*Disclaimer: I don't own Les Misérables or any of its characters. They all
belong to Victor Hugo (my new idol), and I take no credit for them. Also,
my friend Roccovende, who used similar words to describe Michael Maguire's
beauty, inspired the starred(*) section of the story.
*Author's Note: This is very much like my last 'fic, "Before the Others Arrived," but I couldn't help myself; I had to write another "sick 'fic." This piece was a bit of a self-indulgence, so please humor me and pretend it's original.
"Caring for Enjolras"
Chapter One: I Love Them All
I love them all, the boys from the café. Ever since I joined the cause, each of them has grown on me. I know all their stories, all their flaws, all their strongpoints, and they know mine. And of course I wouldn't have it any other way, you know. Each of them is like a brother to me, closer than any real family I have--even 'Zelma or Gavroche--and for once, I feel at home.
Tonight is no different. My heart swells with love as I enter Le Café Musain, for everyone is in their place, as usual. I hang my coat on the same chair I always do, and I prepare for the meeting at last.
To my left, Joly and Bossuet sit at a table talking about their typical nothings. It is really quite touching to see how close they are. Such an odd couple, too! Poor Bossuet, with no money or home to speak of, and his almost missing hair, is so very cheery when he is in the company of his dear friend. The two of them practically live together nowadays. I tell you, though, it's a wonder Joly hasn't driven him up the wall with all his ramblings of illnesses! He is as healthy as any other man his age! Oh, but I love him too, as sickly and worried as he may be. As I pass the couple, I kiss the top of Bossuet's bald head and ruffle Joly's hair. I love to hear them laugh!
In another corner of the room, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Bahorel argue over something, but I can't hear enough to know what about...Oh, now I can! It's another one of Feuilly's rants about Poland! Silly Feuilly always has had an obsession with that place, but I think he is ever so cute! I only wish the poor dear hadn't lost his parents at such an early age. It hurts me to see how hard he works to keep a roof over his head. But he is so very cheerful nonetheless! He holds his own against the ever-fiery Bahorel, who seems to take a ridiculous amount of pleasure in arguments. He would pick a fight with an empty wine bottle if no one else were around to have a brawl with. And then Courfeyrac stands beside them, interjecting his own opinions, though with less vigor, as I presume his mind is on one of the countless young ladies he must be courting as of this week. I make a point to smile at the three men as I go by.
Jean Prouvaire sits alone a few tables away from the group, scribbling something on his parchment. No doubt it is another love poem. Sometimes he reads them to me, and I love to listen. His words flow magically, more beautiful than anything I hear at home or out on the streets. I wish Jehan were a bit more outgoing, though, for I would enjoy his company more often.
"Hello, Jehan," I say as I approach him. He looks up at me, blushes, and smiles shyly, a habit that I find most endearing.
"Hello, 'Ponine," he replies timidly. I love how he calls me 'Ponine, just like Marius does. I also love how he dresses. His style is incredibly distasteful, but it makes him even more loveable in my eyes. I bend down to kiss his cheek, and I feel him go warm under my lips. Such a sweet young man!
And yet I keep walking, pausing to greet Combeferre and Marius. The two of them talk together, Combeferre looking thoughtful as usual, most likely discussing philosophy as he regularly does. When they see me coming, they stop to say hello.
"Ah, Eponine," beams Combeferre, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and turning to face me. "Good to see you tonight!"
Marius smiles as well, showing off his flawless white teeth. He is so very handsome, and yet lately I have stopped revering him as I used to.
"How are you doing?" he asks kindly.
"I am feeling just wonderful, gentlemen," I say, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. "How are you two this evening?"
"Fine, thank you," replies Combeferre, and he kisses my cheek affectionately.
"As am I," Marius chimes in. He doesn't kiss me, but I understand. It doesn't even hurt anymore that he does not love me. As of lately, I've had my mind on someone else...
