I've been neglecting my dear little Mizzies... so sorry. :'( But alas, I have read every Montparnasse/Eponine fic on this site and created one of my own. It's a bit typical - a short little angst-drabble. Those two really lend themselves to that. ;) I do not own Les Miserables.


She often wondered how he had the nerve to wear a white rose.

It wasn't that it looked bad on him at all. In fact, it added to the seamless perfection that characterized all aspects of the roguish dandy. The smooth, pristine bloom stood out starkly on the lapel of his black suit, the green stem just barely poking out above his buttonhole. He would play with the petals sometimes, when he spoke to his associates. Or to her, for that matter.

But white wasn't for him. White meant innocence and purity, like a bride on her wedding day. She wouldn't ever be a bride like that; if she ever married it would probably be to him, not that he was the marrying type anyway. And she probably wouldn't wear anything special at all.

It would just be that much more painful if they were married, she decided. Then, what she did with him would be her duty, not a sacrifice. Thinking of it as a sacrifice still comforted her a little.

But not that much, when she awoke in a strange bed that was cold where he had been lying.

Not a white rose. Not for him. White took red stain far too easily. White implied that a man was decent. White implied a gentleman, the kind of man who wouldn't take a woman's virtue in stride.

Yet she dutifully pinned the flower on his suit in the evenings before he took her out, all the while asking herself why he had to have white roses.