Notes: Hi, guys! Welcome to my new story. This is an AU of Delirium by Lauren Oliver, but you needn't be familiar with that canon to understand what's going on here (however, I still recommend reading the series if you haven't already, as well as Lauren's other books, because her writing changed my life). Comments, suggestions, and constructive criticism would be very much appreciated. This fic is an extremely belated birthday present for Anna loveholic198 on Tumblr, with all my adoration and gratitude for the amazing friendship and support. I hope you like this, babe, and, no, I'm still not going to watch Supernatural. Enjoy!
Full Summary
Decades after the last great war that wiped out a third of the global population, civilization is concentrated in the scattered cities that survived the bombs, separated by electric currents and barbed wire from the unregulated wasteland known as the Wilds.
The world's governments are now aware that the most terrible enemy is the fickle nature of human passions. "Love is a disease, but the good thing about diseases is that they can be cured," says the Book of Shhh, and so it is mandatory for everyone who turns eighteen to undergo the procedure that will render them immune to amor deliria nervosa and its inevitably fatal effects.
The cure offers safety and stability, and Éponine Thénardier has been looking forward to it all her life. However, as her eighteenth birthday approaches, she meets a boy named Enjolras, whose dangerous ideas make her question the quiet society that she lives in. But it's the way his touch burns her skin that makes her question herself.
Chapter One
Feathers and Glue
Autumn fell through the air in ropes of cool and waxy light, dripping like honey from the red-gold leaves and pooling on the curve of Éponine Thénardier's lips as she lay on the damp, sweet-smelling grass. She opened her mouth and caught this glow, letting October fizzle on her tongue until it burst and dribbled down her chin, sloping over her neck and spreading to her outstretched arms, her cotton-clad stomach, and her knee-sock-encased legs, covering her entire body in the sullen radiance of early afternoon.
She was seventeen years old, three months away from the cure and determined to enjoy sensation while it lasted— not that you couldn't feel anything after the procedure. The five senses would still be fully operational, according to the Safety, Health, and Happiness Handbook (twelfth edition), but the thing inside you that derived satisfaction from sight, smell, taste, sound, and touch would be gone forever. The Book of Shhh stated that numbness was peace.
In a sudden fit of mutiny, Éponine thought to herself that she had never felt more peaceful than she did at this particular moment, with leaves in her hair and autumn colors in her eyes and the burble of the nearby stream running through her veins like a song. Could I really give all this up? she wondered. Isn't it too high a price to pay just so I can avoid the deliria?
She started to panic, her throat closing up and her palms sweating. She pulled herself into a sitting position and retrieved her copy of the Book of Shhh from the messenger bag she'd carelessly dumped on the grass. Her hand trembled as she turned to Psalm 24.
"Lord, help us root our feet to the earth and our eyes to the road," Éponine read aloud. "And always remember the fallen angels who, attempting to soar, were seared instead by the sun and, wings melting, came crashing back to the sea." The wooden rhythm of the prose steadied her, calming her wildly fluttering heartbeat. Gradually, her breathing evened out, and she closed her eyes and recited the last lines of the passage from memory. "Lord, help root my feet to the earth and stay my eyes to the road, so that I may never stumble."
The turmoil receded, leaving nothing but a vague ache in her chest. She reflected on how quickly her mood had changed— how she'd been so happy one moment, and so terrified the next. This is why you need the cure, she scolded herself in the darkness of her shut eyelids. So that you will be free from confusion— so that you will be constant.
Not to mention that she would be safe from the deadliest sickness of all time, the reason the cure had been invented in the first place.
They said it took away your capacity for rational thought. They said it caused paralysis and fever. They said it made you go mad before it finally killed you.
Éponine personally knew two people who had gotten infected with amor deliria nervosa— her former classmates, Combeferre and Courfeyrac. A few months ago, they were caught kissing behind the gymnasium, both already in the advanced stage of the disease. Because of the urgency of the situation, their procedures were moved up despite them not being of age— however, instead of submitting to the cure, the boys escaped into the Wilds. No one knew how they managed to get past border patrol, but they now existed to their peers as a cautionary tale.
