Eponine Louis, adopted daughter of Javert Louis lives a rigid life under the watchful and law-abiding eye of her father. Eponine, through her sneaked in, sunset-to-night prowling of Paris, stumbles upon a beatific, blonde student in Saint Michele, leaving her with a passing "désolé" and a leather bound notebook filled with speeches and a promise of a new tomorrow.
Look who has finally mustered enough confidence to write a Les Miserables fanfiction.
Hope you guys like it, really! This is set in a year and two months before the revolution and Les Amis de L'ABC is still being built up!
Chapter 1
Where We Begin in the Middle
"Few people dare say that two beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet it is in this way that love begins, and in this way only."
Eponine Louis, clad in a dress of soft blue finds herself standing in a run-down, yet still functioning cafe in the parts of Saint Michele she has only passed on her way with her father to the precinct. There were young boys, she dared call them men, littering the ground floor and for a while she finds herself entertaining the idea of befriending them, unless of course, she had enough time since if she had her calculations correct, it was nearing a good two hours since she has strayed from another mass, one near Rue Plumet. She is otherwise, curious, as ever and she mentally tries to reason with herself when she remembers why she is here in the first place. In a Cafe Musain, of some sorts. Truly this cafe wasn't as grandiose as the ones near her home, yet it seemed more fitting, for her maid, Polast had refused to lend her working gown to Eponine, in fear of her father finding out.
"I d'nt want him cross wi' me. If e' finds out oh 'eaven!'' Polast always exclaims the similar sentiments, as if she wishes that the stubborn Eponine would finally listen.
Not today, she supposes.
"Mademoiselle! Bonjour, bonjour!" A drunk slur pierces through her stock-still figure and she finds her vision focusing on a tall man of curled, dark hair. The man is inebriated, that much is obvious. He is rowdy at best, with a jaw that is plentiful with the ghost of a beard. Although it looked uneven, a patch or two seemed to flow into thicker ones while the others looked as if they are to grow faster than the rest. With an absinthe in one hand and a cheeky smile, he bows sloppily. The ends of her lips quirk, for as he propels himself forward in shaky movements, the careful hand that holds upon the absinthe never wavers in its concentration and she assumes he's got the skill of never letting his absinthe goes to waste - unless it be in his system.
"Bonjour," Eponine replies, allowing her self to smile as cheekily as the young messiur' did.
"I am Grantaire! Welcome to Cafe Musain, I notice that you have been doing nothing but standing - and a mademoiselle would be quite the fool to not accept this beautiful absinthe " - at this, Monsieur Grantaire holds the hand where his absinthe lay, protectively almost, like a maman would hold unto a babe - "with the most ch-charming of men. Me, Grantaire!"
Eponine, who is far too willing to oblige the happy spirits of the inebriated man only shook her head in turn.
"But the question is, monsieur are you really willing to share your babe?" Eponine gestures towards the quickly emptying absinthe, the mock in her tone so apparent that it challenged the scent of the alcohol that seemed to surround the man like a halo to an angel.
Grantaire, not one for complexity, even during the mornings where he lays awake in complete sobriety, does not allow himself the patience to understand the teasing nature of the mademoiselle. So instead he smiles cheekily in turn, as if to prove that he is certainly lending an ear, when truth be told, Grantaire only wants another drink for the absinthe began to taste sour in the back of his throat. Grantaire thinks to himself, who in their right mind would want to indulge in a drink that is bland? Surely not he.
"VIVE LE FRANCE! VIVE LE FRANCE!" For a delightful second, Grantaire forgets that he is in the presence of the students, the persons of whom he could call his amis, and only when the resounding clamors of men traveled to the eardrums of the drunk and the mademoiselle does he come to realize that he has forgotten to listen to the speech of Enjolras again, which he himself tries not to at all.
"What was that?" Eponine is immediately intrigued, for what is a sound like that to her whom never heard such powerful diatribe? Not even when the militia visited in past Joyeux Noel's did she hear such fervor. Impulsively and with an even tighter grip on the book she is to return, she steps around the drunk in careful movements, lest she angers him (she is never truly comfortable around those who drink carelessly) and ambles her way to stairs leading to a second floor. At this point, Monsieur Grantaire stumbles right next to her, with a weary gaze he looks on in wonder at the shifting patterns in his vision. Where there two Mademoiselle Eponine's or where there one? Grantaire could not quite remember.
