Gavroche Thenardier

Now that the weather was warmer Gavroche spent almost as many nights out at his beloved Elephant as he did in the rooms he shared with Grantaire. Some nights he would even stay back at Courfeyrac's (so his friend wouldn't miss him), or with any of the other Amis as the wont took him.

Tonight, however, it was raining. The Elephant was not well-disposed to rain, being made mostly of plaster and boards. He had patched some of the holes crudely, but she would not last forever he knew. And, his patching was not the best for she still leaked.

Gavroche curled up on one of the couches in the flat, Brujon resting at his feet. He had rang for delivery of his dinner, pizza and chicken wings. They were foods Gavroche had grown to love and he had likely ordered far too much.

"Msr Brujon, what would you like to watch tonight?" His pup (though he was barely a pup any longer, near full grown and rather large) whuffled, and from behind him came a hiss that he ignored. "I agree. but which movie?"

For all that this world seems so equitable in so many ways, there are things here that Gavroche finds entirely unjust. The fact that there are still those that starve or have no homes to go to is the largest of these, yes, but there are others. One which he finds particularly irksome is this notion of ‘legal age’ and the fact that he is allowed in so few establishments that serve alcohol. It is not that Gavroche has any real desire to drink the spirits on offer, but these places are the best to learn things about the city and its inhabitants. Useful things, which will make Gavroche again King of the Streets.

There are a few places that he can go, he has found. Less savoury ones pay him little enough attention; a few even treating him as if he were an expected presence. These are his favourites, and after his classes with Combeferre he often makes a round of them all, charming the staff and listening to the patrons. He has a bowl of soup here, a serve of bread toasted with garlic butter at another – and rarely does he have to pay. It is, he thinks, as it should be.

When he arrives at his final stop of the afternoon, he finds a new face among those that sit at the bar. At least, newish, for the man is one he has seen before, at Porthos’ party. “Bonjour m’sieur,” he says as he clambers onto the stool, smiling when a bowl of nuts appears before him and a glass of what he now knows is coke. “Ah, this place is a good one, is it not?”