A/N: a 10x100 piece on the eponine/montparnasse/marius love triangle. Mostly Eponine/Montparnasse. AU. Probably medically impossible. In celebration of my one-year anniversary in this fandom and the world of fan fiction in general.

Don't own it.

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One

At one point she thought was in love with him. She liked his eyes and his soft, gentle hands and his warm body that almost fit with hers.

But things change. Things must change, she thought, because otherwise life would be boring.

But then, she reasoned, if she were clean and warm and well-fed, she wouldn't mind a boring life.

Of course, she thought, what was the point of arguing about that anyway? Because things will always change.

And when they changed, she was almost certain that Monsieur Marius' body would fit perfectly with hers.

Besides, Monsieur Marius didn't kill people.

Two

After a while, she was no longer fun. She hid in an alley near the University, and watched the students. She stared at the neighbor and murmured things that weren't his name when they kissed.

So he hit her. And once he started, he could not stop.

She was his vent, his way to get back at the world who had made his life a living hell.

And yet—

She was the only thing worth living for. He would watch her stumble out of his flat, bleeding and in pain, and be so wracked with guilt sometimes he prayed.

Dandies don't pray.

Three

She was happy, for a time. She kissed him again with fervor, and it made him happy, too.

He might've been less happy if he knew she was happy because Monsieur Marius knew her name.

Everything he did made her happy. Every time he looked at her, her heart flipped over. Every time he smiled at her (which was rare and special), she felt a joy in her stomach rise and fly out of her throat, not a retch, because her voice was prettier then. Every time he spoke to her, she couldn't help but love him more.

Not even the fact all he spoke to her about was Cosette could stop her happiness.

Four

Cosette was the topic of conversation.

Cosette. Fifty-four Rue Plumet. Cosette. Fifty-four Rue Plumet. It was all she ever heard now. She grew tired of it, tired of her father, tired of giving letters to Cosette, to the Lark, letters that blew away.

And then one stayed.

And Monsieur Marius hugged her, hugged her tight and she floated through two days, so ecstatically happy she didn't think she hardly breathed.

And he noticed. He noticed her murmuring his name again.

So he hit her. Over and over and over.

Then the guilt came. It was a vicious cycle, he realized.

Ignore it, he told himself. Dandies don't care.

Five

They both couldn't be happy. He loved her, and she loved her Monsieur Marius, and Monsieur Marius loved his Lark, and his Lark loved him back.

If she could love him, they would be happy. They had been happy, once. Once they had almost been in love.

But things change. Things must always change.

Besides, dandies don't fall in love.

Six

She spent a month in jail, and when she came out she ignored him for weeks, doing whatever he asked for her.

So when he came upon her once more, he hit her and kicked her, and even used his knife once.

She cried out, cried out his name and sobbed like she'd never sobbed before, and when it was over he took her in his arms, and for once, pretended he was him, just to make her happy.

After all, dandies don't play pretend.

Seven

Whenever her Monsieur Marius saw her he said life is fine and dandy, Eponine. And then he would say That is your name, right? But she would ignore that because he was so happy and it didn't matter that the word 'dandy' reminded her of the bastard who hit her at night.

It was like she was two different people—the sniveling little thief who was in love with a student by day and the compliant, sobbing whore who was in love with a student at night.

But she didn't mind. She was in love—it was love.

And life was just fine and dandy.

Eight

He would ask her to do things for him and it would strike a bitter chord in her heart because they were always for the Lark.

And yet she had to do it because it was for him, too, and she loved him, and what else was there?

But somewhere, deep in her, the bitterness built into a towering fire of rage and she sent him to his death.

She could've stabbed him and then run, but she left that to the murdering dandies she knew. After all, she was creative.

She had no regrets.

Nine

When you are a sniveling thief and a compliant whore, you die with regrets. And she was the same.

Suddenly, she didn't want to be the last one alive. She didn't want to watch him die, to stand over his bloody body and watch him breathe his last. She was not Parnasse, not at all. She wanted to die first.

Or maybe—maybe she just didn't want him to die.

And he held her in his arms and she whispered what she thought would be her last words—I think I was a little bit in love with you—and then she floated above her body, watching her eyes close.

But then, hours later, when the smoke was fresh and the barricade was silent, she returned, painless and just barely breathing. Or maybe—maybe the pain was so great she couldn't feel it.

Ten

When he came upon the Rue de Montédor, he found her body.

It was on the ground, and then, suddenly, it was in his arms.

Slowly she opened her eyes.

You, she said, so soft it sounded like a dream. Blood slowly dripped onto his coat.

Me, he said, smiling.

I—I knew you would come, she whispered. I hoped you would. Her eyes flickered shut. He started to rise, to let her die in peace, let her keep her pride. To keep his pride.

No. Stay. She uses the last of her strength to cling to him. Don't leave me, Parnasse.

He didn't. After all, he never was much of a dandy.