I give the boys a polite nod and continue on my way. While I cross the café, I notice Grantaire sitting alone. Oh, he's been drinking as usual. He's mumbling cynical remarks under his breath with the sarcasm he always uses. Sometimes he's funny, I admit, but I don't particularly care for the alcohol he imbibes nightly. There is something quite disconcerting about drunken people, though I don't know why I feel that way. I suppose it's because I've seen what the liquor can do to someone. I've seen 'Parnasse and other members of my father's gang drink themselves stupid, and I hate it. They become violent and belligerent most of the time, and even when they're harmless, I hate to speak to them. I never know if I'm talking to the person or the drink. Nevertheless, I kiss Grantaire like I did the others. He reeks of brandy; I try not to cringe, and I am glad when I don't. It does my heart good to see the gleam in his eye when I show affection for him. He quite obviously craves attention. The poor man is quite homely, but I don't care, because I've seen much worse out on the streets.
"'Ponine, you're not much of a kisser," he says, and I am impressed at how little he slurs his words. He must be good at talking drunk, as he's had a lot of experience. "If you want to kiss a man, you have to go in for the kill. Right on the lips. Hard. C'mon, let's have a go."
"Grantaire," I sigh, discomfort stirring in my stomach. "Why don't you have some water? Or some food, perhaps? You must be tired of brandy by now. Let me get you something else."
"Don't be ridiculous, girl!" he says, taking another swig. "I never get tired of me alcohol! Have a drink for yourself!"
"No, no," I decline uncomfortably. "I don't want any. Please, haven't you had enough? You want to be able to get home..."
"I loves the ladies and I loves good wine!"
With a considerable amount of guilt, I leave him there, as I know I'll never be able to convince him to stop drinking. His drunken song disappears in the purr of voices in the large café, and I keep walking, hoping he'll be all right. Now that I think of it, I don't think Grantaire ever goes home at all. Does he even have a home? As far as I know, he lives at the café. What a shame! He is quite obviously an intelligent man, but he has let his good mind go to waste...
Oh, where is he? I can't find him anywhere...Enjolras, I mean. He is the leader of Les Amis de l'ABC. And what a wonderful young man he is! You'd have to see him to believe his beauty. He has the softest, tidiest dark brown hair...And his eyes! His eyes are a piercing, icy blue, rimmed by dark lashes that almost give the appearance of black liner, but it is far from excessive. Oh! How lovely those eyes are! *When he looks at me, I feel as though I've jumped into a pool of cold water, but then a sudden, indescribable warmth envelopes me and I melt under his gaze.* His face is beautifully structured, every aspect perfectly chiseled like a work of fine art. He has a magnificent, prominent jaw and masculine features, yet they are not too harsh; he possesses softness under the virile exterior.
As of lately, Enjolras and I have become very close. He caught my interest several months ago with his talk of revolution, his cause so brave and noble, and I joined his society of bright young men without a second thought. And to think, I owe it all to Marius! Had I not obsessed over him so, the idea of becoming a friend of the ABC never would have crossed my mind. Thank you, Marius!
I keep walking, but still I cannot find my dear Enjolras! Suddenly, I am worried. He never misses a meeting; he is a very dedicated boy. In fact, he was so caught up in the revolution, he didn't even admit his feelings for me until just recently...Oh, it's hard to believe anyone could like a shabby girl like me! But he does, and I couldn't ask for more, even if I don't understand. You see, I am not pretty, not like all the other girls who would gladly throw themselves at his feet. My clothes are ugly, and I have rough hands. Enjolras' affection is a miracle in my eyes.
And here he is at last! I should have known, he's chosen a secluded table in the back of the café to do some work on his own. That's my Enjolras, always working for the cause. But something's wrong today. As I draw near to him, I notice how very flushed he is.He doesn't look well at all!
"Enjolras!" I exclaim with concern, not bothering to say hello first. He looks up wearily when he hears my voice. "What on Earth? You look positively ill!"
"I'm fine, Eponine," he replies curtly, though his voice is stuffy. I can tell it annoys him that I fret so much over his health, but how can he blame me? The boy works himself ragged!
