The Marble Man
Summary: An art history graduate traveling to a small town. A story that is as mysterious as the statue it is about. Nothing could have prepared Éponine Thénardier for what would happen in the sleepy town of Musain. E/E modern AU with a twist.
Disclaimer: It's still not mine – if you think it is, STAHP.
AN: All the love to the lovely ladies on the forum, especially to Mary for creating the beautiful cover art and for being the best beta and friend a girl could wish for. Much love to Christine, Lily, Sabrina, Hiyas, and Kat – my dear girls! Hugs to everyone who is still on this ship!
Chapter one
As she feels the soft wind caressing her skin, the town's main square comes into focus and the sleepy setting brings to mind the tranquilité of small towns that she has only experienced in books and the offerings of Hollywood. She has yet to know peace, has yet to find a place to stay permanently – homes have always been temporary to her.
She has known the feeling of home as something transient, something she has only been able to feel when surrounded by beautiful creations from centuries past. Art is the only thing that always feels familiar and right to her, which is why she has found herself in the sleepy town of Musain, a place with only a small museum as a claim to fame. That small museum does happen to have an excellent collection of 19th century sculptures, so she got herself to the nearest highway and hitchhiked most of the way there.
The last few miles had to be traversed on foot – there is simply no traffic heading in the direction of this little gathering of houses interspersed with a few shops selling only the bare necessities. It is supposed to be an actual town, but there is barely enough to it to even be considered that. The museum is the only frivolity around for miles.
Art would never be a frivolity for her, especially not in a tiny museum that is almost entirely focused on French-made statues of all kinds. She has seen a plethora of beautiful paintings in her travels but she has yet to fall in love with a statue like she has fallen for the paintings of Van Gogh in the Louvre or the beautiful Mona Lisa with her enigmatic smile. Statues do not mean as much to her as paintings do.
She can fall in love with a piece of art in the space of a brushstroke or a swirl of color in a top right corner. Marble seems so cold and harsh when contrasted with the warm shades and tones of a Van Gogh or a Rembrandt. The bright colors of Roy Lichtenstein often hurt her eyes, but she sees the vintage look as the prelude to graphic novels and the details are astounding. Still, she'll always love the olds most – and she has yet to find statues that pull at her heart as well as show aesthetic appeal.
This is not the goal of her travels, but she has considered settling down in any random place that makes her feel again. She has been too complacent in her studies, she has let her feelings be blurred by assignments and midterms and exams. It has been too long since she pulled all-nighters because she was just so inspired and she had to finish her latest piece. To be honest, she is just blocked creatively.
Traveling through Europe in a quest for inspiration is the only thing she can think of to get back to where she used to be. Her potential appears to have faded into mediocrity somewhere overnight and now she is just another disappointment.
Not for long though – the future is right around the next corner, the very same corner that will finally lead her to the museum. Her expectations are tempered enough not to expect too much of this petite town and its plus petit museum. She will walk in, see that there's nothing to it and then she will walk back out and straight to the nearest highway that will take her to a bigger city with more art.
Paris is still on her list – and if Paris doesn't sway her, if another look at DaVinci or Van Gogh cannot ignite her passion again, she might have to give up on France and leave the country. She has never been to Rome and there is so much beautiful art there that might bring back her feelings and most of all, her happiness.
For now, she will make this town her bitch, at least for a day or so.
The museum is right around the corner from the town square, which is right in the center of the tiny little town. It is situated close to the school and the few stores that are right around the corner. The grocery store is relatively big for a town this size, but the clothing store is so tiny there is hardly anything to it but conservative garments meant for the middle-aged ladies of the town. A peek at her paint-stained tunics and jeans might give the salesgirl an aneurysm – or at least that is what it looks like from a distance. Right now, she cannot see herself staying here for any amount of time.
"One ticket please," she tells the young man at the desk when she enters the building.
"You'll have to store your bag in a locker or with me, mademoiselle," the young man tells her, pointing out the huge backpack she has hoisted over her shoulder.
She was never planning on dragging the damn thing along with her while she tries to figure out if anything in this place is worth a second look or a quick sketch. And she is a realist from way back, so she honestly doubts that this place will be worth any of these things – it might be worth hanging around for a few hours to sketch some of the townspeople, because small towns are ridiculous and almost inspiring.