In the wake of the scandal, President Javert of Deliria-Free France had come to give a speech at Éponine's school. "See how they destroyed themselves?" he railed to a student body still reeling from shock. "They threw away brilliant futures to live like savages with the rest of the Invalids. They might even be dead now— and, in all honesty, death would be kinder. That's what love does. Beware."
A harsh bell rang in the distance, signaling the end of lunch period. Éponine opened her eyes and got to her feet, smoothing down her pleated black skirt and slinging the messenger bag's strap over her shoulder. She hugged the Book of Shhh to her chest, finding comfort in the slight weight, and hurriedly walked back to the school building. She felt a pang of regret at having to leave this beautiful glade that was her favorite place, but she quickly squashed it down.
After the cure, there will be no more pangs, she told herself. No more pain.
Cosette Fauchelevent was waiting for her in the yard, a solitary golden-haired pebble in the midst of the flow of students trickling to their respective classrooms. She smiled at Éponine as she drew near, and the other girl nearly apologized for leaving her alone with no one to spend lunchtime with. Cosette was ostracized at school because of her mother. Fantine Tholomyes had undergone the procedure three times, and, each time, it had refused to take. There were people like that, people who were unlucky enough to have a natural affinity for the deliria.
After the third failed operation, ten years ago, Fantine had been sent to the Crypts, a prison-slash-mental-health-facility located on the outskirts of Paris, where all terminal cases rotted away. Her young daughter was promptly fostered off to Jean Fauchelevent, who had been a childhood friend of Fantine's and was the only man willing to care for a girl with such faulty genetics.
"A new student just arrived," Cosette told Éponine as they made their way inside the building, daylight succumbing to the hallway's sterile fluorescence. "His family moved here from Marseille."
"Ooh, a Southern boy," Éponine rasped, smirking a little. "How did you know?"
"I keep my ears open," Cosette primly replied.
Éponine's smirk widened. Over the years, Cosette had learned to use her undesirable status as a tool for acquiring gossip. Nobody spoke to her, so she listened to people speak to one another. "Good job."
"That's not all," Cosette continued, her tone low but excited. "Apparently, he's already eighteen years old, which means—"
"— He's cured," Éponine finished, her eyes widening. "Okay, now I need to see him. I hope he's in our class…"
She didn't have to wait long to find out. When she and Cosette filed into the lecture room, a boy she had never seen before was standing beside the teacher's desk, talking quietly to Monsieur Gillenormand, the formidable old Public Health and Safety professor.
The first thing Éponine noticed about the new student was the mop of golden curls that haloed his pale face and fell into his eyes. The windows shivered with afternoon light, blurring his slim figure at the edges and setting that shock of blond hair on fire. He'd rolled up the sleeves of his un-tucked white button-down, exposing his slender forearms as he slipped one hand into the pocket of his black pants and used the other hand to keep his gray school blazer in its casually draped position over his shoulder.
Éponine couldn't believe anyone would dare take such a haphazard approach to the uniform in plain sight of Monsieur Gillenormand, but the professor didn't seem to mind. That was one of the perks of being cured— the adults trusted you more.
As she neared the teacher's desk on her way to her seat, the new student's gaze met hers. It felt strange, this collision— it made time slow down. She resisted the urge to look away, staring impassively back at him instead, and something flickered in the depths of his blue eyes before he returned his attention to whatever Monsieur Gillenormand was saying.
Éponine released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. As she gingerly negotiated herself into the space between the newcomer and the first row of seats, careful not to brush against him, she darted a surreptitious glance at the spot behind his left ear. There it was— the mark of the procedure, the small three-pronged scar.
It was the same scar that she herself would be sporting in three months' time.