"You most certainly are not!" I say, pulling up a stray chair and sitting beside him. "I know you very well by now, and you're foolish to think you can convince me that you're in good health!"
He looks as though he might protest, but a powerful sneeze interrupts him, racking his sturdy frame with force. That does it! I reach over and touch his forehead with the back of my hand, only to pull away in shock.
"You're so warm!" I gasp. "Enjolras, you have a fever. You have to go home now! I won't let you stay here like this!"
"Out of the question," he snaps, though I can tell his strength is waning. "I won't leave until I'm finished. I can't just go home because of a cold."
"You can and you will," I press. I can be just as stubborn as him. He should know that by now. We are very much alike in a lot of ways, and our obstinacy is only one similarity. "I am taking you home immediately, and you will not give me any difficulty if you know what's good for you. And obviously you don't, because you haven't gone home on your own already. Honestly, you have no common sense!"
He sneezes again and I rise to stand at his side, placing my hands on both his shoulders and squeezing them tightly. I know he'll surrender if I work on him. He's not feeling himself, so he shouldn't argue as much.
"Please, Enjolras," I know he's close to giving in. "I worry about you. Come on, if you rest tonight, you'll have more energy tomorrow."
He sighs. This is it. Nodding, he stands up, folding his battle plans and tucking them into the pocket inside his scarlet and gold vest.
As we head for the front door of the café, I mouth, "He's sick" to Les Amis when they throw concerned glances in our direction. They all nod in understanding.
My poor Enjolras! He walks close to me, and I vaguely feel him leaning into me for support, though unintentionally.
"It's alright," I whisper as we exit. "I'll take you home and you can get some sleep. You can work again as soon as you're well."
I wrap an arm around his waist to help him stand up straight. He seems grateful, but he doesn't say, for his voice is undoubtedly tired and sore. It is a shame that such a lovely boy must feel so ill! I glance over and notice how worn he looks, the poor dear, so very fatigued and ailing, and I am overcome with the sudden urge to care for him and nurture him until his strength returns.
I love how warm he feels against me!
***Any good so far? Please review; I've loved hearing your opinions!
*Author's Note: This is very much like my last 'fic, "Before the Others Arrived," but I couldn't help myself; I had to write another "sick 'fic." This piece was a bit of a self-indulgence, so please humor me and pretend it's original.
"Caring for Enjolras"
Chapter One: I Love Them All
I love them all, the boys from the café. Ever since I joined the cause, each of them has grown on me. I know all their stories, all their flaws, all their strongpoints, and they know mine. And of course I wouldn't have it any other way, you know. Each of them is like a brother to me, closer than any real family I have--even 'Zelma or Gavroche--and for once, I feel at home.
Tonight is no different. My heart swells with love as I enter Le Café Musain, for everyone is in their place, as usual. I hang my coat on the same chair I always do, and I prepare for the meeting at last.
To my left, Joly and Bossuet sit at a table talking about their typical nothings. It is really quite touching to see how close they are. Such an odd couple, too! Poor Bossuet, with no money or home to speak of, and his almost missing hair, is so very cheery when he is in the company of his dear friend. The two of them practically live together nowadays. I tell you, though, it's a wonder Joly hasn't driven him up the wall with all his ramblings of illnesses! He is as healthy as any other man his age! Oh, but I love him too, as sickly and worried as he may be. As I pass the couple, I kiss the top of Bossuet's bald head and ruffle Joly's hair. I love to hear them laugh!
In another corner of the room, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Bahorel argue over something, but I can't hear enough to know what about...Oh, now I can! It's another one of Feuilly's rants about Poland! Silly Feuilly always has had an obsession with that place, but I think he is ever so cute! I only wish the poor dear hadn't lost his parents at such an early age. It hurts me to see how hard he works to keep a roof over his head. But he is so very cheerful nonetheless! He holds his own against the ever-fiery Bahorel, who seems to take a ridiculous amount of pleasure in arguments. He would pick a fight with an empty wine bottle if no one else were around to have a brawl with. And then Courfeyrac stands beside them, interjecting his own opinions, though with less vigor, as I presume his mind is on one of the countless young ladies he must be courting as of this week. I make a point to smile at the three men as I go by.
