Hi, all! This is the last update of any FanFiction for a while, because…I START HIGH SCHOOL TOMORROW, SEPTEMBER 4th! :3 I'm so excited and happy. Seven hours of sleep a night for this girlie! Eleven at night to six in the morning is my new sleep schedule. Anyway, it's Feuilly Appreciation Week, and this monster came about. Notice how every chapter of this, "La Fille Qui Flambait," and "Three Daughters" is now titled after a Shakespeare quote? Sorry, Shakes! ;)

Yours,

-Georgie

XXX

Gavroche is twelve years old, yes, but he likes to think that he understands more than most brats his age do. He knows quite a bit about politics, thanks to his good friend Enjolras. And he knows about surviving on the streets, which is more than those stuffy little bourgeoisie snots can say. He knows all the best places for everything from billiards to booze, thanks to Grantaire, although he doesn't care much for billiards, and doesn't drink…most of the time. He knows all about different languages from Marius, poetry and how to craft words so that they become beautiful from Jehan, medicine from Joly, and tons of other fascinating things from his friends in Les Amis. From his father's gang, Babet and Claquesous spend a few hours every week teaching him how to do various nefarious activities. Montparnasse, when he isn't off murdering innocent young men, likes to parade Gavroche around. "My young pup," he says when the grisettes look at them fondly. "We ain't related, but we may as well me. Teachin' the lad everything I know."

Oh, he and he also knows about certain things a man can do to a woman that he feels as if he shouldn't know. But Courfeyrac thought it would be useful to tell him, so it must be something worth knowing.

Speaking of men and women and relationships and all that…Gavroche learned about another kind of relationship from his favorite brawler Bahorel. Bahorel hadn't talked about it, exactly, and Gavroche felt like he probably shouldn't have been listening to it, but it had gone a little like this:

"Goodnight, all! Little Gav, do you have a place to stay tonight?" Bahorel asked as the meeting wound down. Their friends slowly trickled out of the Café, Joly and Bossuet excited to see Musichetta; Enjolras and Grantaire arguing as usual; Courfeyrac and Combeferre heading back to their flat; Jehan following behind Courfeyrac like the lost puppy he was, etc. Feuilly stayed behind, waiting for Bahorel, it seemed.

Gavroche considered. "Well, I s'pose. The elephant's been a bit full lately, what with my kids recruitin' even more brats for me to take care of. I ain't sayin' that I wouldn't mind spendin' a night away from my kids, I tell you that. 'Parnasse'd probably let me stay with him. Unless 'Ponine is over. Then I ain't allowed."

Bahorel snickered. "Would you like to spend the night at my flat, Gav? I'm rooming with Feuilly tonight, anyway, so it would be empty. You can take my bed."

"You mean it?" Gavroche beamed. "Well, pickle me, Bahorel! Thanks from me to you!" When he got excited, his argot got thicker. "A real goosy-feather bed 'n all! I'm takin' you up on the offer!"

Feuilly laughed from the corner where he had parked himself. "Speak French, lad," the people-loving painter grinned. "Not whatever gibberish that is."

Gavroche giggled. "Sorry, then. I'll see myself in, 'Rel." He retrieved the key from his hulking friend, and skipped off into the night, singing cheerily and ignoring the prowlers in the darkness. It was a beautiful night, not that Gavroche cared much for nature and all that. The stars were out, spangling the velvet sky, and the cobbles were cool under his bare feet. He took the long way to Bahorel's flat, secretly a bit glad that Feuilly lived just at the end of the hall from Bahorel. Sometimes sleeping by yourself could be a bit scary. It was good to know two of his friends were right there if he needed them…

And it would turn out that he would need them.

He had had a terrible nightmare, something about guns and explosions and a cheerful song unfinished. Gavroche jumped out of Bahorel's bed, his bare feet striking the floor loudly, shocking his brain into some sort of "That was a gunshot!" flurry. He ran to the door, yanking it open without the sense to lock it behind him. He dashed along the hall, wrenching Feuilly's door open. His fevered, scared brain finally calmed at the familiar yet sparse sight of Feuilly's flat.

"It was just a dream, Gav," he whispered to himself. "Don't be a scared little kitty-boy! Look at you, shakin' and quiverin' like a little girl!" He shook his head, eyeing the blurred shapes of Feuilly's furniture in the darkness. Taking a seat on a comfortable chair, he let himself relax a bit. "I ain't scared," he told himself, "but all the same, since I'm here, I may as well stay. The chair's right comfortable, and 'Rel and Fi are just a room away if I need 'em." He snuggled down in the large chair, letting his eyes droop closed…

He was awoken the next morning by Bahorel and Feuilly's voices.

"Please don't fight, 'Rel," he could hear Feuilly beg. "If I lost you, my life would be over."

"We have to fight, don't you see?" Bahorel argued back. "This is for the good of the people. And if I die for what I believe in, so be it."

