Gavroche had, indeed, taken flight. He was quite literally flying over the rooftops of Paris; and the strangest thing about it was how natural it felt.

Incidentally, he wished that he could have flown over the city on a normal day, to see the bustling streets of his home, Paris. At the moment most streets were quiet and deserted out of fear; the only sound came from the tumult of the barricades – and there was another sound, a strangely familiar tinkling sound very near Gavroche. It reminded him of the tocsin of Saint-Merry below, only it was lighter and more excited.

He was not alone. A boy not much younger than himself was flying alongside him. At first Gavroche thought the boy was wearing rags, like a typical homeless child; but closer inspection showed that he was dressed in clothes made from young, green leaves of trees that bloom in spring and early summer.

"I know you!" Gavroche couldn't say how he knew the boy, but he was sure he had seen him before, just as he was sure he had heard the tinkling sound before. They were from some corner of his childhood that he hadn't quite pushed aside.

"Of course you do. I am Peter Pan. I'm the best that ever was," the boy said proudly.

"Why! You're just the same as me," Gavroche said in a satisfied tone.

This was true, but at the same time mistaken. Gavroche was philosophical, but Peter was wise. What was more, Peter might have been a different subspecies of urchin, as the gamin was exclusive to Paris.

Gavroche looked down, and saw that they were coming near the Luxembourg Gardens. They were in full bloom as spring was giving way to summer. It was teeming with life, though there appeared to be no people in it; everyone was either cowering inside or fighting in the streets. They could hear more of the tinkling sounds here, among the flowers and small animals. And now Gavroche could see, from far off, the source of the pretty sound: fairies.

"This is my favorite part of Paris," Peter said fondly. "It's like Kensington Gardens back home."

"Where is home?" Gavroche asked quizzically.

"In London, England."

Gavroche was impressed, and then puzzled. "I say, if you're English, how come we're speaking the same argot?"

The boy shrugged. "Who knows? Who cares?"

Gavroche understood at once; there was no need for words here. Maybe he was already leaving the physical plane, and they could communicate on the metaphysical plane …

They spotted two small boys near the swan pond. "Hey, it's my mômes!" Gavroche exclaimed. "Have they been here all this time?"

"They've been everywhere," Peter replied. "Only, since you helped them, they've been a bit braver; at least they don't cry so much as they first did. Say, look!"

There were two new people coming into the garden, a father and his young son. The boy was dressed in a small National Guard uniform, and held a half-eaten bun in his hand.

Gavroche and Peter both wondered, and doubted, whether they had ever been so close to their respective fathers.

They watched as the son threw his cake into the water for the swans, before his father ushered him out of the gardens. Peter almost sounded disappointed. "Oh, for a moment I thought they'd play together and have a gay time."

Gavroche snorted at the boy's ignorance. "He wouldn't want to play with them; and by now, they should know better than to play with him."

"Why?" Peter asked curiously.

Gavroche thought it was obvious. "My mômes are gamins. That boy's a bourgeois."

"So?"

Gavroche realized something amazing: Differences of class made no difference to Peter. To him, children were children, nothing more or less.

They watched, and Gavroche felt very proud as the boys, his pupils, made sure the two bourgeois had left and fished the brioche out of the water. "Poke that in your gun," the elder boy told his younger brother.

Gavroche hooted triumphantly. "They learned well! And they've learned resourcefulness. Aren't I a fine teacher?"

"You ought to be. You're their brother."

That wiped the smile off of what should have been Gavroche's face. He was more thoughtful than shocked. "How do you know this?"

"I've watched them for years. Your father rented them out." Peter studied him curiously. "You didn't know, then, when you helped them?"

"No."

Peter didn't ask why he had done it. They were the same that way: they helped others without really thinking about it. They were kindhearted without realizing it, much less admitting it.

"Your time here is short," Peter informed him matter-of-factly.

"Then let's make the most of it!"

For a long time – or perhaps only a minute; they had little or no sense of time – they ran over rooftops, clambered up chimneys, and played hide-and seek with the younger stars.

Peter laughed. "Oh, you're fun, like Eponine. She and Azelma and Cosette used to play with me, you know. And I saw Eponine today – she came this way before you – she'll be waiting for you, at the end."

Gavroche frowned. For one thing, he hadn't known that Eponine had died; he supposed he should be sad, but he was going to see her now anyway, which was more than he would have done back down there. But then, he looked through the meaning of Peter's words. "Will you not come with me there?" He didn't want this boy to leave him.

"I can only go part of the way. You'll have to go the last bit on your own; but your sister will be waiting for you."

That cheered Gavroche up. "Let's fly," Peter said, and Gavroche agreed. Then they were soaring again; the city rushed faster and faster, and they rose up higher and higher, above the clouds.

"I've a queer question, Pan. Is there more than one infinity?" He had once heard a poet or philosopher pose that question to no one in particular; Gavroche had had only a vague idea of what it meant, until this moment, when he contemplated Earth below, Space above, and Death – and whatever came with Death – somewhere nearby.

"I have no idea," Peter replied. "I've never died, so I don't know yet. Perhaps one day I'll find out.

"Are you ready?" the boy asked with a gleam in his eye.

Gavroche never backed down from a challenge. He nodded, determined and just as cheerful as ever.

He only voiced one concern, if you could call it that. "Look out for my mômes for me, won't you?"

"Of course."

"You won't forget me, will you?"

"What kind of friend do you take me for?" Peter asked with some indignation.

Gavroche grinned, and then bowed grandly. "I'm much obliged, my good Pan. Perhaps we'll meet again." He would have said that he hoped that they would, only that would require Peter dying, and he had enough sense not to say that.

"Good-bye, then."

And they parted ways, each feeling a sense of camaraderie and a little jealousy toward the other. Gavroche wished he could help his brothers and soar over the city again. Peter thought that, one day, he might like to see exactly where people went when they died. It was one adventure that he simply had to wait for.

Author's Note: Victor Hugo wrote that while her three girlfriends were philosophical, Fantine was wise. I thought the same could be said of these two, keeping in mind that Peter could accept and face mortality, while Gavroche mocked death and threw couplets at it. I couldn't mention this in the text because this would take place before the incident at Marooner's Rock, when Peter was afraid but then embraced the idea of death.