? No. That is not for you. Or law? Do you enjoy being a law student?"

"I suppose so."

"You don't sound very convincing. You see, my young friend, you need passion. And that is why I'm bringing you to meet these fellows."

"Who are they again?"

"Oh, a group of young men who love to talk and relive history in all its glories!" I replied mysteriously.

We entered the building from the back.

Voices reached my ears. I could instantly tell whose voice belonged to which person. There was that familiar, drunk, deep voice that was sharp and loud. That would be Grantaire, our own dear skeptic, the only one of his kind among our sort. There was Combeferre's serious, matter-of-fact voice, and the little, bold voice that belonged to the child Gavroche, who symbolized our glorious revolution! Jehan's quiet, timid voice; Joly's tattling, methodical voice; and oh! there was that voice that belonged to Enjolras!

Enjolras! Even his name belonged to that wonderful thing called passion. He was the sort of person who could capture your attention with a few words, who could stir your heart in only a few sentences. I, for one, had been instantly drawn to this man and his gift. People always wondered at his special talent with words. But, you see, I believe that isn't the gift at all. I don't marvel at his words the way everyone else does. No, I marvel at his passion! It isn't the words that stir our hearts! It's the passion behind the words! Picture a man who was so gifted with words but lacked the passion. That is only one-half. But Enjolras was a whole, a man who had both!

I wanted Marius to see this fellow. I wanted him to see Enjolras' passion. But most of all, I wanted to amuse myself by watching how different the two would be. It turned out that they were very different indeed.

"Enjolras!" I called.

A tall man with a face sculptured out of marble turned to look at me. His lips were cold, grim lines, forbidding in their severity; his brow stern and arrogant; his eyes dark, deep pools in which dwelled composure and impatience, tranquility and passion, a peace that shined and a fire that could not be quenched in those shadowy waters.

This was Enjolras.

"Enjolras! This is Marius Pontmercy," I said, pulling the boy forward. "A student," I added, smiling.

"Welcome, Monsieur," was all he said and then he turned and began talking to Combeferre. I'm very good at deciphering, and I knew that Enjolras was, in fact, curious to know just who this young man was, but his method was that of observing before speaking. I knew that he would watch Marius from a distance and search for potential. And I knew that Marius Pontmercy had a potential for passion. I was sure of it.

"Hello!" said Joly happily, advancing towards us and addressing Marius. "I'm Joly, student of medicine! Good to meet you, dear fellow! Oh—don't shake my hand! Don't shake my hand!" he cried as Marius stretched out his hand to greet him, "I've a cold, you see. Nasty things! Don't want you to catch it!"

Smiling, I addressed Grantaire, who was sitting, melancholy, on a wooden chair: "Hey there! Aren't you going to welcome my new friend?"

He looked up at me and let out an empty laugh. "Welcome, friend! Welcome to this head-splitting hole! Here, I drink to you!" He lifted the bottle to his lips and fell backwards from the chair. He remained on the floor.

And then Combeferre stepped forward. "Monsieur, I am Combeferre. This is Jean Prouvaire, and this is Lesgles."

Marius shook hands, smiling.

"Have you ever heard of a man named Napoleon?" said Combeferre, and his eyes shone as his lips uttered the name.

"Of course!" and Marius' eyes shone too.

I stood watching. Marius would do very well here, I thought. He's got passion, and that's all he needs here.

Marius got on very well indeed. He was never absent during our meetings in the Café Musain. He listened with interest, and sometimes his eyes would shine, just like everyone else, as he read about our Heroes and their wars.

But one day, his eye did not shine, and worse than that, he was late. In all these few months he had never once been late! And now, the clock was ticking minutes! Minutes! And he was still not here!

Of course, no one really missed him. Why would they? They had their discussions on revolution, and that was the butter for their bread. They did not need anything else.

But while no one missed him, his absence did not go unnoticed. Enjolras himself was very impatient. Marius had won his, well, not admiration—Enjolras could not admire anything save his Patria—I suppose Marius had won his approval.

Finally, in the middle of a very stirring speech—so stirring, in fact, that I wouldn't have noticed he was here—Marius came in. The moment I clapped eyes on him, I could tell that this was not the same Marius. I myself have never experienced true love. Yes, my life is dull and sometimes it needs the company of women, but never more than just company. But true love—the kind you read in fairy tales and the like—that is something very different. It is the sort of love that leaves you filled, not empty.

I know a changed man when I see it, and Marius had experienced true love. I saw it.

