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It rains on the way back from school, spreading slickly across the pavement. Cars roll by, slow enough not to splash but close enough to stare, and Eponine lifts her heels higher when her pants start to drag through the water and refuses to look back.
There’s a back alley side street on the next block, a shortcut she’s always been too afraid to take, but today she just wants to get home.
The first rule of trespassing through dark alley streets: try as hard as you can to look like you belong.
She stuffs her hair into her baseball cap, twisting it up and tucking the ends in neatly, and crosses her arms over her chest. It’s okay, she thinks. Close enough. If she can make it through the dark alley without running into anyone, it’ll be fine.
She doesn’t count on tripping over a pair of upturned ankles, or falling into a pile of cardboard boxes.
“Ow.”
“Oh my god,” the ankles say, and they’re not just ankles but legs too, and a really nice butt that scoots closer to her as the person attached to it crawls out of the little box-tunnel. “”Oh my god, I’m so sorry, please don’t — I’m sorry!”
“Don’t what?”
“Nothing,” the boy says, and it’s a boy around her age. A nice-looking boy. Tall, with dark curly hair and large, expressive eyes. He’s wearing a white shirt and suspenders like some kind of German great-uncle, but he somehow manages to make it look good. "Habit. Anyway I uh — are you okay?” He offers a hand to help her up, but she shakes her head.
“Yeah,” she answers. “Just — I need to sit down for a few minutes.”
“Oh.” He winces as she reaches up to fix her hair, letting it loose and checking her scalp for bumps. “Are you hurt? I can — “
“I’m fine,” she says, gently batting his hand away. “Unless you’re a licensed doctor?”
He shakes his head. “No, but I’ve read a lot of medical texts. And I’m CPR certified! I’m Melchior, by the way,” he say, settling down cross-legged beside her.
She smiles. “That’s a funny name.”
“It’s not funny — it’s German,” he says, scratching his neck self-consciously.
“My name’s Eponine.”
“It’s pretty.”
“It’s French.”
A silence falls as she ducks her head, dusting her pants off and trying to will away the warmth in her cheeks and stomach, thankful that the same awnings that keep the alley dark and gloomy also keep it fairly dry.
“So um,” she finally says, “what were you doing here, anyway?”
“It’s my private place,” Melchior says. When she tilts her head and squints he hastily adds. “For thinking! I meant for thinking. Not…that.”
“Uh huh,” she says, and she lets her grin spread wide. “Do you usually do your thinking with your ass in the air?”
“I’d dropped my journal,” he mumbles, blushing, but he’s smiling too, soft around the words. “And what were you doing here?”
“Walking home.”
“You’re walking home? In this weather?” He looks scandalized. She scowls.
“It’s not like I can afford a car,” she mutters.
He seems to think for a moment, quiet and present in a way that makes her breath catch a little, and then he nudges her elbow until she meets his eyes — huge, dark, and honest — and he says, leaning so close that she feels more than hears him whispering, “My friend has a lot of sex dreams about his mother.”
“What?” Eponine jerks her elbow away, annoyed. “Ew. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing much, really. But when I feel bad, I like to remind myself that some people are way more messed up than I’ll ever be.” He stands, picking up his journal and holding out a hand to help her up.
“That’s revolting,” she says, only half-joking, but he doesn’t seem to take offense.
“Come on,” he says easily, and this time she takes his hand, feeling weirdly comforted and definitely, definitely intrigued. “I’ll walk you home, at least.”