A/N: iusaiucsc another longun' for me, but more of a stand-alone this time ahhaa. Sorry not sorry. I know this must have been done a thousand times before, but I just wanted to put in my own two sous, experiment with the 'Parnasse I have created. As such, I hope that it isn't too horribly ooc ahaha.
Welp, I'll shut up – enjoy, you are all amazing, I love you so much and value all of your feedback beyond words, whether it be positive or negative. It's not everything it could have been, but eh. It's alright. I don't own the phenomenal Les Mis, I simply gush over it when I should be doing homework. Ah, the life of a fangirl! C:
xx
The air was still that night; there was no breeze, no rustling of trees, no shadows as the wind pushed the clouds across the sky. He would have found it disconcerting, as though the very world were holding its breath, but, for one thing, he was simply glad there were no bone-chilling winds; for another, Montparnasse did not think so philosophically. It was a waste of time.
He was, at that moment, alone and motionless, eyes cruel and devoid of all emotion to one that did not take the time to register the icy fire ablaze in his gaze; even if there had been anyone else out on the streets at that dreaded hour, no one would have dared look directly at the beautiful young dandy that was shrouded in darkness, both literally and metaphorically. There was a dim light there, struggling to make itself known, smothered by the blackness that had gradually over-run his soul once so pure and bright.
But he, himself, was the least of his worries for once. One could have described him as searching. Small things gave him away, giving voice to his inner turmoil, namely the way he constantly passed his cane from hand to hand. What had him so concerned? No one could have said. His face displayed no hint of what he felt within; Montparnasse was still the very essence of pride, disdain and carelessness.
Even he didn't seem to know what he was doing. She'll show up eventually, he thought to himself begrudgingly, straightening and sneering to himself as though he had only just realised how idiotic he was being – that he didn't care. She always does. Éponine's always off for days at a time, she can take care of herself. Maybe it would be better for everyone if she didn't come back. For a second he contemplated the thought, before violently swatting it away. No.
She made a point of never needing him; he made it plain that he preferred it that way, that his heart was stone. But every once in a while one or both crumbled against their will and they found themselves seeking each other out, and when they found each other, an unfamiliar part of Montparnasse's soul was reawakened, slotted back into place once more. This was not one of those times. He simply hadn't seen her since the barricades had fallen – at least, that was what they had come to be known as – and what if they needed her for an operation? He needed to keep checks on the girl, not for himself but for Patron-Minette. That was what he told himself.
Speaking of the barricades. They had only fallen one day earlier. Montparnasse didn't know what he felt. A part of him snickered and turned his back on the failed revolutionaries. Wake up and smell the bloody – quite literally – roses, Thénardier would growl, and Montparnasse echo. Nothing's ever going to change. The rich don't give a toss about the little people they step on with their diamond-encrusted, holeless shoes. May I wash your feet, Monsieur? Brush off your shawl, Mademoiselle? Oh, no, please, my pleasure. Gah! Those damn 'revolutionaries' think they have it bad! We live like that every day, and do you ever see us complaining? No? No! We get on with the job, and we don't act like saints, like we're doing it for the greater good of the masses, while we do it! Ah, good riddance to those bastards, causing hassles for us! Just hope they have something worthwhile looting when they're dead and gone. Steal from the rich, keep for the poor and all that. Doe my head in, I tell you.
Yet another part was intrigued, cheering them on in the deepest recesses of his being – even he was not aware of this.
At that moment, a shadowy figure skittered around a corner across the street, glancing around and darting here and there before his gaze fell on the dandy. Montparnasse raised his eyes, making no attempt to disguise his withering glare. He did not care to be disturbed, though, perhaps, at that particular moment, it was for the best, lest he should confuse himself further.
The other man remained rooted to the spot for a moment longer before skipping towards Montparnasse without further ado. When he stepped into the pitiful light of a nearby street lamp, the young crook was able to make out his features: he was small, scrawny, bony, with livid cheekbones, sunken pale, faded blue eyes, dark rings lurking beneath, with blonde hair – long, scraggly and unkempt – a mean face and a smile more akin to a grimace, various creases lining his pasty face. He couldn't have been more than thirty. In short, he resembled a rodent. And though Montparnasse was well accustomed to rodents, it didn't mean he liked them. What cemented his immediate dislike of the man was the fact he was donned with a grubby police uniform. He had little respect for corrupt coppers, even if they were a blessing to people like him.
