Heyyy it wasn't another month! This would actually have been yesterday if it wasn't for stupid Windows 8.1...

NO MATTER. It's here. I hope you enjoy it :)

Disclaimer: I don't own Les Miserables. I also don't speak Italian, and I know some of you ARE Italian, so just let me know if I've got anything wrong please! :)

"So you STILL haven't?"

"No, Musichetta, for the thousandth time: we still haven't"
The redhead shook her head in exasperation as she rolled out a pastry, yelling "PER GRIDARE FORTE! Why not!?"
"You know why not; we don't want to push things!"
"There's taking it slowly, and then there's going backwards. IT'S BEEN MONTHS!"
"Honestly, I'm just quite enjoying having a relationship that isn't about sex. I've had enough of that for a lifetime."
At this, Musichetta actually stopped rolling the pastry, put a floury hand on her hip and pointed the rolling pin menacingly at Éponine. "Honey, listen to me. Every. Relationship. Is. About. Sex."
"But –"
"No, shut up. Do you not want to have sex with this boy?"
"It's not that, it's –"
"YES OR NO?"
"Well, yes, but –"
"And do you not think he wants exactly the same thing from you?"
Ermmmm…. Her silence was clearly the answer Musichetta was waiting for, as her friend's big brown eyes widened in surprise.
"Ohhh, you don't think he does! Honey, trust me. He does. He REALLY does."
She decided to voice her fears for the first time. At least Chetta wouldn't tell anyone. "It's just… I'm kind of all scrawny and I've got all these scars and –"
"Éponine, I promise you he doesn't care. Honestly, he was there for the creation of at least some of those scars, he probably respects you more for it!"
"But he's only been with like, rich girls, and… well he knows all about, you know, my… past… and I don't know, what if I'm no good compared to some lady? I don't know what rich guys like; God knows I've never been with any. AND for that matter, I've never actually done it when it means anything, I have NO IDEA WHAT I'M DOING, OH MY GOD…." She felt herself start to panic, her voice getting throatier and higher.
"PONY!" Musichetta barked, making her jump. "1. There is no difference. If anything you will be better at it than some repressed bourgeoisie. 2. The fact that it means something only makes it better. 3. He wants to be with YOU, not some rich girl. STOP WORRYING."
Éponine chewed her lip in worried thought. "I suppose you're right…"
"Of course I'm right."
"So what, do you think I should just jump on him when I get home tonight?"
"Ma sei pazzo! Are you crazy?! Where would be the fun in that?!"
"What?"
Musichetta grinned wickedly at her. "Oh he's going to EARN that gorgeous booty of yours, believe me."
Éponine couldn't help but grin back. Oh, Chetta…

He'd got in the habit of visiting his wife every chance he could, during all the visiting hours (twice a week). Truth be told, he was worried about her; she looked frailer than he'd ever seen her, and she didn't seem to have even begun to move on after Azelma's death. It was as though the grief had crippled her, and her body had just given up. So he visited and visited, hoping it would somehow help, or even just to search for even the faintest sign of improvement in her… Thénardier supposed he must be going soft.

"I swear to God it's like she's trying to tempt me or something!" Enjolras exclaimed in a hushed whisper in the university library a week or so later. Combeferre watched in astonishment, almost pitying his best friend as he sat opposite him, hands in his curls in exasperation, elbows resting on the stacks of books surrounding him on the table.
"I thought you guys were taking it slow?"
"SO DID I! And I mean, that's great and everything but it's been quite a while now, and there's slow and there's backwards. I mean, obviously I want to but I don't want to hurt her and I'm not going to push her or anything, I'm not some sort of monster!"
"That's good!"
"Well yeah, but now I swear to God it's like she's waiting for me to break! She bought these absurdly tight jeans, and she's always wearing them with really tight tops, or those weird tank tops with the sleeves cut out – you know, where you can see their bra when they move and it sounds ridiculous but -"
"Yeah, I know the ones"
"Right! And her songs in that café, you must have noticed they've changed?!"
Admittedly, he had. "Yeah, I had noticed."
"So it's not just me?! If I have to watch her sing one more song about sex with those big old "come to bed" eyes I think I might actually combust! And her ass in those jeans, for CRYING OUT LOUD!"

