Hmmm… more deep angst-prose than an actual story. But it's Eppie/Gavroche interaction, which there isn't enough of. And you know… I was bored. Interpret as you choose. I do not own any of them, vraiment, c'est triste.

Umm… enjoy?
As Eponine slipped up, silent and cat-like to the door of the Gorbeau house, she didn't notice the little shadow standing to the left of the decrepit stairs. On the contrary, in fact; she was far more concerned with her coattail and the immense effort it took not to get it stuck in the doorway while also opening it quickly enough to avoid the gut-wrenching creak. However, the shadow certainly noticed Eponine.

"'Ponine!" he whispered hoarsely. Though many would have been startled, Eponine simply seemed irritated at having so much unnecessary attention called to her presence. She turned around and gazed into the scrubby bush from which the sound had come.

"What are you doing, coming in so late?" the boy demanded, stepping out onto the street. His crop of reddish-brown hair was particularly unruly, and he seemed slightly disgruntled, but in a bemused sort of way.

"I don't see why it's any a your business, Gavroche," Eponine whispered back. "And I could ask you the same question."

"Eponine," Gavroche sighed dreamily, his frustration suddenly lost. "I don't come in or go out anywhere – I live wherever my feet rest, wherever my song sings itself. But you on the other hand, 'Ponine, you come home. Sometimes you wander out, but you always come home. Today, you're late."

"When do I usually come back, then?" Eponine responded. Gavroche looked thoughtful.

"Around midnight."

"Well, what time is it now?"

"Practically four!"

Neither realized that not only were they no longer whispering, they were practically shouting. Eponine put a hand on her hip.

"Again, Gavroche… what business is it of yours?"

"It's not."

"Well then, I'm going upstairs."

"I wouldn't, if I was you," Gavroche said solemnly. Eponine rolled her eyes.

"Why, pray tell?"

"Because papa's still awake. And he's angry."


Eponine sat down on the stairs, sucking in her cheeks. She looked up into the streetlamp beside her, and saw a little moth hitting itself against the glass. She smiled a little, though the sight depressed her more than she could say. She, Eponine, was that little moth; more often that she would like to admit. Constantly getting hurt and still going back for more, again and again. She knew that she would never find the light that she was looking for, and after this many tries the moth probably wasn't too hopeful either. But they both kept on, again and again.

Gavroche had been silent thus far, understanding that Eponine wanted quiet. However, he noticed how sad she seemed.

"Your hair is pretty tonight, Eponine," he said quietly, sitting down beside her. However, she snorted.

"Don't say that, Gavroche. You know it's not. It's dreadfully stringy and dull. And besides, he says that."

Another moment of silence passed, somehow more conspicuously than the last few had.

"I knew that's where you were," Gavroche said quietly. Eponine looked down, laughing somewhat sarcastically.

"Is that why you were up waiting, then? To make sure I got in alright? Well, you know him. Don't worry so much."

Gavroche shook his head.

"I don't really know him, though," he said pensively. "Nobody does. He seems silly and harmless at first, but I don't know what he's capable of. Neither do you, 'Ponine."

"I do."

Gavroche made the decision not to argue, and looked up towards the turrets of Notre Dame. He could see them outlined against the cloudy night sky, and wanted so much to fly away, to spin around and see them from every angle. His spirit could soar, but he himself was so dreadfully grounded. But if he could go… oh, what if? He would take Eponine with him, he knew. But would she want to go? His sister did have a dreadful habit of giving into the things that hurt her and denying herself the things that were good.



"Why do you keep going back to him?"

Eponine sighed loudly.

"Gavroche – "

"No! I'm serious. You don't love him."

"I might."

"No," Gavroche insisted. "You don't."

"But I might."

Suddenly, the young boy noticed something that he hadn't before. Eponine wanted to love him – she wanted to badly. But she knew that she wasn't going to as well as he did; there was no point in upsetting her.

"You might," he gave in.

Eponine took a deep breath.

"But I don't."

Gavroche remained silent until he came up with something that sounded as though it almost might be the right thing to say.

"Then you don't have to give him everything; you don't have to go back week after week and give him your whole self; everything that you are."

Gavroche might have missed it, had it not been for the glow given off by the streetlamp against the nighttime dew behind Eponine's shoulder. The solitary, lonely little tear that ran down Eponine's cheek as she got to her feet.

"I already have."