When the rodent drew to a halt before him unflinchingly, he raised his sickly-looking eyes to stare unblinkingly up at Montparnasse, who was at least a foot taller than him. "You the one that calls himself Montparnasse?" He asked sharply and abruptly, before muttering under his breath, head turned slightly, "Like a bloody boulevard."
The dandy heard this, and was almost certain that had been deliberate. Still, he held his ground. The rodent was testing him, seeing how much it took for him to snap. So, aside from a brief, crazed flash in his eyes and a tightening of his grip on the handle of his dagger concealed in his cane, 'Parnasse made no notion of having heard his remark. "What's it to you, rat?" he snapped, impatient.
The rodent let out a great guffaw, and Montparnasse's eyebrows twitched upwards just a fraction. He was laughing at him. "Ha!" He exclaimed. "Rat! Congratulations, Monsieur Boulevard Boy, I have only heard that seven times today!" Continuing to stare up at him for a moment with those beady little eyes, he smiled that obnoxious smile of his before starting up again in a more bored manner. "I'm a friend of the late Claquesous. Before he bit the dust—" What? "he told me to keep an eye out for a certain corpse when us cops combed the barricades. Some little tart. Said if I found her, I was to go and find you, girlish, gamin dandy brandishing a knife." He paused for the briefest of moments to grin. "Claquesous, bless his soul in Hell, said it'd mean something to you, that you'd wanna say goodbye to the girl for whatever reason. Well, I found her. My job's over."
He peered up at the younger man, the rodent's eyes like great, empty pits, devoid of all sympathy. After a second of letting his words sink in, he continued brusquely, "So, you comin', fop? I'm the only one that can get you in – it's sealed off to looters and such. Clock's ticking. What d'ya say? Fancy a trip down memory lane?"
The question of how Claquesous knew the poor excuse for a policeman scarcely registered in the back of Montparnasse's mind. So that was where the big brute had run off to. He had been so sure he could no longer feel a thing, and yet he was so sure he felt all the colour drain from his rosy cheeks in that moment. It did not feel like he had heard it described; it was not as though being hit by a galloping horse. It simply felt as though all the lingering warmth had been drained from his body, never to return.
"What did she look like?" he heard himself asking before he even realised it, voice barely more than an eerie whisper.
"What?"
Montparnasse snapped his head up from where his gaze had fallen to the cobblestones below. A muscle above his lip was twitching spastically from the effort of having to contain himself, as had become his custom; his eyes were wild. Tossing aside his cane without considering the consequences of such an action, he lashed out and found his hand clenched around the rodent's throat, dispensing with his blade and instead opting for basic, ruthless, animalistic instinct; whirling around, he threw the smaller man roughly against the filthy wall. The rodent glowered up at him, almost mocking, but made no effort to struggle.
"What did she look like?" he repeated, voice low, an ominous snarl, kept so quiet so as not to waver; but it was strained as he shoved his forearm harder against the rodent's jugular. Anyone else in his position would have panicked, but not that strange, little man.
He simply shrugged, as though he was not on the very edge of being obliterated. "I dunno. Didn't look too closely. Quite frankly, I don't give two sous about some dead whore. But since I've got you at my throat…" He shot Montparnasse a pointed, bored look, clearly telling him to give up and step away.
'Parnasse had never been one to follow orders laid down by the government and their mindless minions. "Spit it out!" he hissed, frenzied.
"Calm yourself, Monsieur." This sounded like something 'Ponine would have said had she been there; this did not help the older man in his current position, for it only drove Montparnasse to break away, walk a tiny, panicked circle around himself, hands delving into his luscious, black locks, before he leapt once more at the cop, grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him mercilessly to the hard, cold ground; he landed with a grunt, crouched and looking over his shoulder at his assailant, still smiling, though now rather indignantly.