Jean Prouvaire sits alone a few tables away from the group, scribbling something on his parchment. No doubt it is another love poem. Sometimes he reads them to me, and I love to listen. His words flow magically, more beautiful than anything I hear at home or out on the streets. I wish Jehan were a bit more outgoing, though, for I would enjoy his company more often.
"Hello, Jehan," I say as I approach him. He looks up at me, blushes, and smiles shyly, a habit that I find most endearing.
"Hello, 'Ponine," he replies timidly. I love how he calls me 'Ponine, just like Marius does. I also love how he dresses. His style is incredibly distasteful, but it makes him even more loveable in my eyes. I bend down to kiss his cheek, and I feel him go warm under my lips. Such a sweet young man!
And yet I keep walking, pausing to greet Combeferre and Marius. The two of them talk together, Combeferre looking thoughtful as usual, most likely discussing philosophy as he regularly does. When they see me coming, they stop to say hello.
"Ah, Eponine," beams Combeferre, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and turning to face me. "Good to see you tonight!"
Marius smiles as well, showing off his flawless white teeth. He is so very handsome, and yet lately I have stopped revering him as I used to.
"How are you doing?" he asks kindly.
"I am feeling just wonderful, gentlemen," I say, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. "How are you two this evening?"
"Fine, thank you," replies Combeferre, and he kisses my cheek affectionately.
"As am I," Marius chimes in. He doesn't kiss me, but I understand. It doesn't even hurt anymore that he does not love me. As of lately, I've had my mind on someone else...
I give the boys a polite nod and continue on my way. While I cross the café, I notice Grantaire sitting alone. Oh, he's been drinking as usual. He's mumbling cynical remarks under his breath with the sarcasm he always uses. Sometimes he's funny, I admit, but I don't particularly care for the alcohol he imbibes nightly. There is something quite disconcerting about drunken people, though I don't know why I feel that way. I suppose it's because I've seen what the liquor can do to someone. I've seen 'Parnasse and other members of my father's gang drink themselves stupid, and I hate it. They become violent and belligerent most of the time, and even when they're harmless, I hate to speak to them. I never know if I'm talking to the person or the drink. Nevertheless, I kiss Grantaire like I did the others. He reeks of brandy; I try not to cringe, and I am glad when I don't. It does my heart good to see the gleam in his eye when I show affection for him. He quite obviously craves attention. The poor man is quite homely, but I don't care, because I've seen much worse out on the streets.
"'Ponine, you're not much of a kisser," he says, and I am impressed at how little he slurs his words. He must be good at talking drunk, as he's had a lot of experience. "If you want to kiss a man, you have to go in for the kill. Right on the lips. Hard. C'mon, let's have a go."
"Grantaire," I sigh, discomfort stirring in my stomach. "Why don't you have some water? Or some food, perhaps? You must be tired of brandy by now. Let me get you something else."
"Don't be ridiculous, girl!" he says, taking another swig. "I never get tired of me alcohol! Have a drink for yourself!"
"No, no," I decline uncomfortably. "I don't want any. Please, haven't you had enough? You want to be able to get home..."
"I loves the ladies and I loves good wine!"
With a considerable amount of guilt, I leave him there, as I know I'll never be able to convince him to stop drinking. His drunken song disappears in the purr of voices in the large café, and I keep walking, hoping he'll be all right. Now that I think of it, I don't think Grantaire ever goes home at all. Does he even have a home? As far as I know, he lives at the café. What a shame! He is quite obviously an intelligent man, but he has let his good mind go to waste...