Combeferre held back a laugh with difficulty; this sort of thing was always entertaining but the fact that it was Enjolras of all people… "Maybe you're just frustrated. It's probably nothing. You should talk to her!"
"And say what, "hey Éponine, I noticed your arse is looking especially fantastic at the minute, does this mean we can have sex now?!" Combeferre burst out laughing. "COMBEFERRE THIS ISN'T FUNNY"
"Sorry! Sorry… you just don't sound like you at all it's weird."
"I know, I sound like an utter buffoon. God, I sound like bloody Courfeyrac..."
Don't laugh, Combeferre, don't laugh... "Honestly, I'm sure it's not deliberate, Éponine wouldn't be that…" wait a second… "Hang on."
"What?!"
"This has Musichetta written all over it."
"What?"
Normally, Ferre didn't get involved with such juvenile behaviour. It was silly and pointless and couldn't possibly end well.

Then again... I could make an exception. Just this once... "This is Chetta, I can smell it. You can't break, I'm not giving her the satisfaction" he declared, firmly.

"But –"
"We can fight fire with fire. Do you own skinny jeans?"
"What are you talking about?"
"We're going home so you can change. Let's just see how far she'll take it."

He visited her on April the 8th, when she had 2 months left on her sentence. She could barely talk for coughing; huge, wracking coughs that made her whole body shiver. He realised with a shock that she might not live to get out, let alone live to old age. This called for drastic action.

Musichetta was the only one working in the café when Enjolras and Combeferre walked in that afternoon. She watched, jaw dropped, as they walked in and went upstairs, and she knew from Combeferre's wink that he'd worked it out. Bastardo!

She had to give credit to the boy, he'd played it well. Short sleeved, mid-grey patterned crew neck t-shirt, just tight enough to hint at the wonders beneath without being a bit Jersey Shore. Skinny jeans so his butt… Gesù! He'd even got a fucking haircut; shorter and layered so the longest ones tickled his eyebrows, with just enough hair to curl at the sides - it made his cheekbones stand out and you could see his neck and he looked the closest thing to trendy that Musichetta had ever seen him look. God, she could jump his bones right there and then, and Combeferre fucking knew it, that sly little volpe.

But Musichetta was not a girl who gave up easily. Storming into the back she rang Joly.
Imagine the poor young doctor's surprise when he answered the phone to "JOLY, I need you to go shopping for the sluttiest red dress you can find!"

An hour later, Éponine stood in the kitchen, Musichetta pulling her hair up into a bun.
"I don't know Chetta, this feels like a bit much…" Dammit Jondrette, where's your competitive spirit!?
"Tell you what, if this doesn't work, we stop this. Deal?" This will work.
"….fine!" Éponine sighed, exasperatedly. After a beat or two of silence she added "got any red lipstick?"
Musichetta raised her eyebrows and bent around Éponine so she could see her face. Éponine caught her eye and grinned. "Go hard or go home, right?"
"NOW you're talking" Chetta laughed.

Vincent de Moro-Giafferi… who the fuck's Vincent de Moro-Giafferi?! Why's it gotta be a different fucking dead guy every time…?!

He spotted Montparnasse before he saw Vincent de fucking Moro-Giafferi; the boy simultaneously commanded the eye and evaded it, standing casually in front of a fairly non-descript headstone with his arms folded, effortlessly powerful and elegant even while completely still. Thénardier grumbled to himself as he made his way over, annoyed that he was at some godforsaken grave in Montparnasse fucking cemetery on a drizzly evening in April, and that he even needed the boy's help so badly. Normally, he was in charge and he delegated dirty work because he could; actually badly needing the kid's help, was another matter entirely.

"I was starting to think you weren't coming, old man" the young man drawled at him as he approached.
"Yeah well, pick one fucking grave for every time ah need ya and al be on fucking time" he snapped back.
"But then you'd never have visited the grave of Vincent de Moro-Giafferi, noted lawyer and defendant of morally questionable, controversial and deplorable figures… Henri Désiré Landru, the serial killer known as Bluebeard, for instance. You'd never have been given such a glorious opportunity to ask yourself questions like 'does defending the assholes make Moro-Girafferi also an asshole?' He also defended the Jewish guy who killed a Nazi – sounds good – but the death of that Nazi gave the Nazis an excuse for Kristallnacht – not good. Was that guy a good guy or a bad guy? If he was a bad guy, should old Vincent here have defended him? Even more confusingly –"
"All right, all right, I get it, it's a fucking history lesson and ahm asking myself big importan' questions, are ya done?"
"I can be, I suppose... Why did you call me here, Thénardier?"
"Ah've got a job for ya."
"I assumed as much. Who am I killing?"
"Yer not."
"…interesting. Go on."