"Alright, alright, no need to get so vicious," he drawled, rearranging himself onto the other knee. It seemed to be painful to think too hard. Screwing up his face, he answered, "Ugly thing. Ripped clothes, – you could see her knees and tits, for Christ's sake – not much to see, though!" He broke off to snicker, but a silent snarl from Montparnasse quickly quieted him down. "Messy hair, bony, all laid out next to some little scrap of a boy, some nameless ragamuffin brat." Gavroche. "There was a hole in her hand, went straight through to her stomach. Lots'a blood." He shook his head, muttering once more, "Lots'a blood."
For a long moment, there was silence; Montparnasse stood over the policeman, rigid and staring sightlessly into the distance; the copper remained crouched down, squinting up at the dandy as though wondering what was going on in that funny little brain of his.
The young crook's breathing was shallow and quick, laboured as though thick, black blood were gurgling within his lungs. His lips were parted slightly, silently mouthing half-words. Then, suddenly, he started back into the realm of the living and his wide, malicious gaze flicked down to the other man. Had his blade been in his hand in that second, and had he had the time, it was dreadfully clear than he would gladly have carved art into the corrupt policeman's skin. But he did not.
Instead, he opted to do something he would never have considered under any other circumstance: completely dispensing with his pride and hard-earned expertise as a knife-wielder, he took a running start and landed a strong kick to the other man's abdomen that sent him sprawling backwards. Once he landed on his back, Montparnasse slowly followed so he was looming over him, consumed by darkness inside and out. "Over at the barricades, you said?"
"Yes," the rodent just barely managed to splutter out, clutching his stomach and choking as though he were going to retch.
Before he had a chance to stain his shoes, Montparnasse collected his cane and tipped his hat. "Much obliged, rat," he hissed. With that, he began in the direction of the Rue St. Denis; for as long as he could picture the rodent's eyes on him, he maintained a steady, indifferent pace; but as soon as he turned the corner, he broke into a cat-like sprint, sticking instinctively to the shadows and the walls, hopping awkwardly over potholes with one hand holding down his hat and the other clutching his cane under his arm, leaving little time for balance. At any other time, he would have been disgusted by his blatant disregard for how he looked to any onlookers. Now, however, he had only one thought and that thought was Éponine Thénardier, that little idiot girl that he resented just as much as he cared for her.
Within mere minutes he was gazing at the great barricade that had already begun to be pulled down; there was the original, which now only consisted of an over-turned carriage, an old, decrepit mattress, and a few tables and chairs, whilst the rest of what he assumed had once made up the rest of the heap had been cleared and moved to a shapeless pile of rubble against a nearby building. It represented the revolutionaries perfectly: there one day, forgotten the next.
Montparnasse stopped, backing into the shadows that welcomed their old friend back into their clutches. Only one police officer was guarding the wreckage, the handle of his sabre glinting in its sheathe and a pistol slipped comfortably into his belt. Perhaps the other copper had been pulled away by an under-manned patrol; either way, 'Parnasse could not find it in himself to care.
When he would usually only ever slink around the outer edge of the buildings in order to discreetly slit the guard's throat, not wishing to make a scene that could bring attention to him, now Montparnasse simply walked quickly towards the man, tossing his extracted dagger from hand to hand and catching it perfectly each time. The cop started and fumbled to arm himself, yelling a frightened "Halt!", but the young crook was faster and evidently more experienced; without even slowing his pace, Montparnasse plunged his blade into the man's throat before leaving him to bleed out on the sidewalk, all alone, without even his attacker for company.
It took only one sweep of his dark gaze across the pitiful remnants of the barricade to locate the entrance. Side-stepping what must once have been a grand piano, he found himself safely inside, the Corinth wineshop a mere silhouette against the sky before him. Here he paused, faltering for the first time since he had set off. To be faced with such a sight was an entirely different matter. He could feel his shoes soaking up blood, but dared not look down. Still, despite all this, despite the screams and desperation and utter chaos he could still feel reverberating off every wall, he felt no sympathy for the dead students and spared them no second thought. He was after only two that night.
Slowly now, every fine-tuned muscle in his body screaming at him to turn back and save himself from what he knew to be awaiting him within the belly of the wineshop, Montparnasse advanced, movements jerky and yet beautifully smooth, slightly bent like a feline finding comfort by curling up. He was furious with himself for allowing himself to fall into this state, and yet this fury paled in comparison to his over-whelming sense of foreboding. Maybe it wasn't them. But he could feel them missing from him; when you have so little, the few things you do have are imprinted on your very soul, without you even realising it.
