A/n: A sort of parallel to Brothers, almost. I also realized it's kind of a lot like No One Watches, but...ya know. Contains non-cannon character death. And violence.

"Je suis tombe par terre, c'est la faute a Voltaire..."

A small, coarse voice echoed softly in the darkness, running through decrepit alleyways and off into the night. Only a street lamp, frosted by the air, gave the gamin light, a soft pale glow, casting through the fog which rose from his mouth. Though his hand had gone numb long ago, he kept his hold on the lamp's post, spinning around it as he sang of nonsense.

"Je suis petite oussau c'est la faute a Rosseau..."

He liked the sound of his young voice mingled with the crunch of virgin snow beneath his grimy boots. It started him to prancing in tandem with his singing.

"Je suis..."

The cheery sound had faded, the last notes wisping off until the night was deathly silent; it was replaced by intelligible muttering, far less jovial than the little tune. Curious as any child would be, the gamin ceased his play to inspect. Each step was meticulous, catlike, ears alert to disturbances in the silence. The sound of angry voices lead the child along, snaking him through the dirty streets and into night's cold embrace.

"...sick of your damn sniveling..."

Left? Or perhaps right. Standing on tip-toe, Gavroche could still not decipher wence came the arguing.

"...not my fault...my father..."

Left. The boy quieted his footsteps as he wove further into the labyrinth of the city. Years of life in the gutter made him suppose that any sort of heated voices at such an hour would be creeping out of an alleyway. He could not hear words; perhaps a whore and her customer. Strange, how when he drew nearer, that the voices seemed all the more familiar, until he was pressed against a rough brick wall, and a sputtering lamp unmasked the shadows.

"You're a liar, you stupid whore, you're trying to rob me blind."

"'Parnasse I'm tired, jus' let me get home-"

The lamp flickered dangerously.

"No, 'Ponine. You're not leaving."

Blood-curdling screams ricocheted until they were broken quite short. The lamp flickered. A soft thump came from the alleyway, and calm footsteps hailed a new figure. The gamin had made the grave error of looking death in the eye. Crimson stained gloves wrapped quickly around his throat; life is easily stolen from a young child.

"Goddamn it," Montparnasse growled, stalking off, "I rather liked those gloves..."