Oh, where is he? I can't find him anywhere...Enjolras, I mean. He is the leader of Les Amis de l'ABC. And what a wonderful young man he is! You'd have to see him to believe his beauty. He has the softest, tidiest dark brown hair...And his eyes! His eyes are a piercing, icy blue, rimmed by dark lashes that almost give the appearance of black liner, but it is far from excessive. Oh! How lovely those eyes are! *When he looks at me, I feel as though I've jumped into a pool of cold water, but then a sudden, indescribable warmth envelopes me and I melt under his gaze.* His face is beautifully structured, every aspect perfectly chiseled like a work of fine art. He has a magnificent, prominent jaw and masculine features, yet they are not too harsh; he possesses softness under the virile exterior.
As of lately, Enjolras and I have become very close. He caught my interest several months ago with his talk of revolution, his cause so brave and noble, and I joined his society of bright young men without a second thought. And to think, I owe it all to Marius! Had I not obsessed over him so, the idea of becoming a friend of the ABC never would have crossed my mind. Thank you, Marius!
I keep walking, but still I cannot find my dear Enjolras! Suddenly, I am worried. He never misses a meeting; he is a very dedicated boy. In fact, he was so caught up in the revolution, he didn't even admit his feelings for me until just recently...Oh, it's hard to believe anyone could like a shabby girl like me! But he does, and I couldn't ask for more, even if I don't understand. You see, I am not pretty, not like all the other girls who would gladly throw themselves at his feet. My clothes are ugly, and I have rough hands. Enjolras' affection is a miracle in my eyes.
And here he is at last! I should have known, he's chosen a secluded table in the back of the café to do some work on his own. That's my Enjolras, always working for the cause. But something's wrong today. As I draw near to him, I notice how very flushed he is.He doesn't look well at all!
"Enjolras!" I exclaim with concern, not bothering to say hello first. He looks up wearily when he hears my voice. "What on Earth? You look positively ill!"
"I'm fine, Eponine," he replies curtly, though his voice is stuffy. I can tell it annoys him that I fret so much over his health, but how can he blame me? The boy works himself ragged!
"You most certainly are not!" I say, pulling up a stray chair and sitting beside him. "I know you very well by now, and you're foolish to think you can convince me that you're in good health!"
He looks as though he might protest, but a powerful sneeze interrupts him, racking his sturdy frame with force. That does it! I reach over and touch his forehead with the back of my hand, only to pull away in shock.
"You're so warm!" I gasp. "Enjolras, you have a fever. You have to go home now! I won't let you stay here like this!"
"Out of the question," he snaps, though I can tell his strength is waning. "I won't leave until I'm finished. I can't just go home because of a cold."
"You can and you will," I press. I can be just as stubborn as him. He should know that by now. We are very much alike in a lot of ways, and our obstinacy is only one similarity. "I am taking you home immediately, and you will not give me any difficulty if you know what's good for you. And obviously you don't, because you haven't gone home on your own already. Honestly, you have no common sense!"
He sneezes again and I rise to stand at his side, placing my hands on both his shoulders and squeezing them tightly. I know he'll surrender if I work on him. He's not feeling himself, so he shouldn't argue as much.
"Please, Enjolras," I know he's close to giving in. "I worry about you. Come on, if you rest tonight, you'll have more energy tomorrow."
He sighs. This is it. Nodding, he stands up, folding his battle plans and tucking them into the pocket inside his scarlet and gold vest.
As we head for the front door of the café, I mouth, "He's sick" to Les Amis when they throw concerned glances in our direction. They all nod in understanding.
My poor Enjolras! He walks close to me, and I vaguely feel him leaning into me for support, though unintentionally.
"It's alright," I whisper as we exit. "I'll take you home and you can get some sleep. You can work again as soon as you're well."
I wrap an arm around his waist to help him stand up straight. He seems grateful, but he doesn't say, for his voice is undoubtedly tired and sore. It is a shame that such a lovely boy must feel so ill! I glance over and notice how worn he looks, the poor dear, so very fatigued and ailing, and I am overcome with the sudden urge to care for him and nurture him until his strength returns.
I love how warm he feels against me!
***Any good so far? Please review; I've loved hearing your opinions!