I'm back! Wow, I haven't posted anything in so long…anyway!

Before we start, I just want to make one thing clear: I'm not in any way trying to make Éponine look like a whore by putting her with each barricade boy! You should treat each chapter as a separate story. I only put them all together because I didn't feel like having 10-15 separate stories to upload. Think of it more as an anthology! Anyway, now let's get to the actual thing. Here's the first installment.

I Want to Know What Love Is

Éponine + Prouvaire

"Jean Prouvaire was a lover; he cherished a pot of flowers, played the flute, wrote verses, loved the people, pitied women, wept over the lot of children, divided his faith equally between the future and God, and reproached the Revolution for having cut off an illustrious head, that of André Chénier. Above all, he was kind; and in poetry he favored the grandiose. He loved to stroll through meadows of wild flowers and was scarcely less interested in the passage of the clouds than in the passage of events. There were two sides to his mind, the side of men and the side of God; he studied, or he meditated. He talked gently, bowed his head, smiled self-consciously, blushed for no reason, was awkward and extremely shy - and for the rest, fearless."

-Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

The ABC café was quiet; most of the young men in and around it had fallen asleep. It was late and they were tired. While Enjolras and Courfeyrac kept watch on the barricade, the rest of the boys tried to catch some form of rest before the inevitable battle the next day. One, however, remained awake, restless and unable to close his eyes. Jean Prouvaire tugged his jacket closer around his shoulders, trying to keep the chill of the night away. He drew his arms around himself and leaned his back against the stone wall of the café, trying for the umpteenth time to lose himself in sleep. Just as he felt himself start to drift off, the door of the café opened, its rusty hinges creaking. Prouvaire looked up to see none other than Éponine Thernadier quietly making her way to the stairs. Prouvaire stood up, stretching his sore limbs.

"'Ponine?" he whispered. Éponine jumped.

"My apologies, Monsieur. I didn't mean to wake you," she replied, her eyes cast downward. She was shivering. Prouvaire saw the bruises on her arms and slowly made his way across the café, the floor littered with dust and broken glass.

"'Ponine, what's happened to you? Where have you been?" he asked gently.

Éponine shied away from his outstretched hand. "Out."

"Out where?" Prouvaire prompted, his bow furrowed, praying to God her answer wasn't what he suspected it'd be.

"I have a job to uphold," Éponine whispered, holding back the tears that threatened to fall. Prouvaire was so kind; she felt ashamed to admit her actions to him. The pain on his face at her words only made her feel worse.

"'Ponine, no. Please…you're worth more than that," Prouvaire said. He could feel his face starting to turn red already.

Éponine laughed bitterly. "I'm only worth what men will pay for me. That's all. Please, Monsieur…let me alone."

Prouvaire, while normally quite shy and reserved, found himself reaching out to stop her from turning away. "Why do this to yourself? Help me understand."

Éponine shrugged, her shoulders sagging with the burden of a life of pain. "I need the francs, and they have them."

"But it's called making love, 'Ponine, not making money. Whatever they give you, it's not love."

"And a schoolboy like you knows what love is?" Éponine remarked, rubbing her bruised arm.

Prouvaire hesitated. "I've—I've read about it. In poems, and the like." Immediately he blushed bright red; what a stupid thing to say. "And—and I think I've got a…a good understanding…" he was rambling again. Éponine turned once more to go upstairs. "No! Wait. Every day, you come here, and I see you…I see you look at him. At Marius."

"Marius?" Éponine said, surprised.

"I know. We all know. I've seen the way you look at him, and every time he looks the other way I want to hit him over the head with something heavy because, 'Ponine, he's blind. Here's this beautiful girl right in front of him, and he just doesn't see. If you looked at me that way, I'd…well, it wouldn't go unnoticed," Prouvaire said with a nervous laugh, scratching the back of his head.

A moment of silence passed between them in which Éponine tried to sort through the tangled mess of her emotions. All the pain, both from being battered by men with rough hands and no patience and all these feelings, came crashing down on her. Finally, she said, "Go back to sleep, Monsieur. It does not do to dwell on things such as this the night before a battle."

"But, 'Ponine, I may not have the chance to dwell on it again," Prouvaire said urgently. "It's likely I'll die tomorrow, all of us. I'm not afraid of death; all the poets say it's but the next great adventure. I'm afraid of dying without telling you first that I—I love you."

"You love me?" It was an idea so ridiculous that Éponine could barely wrap her head around it Prouvaire was always just in the background, quietly writing or reading some ancient literature. Had he really been enamored with her the whole time? The caring look in his amber eyes told her yes. "You…love me?" she repeated. She'd never even noticed.

Prouvaire nodded. "I've always thought you were so beautiful," he admitted, past the point of embarrassment now. He just wanted to help this poor, lost girl. Éponine was so strong on the outside, but he could see how fragile she was now.

Éponine scoffed and began walking up the stairs. "Beautiful? A girl who sells herself out of the same dress she's worn for years? That's not beauty, that's disgrace." She said over her shoulder, reaching the top of the stairs. Prouvaire, still behind her, put his hands gently on her arms and turned her around to face him. Slowly, he brought a hand up to Éponine's face, brushing away a tear before it had the chance to fully fall. He was nervous, so nervous, wishing he had had the nerve to do this months ago. A voice in the back of his mind told him not to stop, to forget the girl and focus on what was really at stake—that is, the Revolution. But another voice, a louder one, was singing. If you're going to die tomorrow, live for today, it sang. And Prouvaire listened. He leaned down, softly brushing his lips against Éponine's, so dizzy with nerves that he nearly lost his balance, which would have sent them both tumbling down the stairs.

After a moment, Éponine pulled away from the kiss, her eyes full of tears. Prouvaire's heart broke seeing this. No woman ever deserved to feel this way, and he pitied all who ever had.

Éponine felt so vulnerable in this broken state, yet so safe in Prouvaire's arms. Until now, she'd never felt a touch so gentle, or a kiss so tentative. She could feel his erratic heartbeat, her small hand resting on his chest, and met his eyes, flickering in the dim light, with her own. His face was somewhat flushed, and his hands a little shaky, but none of that mattered. What mattered was that he cared. "You really love me?" she whispered. There were only mere inches between them; she could feel the heat of his body. Prouvaire nodded, giving Éponine a comforting smile as he smoothed her tangled hair. Éponine drew a shaky breath. "Then show me."

And he did.

The whole time I was writing this I just kept thinking ALISTAIR ALISTAIR ALISTAIR!

So what'd you think? This is probably one of my favorites; I really like how it turned out.

Let me know what you think in a review and don't forget to subscribe to this story so you know when the next chapter is up!