Eponine huffs in impatience, awaiting the response she needed from the man. But it seems to her that Grantaire had found an earnest intrigue on the patterns of her skirts for she swore he murmured,
"I do fancy drawing flowers..."
"I do not wish to push on your patience or your...kindness but I will be ascending up these very stairs. Do you wish to come with me?" Grantaire's vision finally allows himself to recognize that indeed, there were not four, nor three, nor two Eponine's at all! Only one!
"There is one of you" Grantaire says proudly.
"And you are very lovely!" Grantaire completes.
Oh but he is quite a gentleman, that he is, Grantaire tells himself.
Eponine raises a brow in turn, knowing that this man may might as well cask his head open if she were to leave him alone - although she is losing her patience and she might as well do - she finds herself taking pity on the man and instead, hauls him up in shaky limbs and ascends up the stairs in a fit of stomping mules, fine fabric and parfum.
Eponine, with a Monsieur Grantaire in tow, stands a top the staircase, successful in her laborious climb of the small staircase. Her breathing is quite hard, for it is not an easy feat to clamber up many steps whilst pulling a man who could easily weight the same amount as the babe of a horse; of course not to mention, the tightening of her corset whenever she dared to suck in more of a breath constricted her very freedom. Eponine concludes that if you are to combine that with the offending stench of Monsieur Grantaire's breath, it was a curious fact as to how she did not fall over in death.
"I have made it a top the world! It is I who lead the revolution!" Grantaire announces wildly and passionately, allowing the many eyes of the cafe to immediately gaze upon the two.
Eponine, colossal in temper and miniature in weight pushes Grantaire's arm away from her shoulders. She had allowed this touch not because she entertained the thought of him, but because it helped her dragged him up the stairs far quicker than actually dragging him by that unruly dark curls of his.
It was as if Grantaire's statement had been made by a man who announced that he is to give the entirety of Paris eighteen francs each, if they were to race to him as quickly as possible. For before she could allow herself to push away the shyness that had inveigled its way into her at the very moment, a man, who she assumes to be the amis of Monsieur Grantaire walks towards her, eyes a light and dark hair in a tousle.
"Hello mademoiselle! I am Courfeyrac " The man was of tall stature, his eyes were deep set and framed the jowls of his striking cheekbones well. He was handsome, Eponine concludes, and it confuses her as to why these students, with oddly striking features, seem to converge into one area. Though if she were to make assumptions based on what she knew of this Monsieur Enjolras' notebook, she would say that she stumbled upon a meeting of republicans, perhaps.
Before Eponine could muster an introduction of her own, another voice rang out and a man of freckled countenance and full lips clambered thunderously form the staircase and stood right beside Eponine.
"Oh hello Courfeyrac! Hello Grantaire, have you gotten yourself into another situation again?" A hearty laugh follows the man's comment and Eponine finds herself looking upon his countenance. He was handsome, she thought, tall with hair that seemed to not make the decision of being red or brown. Next to him, another man of a more olive complexion laughs heartily as he steps forward to lay a hand on his shoulder, he smiles too, and she finds it amusing that his cravat is tied in such an inexperienced manner that it leaves out red impressions on his neck.
She now, stood quiet and intimidated, for she is in the presence of so many men that she found herself scrambling at what to do. How is she to introduce herself when the freckled, young man had so innocently cut off her speech before she could start?
"Might you introduce yourself, mademoiselle?" Courfeyrac seemed to fully understand her predicament, was it because he was intelligent or was it because he noticed how, Eponine instinctively tried to make herself appear smaller? For you cannot blame Eponine really, she was born to thieves, to con men, and when there are very unsure moments, it is best to defend yourself in the most intelligent way that you can.
"Oh, oh, I am Louis...Eponine Louis." Eponine, in hesitance, seemed to contemplate forgoing a curtsy, but she did either way, just to appease her sudden nerves at meeting the intimidating group.
"Bahorel." Bahorel grabs at the collar of his cravat then, tugging it away from his neck in a desperate effort to find comfort. Eponine learns that this man Bahorel seems to not tower her as much as Monsieur Courfeyrac would in terms of height. Bahorel offers no other greeting, neither a kiss on the hand or a bow. But he offers her a smile that Eponine finds she prefers and in turn, she relishes in a small amount of comfort through Bahorel's simple sort of welcome.