Thénardier had two options here: just give the kid the job and hope he'd do it as quickly and quietly as was necessary, or explain it properly and give the job the necessary context. He opted for the second.
"The wife's still locked up, right, an' she's not well. Misses Azelma. I wanna make her better don't I, but I can't bring back the little'un."
"Agreed."
"So I reckon I'll be needing Th' next best thing."
"And by the next best thing, you mean…"
Thénardier raised an eyebrow.
"Éponine." Montparnasse confirmed, nodding his handsome head. He was silent for a few moments, before continuing "so what do you want me to do exactly?"
"For starters I want 'er address. Wherever she's holed up for them rich boys, yer gonna find 'er, an' yer gonna tell me."
"OK." Montparnasse replied, turning to leave. After just a few steps he turned around. "I warn you, I'm not exactly her favourite person at the minute, and she's not known for being stupid about leaving tracks…"
"I don' give a shit boy, just find 'er."

Montparnasse nodded and walked away, melting into the cemetery like he was never there.

Well, that's that sorted he thought smugly to himself as he too turned to leave the cemetery.

Enjolras' eyes nearly popped out his head when Éponine walked up to the microphone to start her set. She was wearing a lace dress with a wide neckline and almost no back, that hugged tightly to every curve on her body, reaching to only about halfway down her thighs. Her long legs seemed to go on forever, eventually ending in bare feet, toes curling as she fiddled with the jukebox. Her hair was up, but rogue curls had escaped the bun to frame her face. The worst part though? Her toes were painted red. Her lipstick was red. Her dress… you guessed it. Bright red.

He'd never felt more attracted to a colour.

Then again, it was probably the girl wearing the colour rather than the colour itself.

The reactions of the other customers in the café, as well as his own friends, were completely predictable. There wasn't a guy in the place who wasn't staring, many openly ogling her with jaws dropped; he even heard a few lewd comments from a group of blokes in the corner. He found it all strangely irritating; this wasn't for them, stop checking out my girlfriend!

Combeferre's reaction was to look straight at Musichetta, shaking his head. Enjolras couldn't tell if his friend was annoyed, impressed, or trying not to laugh. Whichever it was, when he'd communicated it to Chetta, he turned to Enjolras with a look which unambiguously said do not fall for this.

Behind him, he heard Courfeyrac whisper to Combeferre "she acts like normal Éponine and she sounds like normal Éponine, but she looks like the Éponine of my sex dreams. Is this a sex dream?"
Enjolras fought back a smile. Tell me about it he thought.
Beside him, Combeferre whispered back "if this is a sex dream, it's weird that I'm here."
When Courfeyrac responded, Enjolras could just about hear the cheeky crooked grin. "It's the new short hair and stubble look, Ferre. It's just doing it for me. Next you'll be walking in with a massive tattoo and there'll be no ladies in red in my sex dreams at all."
Combeferre mumbled "don't hold your breath", but out the corner of his eye, he was 90% sure he saw a blush rising on the young philosopher's neck and cheeks. Strange.

Before he could even begin to contemplate the potential reasons that Combeferre, of all people, would be blushing, the intro to Éponine's first song began.

Oh dear he thought. I'm in trouble.

Thanks so much to the people who reviewed last chapter, I really appreciate it, especially after I was gone for so long!

I'd love it if you could drop a review to this one, pet! Especially if you never have before, I want to know who you lovely folks who read my drivel are! :)

SHAMELESS PLUG AHEAD - In the midst of my "Josie is useless" break from this story I wrote an entire Eponine/Courfeyrac story (in my defence, it was in one sitting) called The Luckiest, and I started another one called I Like You, so I'd love you to check those out from my profile if you fancy it! :) There're also the companion fics for this one on there; they might clear up a couple of references from some previous chapters? Not many though, I've been careful, I swear ;)

Thanks again friends!