Éponine had never seen a boy like this one.
All the air around his body seemed tense, filled with the strength emanating from him. His thin face was covered with a sheen of glistening sweat, his cravat messily tied, his pants loose and ripped. His hair was carefully styled, but a single blond strand was hanging on his stately forehead.
Suddenly, he was in front of her, handing her a flyer. His hand was rough and calloused.
"Please, tell your friends mamselle."
His voice caught Éponine, and her heart fluttered. She watched him walk away helplessly before daring to speak, the words escaping her numb mouth.
"Your name, Monsieur?"
He gave her a confused but captivating smile. "Bahorel."
Éponine nodded slowly, crossing her arms as she watched him strut down the sidewalk.
Azelma had been taught when quite little not to stare, but it wasn't really her fault. Her eyes were naturally drawn to him, like a moth to a flame.
He was sitting at the bar, so relaxed. He grinned and laughed at a joke one of his buddies told, and Azelma felt her face get hot.
He wasn't really a looker, granted, but it made him no less devilishly attractive.
Azelma needed to know his name. She got up, and stepped towards him.
He turned around quickly, then stared at her with his dark, hypnotizing eyes.
"Hey there. What's your name?"
Azelma felt a shiver go through her body. "A-Azelma. A-and you?"
He took a swig of wine before replying. "Grantaire."
The mystery boy had been staring at Musichetta for quite a few minutes, but she couldn't say she minded.
My God, he's handsome, she thought, then quickly returned her attention back to her book. But he really was; unruly red hair, emerald green eyes, and small shoulders.
Musichetta brushed a strand of hair off her forehead, then looked back up briefly.
His gaze was still fixed on her.
Musichetta felt a smile come onto her face as her dimpled cheeks warmed. She continued to read, but heard him getting up and stepping towards her.
Musichetta's heartbeat went up, her eyes widening.
Musichetta shifted in her chair.
"Musichetta. M-my name is Musichetta."
This had to be the fifth or sixth time Cosette saw this young man in the Luxembourg.
He was tall and had a dignified air about him. Whenever Cosette and her father walked past him, her heart went into her throat. He made her nervous but excited, dizzy but painfully alert. His dark hair and caramel eyes made her blush, but his upright manner was what really caught her attention.
All I want, she often thought while watching him pretend to read, is to know his name.