"Je suis, Baron Marius Pontmercy." He is more freckled as he stands taller in the vision of Eponine. She does not find him intimidating, for he carries a light about him that suggested that he was indeed a dreamer, much lesser than the visage of persons like Courfeyrac or Bahorel or Grantaire. He is youthful in his stillness, she muses.
"Baron?" Her ears pick up at this much more than anything. He is of noble birth? What is he doing here?
A thunderous, commanding voice barrels through the easy air of camaraderie Eponine finds in the four men. As quickly as the feeling of comfort settles into her frazzled nerves, it leaves upon in quick flights.
"Maris you are late!"
Quick strides, tall frame, wide shoulders and a handsome face threaten to over power Eponine's senses. He is familiar in his movement, it is as if he lives and breathes with purpose and meaning. It is difficult of her to decipher his age, for if she looked closely, it would seem the fraying of age decorated the furrow of his brows and the storm in his eyes; but if Eponine were to glance at him through different specs, he seems as if he was but shy of the age of seventeen years.
It was fascinating, like a young boy in a old man's body.
"Oh Enjolras, I do apologize. The tenant owner where I lodge owe me a few francs, it is quite importa - "
"I do not wish to know more of your excuses. However, Marius, I would like to know if you happened to notice if I had left my notebook in Aloise's class this morning?"
"I have it, Monsieur." Eponine's voice seems to cut an even thicker piece through their small crowd; for now, the entertainment has been taken right out of the hands of Grantaire and it seems like the torch has been passed to her and to this enigmatic, solid man.
The owner of the notebook she now clutched to her very arms.
It was no surprise that it was as if Enjolras did not truly pay attention to the events of the cafe, he had many things in mind, his speeches, the arising count of death by hanging without trial in Paris (the count consecutively rose in a span of four days!) and many more that the mere grace of the girl escape his entire focus.
"Why is it in your possession?" Eponine had expected a polite inquiry, perhaps a greeting, one frank and curt like Bahorel's. But she was greeted with the tone of a man in great annoyance, as if she burdened him so after she comes here to return his notebook.
"Because it had fallen from your grasp this morning. I have come here, to return it to you." Eponine found herself to be utterly confused and quite truly, a bit irritated at this arrogant man. Who was he to be so incompetent of total gratitude and yet look as if he breathtakingly sculpted by Davinci himself?
Enjolras gaze however, seemed to strike through her brown ones as if he was precising over every cranny of her soul. No such indication of what he was thinking shown on his chiseled face.
"How did you know where to find me?" Is all Enjolras gets to ask before a thunderous crash echoes through the cafe's chambre.
"MERDE!" Eponine is startled, for she had not realized that Grantaire no longer leaned on Combeferre, nor was he slurring anymore, for instead, he is clutching a table in front of a balding man, who she rightfully assumes to be the one to yell out in utter disgust. Splits of laughter and panic arose through the room, Combeferre too, ambles his way to grab unto the green Grantaire, so as to control his stomach and his urges to expel his vomit everywhere else in the cafe.
"Joly! Get a bucket!" Courfeyrac yells out in shaky tones, watching Grantaire as if he were a canon ready to mercilessly fire at him. At this rate, Eponine is busy watching everyone else become busy in their movements that she did not notice how she was not the only one to remain standing in the same place. For instead, Enjolras himself, stay rooted. She highly doubted it was because of the fact that he was a firm observer like she was - but more like he was temperamental and if he were to move, the shadow that had crossed his handsome features would expel and take everything else with it in its destruction.
A man clambers past her and Enjolras, his countenance contorted in disgust.
"Joly!" Eponine, so focused on her task of watching and listening to the men had been so startled by the commanding voice of Enjolras that she almost falls off from the stairs and into the hard ground below.
"Oui Enjolras?"
"Tell Jehan to escort Grantaire home. The stench of his vomit is enough to send an entire militia to its knees." Eponine smirks lazily at that, she muses to herself that if Grantaire could wipe out an entire army, won't these young revolutionist need him the most?
"Oui, Enjolras."
It is a havoc that engulfs them, but it is silent between Eponine and Enjolras. She fiddles with her fingers before he speaks once more.
"Mademoiselle, may I know your name?" It was as if this was not the man that had so viciously demanded why she held his notebook in her very hands. His eyes shone with not what she would call, douceur but it was certainly a lighter shade of blue, almost matching those of a periwinkle as it looked down to hers in a very odd, charming fashion.