The seat plan was alphabetical; Éponine's spot was in the back row, while Cosette's was in the middle. The two girls slid into their respective chairs, making faces at each other across the room while their seatmates pretended they weren't there. "It's not that they don't want to talk to us," Éponine had assured Cosette years ago. "It's that we don't want to talk to them." Her classmates had originally shunned her for being a scholarship charity case, and then for befriending the girl with the crazy mother, but Éponine thought they were all idiots, anyway. Cosette was the only one she could stomach.
But that didn't make it hurt any less.
After the cure, after the cure, Éponine chanted silently, like a mantra. You won't care anymore, after the cure.
Monsieur Gillenormand cleared his throat, putting an abrupt end to the bits of conversation and laughter rippling around the room. "I trust that you all had a pleasant lunch," he said. "We have a new student joining us for the remainder of the year. I'll let him introduce himself, shall I?"
All eyes turned to the boy in question. He seemed completely unperturbed by the spotlight— when he spoke, it was with a half-smile and a relaxed drawl. "Good afternoon," he greeted. "I'm Nicodème Enjolras, but I prefer going by my surname, for obvious reasons." The class chuckled appreciatively. "My parents and I just moved here from Marseille. I turned eighteen last month, so, yes, I'm cured. My interests include debate, tennis, motorcycles, and political theory—"
Monsieur Gillenormand coughed. "Young man, did you say motorcycles?"
Éponine leaned forward, thinking that the professor had a right to be skeptical. Not that there was anything inherently wrong with motorcycles— it was just strange for a cured person to make a point of liking them.
"Cheaper and easier to maintain than automobiles, sir," Enjolras replied. "My bike is my primary mode of transportation and it is thus logical for me to learn all I can about it."
"Fair enough," grunted Monsieur Gillenormand. "Anything else?"
"That's all, sir… Unless my classmates have questions?"
He embraced the crowd so easily— my classmates, us— putting a subtle distance between them and the authority figure in the room. Éponine was more wary than she was impressed; she knew a troublemaker when she saw one.
What she didn't understand was why Enjolras would attempt to cause trouble in the first place. He was cured— what more could he want?
A redheaded boy in the corner raised his hand. "Did it hurt?" asked Jean Prouvaire. "The procedure, I mean?"
Enjolras' smile faded. "Yes," he said gravely. A chill fell over the room. "They put you under, but your brain wakes up in the middle of surgery— as if it's trying to save itself."
Most of Éponine's classmates looked stricken. Jehan, who would be turning eighteen in three weeks, gulped, his gray eyes wide and his skin pale beneath his freckles.
Monsieur Gillenormand coughed again, more furiously this time. Enjolras shook his head, like he was coming out of a trance. "But, of course," he continued, "the true salvation is the cure. Since the operation, I've never been sad or afraid. And I'm now immune to the deliria, which ensures me a long and healthy life in a stable and productive society."
Despite this assurance, the damage had already been done. The class was uneasy, exchanging anxious glances and murmuring fitfully among themselves. Monsieur Gillenormand ordered Enjolras to take a seat, and, as the boy walked down the aisle, his eyes met Éponine's again. It was only a quick glance, but she glimpsed something in his sharp features that set off warning bells in her head— satisfaction, and promise, like he had big plans in store for them all.
The walk home from school was always long and tiresome. The city changed beneath the soles of Éponine's black shoes— first the smoothly rolling concrete sidewalks of the affluent suburbs, and then the slopes of the cement hills and the gravel of the main roads, and, finally, the unpaved, garbage-strewn paths of her own neighborhood. By the time she arrived at her house, the sky was tinged violet and the sun's rays had been dulled to wisps of tarnished brass. Her mother was perusing a magazine on the ramshackle front porch; Javert's stern face glowered at Éponine from the cover in the last vestiges of daylight. A man on a mission, the headline boldly stated. DFF President discusses the future of the most powerful political organization in France.
"Hello, Éponine," Madame Thénardier said calmly. "Did you have a good day?"
"I failed, like, three exams," Éponine lied.
Madame Thénardier sighed. "Please do better next time. We can't afford full tuition if you lose your scholarship." She turned to the next page, and that was the end of the matter.