Swallowing and sucking in a breath that got lost somewhere between his mouth and his lungs, Montparnasse had finally had enough of his cowardice and stormed into the bullet-spattered building, staring straight ahead. Shattered glass crunched beneath his feet but he paid it no attention. By nature, he was very single-minded. By nature, he was also not easily affected; he found it almost impossible to care about things that had not proven themselves worthy of his attention. The sight that greeted him when he finally risked a glance downwards affected him.
It took everything in him not to jump back; he froze in horror, his hands clenched into fists, eyes wide and lip once more twitching. Had it been a pile of the lives he had ended, he would not have cared; perhaps a little nagging thought of 'so this is who I've become', but nothing much more. This, however, was something else entirely.
Bodies were lined up along on wall; the majority could not have been older than 25, but the amount of blood and dirt clinging to their skin made it nearly impossible to be certain. Moonlight filtered in through the cracked windows, lighting up their hideously deformed, lifeless faces that seemed far too pale and gruesome; not at all peaceful. The stench of death was thick in the air. It was cold outside, but it was freezing in there, as though one hundred ghosts were brushing up against him. He did not believe in such things; when you died, there was nothing. He had once believed in heaven, when he was young and naïve, but not now. Now he knew better.
And yet even he found it faintly terrifying for the first time in so many moons – he, the fearless, heartless killer. Montparnasse raised his chin, eyes travelling over each corpse but doing their best not to linger; seeing but not seeing.
Finally, he found them, just as the rodent had described. They seemed smaller than ever: Gavroche and Éponine, brother and sister, dead and dead. Montparnasse almost flinched before remembering himself. Chin still raised as though this would somehow protect him, he crept over to the two bodies, side by side, putting one foot in front of the other so that his heel touched his toes – anything to keep him from them for just a little longer.
Half way there, he hesitated and snapped aloud: "What am I doin' here? I don't care about these two runts!" Then he remembered where he was and glanced over his shoulder; outside it was still quiet and still, but he knew it could not last much longer. Sooner rather than later, the cop's body would be discovered and he would have to run for it.
So, closing his eyes for a second, he braced himself. Bad idea – dead faces flashed behind his eyelids. Gritting his teeth, Montparnasse rolled his shoulders and crossed the distance between himself and the two corpses that had once been so full of life. He stood there for a minute, just staring down at them soundlessly, trying to understand what he felt and yet unwilling to, before cursing under his breath and sinking into a crouch.
His fingers lingered over his lips, as though he were deep in thought. And yet his mind was filled with nothing. Did Thénardier know his children were dead? Éponine was his favourite daughter, that was apparent enough, and yet Montparnasse doubted he would so much as blink at the news. He was most likely already aware. The innkeeper may not have been a native of Paris, but he had quickly managed to find eyes and ears in all the right places – Montparnasse amongst them. He let the old man believe he was in charge, when in reality, the dandy was sitting pretty; one look from him and the innkeeper was as good as dead.
But that didn't bother him at the moment. Slowly, hesitantly, Montparnasse inched forward and gathered Éponine up in his arms, scooting under her before lowering her gently onto his lap, as though she were still living and more delicate than ever. For once, he paid no mind to his prized clothes. Her matted hair fell over her bloody, filthy face, the rest cascading disgustingly over his knees. Her eyes were closed, eyelashes brushing her cheeks, lips lifeless and yet seeming to smile victoriously; he briefly wondered about her last moments. Had she even been noticed, or had she simply slipped into oblivion, all alone? That was how everyone in their situation eventually passed, in the shadows, underground, out of sight, forever out of mind.
The rodent had been correct when he said a bullet had ripped through her hand before imbedding itself in her stomach. In the chaos, her chemise had fallen from her shoulders and was now gathered below her bare breasts; Montparnasse pulled it up and patted it back into place. Was that damned Monsieur Marius amongst the dead, or had he escaped with his life, running like a coward and leaving his friends to perish in his place? If so, Montparnasse would track him down and kill him himself – damn Éponine's protestations! He nearly winced when he realised he would be victim to no more of those.