"Don't touch my shit," she warns him with her harshest look.
"No, ma'am," the young man is practically tripping over himself to assure her of his good intentions. "Your belongings are safe with me. I promise."
If he is that desperate to please his customers, she doubt that he will ever do something to piss her off, so she is satisfied enough to leave the bag with him for the time being. She is taking her sketchpad along with her, though – just in case something comes up.
The guy takes her money from her with trembling hands and she rolls her eyes.
"The tour starts in two minutes," he then speaks, voice almost steady. "Please wait here."
This place, this tiny museum in this tiny dot in the middle of nowhere actually has a guided tour? Well, that is interesting, since it means that the place sees enough visitors for them to be able to afford a tour – which means that they might actually have interesting pieces for her to sketch. It is more than she ever expected.
With these last words, she gets to step back from the desk and stare at the entrance hall that is occupied by only two other visitors, both of them looking remarkably comfortable in the museum. They look like townspeople, making her the only person on the tour that has not seen all of this stuff before. Now she is left hoping that the tour guide is not some ancient man with a history degree who likes quizzing the visitors – because she got enough of that crap in college, and she is glad to be done with it.
"Holy shit, three whole people," an amused voice breaks through the clouds in her mind.
When she looks in the direction of the amused voice, she finds a complete mess and her platonic soul mate in the same messed-up body. The halo of dark curls surrounds a face damaged by fights and abuse of various substances. The nose has been broken a few times and it looks almost off in comparison to the rest of his face – bright blue eyes with bags under them not quite marred by a scar coming down from his brow. His paint-spattered clothes cover a muscular body that can't seem to stop moving, hands in constant motion to hide the occasional tremor going through his body.
His story is written all over him and it is beautifully tragic – the laugh lines around his mouth are faint when compared to the bloodshot eyes, the scars on his body, and the track marks that she can see littering his arms. She kind of wants to sketch him so she'll remember him and remember this moment where she just understood someone.
"Hello stranger," he mutters in her direction.
"Hello fellow artist," she smiles gently at him, waving her sketchpad in his face.
That at least makes the corners of his mouth turn up, and the ladies who will be going on the tour with her watch the interaction with eagle eyes, hoping to gather up enough gossip to discuss at their next game of bridge or whatever old ladies do in a town like this one – maybe they knit or something, or plant flowers.
"Is this everyone, Courf?" the artist addresses the young man behind the desk.
It seems to be nothing more than a formality, judging by how surprised he was to find three people waiting for him to start his tour. But the man behind the desk – what kind of name is Courf, anyway – just nods and rolls his eyes.
"Let's start our tour then, shall we?" their tour guide just seems tired.
"Shouldn't you introduce us to our guest?" one of the ladies asks the guide.
Ah yes, the typical small town nosiness makes an appearance – she has seen it on the big screen, but she never thought it would actually be like this in real life. These ladies have little to no excitement in their life if they are so desperate to hear her story and possibly to set her up with the tour guide, if their ridiculous winks in her direction are any indication of their evil plans. She really does not need any of this shit.
"I am R Grant and I'll be your tour guide today," he speaks the words in the most monotone of voices, already bored with the situation. "These lovely ladies are Mrs. Aimee DuPont and Mrs. Georgette Leone. What would you like me to call you?"
She thinks briefly about giving him an alias, but she doubts that she will be here long enough to get used to people calling her by a different name than her own – her first name is alright enough to be used in public. It's her last name she hates.
"Call me Éponine," she shrugs her shoulders.
"Éponine and Sabinus, no?" R immediately recognizes her name's origin.
With a nod, she hopes to be done with that topic, because discussing her mother's love for ancient romances makes shivers roll down her spine in all the bad ways. Even though her mother is long gone, she hates talking about the woman who gave her life and nothing else of significance. Still, it's preferable to talking of her father.
"We will start our tour with our small collection of sketches," R starts talking, leading his little group into the halls of the museum. "Most of the sketches you will see now are the first stage of the very statues standing in these halls, giving us an inside look into the creation process of the art of many interesting French-born sculptors."