"Yes, Maman." Éponine wondered what it would be like to have a mother who yelled at her in real anger or sensed when she was sad— a mother who cared because her heart told her to, not because it was expected.
She went inside the house, the screen door softly clicking shut behind her. Monsieur Thénardier was kneeling on the kitchen floor, cementing a couple of loose tiles.
The empty kitchen stove caught Éponine's eye. "Should I make dinner, Papa?"
Her father nodded, hardly glancing up from his work. "Yes, thank you."
"What would you like?"
"Anything's fine, Éponine."
She put her bag on the table and surveyed the pantry's meager contents, her hands on her hips. The next batch of government rations wasn't due until Friday, but they could survive if they lived on soup until then. "Well, what's your favorite food?"
"Hmm?" Monsieur Thénardier did look up this time, scratching the back of his head as if the question had stumped him.
"What did you like to eat— you know, before you got cured?" Éponine prodded.
He stared at the wall in front of him. "I… can't remember." His dull eyes sparked, as if something was trying to fight its way to the surface. "Perhaps cherries? Although it escapes me why… But that was so long ago. I was only eighteen when the doctors cut into my brain…"
"Never mind, Papa," Éponine said quickly. "It was silly of me to ask."
As she chopped up the vegetables for the soup while her father returned to fixing the tiles, Éponine could hear Azelma and Gavroche talking in the next room— well, Gavroche seemed to be doing most of the talking, his high-pitched voice sporadically imitating the whoosh of airplanes, which led Éponine to surmise that he must have seen one earlier, flying overhead— while Azelma threw in the occasional murmured response.
Compared to her parents, her younger siblings had such distinct personalities; they were larger than life. What was going to happen to them in three months, when Éponine returned from the hospital a completely different person? She had no way of preparing them for it— she'd never experienced living with someone before and after they got cured. She could only hope that Azelma and Gavroche would be able to adjust to the change on their own.
I'll ask R tomorrow, Éponine decided. Grantaire was one of the few classmates who wasn't actively snubbing her or Cosette. His older sister, Maëlys, had undergone the procedure last year. He might be able to shed some light on the situation.
Madame Thénardier entered the kitchen, smelling like grass and dusty honeysuckle air. "The match committee sent us your schedule this morning," she informed Éponine. "You will be profiled next Saturday."
Éponine nodded. She dumped the chopped vegetables into the pot and watched them simmer in their liquid broth. The profile was a test that would allow the government to determine whom you were most compatible with, based on your achievements and interests. You and your approved match were free to marry anytime within two years after the cure. Éponine tried to determine which of her schoolmates she would be most comfortable spending the rest of her life with. She wasn't particularly keen on any of them, but she supposed that it would hardly matter to her once she got the operation.
The cure pointed you to what was right— what was logical. Everyone was born with original sin, with the tendency for the deliria. The cure took that away. It saved you from yourself.
Cosette dropped by after dinner, her cheeks rosy from the exertion of riding her bicycle all the way to Éponine's side of town. Éponine glanced at the clock on the wall, raising an eyebrow when she saw that it was a little past eight in the evening. What on earth could prompt Cosette to seek her out at such a late hour?
"You're cutting it awfully close to curfew," she remarked as they fled to the privacy of her bedroom.
"I can make it back before ten," said the other girl, sounding preoccupied.
"All right." Éponine perched on the edge of her mattress and tried to wait for Cosette to speak her mind, but she was considerably more impatient than her friend was, and so, finally, she couldn't stop herself from blurting out, "What's wrong?"
Cosette absentmindedly rearranged the knickknacks on Éponine's desk. Keeping her hands busy when she was tense was a habit she'd picked up from Éponine, in much the same way that Éponine had learned the value of silence from her. It was strange, how two people rubbed off on each other throughout the years. "I'm getting profiled next Monday."
"And that bothers you because?"
"Because… I don't know." Cosette sighed. "What if I don't like my approved match?"
"You're turning eighteen in a month," Éponine reminded her. "You won't care once you're cured."