"Marius, you're late," Enjolras chastised him, but Marius hardly seemed to notice. He was pale—oh! the color of one who is sick with love (although Joly always mistakes it for an ailment that is far more harmful)—and his eyes seemed distant and dreamy. He was in a transport.

"What's wrong, Marius?" said Joly. "Not sick, are you? It can't be! A ghost was it? Bad dream? No, no, not with that color," he muttered to himself and continued to murmur and mutter to himself while Marius shook his head and remained silent.

Grantaire laughed and stepped forward, slapping Marius' white cheek until it turned red like a blush and mock inspecting him. Then with the imitation of a physician's voice—intelligent and methodical—he said, "Hmm, oh dear oh dear." He shook his head and tssked. "Something very wrong with you, my poor little boy. I'm afraid you've come down with a bad case of love, Monsieur."

Marius' already red cheek turned scarlet, but before he could reply, Enjolras interrupted impatiently, with a tinge of annoyance (for the mention of a love other than that of a partisan for his enslaved country irritated him), "It is time for us now to decide who we are. Come now! Are we now rich young dandies scrambling for a seat at the opera?" Using a few words he tinkered with the gears in our hearts, until we found ourselves far from the thoughts of mere young men who laughed at love and were merry all day long—he made us sober, silent, grave, proud; we were ready to fight the King himself when he was done with us!

Marius tried protesting, and his voice was beautiful with the passion of a lover. It was not at all like the beauty of Enjolras' passionate voice—no, that beauty stirred our hearts and infused in all of us overflowing strength and boldness. But this beauty, this beauty silenced us and made our minds thoughtful and our hearts peaceful.

I had always known Marius had a potential for passion. Have I not said it many times? And yet, now I stood dumbfounded, realizing that he had found his passion—his passion for, not patriotic love, but romantic love!

With this passion he silenced our teasing and mocking.

And then Enjolras began to speak, and we, like faithful followers, switched sides once more as our hearts sang for the Revolution!

"Red, a world about to dawn! Black! The night that ends at last!"

And then something happened. I was just sitting down, attempting to wake up that dead blockhead of a drunkard Grantaire. (Of course, he remained immobile and completely unaware that I was still trying to yell into his ear until he became deaf.) I looked around. Enjolras was talking to Combeferre when something really strange happened.

Marius' eyes, which had been very sleepy, fell upon a little shadow by the door. I looked in his direction. It was a girl. I turned back to Marius. He was hurrying now to her side when suddenly he tripped over Enjolras, who had stepped back. It was one of those unlucky moments where something happens that makes you wonder if it was coincidence or sheer accident. I decided at that moment that it was an accident.

The two went sprawling on the floor.

Enjolras stood up, his cheeks red, and Marius followed, an indignant expression gracing his face. And I watched, wondering if I should turn away or keep watching discreetly. I decided to turn away, and the odd thing was that when I looked away, I realized that no one had seen what had happened.

Combeferre was talking to Joly, and they were completely blind to the two men glaring at each other with red faces. Grantaire was asleep. Not a single person in this room, excluding Enjolras, Marius, and myself, had seen this peculiar incident.

What was so peculiar about it, you may ask? Two people had an accident. It is very normal. But here, listen! I turned inconspicuously and watched Enjolras and Marius.

Then out of Marius' lips came these angry, arrogant words: "Watch where you're going!"

And at the same time, Enjolras said timidly—yes! I said 'timidly'!—"Begging your pardon, Monsieur!"

Now, I am certain that arrogance was not one of Marius' traits, and I was very positive that at the time, Enjolras did not possess humility—or fear, at least. Well! I thought to myself, something is very wrong indeed.

The two young men stared at each other in bewilderment. I'm sure I was wearing the exact same expression on my own face.

"What did you…" Enjolras' face began to say.

"What did you do!" cried Marius' face, and his black eyes—those eyes that were always quiet, thoughtful, dreamy—sparked.

"I didn't do anything," protested Enjolras' face, and Enjolras' hand rubbed his forehead. "I just fell… It's not my fault! You stepped back!"

"But what did you do!" cried Marius' face.

Suddenly Joly called from the other side of the room, "Marius! I need you! Combeferre says that my face isn't abnormally pale, but I think that it is! Come here, will you!"

Enjolras' body stepped forward, but Marius' arm stopped him, locking him in a steel grasp. I could tell that it was a very tight hold, judging by the sudden wheeze that Enjolras' lips let out.

