Author's Note: Welcome to Music From Another Room, an É/E Modern AU for sassymontpasrnassy, who is a damn fine classy lady.

If I have portrayed any of the disabilities here in an insensitive or inaccurate manner, please tell me and I will do my best to correct it. I have limited knowledge of either deafness or blindness, though some of the things I describe I did take from stories told to my class by our awesome P.E. teacher, who had moderately severe hearing loss.

Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.

Chapter One: First Sight

They meet by accident, a full-on collision that leaves them both sprawled on the sidewalk, papers flying and camera parts smashed on concrete.

"What the fucking fuck!" Éponine screams. She's only got two volume settings nowadays, obnoxiously loud or silent as the grave, and obviously the former is her default. (So what if she can't hear the world anymore? That's not going to stop her from making sure they hear her.) "You fucking asshole, watch where you're going, are you fucking bli—"

She cuts off in mid-sentence as she takes the guy in—curly blond hair, gorgeous face that's currently frowning, and a fuck-me-now body clothed to perfection in a crisp, tailored suit.

It's the white cane that landed a few feet away from his legs that really shuts her up, though.

"Oh, shit, you are blind," she says.

Unexpectedly, the man laughs, his previous disgruntled expression evaporating as his blue eyes crinkle and his mouth opens to show off blinding white teeth. He turns his head in her direction and his lips perfectly form the words, "Yeah, I know. Sorry I didn't see you come out of nowhere to assault me."

She blushes, because to be honest the collision had been her fault. It's autumn here in Connecticut, with all the spectacular scenery that entails. She'd been too busy snapping shots with her dusty old Polaroid camera to notice where she was walking, and lucky enough that people always moved out of her way—at least until he accidentally tripped her with his cane and sent her flying into him.

"Sorry," she mumbles, and she leans down to hand him his cane before moving to collect the papers that have fallen out of his bag. They're music sheets, covered in complicated-looking notes and patterns, phrases in Italian mingling with lines and symbols that hold no meaning for her (and never will—not now, anyways).

"Wow! Are you a musician?" she asks.

He nods. "Pianist, actually."

She takes a surreptitious glance at his hands: the long, elegant fingers, the neatly filed nails, the deft, quick movements of his wrists.

Oh, yes, she could definitely picture that.

"That's awesome," she says, but she must say it too loudly because his brows furrow and he blinks in surprise. "Uh, I mean, I'm not good with instruments at all, so that's really cool." She tries lowering her volume this time, making a conscious effort to keep it at the socially acceptable level.

He smiles again as he clamors to his feet, but his fingers catch on the pieces of her broken camera, and he frowns. "What the—oh, no, I'm so sorry, is this yours? Damn it, I'll pay for it—"

"No, no, it's okay. It's just an old Polaroid. I've got three more at home. If it had been one of my Nikons, that'd be a different story, though. Those babies are a couple grand a pop," she says a little teasingly.

He raises his brows in faint surprise. "You're a photographer?"

She blushes and is grateful for the fact that he can't see her face—she's probably red as a tomato right now and embarrassed-looking as hell. "Yeah. I was taking a few candid shots, so that's why I didn't see you when—well—you know."

She curses internally at how awkward she sounds, but how often does she meet a cute guy who doesn't ask about the hearing aids or stare oddly at her scars?

"Must be interesting," he replies. "I have a friend who's an artist—painter actually. He's doing a gallery show next week in New York. It's opening on Thursday and I've been press-ganged into attending."

"Really?" Huh. She'd ask Cosette if she knew of any promising galleries. Maybe she could drop by and—

Uh-oh. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. You are not stalking blind boy, she said firmly to herself. What the hell are you even thinking? A blind pianist with a deaf photographer? What the hell would you even have to talk about?

She can't see what he says next because he turns his face away, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. When he turns back to her, a questioning tilt to his head, she nods automatically and says, "Sure. That sounds great."

("Sounds great." Ha. See how good she is at faking normalcy? Yeah, she's a pro.)

He grins again, even wider this time. "Good. I'm sure he'd be glad to have another artist take a look at his work. He's forever claiming that we just can't understand it and we're awful friends." He extends a hand in her general direction, a few degrees off but incredibly endearing. "I'm Enjolras, by the way."

"Éponine," she says, taking it in hers.

"Éponine." His lips shape the syllables of her name so sensuously, and God, she wishes she could still hear. She bets his voice sounds wonderful. "So, can I have your number to text you the address of the gallery?"

"Wait, what?" She gapes at him. Is he asking her out? When did cute guys randomly asking her out suddenly become a thing?

Now it's his turn to blush. "I promise I won't harass you or anything. I just—after breaking your camera, sharing my extra ticket with you is the least I could do. His artwork is very good, I swear—not that I've seen it, but my friends say—" He lets out a frustrated sigh, and oh, she knows how that feels, doors closing in your face and people doubting your words because you happen to be a little less than normal.

"Seven-oh-one, four-two-two-nine," she says.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"My number. It's seven-oh-one, four-two-two-nine. Text me the address, though, because I never answer the phone." She takes a deep breath to brace herself before coming clean. "I'm deaf, so it doesn't really work for me—talking without lips to read and all."

He startles in surprise. "You're deaf? As in profound deafness or severe or…?" Then he immediately winces. "No, that's rude, I apologize."

She relaxes a little. Most people never even know that there are different kinds of deafness—hell, she didn't before the accident. And more people are too busy actually being rude to stop and consider that they might be hurting her feelings. "I'm profoundly deaf, with sensorineural hearing loss," she explains.

He nods and seems to actually know what that means. "Good to know." Then he frowns. "Oh, wait, am I actually facing the right direction? Do you need me to do something or—"

"Nah. Just keep on talking normally and don't turn away from me. I can read your lips fine."

He reaches up to touch those lips, full and curved and so luscious that she just wants to take a bite out of them. "Hmm. Useful skill."

"It is," she responds. "So I'll see you on Thursday?"

He smiles. "I'll see you on Thursday."

She walks away with a spring in her step and turns around half a block down to see him standing where she left him, still as a marble statue, that gorgeous face turned in her direction. Her fingers itch to for a camera to preserve the sight forever, but she's got only got a broken Polaroid at the moment, so she closes her eyes and commits him to memory instead.

…

…

…

Later, years later, she'll have pictures and pictures of him plastered all over the walls, but it's still that first last sight of him she sees imprinted on her closed eyelids whenever she thinks of him.

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