"What if I want to care?" Cosette challenged.
Éponine's heart raced. This was dangerous territory. "Well, wasn't Oncle Jean happy with your stepmother before she died?"
"I don't know. Probably." Cosette shrugged. "I cried at her funeral, but he didn't."
"Because he's cured," said Éponine. "No more sorrow, right? The end of pain, forever."
Cosette sat down on the nearby chair, her blue-green eyes swirling with confusion. "You'll never guess what he told me just a while ago, when he showed me the letter from the matching committee," she murmured. "Papa got infected when he was fifteen. He fell in love with my mother— my real mother."
Éponine started. "Did Fantine love him back?"
"Yes," said Cosette. "He thinks that's why she fought so hard against the procedure, and why she was so unhappy with her approved match. The cure didn't work on Fantine, but it worked on Jean." Her voice caught a little on this last sentence, and she took a deep, steadying breath. "It was the way he talked about her, Éponine. He sounded so clinical, telling me about this woman he was once in love with. It was like he could barely remember her."
Éponine thought about her own father then, on his knees in the kitchen with a trowel in his hands, attempting to recall what it was about the taste of cherries that had delighted him so much. "Maybe it's easier to forget something when you don't love them anymore."
"I don't want to forget my mother." There was a defiant set to the other girl's jaw. Éponine didn't understand how a person could look so brave yet so wounded at the same time. "I'm never going to see her again. I need to keep her with me, somehow."
"You can't go around saying things like that," Éponine argued. "Without the procedure, you'll get infected and you'll die. That's stage four— physical and emotional paralysis, and then death. Only the cure can save us. And if the wrong person hears you, you'll get taken away. You— you might even end up like Fantine."
The silence seemed to last for hours, with Cosette furrowing her brow and Éponine twisting her fingers into the bed sheets, anxiously waiting for her friend to come back to her senses. At last, Cosette nodded, some invisible curtain slowly drawing itself over her features.
"The most dangerous sicknesses are those that make us believe that we are well," she said, quoting Proverb 42 from the Book of Shhh. "You're right, Éponine. We are born with original sin. We need to be cured."
"Yes," Éponine fervently agreed. Safe. We need to be safe.
Cosette still seemed troubled, though. She tore away from the chair and sat down beside Éponine, the mattress shifting under their combined weight. She rested her head on Éponine's shoulder, and the other girl put an arm around her waist.
"I'm already beginning to forget," Cosette admitted in a small, tentative voice. "I know that my mother sang me to sleep and made me pancakes in the morning. I know that it was almost sundown when the guardians came and took her away for good. But I can't recall how her eyes looked, exactly, or what she smelled like, or the way she smiled. All that I have left is the last thing she ever told me before she was dragged into the black van."
"What did she say?" Éponine asked, horribly intrigued despite herself.
"She hugged me on the curb outside our house," Cosette replied, dazed and lost in memory. "She held me so tightly that I almost couldn't breathe. And she whispered— so softly that at first I thought she was praying— 'I love you. Remember. They cannot take it.'"
Fantine's last words to her daughter echoed in Éponine's mind long after Cosette had gone home. Éponine lay in bed, the lights off and the blanket thrown haphazardly across her knees. Her eyes were open, fixed unseeingly on the dark ceiling.
Would she be able to say something like that to Azelma and Gavroche, before her cure? Should she say it, if only because they would never hear it from her again? Or would that be a cruel thing to do— to leave scars like the one Fantine had left on Cosette? It had to be easier to forget someone if you thought they never loved you. You couldn't lose what you never knew you had in the first place.
Because she was thinking about the cure, her thoughts inevitably turned to Enjolras and what had transpired in the classroom earlier. He had sown the seeds of dissent, and part of her suspected that he had done it on purpose. She resolved to stay far away from him and his schemes.
Éponine Thénardier closed her eyes and fell asleep, and dreamed about mothers bowing their heads in prayer and schoolboys setting the world on fire.
To Be Continued