The sketches are lovely, but nothing other than the tour guide is particularly interesting or inspiring, so she dawdles a bit in the hall before stepping in closer to R while they wait for the old ladies to be done with their oohs and aahs.
"So, you draw?" R talks to her, sounding more interested than he was before.
"I'm not terrible at it," she shrugs, not feeling up to a discussion of her dwindling enthusiasm for her own art. "I'm assuming you're more interested in painting?"
She winks at him, eyeing his paint-splattered jeans with amusement. The advantage of drawing and sketching is that the mess rarely shows up on clothes – even though her fingers and hands are often covered in chalk or graphite. Her hands are always vaguely grey, because the mess has long ago stopped coming off completely and she doesn't care about it anymore. Her hands suit her, color and all.
"The pants keep giving me away," R quips with a smile that is almost real.
"You'd have a bigger problem if you didn't wear them," she mutters in his direction, trying to make sure that the old ladies do not hear them talking this way.
That finally brings out an actual chuckle, and even though the ladies look pleased that their attempts at setting the youngsters up appears to have been a success, she cannot find it in herself to care about that when she see how laughter lights up R's face.
"I could pull off a skirt," he teases, still grinning.
"I am sure you have excellent legs," she looks him up and down exaggeratedly.
The dames look even more excited now, but R's only response to it is to lead his trio of followers into another gallery, one that is filled with bronze statues that remind her of Rodin. The lines are almost soft enough to actually be similar to Rodin, but it is not that great man's work – not that the work is not stellar, though. There is just nothing here that captures her, but she's never been a statue girl and she doubts that will change.
"Here you will find the largest part of our collection of bronzes," R makes a sweeping gesture that covers this entire gallery. "Feel free to ask questions."
Yes, the tour guide is obviously quite bored with having to give a speech that he has undoubtedly given dozens or hundreds of times already. So he's telling them the bare minimal, but leaving the option open for more if they are actually interested – and judging by the fact that the ladies seem more interested in R's interactions with her than in the actual statues, R is not actually going to get any questions.
"How about I take you to our most mysterious piece first?" the man obviously just wants to be done with it already. "Éponine, you might find this interesting."
She is almost intrigued at this, so she follows R without as much as a look back towards the old ladies to check their response to R using her name so freely. She likes mysteries and artwork that has an interesting story behind it, for no other reason than to spark her imagination and keeping it from going dormant.
"This is the statue we know as Man Protesting," R leads them to a beautifully sculpted marble statue standing in the middle of its gallery. "The artist is completely unknown, since the statue was recovered amongst the ruins of one of the houses that fell pray to the bombs in the Second World War. Even the name of the statue is not real."
The actual statue just takes her breath away. The style is very similar to Rodin, with its soft lines and how elegant and graceful the man being portrayed looks. The attention being paid to the muscles and planes of the statue's body is just about the same as with sculptures made by Rodin, but it is the unusually expressive face that deters her from thinking that she has found a secret and hidden work by Rodin.
"The face is so expressive and defined," she finds herself unable to stop looking.
"Yes it is," R agrees with her, happy to have someone to converse with who knows a thing or two about styles and sculptors. "You can see his expression so clearly that you can almost attribute feelings to a marble statue. This is why we can't see it being a work by Rodin. His faces are not nearly as defined."
This face is; it is so defined that she can see some of the statue's curls – she imagines them to be golden like the sun – being plastered to his face by sweat. Only marble statues do not sweat, and he seems so vivid and real that she just wants to reach out for the hand he holds up in front of his body, seemingly to protect himself from whatever was out there trying to get to him. And something is getting him, because his half-naked body appears to be drenched in sweat gathered when he was running away.
She admires his form like the professional art school graduate she is, but she still feels a tingle at the strong muscles of his upper arms and her eyes wander lower without a second thought – no matter how much she tries to focus on the definition the artist created in the thighs, and no matter how she marvels at the ridiculously tight ass, she still ends up focusing on what is between the powerful thighs, because the outline is visible even through the material of his trousers. She even blushes like the innocent girl she never really got to be, especially when R catches her checking out the ridiculously good-looking statue and winks at her, the ass.
