It started with Gavroche.

Most things did.

He had been disappearing more than usual, lately. It was something which might not normally raise Éponine's suspicions, had it not been paired with an influx of other shifty behavior – avoiding questions about friends at school; ignoring his brothers' plaintive requests to show them skateboard tricks, something he normally indulged with glee; coming home late for dinner, sometimes even picking at his plate with the restrained manner of someone who'd already eaten but was forcing it down for the sake of appearances. It smacked of reminiscence from the time when he'd been getting extra income from not-so-legal extracurricular activities.

She cornered him after Marc and Sebastien had already left for their bus stop one Tuesday morning, before he could bolt out the kitchen door with his Pop Tarts and skateboard.

"What are you dealing now?"

He cocked a confused eyebrow at her. "'Scuse me?"

Éponine's steely gaze did not falter. "What. Are. You. Dealing. Now?"

"I don't have time for this," Gavroche muttered, turning to slam open the (on its last legs) screen door, before Éponine gripped the sleeve of his ratty green hoodie and held fast.

"Yeah? Great. I don't have time for smartass twelve-year-olds bringing unwanted cops to this house again. Tell me what nefarious business you're up to this time, and maybe I'll consider not twisting your ears off your head."

He scowled at her. "It's not what you think."

"Oh, so it's worse?"

He huffed a loud, long-suffering sigh. (Oh, it was definitely from their parents that he'd gotten his flair for dramatics.) "It's… an after school program." She narrowed her eyes, and he raised his hands in supplication. "I'm serious! Well… itpractically is. I mean, it's kind of a program, and it's after school…"

"Huh. 'After school program' is what they're calling it these days?"

He disdainfully pried her fingers off of his sleeve.

"It's not drugs."

At the kitchen table, Azelma hiccoughed a laugh from behind her cup of juice. Gavroche glared at her.

"It's not!"

Éponine folded her arms over her chest. "That defensive tone of voice is doing wonders for your argument, please continue."

Gavroche looked longingly at the door, but kept from making a run for it, probably because he knew he'd be in shit city if he tried. A variety of emotions flashed over his face, chiefly annoyance and deliberation, before he sighed again.

"I didn't tell you about it because you wouldn't understand."

She shrugged.

"Probably not, but you'd better make me try, or they're gonna be picking up pieces of you off the skate ramp for the next two weeks."

Éponine hadn't felt this out of place since the last time she'd had to attend a Parent-Teacher conference on Sebastien's behalf.

I feel like I walked into a fucking J. Crew catalog, she thought bitterly.

The cluster of young college students, gathered around the various tables inside the Corinthe, might not have been unusual on their own, no (as much as the luxury items covering their bodies and adorning their leather satchels might have made her skin crawl with disgust and envy); she wasn't even surprised that her brother had taken to hanging around people so much older than himself, considering that Precocious was pretty much his (and Azelma's) middle name. They also seemed to be in the habit of buying him plenty of bar food, which explained his sudden lack of appetite during mealtimes at home. But that didn't explain why the lot of them, engaged as they all were in casual conversation, all still seemed to be… waiting for something.

With her threadbare t-shirt and jeans, Éponine certainly looked more at place inside the dive-y atmosphere emanating from every square inch of the bar - at least more than they did, with their sleek laptops and thick ironic Ray-Ban frames. But she supposed that invading rundown places reeking of smoke seemed to be the hip new trend with obnoxious trust fund kids, these days.

Though most of the boys spread around the Corinthe's back room were complete strangers to her, not all were. She directed a strained nod at Joly, her close friend and neighbor, and the bald young man with whom he was holding a conversation. Judging by his lack of surprise or concern at Gavroche's entrance, it was clear that this was not a new occurrence to him.

(Oh, they were definitely going to have a little chat later.)

She also recognized Grantaire, a frequenter at the diner where she worked. He was currently slumped over a table, head buried beneath his arms; she surmised that he was sleeping rather than dead only due to the volume of his snores. If it hadn't been his natural state, perhaps she might have worried. But there were more pressing concerns on her mind right now.

"What's the deal?" she demanded of Gavroche. "Gambling? Human trafficking? Joining a frat six years early?"

"Come on," Gavroche protested, voice pitched almost to a whine, throwing her a look that said gimme a little more credit than that.

She strode over to Joly.

"Thanks a whole fucking lot for informing me that my brother's joined your secret freemason society."

Joly halted his conversation with the bald guy, looking over at her in startled bemusement, as though he'd been snapped out of a trance.

"Pardon?"

"The world of shit you're about to be in from me is nothing compared to what 'Chetta is gonna do once she finds out."

Joly, not threatened in the least, actually brightened. "Oh. Musichetta knows!"

"…what?"

At her irate tone, her friend inched slightly back, staring down at her clenched fist.

"About my involvement, I mean. She doesn't know Gavroche has been coming here."

"Yet you seem to have known," she hissed. Joly's face contorted into a wince, inching back even farther. The bald guy warily glanced between the two of them.

"Yeah, I'm gonna go stand over… there, for a while." He sauntered away in the direction of the bar, the smoothness of his exit blemished ("Ow! Goddamn it!") when he tripped over his own feet.

"Explain," Éponine said, shoving her hair from her eyes in exasperation. Joly bit his lip, considering. Now that he was more certain her fist wouldn't be colliding with his face this afternoon, his posture visibly relaxed.

"Why don't I let Enjolras explain? He's the one in charge, after all, and much better at speaking; better than not just me, but anyone else here…"

"Who the fuck is Enjolras?"

One forty-minute-long speech later, Éponine had her answer.

She'd barely nodded goodbye to Joly before bee-lining over to where Gavroche stood, chatting merrily with a rather animated student in an expensive-looking button-up. At her arrival, Gavroche groaned, and the young man glanced over at her from under his mop of curly hair. When they made eye contact, he winked in a manner that she supposed he considered roguish. It kind of made her want to throw up.

She smiled back sarcastically, grabbing Gavroche's shoulder and hauling him out after her. As soon as they were outside, he yanked his arm free of her grasp.

"Hey! Watch it!" And then, laughing sardonically: "I knew you wouldn't understand!"

"What's to understand? My little brother's discovered politics and joined up with a group of anti-government nutjobs. Great! Every girl's dream!"

And it was only because of you that I actually sat through that smug bastard's entire speech, you little twerp.

At her brother's responding glare, she sighed. "Honestly, Gav? I almost wish I'd caught you dealing again."