Then Marius' face bent near Enjolras' ear and hissed sharply, "You're not Marius!"

"What?" cried Enjolras, "What are you talking about? I am M—"

"Outside! Now!"

Then Enjolras' lips stammered, "Oh! Just a minute! I mean—"

Joly and Combeferre stared at Enjolras, confused. "I was talking to Marius, Monsieur," said Joly apologetically.

"Ah, yes!" said Marius' face. "I have something very important to say to, ah, Enjolras. Your malady can wait!"

Then the two men stepped outside.

I sat back in my chair, thoughtful. These thoughts ran through my head: "Better leave those chaps to themselves. It's an awfully embarrassing matter! Enjolras doesn't need this additional humiliation!" Then I let out a satisfied sigh and made myself comfortable in my chair. Then my finger began to thump, and my shoe began to tap the floor gently. And then, of course, I muttered under my breath, "Oh, hang it all!" and hurried outside.

They were talking. I heard Marius, and oh! I'd better explain this to you so that my dear reader does not get confused. From now on, by "Marius" I mean Marius' body with Enjolras inside. By "Enjolras", I refer to Marius inside Enjolras' body.

As I was saying, they were talking. Well, rather, Marius was muttering and Enjolras was murmuring. There's a difference.

You see, Marius was very angry: "What have you done! What mischief is this?" He grabbed Enjolras by the shirt. "Well?"

"I, I don't know," said Enjolras helplessly. "But why am I staring at my own face?"

"We switched bodies, you dimwit!"

"I'm not a dimwit!" protested Enjolras.

"I will not speak to you."

"But you are speaking."

"Be quiet! I must think."

There was a pause. Suddenly Enjolras started and grabbed Marius by the arm. Marius released himself, fixed a stern, harsh look on Enjolras, and said with all the irritability and anger he could muster: "WHAT!"

Enjolras did not see the annoyed look on his companion's face. He only grasped Marius again and cried: "Oh! What am I to do?"

"What are you to do? What am I to do!" thundered Marius angrily.

"Oh," moaned Enjolras, "Oh my beloved! I'm lost! Oh my angel!"

"So you've finally realized the danger of the situation! I must say it took you a while."

"What am I to do, now that I wear this disgusting face!"

"Excuse me! I am right here! And I have a revolution to take care of! I need my face back, if you please! I need my body! Lives count on me! And here I am, stuck in the body of a sick, dreamy, revolting lover!"

"Oh, who cares about you and your revolution!" cried Enjolras. "I need to find my beloved! She must know who I am! And you!" He threw an angry, red glance at Marius, "You have to do this for me!"

There were a few more heated arguments and fighting, and I was very curious and I couldn't help myself when I stepped forward from my hiding place and tried to act as peacemaker: "Now, now! We can settle this all without the bruises and fists and all that."

Both men gazed at me, astonished.

Finally Enjolras spoke: "You know what happened?"

"Yes, yes. I know as much as you do. I don't have a clue as to how this happened, and I don't know how to fix it all but I do know that there's a way out of this fighting and punching and arguments that will only make your lives more miserable."

"What do you suggest?" said Marius impatiently.

"I suggest," said I, "I suggest that you act the way you look!"

Enjolras stepped forward: "What do you mean?"

"I mean that since you look like Enjolras, you might as well be Enjolras, for a while at least. And you," I continued, addressing Marius and sighing, "have to act like the lover for a while, I'm afraid."

"What!" Marius looked at me, his face pale. And then white turned red, and red turned purple and then he burst: "What! I am NOT going to act like one of those DREAMY LOVESICK LOVERS!"

"Hush!" said I sternly. I realized that I actually had the courage to speak up against Enjolras, all because he was trapped inside Marius' vulnerable body. I almost laughed then. "You must! If you don't, your secret will be out, and when your secret is out, people will think you both have gone mad! And what's to become of your glorious revolution then? The people adore Enjolras; if you begin to accuse Marius of stealing your body, and vice-versa, your revolution is lost!"

"He's right, Enjolras," said Enjolras to Marius.

"Oh, don't call him that," I interrupted. "You must address him with your name from now on."

"What's to become of me?" moaned Marius.

"What's to become of me?" moaned Enjolras. "I'm the one forever separated from my beloved!"

Marius groaned. "And I am stuck with her!"

I put on a solemn face. I am a good person, dear reader, but I'm afraid that at that moment, I was bursting with laughter inside.