(A/N: I still love this fic, and I probably always will. It's the first time I tried to seriously write MxB, and it worked. XD I don't think I've posted it, so...)


If only I'd been taken instead. If only I'd been executed along with Enjolras and Grantaire...I wouldn't be dealing with this pain.

I feel guilty. I feel guilty that they were taken from me and I was left here to endure the excruciating torture that is their memory. I miss them, I miss them all. Enjolras and his speeches, Combeferre and his intellect, Courfeyrac and Bahorel's deviant comments...they were always good for a laugh. They always brightened my day (which was not a meager feat; it seemed I was always depressed when I walked in, and I was always laughing when I came out) and it feels so empty without them.

No more will I hear Joly's declarations that he was going to die, no more will fragments of Poland's history reach my ears courtesy of Feuilly, no longer will Jehan's beautiful poetry bring tears to my eyes...even Grantaire's sarcasm is nothing but a memory.

And Bossuet...oh god. Everytime I think about him I get this pain in my chest that just burns like a white-hot flame inside me. Part rage, part sorrow, the rest from the pain of losing the one I thought I would love forever. As if that weren't enough of a distressing situation...

I saw him die.

I remember an explosion, earth-shattering, life-shattering, bone-shattering...the familiar boom of a cannon preceded it and I knew something drastic would happen, but I didn't know what. I was not prepared for what it did, I don't think all the time in the world would have prepared me for it. I saw it connect full-force with Bossuet's gut, it was as though time had slowed down just to make sure I saw the full effect. Blood, blood, so much blood, and he was not even killed on contact by some miracle. He just lay there, this massive crater where his stomach used to be, he was crying out in pain for Joly to come help him, not knowing that Joly was already dead from a bayonet thrust to the throat. He just kept calling for him and for me, and I ran to his side as fast as my aching legs could possibly carry me. I held his hand tightly, I wept, I couldn't help it. He spoke to me in a shaky voice, he gripped my hand as tightly as he could, and he uttered his last words to me:

"I will always love you, Marius Pontmercy. Death isn't going to keep me from you."

And then it was over. His body went limp, he breathed no longer, his heart stopped beating, but only physically. I knew that what he said was true, Bossuet never lied. I knew he really did love me. I knew that even though his heart was no longer beating in his body, his heart was beating for me.

The memory of his death, the images in my mind of it, they still haunt me. The memory is still vivid. I can still smell the blood, I can still hear his voice, I can still feel the warmth and the dampness of his blood-soaked hands. I have never let it go...I miss him most of all of them, I wish that my angel from Meaux would return to me, even if only for a moment...though he would be distressed to find me married.

I can't say that I feel the same for Cosette as I once did. I once thought she was the most radiant thing that God had ever created, that that beautiful face of hers could launch a thousand ships...but not anymore. She still looks the same, yes, but Bossuet's last words still ring in my ears. And everytime I think of them I am reminded that, no, Cosette is not the one I truly love. Nor was she ever. That's not to say I don't love her at all! But she can never replace Bossuet. No one will.

Since the fall of the barricade, I don't think I've felt even the slightest bit uplifted. My depression has swallowed me whole and is slowly digesting me with the acid of my friends' memories. I've contemplated joining them...shoving off this mortal coil and being with my Bossuet at last...but I haven't. I don't know what's holding me back...guilt, perhaps?

Cosette is worried for me. She asks me constantly if there is something she can do for me but I do not respond, because I know there isn't. I know this pain will never dissipate, and I know that I will probably never laugh or even smile again. I feel guilty; I can see my demeanor is affecting Cosette terribly, but there is nothing I can do about it. Nothing is ever going to make this better...

And so I know what I have to do.


I'll be with you soon.