Still, every single detail about this statue is so life-like that she can't manage to keep her sketchpad closed and her pencils out of her hands – she simply has to immortalize him on paper as he has been immortalized in gorgeous marble.
The almost anguished expression on his face might be the most difficult thing to capture, because the man looks as if he was facing his doom with a resigned face put on to hide his fear away. She can see everything in his expression, and it is just so well done.
So she plops down on the floor of the gallery and feels her hand going to trace the familiar lines of a man's body – and it would be comforting if she had not felt so weirdly out of control by just how much she loves this work of art and how badly she needs to draw this man and understand him.
"Do you two need a minute alone?" R is quick with a quip.
"I'm sorry," she has to physically shake herself to come back from her statue-induced haze. "I just had to get this guy in my book."
Even though she has been called out, and even though she realizes it is weird how entranced she is by this statue, she still remains in her position on the floor because she cannot leave without completing this sketch. Her memories will not be able to do his essence justice, and while she doubts her quick sketch will be able to capture him, she has better odds this way. She cannot seem to let him go.
"Would you like to hear his story?" one of the old ladies smiles at her.
"Tell her, Raphael," the other lady motions to their tour guide. "You tell it very well."
With a roll of his eyes and a clearing of his throat, Raphael Grant appears to be getting ready to tell a story worthy of epic novels and poetry – and she doubts that this will be anything other than some ridiculous town legend about a haunted house or something.
"We don't have any conclusive evidence about where the statue came from," the story starts off with its first big mystery, and she can't help but be intrigued by everything connected to this statue. "All we know is what we collected from the rubbish of the house the statue was found in. We found several pieces of art, most of them at least partially destroyed. This statue was the only piece that was completely undamaged by the bombing – and close to it a record of the pieces was found describing the works and the stories behind them. That is why we call him Man Protesting, since that is what she description in the records was. But there was something about the legend there too."
It is just the type of story that small towns like this one love, because it is the perfect story to bring in tourists who believe that the air of magic that hangs around this statue is actually real. She is usually the skeptic who has a better and more cynical explanation for this crap, and judging by the look in R's eyes, he knows that he is just spouting crap to make sure the people keep visiting the museum.
"The story goes," R lowers his voice, making her lean in despite her best efforts to appear uninterested in this story, "that the man in marble has not always been made of marble. He was once made of flesh and blood, just like you and me. He was a passionate man and that was his downfall – his passion got people killed, and he was cursed into being a marble statue for all eternity, doomed to watch from the sidelines as history is made and lives are built without him."
The statue with its air of bravery will never seem passionless to her, because she can imagine him pleading for forgiveness and trying to save his own life. She can imagine him running – explaining the sweat on his brow, his chest, and everywhere else – and trying to stay away from the person trying to curse him.
She puts the pencil back to paper; desperate to catch his expression and the definition in his body and the exact way the pants almost appear to move on his body. If there was ever a piece of art that she would consider to be magical, it would be this one, simply because this amount of detail is almost unheard of even in parts of a statue, let alone in the whole thing. Either the world missed the best sculptor it has ever seen, or there is something more to this statue than even the legend speaks of.
"There is a way to break the curse," one of the old ladies speaks up.
"Now where did you hear that, Georgette?" R admonishes gently.
This is likely to be just another bit of exaggerated gossip to interest the old ladies, and if she knows these biddies at all, it will have something to do with love.
"The curse is broken when he finds love," Georgette exclaims.
"How is he supposed to do that as a marble statue?" R is just as skeptical as she is. "He is frozen solid for the rest of his days, which does not make it easy to find anything."
With that last remark and the accompanying eye roll, she finds it hard not to choke on the chuckles rising up her throat – but she succeeds enough to make sure that the ladies do not give her the dark looks that they are currently giving R.
"Let's continue with the rest of our tour," R just needs a different topic to discuss.
"But," she stammers softly. "But…"
Somehow she feels like she actually cannot leave this statue behind. His arm reaching out to protect himself, his desperately hidden fear, and his body slick with sweat from running away from his dark fate – somehow her very body protests at leaving him alone to let the world pass him by again.