Good, he concluded bitterly, attempting to force himself into feeling relieved by her death. No more confusing, enraging emotions, no more turmoil, no more little girls getting in the way of business. Good that she's dead and gone, the little bitch.
But then he looked back down at her and almost choked. "What did you do, 'Ponine?" he mumbled, smiling and letting out a dry, disbelieving laugh that died in his throat. With a shaky hand, he brushed his fingertips across her cheeks as he had done so often whilst she had been alive, softly freeing her eyes from the knotted hair. "Idiot. Think you're a hero? Think you died for the greater good? What the hell were you even doin' here, huh? Was it for that miserable bastard? You're pathetic, you know that, 'Ponine?" Montparnasse shook his head, unable to pry his eyes away from her cold, lifeless face. No longer holding the power to control himself any longer, now in a dangerous state, he all but screamed in her face, "Pathetic!"
Now I'm alone. He could not bring himself to voice this. If he stumbled across the body of Babet or Guelemer or Claquesous, he would let out a sigh, close their eyes, shake his head and continue on his way. Certainly, he would have lost family, but never in a thousand years would he ever dream of reacting like this. It was so… Beneath him. So consuming. So human. And he hated it. It was agony. What did he care if they were dead? It was moronic. And yet there he was.
After another minute of silence in which he began to shake uncontrollably despite himself, Montparnasse slowly lowered himself down so his forehead was resting on Éponine's. She was cold to the touch. "Good riddance," he muttered into her hair, voice cracked. "No one will remember you. I'll forget you, you know. You'll just be another body thrown in a mass grave. Should've listened to me. Now look where you are. I hope you're happy, 'Ponine."
With that, head still resting atop hers, his hat on the floor beside her, he turned to look for the first time at Gavroche, the little boy that would no longer sing any dirty ditties, that he would no longer have to keep an eye out for on the streets, the little boy that would no longer make his home in the elephant over at the Bastille. The elephant! What a joker. Montparnasse reached out to touch him, but it was as though an invisible barrier were between them, keeping them apart. His hand retreated, afraid of discovering it was all real and not just a sick illusion.
He was supposed to revel in death – the angel of death he had come to be known as. And yet here he was, sunken to the ground, clutching a lifeless body to his heart in the hope of somehow reviving it. Her.
That part of his soul that had always been in her possession was now lost forever. It had followed her to the grave and was to remain there forevermore. Some would think the experience would make him more human, that he would give up killing once and for all, that he would become a better, honest man. No. He only felt himself growing darker, colder. Now every ray of light had truly faded from his life. Those two had been the ones keeping him there – half in shadow, half in glory; half in good, half in bad. He could have been saved.
Now all that was left was a never-ending darkness.
For the first time since he could remember, a single, hot tear trailed down his cheek, collecting momentarily on his jaw before falling to Éponine's nose below; the rest of his face was stony. Swallowing against the unbelievable pain, Montparnasse lowered his head once more, one hand slipping up to cup her cheek upside down. Eyes flickering shut, he gently pressed his cherry lips to her icy, blue ones for the final time. He remained there for what felt like forever and yet for what was not nearly long enough. She was not ugly; she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Then, resolutely, he raised his head, nodded, wriggled out from under her, drew up to his full height, collected his hat and brushed off his trousers.
Turning, he allowed one more act of sentimentality and bent down to place his hat on Gavroche's chest. "Now you finally look half-decent," he told him.
With that, he turned and sauntered out of the wineshop, not looking back once.
In the day, he banished any thought of her, of all he had lost. Whenever he felt himself crumbling, he pictured her and found himself able to stand on his own once more. Every once in a while he could have sworn he heard a raspy, echoing voice laugh and whisper in his ear, barely audible, "Smile, Monsieur." At those rare moments, Guelemer would mutter to Babet, "'Parnasse is losin' it", to which his partner-in-crime would respond matter-of-factly, "He never had it." The rest of the time, he was clear, sharp, calm, sensible, himself.
Perhaps, after all, that lugubrious creature, Montparnasse, had been a little bit in love with her.