Gavroche's heart beat a bit faster. They had been planning their citizen's revolt for a few months now, but from the way his friends spoke, they made it sound like it was happening tomorrow! He got up from the chair and walked on silent feet to Bahorel's room. What he saw shocked him: Bahorel with tiny Feuilly completely enveloped in his arms, rocking back and forth and murmuring things in the latter's ear. Feuilly looked up with tears in his eyes.

"Is this it, then? Our last time together before certain death?" he choked.

"Don't say that, mon amour. We'll succeed yet. I promise it," Bahorel whispered.

"Mon amour?" Gavroche questioned from the doorway. "Bahorel, do you love Feuilly?"

Bahorel looked up calmly, completely unfazed. "Why yes I do. I love him more than he will ever know. Is there a problem with that, Gav?" There was challenge in his eyes.

Gavroche blushed, feeling chastised. "N-no, I s'pose not," he said quickly. "I mean, love is love, and all that, yeah? After all, Joly and Bossuet share 'Chetta and that ain't really normal, and my sis loves 'Parnasse, who is threatenin' to end her with jus' about every breath and –" He was babbling, and he knew it. "Ain't what I'm used to, really, but I guess two men could be in love. It ain't really a problem. I mean, I guess…uh…" He paused. "Can I say that I think that Jehan and Courf might be…you know?"

Feuilly laughed from Bahorel's arms, his tears forgotten. "Don't strain yourself, Gav. You're alright. And yes, you're not in the wrong about Prouvaire and Courf."

"Oh. Well…I'll leave you two to it, then," the little boy shrugged, still embarrassed. At Bahorel's cocked eyebrow, his face flushed bright red. "Oh, no! That ain't what I mean! I mean…uh…I mean…I'll just see myself out." With that, he skedaddled, to the sound of his friends' laughter.

XXX

And so, Gavroche sits on an overturned desk behind a giant wall of broken chairs and empty barrels, playing a jaunty tune on the busted piano in front of him. "Oh, my love is gone, gone, gone, and she took all my cash! Now I'm goin' down, down, down to give her new man a good bash!" he sings in his warbling tenor. "She'll be real sorry, she will, will, will! When her love's buried deep, deep, deep in Sam's hill, hill, hill!" His friends laugh and clap at the end of his impromptu song, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, they'll succeed. After all, the National Guard hasn't even shown up yet, and the worst thing that's happened is Bossuet tripping and skinning his elbow.

The sun is low in the sky, and a sad-looking boy takes a seat next to him. "How 'bout a song of missing love, then?" he asks. He's got a surprisingly high voice.

"Huh…I s'pose I can think of a little ditty," Gavroche says merrily, glad to have the attention on him. "A girl caught your heart and mangled it up, pal?"

"No," the boy whispers. "But little brother is fighting for what he believes in, so I'm joining him to protect him, and the love of my life won't fight with us. I'll die, and he's gonna be around tomorrow, saying, 'Well, 'Ponine, I told you so, didn't I?'" the "boy" finishes off with a sob.

Gavroche knows she is talking about Montparnasse. He sighs. "'Ponine, go home. This ain't a place for girls such as yourself. Go be with 'Chetta, please? She's waitin' it out for her boys. You'd be wise to do the same. I don't need protecting."

Eponine smiles at him softly. "I'm your sister. I have to protect you. Just play the song, brat."

"He's off to war, the merry boy, off to fight and fight and fight," Gavroche sings, playing tunelessly, skipping the broken keys. It sounds almost haunting, and his friends look up at him with renewed attention. "I love him, that jolly boy, but I do not think he'll last the night. With gentle curls and loving smile, he promises to return. But I know that by dawn his life will adjourn. There will be blood, and there will be shots–"

"That's enough, Gavroche," Enjolras says sharply. "Please," he adds when he sees Gavroche's surprised, slightly hurt expression.

Suddenly, a black blur jumps over the top of the barricade, landing clumsily on the cobbles. It's Montparnasse! He looks around with utter contempt, his pale skin looking unhealthy and deep, dark circles bruising under his eyes. "Where is she?" he snarls, all of his usual elegance gone and replaced with rage. "Where is that little whore?! I told her not to fight, but she ain't ever gonna listen, is she?!" He stalks around the surprised circle of boys. "I SAID, WHERE IS SHE?!"

"I'm here, 'Parnasse," Eponine says quietly.

"We're leavin', now!" he seethes. "You'll get yourself shot, you will." He grabs her arm roughly and tugs, but she doesn't move. "You little bitch! This ain't a game! C'mon!"

Bahorel takes a menacing step forward. "Pretty boy," he growls, "watch yourself. No one speaks to our friend that way."

Montparnasse sags, suddenly, like the life has been sucked out of him. He plops down on the cobbles, letting go of Eponine's arm and leaning against the entrance to the Corinth. He sighs, and eyes Gavroche. "You're here too, little pup?" he says resignedly.

Gavroche nods, angry with Montparnasse for speaking to his sister the way he just did. His mouth is a thin line.