"...Eponine Louis."
"How did you get here Eponine?"
Eponine dreaded this exact same question, for she thought that when she merely met the man who lost his notebook, she were to hand it to him, tell him she had rifled through it and that was it. But he was not like any man, he was a paradox of his own, one that intimidated even the Gods, if she were to boldly speak. He is not the Enjolras he thought he would be when she looked upon this book of his.
In fact, she had a knack that Enjolras would be older, much much older. The age of her papa, perhaps.
"I walked."
"To Saint Michele?"
"Where else?" Eponine noted on how his lips seemed to deepen in a frown at her curt replies. It seemed as if his patience was running short, and Eponine was willing to take bet upon herself that he is to walk away from her at this very moment, if it were not for the fact that she still had not given him the notebook.
"By yourself, Madame' Eponine?" Courfeyrac ambles back to Enjolras and Eponine, only catching the end of their conversation just to jump right back in quickly.
"I do not need an escort! I know these streets I do!" Eponine lies through her teeth easy, she knows the streets of Paris to an extent, but not all - "and if you are to scramble up and down the streets of this city alone, then so can I." Her nose upturns a bit at that statement, fuming in small irritation at Courfeyrac's words.
Courfeyrac stumbles a minute, for he did not mean to ignite the mademoiselle into a frenzy of chaotic words and defensive stares.
"Oh but I did not mean offense, madame I am merely suggesting that maybe I could escort you, if you were to walk about, of course. I do fancy making a new friend."
The man named Joly burst into laughter at Courfeyrac's words. For if one were to truly know Courfeyrac, it was he who inveigled the hearts of the young madame's of Paris. Was it his charms? His looks? His uncanny sensitivity with animals of the likes, cats, to be exact. It seems as though only Courfeyrac knew his own ways.
"Oh but I hope you do not mean anything else by that," Joly cuts in, hands wet from scrubbing them with soap thoroughly after assisting Grantaire's now unconscious form. Eponine immediately takes a liking to he, for he does truthfully take to his name. He is, for a lack of better word, jolly.
"Could I have my book, mademoiselle, Eponine?" Eponine had forgotten the man was there to begin with, he had grown quiet, but instead of his enigma becoming lesser, it seemed as if it radiated in the same strength, all the same.
"On one condition, monsieur."
"Condition?"
"I will want to know more about your reason for uprising. I am not one to shy away from learning, and your friends have proven that it is truly enjoyable here."
"How do you know that?" Courfeyrac says, a bit baffled.
"Never mind how I know it, although it does intrigue me. Would it be far too outrageous to allow a woman to be included in your group, or does the belief of equality only apply for social classes and its injustices?" Eponine replies quickly, for she is quick on her tongue and fast in her wit.
"Equality, for all, mademoiselle." Enjolras answers for Courfeyrac, his brows now furrowed as he looked down at her in his infuriatingly, blank countenance.
"Brilliant. Will you want me to escort you by then, M. Louis?" Courfeyrac's easy tones was a startling contrast to Enjolras' commanding and enigmatic ones, and it seemed as if his voice and presence reminded Eponine that she did stand only with Enjolras, but an entire group was bared witness to their conversation - if you could even call it that.
Eponine smiles and with a shake of her head, agrees.
"Monsieur Enjolras, do we have a deal?"
Enjolras' stormy eyes distracted her greatly, so she did not stare defiantly into them, but instead, Eponine allows herself to admire the long lashes that adorned his eyes. When she looks at him in this light, he seems more human to her.
"Oui, mademe."
Eponine exhales shakily and wordlessly hands him his notebook.
He takes it upon his hands, eyes still on hers before he breaks his focus on hers, now setting it on Courfeyrac. "You are to go home now, Courf? Will you terribly mind it if I join you and Joly on your walk home tonight?"
Courfeyrac nods in answer and watched as Enjolras walked off without other words, his stature heading towards where Feuilly sat with his fans to retrieve his red coat.
The exchange between Eponine and Enjolras did not go unnoticed by Joly however, and he thinks of both of them with furrowed brows, now haply intrigued at the indescribable interaction between the two. If he were Prouvaire, perhaps, he could find words for it, but alas, he was only Joly. Perhaps if Prouvaire had not escorted Grantaire home, maybe he could help word the conundrum that was Eponine and Enjolras' interaction.
In poetry, perhaps. Joly thinks.