"I'm fucking ridiculous," she mutters before getting up.
One last look at her sketch, and then one last look at the statue – just to check that nothing changed in him since the last time she looked at him. But no, the look on his face was exactly the same, and nothing in his posture has changed.
"You can always come back later," R whispers when they walk to the next gallery.
That soothes the stupid knot in her stomach at least a little, so she is content to let him lead her to another gallery of sculptures, these ones mostly made of marble, but none as beautiful or striking as her new favorite. There are more sculptures of females here, and she can appreciate that – but her thoughts keep coming back to the Man Protesting in the previous gallery. She cannot seem to let him go.
e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e- e
She has not been able to think of anything other than that damn statue ever since she first saw it. About half a dozen sketches in her sketchpad show her interest, but none of those sketches has managed to capture the exact look on his face, and not one of the sketches looks enough like him. She just has not gotten him yet, and she is almost frustrated enough to start tearing pages out of her sketchbook until she feels sane again – that is, if she ever will. The need to draw him just is not abating.
"Still here?" R walks over to her, looking gaunter than he did when they met.
"I can't get his stupid face right," she huffs. "It's just not coming out right."
His jaw is sharp but strong, and she cannot seem to get the shape of his eyes right – but the thing that pains her most of all is trying to get his expression onto the page and failing miserably. Either it's the shading around his eyes that doesn't seem to work, or his mouth looks almost happy – next time she might draw him happy, just because she can and happiness appears to be sorely lacking in her statue.
"You might want to pick this up again tomorrow," R is sympathetic to her plight.
There is plenty of time for her to get this right though – the museum isn't closing for hours, because the tour ended at 2 PM and that's when she sat down to start drawing, just a few minutes ago. Still, if she wants to get out of this town…
"I kind of need to lock up," her new friend is getting impatient now. "It's that time."
Wait, what? She blinks rapidly, trying to get rid of the statue-induced haze in her brain to figure out what is going on in the real world. Apparently time has been passing without her knowledge, because R is pointing at the clock – and that damn magic clock is showing that it is past six and the museum is past due to close. How did that happen?
"Crap," she is trying not to cuss. "I can't head out of town today."
Not only is it way too late to attempt to get to a city without being inappropriately fondled by some truck driver, she also feels like she still has more than a little unfinished business with her statue – especially now that she is stupidly referring to it as hers.
"Know any decent B&Bs around?" she asks R, trailing behind him.
"I know a place," he shrugs, motioning for her to walk in front of him as they get closer and closer to the museum's exit. "It has an attic room available indefinitely, and it's dirt cheap. You would have to share the kitchen facilities with two men, though."
Grabbing her bag from behind the front desk without as much as a word, R seems ridiculously casual and that means that there is something up with this offer. This does not sound like any kind of real B&B – it sounds more like he'd like a girl in his attic, and she had better hope he's not too much of a freak about wanting to do things to her.
"Is this your attic?" she is rightly suspicious at this offer.
"Technically, the house belongs to Jehan's parents," R shrugs, locking the heavy entrance doors firmly. "We still have to pay them back. But yeah, I live there. So does Jehan – you'll meet him later, he's a poet. If you pay for groceries, we'll let you stay."
The offer sounds too good to be true, so she continues to be wary, just so she doesn't end up chained to a radiator or six feet under. Honestly, she has done things that might not have been considered to be very smart, but staying with a stranger who just happens to offer his attic to her when she asks? Yeah, that sounds like the first act of some ridiculous horror movie that she would prefer to miss out on.
"I am just looking for another bro," his hands are held up defensively.
It is that gesture, the one that reminds her of her statue, that makes her actually consider R's offer – it would be the most convenient way to make sure that she gets another day to spend with her protesting man. And really, no matter how pathetic it may sound, that is all that she wants at this point.
"Sure," she shrugs, hoisting her bag over her shoulder.
"Good," R leads the way. "I'm desperately craving pizza."
Her interest has been sparked again – and her life will be charcoal and parchment again.
AN: There it is, the first chapter of my new fic. Let me know what you think! Your favorite lines, and parts, and bits! What do you think might happen next?