"Oh, now don't be mad with me, pup," Montparnasse sighs. "I'm lookin' out for her, dontcha see? You're all gonna die. Shot up like fish in a barrel. The National Guard is marching here right now. They're be here in maybe ten minutes. You all gotta leave. I'm takin' the girl I love and gettin' outta here right now." He scoops Eponine up, throwing her over one shoulder. She begins to beat her fists against his back, but the skinny young dandy does nothing but wince slightly. "'Ponine, I can't let you die," he whispers. He turns to Gavroche. "Little pup, come with us."

Gavroche shakes his head sadly, but runs forward and hugs Montparnasse tightly. "Thank you for takin' 'Ponine. Keep her safe, 'Parnasse," he mutters, and backs away.

Montparnasse nods, and holds the still-protesting Eponine tightly. He scrambles up the barricade and then disappears from sight.

"Positions, everyone," Enjolras says softly.

Les Amis slowly move, Bahorel, pulling Feuilly aside with a meaningful look to Enjolras, who walks over to Grantaire and takes the cynic's hand in his own. Gavroche doesn't mean to spy, but he wants to listen to what his friends are saying.

"I love you," is what Bahorel whispers, and Feuilly nods, repeating it.

It's over that quickly.

And then, the battle has begun. There are screams and shots, and blood everywhere. It's just like Gavroche's dream. Bahorel rumbles down the barricade and shoots a guard. Another soldier buries his bayonet in Bahorel's chest.

"NO!" Gavroche screams. Because it's too quick. It's like…one minute Bahorel is standing, grinning with bloody teeth, and the next, he's down on the cobbles in front of the barricade, writhing in pain. He and Feuilly tumble down the stacked furniture, the battle around them forgotten. It's Feuilly who gets there first, taking his love's head in his lap, tears dripping down his face, and–

No. Gavroche can't look. It's too much. His friend is dying. It feels like someone is punching him in the gut over and over and laughing at his pain. It's like –

BOOM.

A single gunshot is all it takes, and Feuilly is slumped over the now-dead Bahorel.

Some sick part of Gavroche thinks: Two down, seven to go. "Oh, God," he gurgles, and runs back inside the barricade. His friends are dead. Feuilly the painter, the fan maker, the Poland-loving artist who loved all men and women. Bahorel, the spirited bawler, the grinning boy, the gargantuan brute. Both of them are dead.

You will never see them again.

Gavroche runs back inside the barricade, choking on his sobs, his arms tight around himself. He trips on the cobbles, crashing to the ground, and a new wave of consuming tears take over. He is hauled up by a sad, smiling Courfeyrac, who nearly crushes him in his arms. His body is wracked with the shuddering sobs, and he keeps crying out, "They're DEAD!" in a shrill voice.

Eventually, the horrible battle ends for the day, and Joly and Bossuet have been gunned down, along with Courfeyrac and Jehan. Gavroche is sitting under a hollowed out set of drawers that's been turned on its side, his arms wrapped around his knees, and tears running down his cheeks. 'Rel, Feuilly, Courf, Jehan, Joly, and Bossuet. They're all gone, lined up neatly inside the now-broken Corinth like matches. Still, unseeing, bloody matches. Only Enjolras, Combeferre, and Grantaire remain. The Chief, the Guide, and the Drunk.

"This ain't right," he whispers, shaking. He can hear 'Ferre and Enjolras discussing about how they're running out of ammunition. He briefly wonders why he doesn't hear Grantaire's voice, and feels an icy hand clench 'round his heart. Is Grantaire dead, too? Who knows?

"I can help 'em," Gavroche whispers to himself. "I can pick ammunition bags off of those dead vipers." He exits his makeshift shelter and makes sure his friends aren't looking, and then sneaks over the barricade, his (still bare) feet hitting the cobblestones. They're warm from the warm rain that fell a few hours ago, and slick with…other substances. Soon, he knows his feet will be stained red. His tear-filled eyes dart around, and he spots a dead guard. Snarling, he rips the ammunition bag from the evil man's body and lobs it over the barricade.

"I'm a young boy, I know that it's true!" he sings, loosing another ammunition pouch and tossing it. A gunshot splits the air, but misses Gavroche. He gives a cocky grin, wiping his tears. "And a dirty little thing like me don't mean nothin' to you!" Loose a bag, lob it over the barricade. It becomes a system. One line, one bag, one toss. "But I've got my life ahead, so please don't shoot!" At those words, a bolt of pain ribs though him, and he jerks. His stomach begins to pour blood, and he presses his hand over the wound, glaring. He can hear Enjolras and Combeferre crying out to him. The sound is sort of tinny now. "Most of my friends are dead and gone," he gasps through gritted teeth, managing to throw two more bags over the barricade. "God only knows how I lasted this long." A gunshot that hits him in the left shoulder. He screams. "A stomach weepin' blood and a shoulder splintered bad. I think the end is near, but should I be glad?" He feels as if his body is on fire, and now he only has one working hand.

"What a funny turn of events, boys. Look at old Gavroche. Bloody and dying and – well gosh! My friends are gone and I will be soon, so do me a favor, and let me have some room. No more pain for a few minutes more, and then I swear to you, I'll be out the door." Another shot, and he is on his back.

Out the door.