Like the summary says, this is mostly an "I'M NOT DEAD, I'M SORRY" to the readers of my actually-not-bad fics. This is my attempt to get past block and lazyness by writing something so thanks for even clicking on it. You're very kind. I apologise for its badness, I swear I can actually write usually.
I don't own any of the characters or songs/bands mentioned.
On June 7th 1998 Messieurs Enjolras, Combeferre, Grantaire, and Courfeyrac addressed the French and worldwide press after their victorious uprising against the oppressive regime of President Chatte- Bacchantes. Having answered questions on their motives, tactics and plans for the future with joyful professionalism for over an hour, the four men then turned to a member of the English press, who broached the subject no other journalist had dared touch: the singular casualty of the revolution, a young girl shot in the street on live television, her tiny body crumbling in Enjolras' arms in front of the world. The emotional impact on the people of France, particularly in Paris, led thousands to take up arms and join the fighting on the streets. Without this, the revolution could not have succeeded.
"Do any of you have anything to say about the young girl killed by police during the fighting on the night of June the 5th?"
Every person in the room fell silent; only the clicks of the innumerable and inescapable cameras incessantly penetrated the tension in the air, desperately trying to capture the changes in the faces of the four previously cheerful young men in front of the lens. The way the wave of bitter grief washed over Grantaire, his lips pressed tightly together in rage at the unfairnessof it all, his clear brown eyes the only outward betrayal of the deep sadness underneath the aggressive "I knew this would happen"- nonchalance of his posture. How Courfeyrac visibly crumbled, trying his very hardest to stabilise his bottom lip and remain professional, only managing it because of the supporting hand of Combeferre on his shoulder, whose own face was stiff with the effort of repressing emotion. The leader, Enjolras' face seeming hardly to change; not even a twitch in the jaw, simply a glance over at Grantaire and then down to his hands: large, soft, bruised, resting on the table for lack of anything better to do with them. When he answered, his voice seemed unnaturally level; the determined calmness of a leader who must stay strong when the people he leads cannot.
"Ép… She was a valuable and passionate supporter of the cause, and she didn't deserve to die the way she did. Her sacrifice will never be forgotten, because without it we would not be sitting here today."
"You almost said a name there. Did you know her?"
They exchanged glances. Would the notoriously private Éponine be happy with the name she tried so hard to hide being broadcast across the world? Would it put her younger brother Gavroche at risk from whoever she was hiding from?
Combeferre leant forward, folding his arms on the table as he spoke clearly, looking straight at the cameras. "Her name was Éponine. Her life was cold and dark, but she was unafraid."
"What was she like?"
"We'd actually rather not speak about our personal relationships with her." Enjolras stated, barely a hint of an apology for his abruptness in his firm tone.
"So you had a personal relationship with her?"
The silence lasted several seconds. Enjolras fumed silently. Grantaire spoke first. "She understood the world and people and their motives in a way that nobody else I've ever met has, despite not even reaching 20 yet. God, she could piss you off if she felt like it, but she usually just lightened up your day without you even realising, using only her acerbic wit, high tolerance for alcohol and enthusiasm for dangerous ridiculousness. That stupid, big, bright smile will stay with me forever."
"Éponine enthralled and terrified me in equal measure." Combeferre agreed; a small, sad smile playing at his lips. "She held such passion for life… her energy was endless. She gave unquestioningly to those she loved – when she was killed, she was trying to deliver a letter to her ex-boyfriend, who was fighting with us, from his fiancée. She wasn't even fighting. Not yet, anyway. I hope the former President was watching as she was shot down in the street for delivering a message. I hope he was still watching when the people of Paris rose up in fury at the slaughter of one of our own. I hope he understood then. I hope he understands now, as he awaits trial for his crimes. Maybe then he can start to apologise for them." His serious tone held weight; though he remained calm, the anger spilled through; anger at the President, anger at the loss of his friend, and anger that he had to quantify his feelings about it so soon afterwards.
Courfeyrac never looked up from his lap as he spoke, his dark brown curls hiding his eyes. "Éponine was my best friend in the whole world. Nobody could come close to her. She was just better than most people; sharper, funnier, cleverer, more beautiful… I could go on for days. She single-handedly brought up her little brother in a poverty-stricken household, living every day under the cloud of abuse but burning it away with the sheer force of her character. It was a privilege to know her, and it was a privilege to love her."
Another silence.
"Monsieur Enjolras? Have you got anything to add?"
He shared a look with Combeferre, his eyes uncertain. The cameras clicked and clicked, but they couldn't even begin to capture the thoughts running through the young man's mind. What can I even begin to say about Éponine? How do you sum up a girl who was one minute debunking my arguments about Marxism with an almost arrogant nonchalance; her irritatingly clever sarcastic one-liners invalidating every sub-standard argument I half-heartedly scribbled onto a page when preparing for a protest, and the next dancing around my kitchen to "You Shook Me All Night Long", wearing nothing but a Beatles t-shirt and a pair of my boxer shorts? Do I acknowledge the extent of our relationship? Do I let the citizens of this great country know just what the price of their freedom was? Do I let them know how much I lost on the day all my dreams came true? He thought about spilling it all, everything he was feeling; the grief, the sadness, the anger that he was going to have to live without that crazy, irritating, wonderful, sexy, rollercoaster ride of a young woman for even a day, let alone the rest of his life… and then he thought about the way she'd roll her eyes and throw things at him for being mushy if he did. Their relationship was never a showy one; public displays of affection weren't their style, and hardly anyone outside of their friendship group even knew they were together. When she whispered her goodbyes to him on that cold street, wrapped in his arms, she told him she loved him for only the third time ever. They never needed to tell each other, let alone anyone else. Their love just was.
"Would you like to address the rumours that you and Mademoiselle… Éponine were romantically involved?"
He looked at Combeferre again; his best friend, his brother-in-arms, his guide. It was the twitch in Ferre's lip at the word "Mademoiselle" that decided it for him. He knew they were both picturing the same thing: Éponine's wide grin and raucous laughter at being called Mademoiselle, spluttering out a "fuck off" through the throaty belly laughs.
Enjolras turned to the cameras with a wry smile, suddenly confident. He could see her dancing in the kitchen in the back of his mind, hear her shout along to AC/DC with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for Madison Square Garden, or the fields of Glastonbury Festival.
He summed her up the only way he knew how. "She was the best damn woman that I've ever seen."
"Can you elaborate on that?"
"Yes. But I have a great desire not to be haunted by a sarcastic poltergeist for the rest of my life, so I think it's best I don't piss her off with emotional declarations of her brilliance. I'm sure you understand."
Courfeyrac, whose head had risen again at Enjolras' statement, added "she wouldn't just be a harmless, property-destroying poltergeist either. If live Éponine is anything to go by, ghost Éponine would seriously mess with us. I'd hold your questions if you wish to ever sleep again." He kept his face deadpan. Nosy journalists could work out for themselves if he was joking or not, as far as he was concerned.
"But –"
As the journalist started to talk again, one of the standing lights pointing at the men fell to the ground with a crash. It was probably just a coincidence, but their eyes went wide with fear, and they stammered out "no further questions" with a slight whimper. (Then again, it might have been the fact that the wire ran along the floor beside Grantaire's foot, just waiting for him to wrap it around his foot and tug. Maybe.)
Either way, none of them ever had to say much about Éponine unless they wanted to ever again. Over time, of course, it got easier to. But it was always useful to have the threat of a haunting to persuade nosy journalists to hold off prying too deep.
...sorry. I'm trying. Better stuff soon, hopefully.