A/N: A little one-shot thing I wrote because I love E.E. Cummings. The poem used is, of course, his (it's one of my favourite pieces of poetry ever). Also, apparently I enjoy torturing myself by writing angst. And this is the first time I've written a piece of writing that's not a Modern AU...
somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
Enjolras believes in fate.
Justice is in his blood – he has known this since childhood. It flies over the heads of most of his family, but he can feel it rushing through him. He is meant to do this. He is meant to lead the way to a brighter, fairer future. He knows it deep in his heart. He knows it.
And then one day, Marius comes into the café with glazed eyes and a wide smile, and something in the air shifts.
(Enjolras believes in fate, but he does not believe in love.)
Marius was never even interested in love. In fact, Enjolras specifically remembers the one time they had a conversation in which they agreed on something completely.
"Love is for fools." Marius had declared one night at the Musain, in response to Jean Prouvaire's question ("why do I never see you with a girl, Marius?"), before taking a sip of wine and smiling.
"So young to be so cynical." Grantaire had commented.
"Coming from you, Grantaire, that's quite amusing."
"You forget, Marius. I am older than you. I have earned the right to be cynical."
"Marius is right." Enjolras had declared loudly. "There are more important things to worry about than love. The impending revolution, for one."
And that had been that.
Enjolras finds it difficult to understand how one shared glance could have changed the man's mind so quickly, and he tells Combeferre exactly that one night at the Musain.
"Your confusion is understandable, especially seeing as you've never been in love." Combeferre chuckles.
"I doubt I am missing out on much."
"I wouldn't be so sure, mon ami. Love is... well, it's indescribable."
"I'm glad it is. It saves me the pain of having to listen to the boys describe it."
"You still have to listen to Marius attempt an explanation, though."
Enjolras grimaces.
"We cannot allow this injustice to continue!" Enjolras shouts. The feeling of power is rushing through his veins. All eyes are on him as he stands in the middle of the street, beckoning people closer – not with his hands, but with his words. "We cannot go on this way, letting the rich abuse their power over the poor. We must fight back! Now is the time-"
And then he's stumbling over his words because a girl at the very back of the crowd has just locked eyes with him. She's frowning.
(He knows her from somewhere, he's sure of it, but at that very moment, all he's focusing on is the rage beneath her eyes.)
The moment ends when the crowd simmers down and Enjolras realizes that he isn't talking anymore. He forces himself to look away from the girl.
"Now is the time for us to rebel!"
Then he's back on track. It's as if it never happened.
A name comes to him several hours later.
Eponine. The girl who follows Marius around.
He recalls seeing her in the Musain on occasion – always skittish, untrusting, eyes darting around everywhere and then resting on Marius for hours at a time. She's little more than skin and bones, always dirty, hair a mess. He's never spoken to her, though he thinks some of the others may have.
Enjolras has no clue why this girl caught his attention so easily at the rally, so he simply stops thinking about it.
And then she's everywhere.
She attends each rally, each meeting, everything. Enjolras assumes it's because of Marius at first, but sometimes she'll sit all alone at a table, Marius nowhere to be found, and just stare at the wall.
It frustrates him because he doesn't understand it. It's another mystery to him, and he really doesn't need any more mysteries in his life, so one night, when the meeting is finished and most of the men have departed, he walks up to her table.
"Pardon me, Mademoiselle..."
"Just Eponine. Eponine Thenardier." She interrupts.
The name rings a bell. He remembers Courfeyrac complaining about almost being mugged by a group of bandits. The name 'Thenardier' came up a few times.
"I wish to speak to you about what your intentions in coming here are."
"To regain feeling in my fingers, perhaps." The girl responds dryly. "I apologize if you are offended by my presence. Kindly tell me if that is the problem here."
"No, of course not. I do not begrudge you a seat in a warm café. But surely there are other places to get warm?"
"I will ask you again, monsieur," Eponine's voice hardens, "if the problem is that you are offended by my presence."
"And I will reply, once more, with the truth – I am not."
"Then, pray tell, what is the problem here?"
Enjolras sighs. "I only wanted to ask if you are interested in being involved in the meetings and rallies."
"There are no women in your group, are there?" Eponine asks.
"Well, no, and that is how I intended it to be, but it seems I cannot shake you."
"I already come to the meetings and the rallies. I do not think that I need your permission to attend at this point." She gets to her feet. "But thank you for taking time out of your busy life just to talk down to a poor little gamine like me. I will leave before the smell starts to rub off on you."
And then she walks off, leaving Enjolras staring after her in confusion and awe.
She continues to attend the meetings. He blocks her out as best he can.
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
They slowly develop a habit of ending up in the café alone. He stays to finish off his work – she stays for the warmth (that's the excuse he heard her give Marius, anyway).
The only sound in the room is his pen scratching on paper, and her loud, wheezing inhales and exhales. They stay there until the owner of the café shoos them out. Enjolras notices how Eponine always shrugs off the dirty looks the owner gives her (it is true that she does not purchase anything to drink or eat, but many of the Amis don't purchase food or drink either, and Eponine is never as loud or as troublesome as the men), and he realizes that Eponine has probably been treated that way her whole life.
It irritates him more than it should that she appears to be used to it.
One night, as they're reaching the end of their (now almost daily) silent meetings, Eponine suddenly gets to her feet and walks over to Enjolras, before taking a seat next to him.
"Have you had the pleasure of meeting Cosette?" She asks.
Enjolras stares at her for a moment, bewildered, and then shakes his head.
"But I assume you have heard much about her from Marius."
"I have."
"What do you think of her?"
"I thought we'd established that I have yet to meet her."
Eponine rolls her eyes and elaborates. "I mean, from what Marius has said... what is your impression of her?"
"She seems like a nice young lady."
Eponine makes a face. "Every young woman is a 'nice young lady' these days. Is that all there is to her, then? A pretty face and a blank slate instead of a brain?"
"Again, Mademoiselle, I have not met her."
"I doubt your opinion of her would change if you did."
The girl slumps in her chair, but she does not move until the shopkeeper once again shoos them out.
And again, a ritual starts. She sits next to him almost every night.
Enjolras notices that she never moves to sit near him until everybody is gone. He wonders why, but as per usual, he doesn't ask.
It is none of my concern. He tells himself.
But then one night he is tired of always wondering, and never getting answers.
"Why do you only sit with me when we are alone?" His voice echoes through the café for a long moment after he asks the question.
Eponine lifts up one corner of her mouth and gives him a long, hard stare. "I do not want to shame you, good sir."
"Pardon?"
"Imagine what it would do to your reputation. The brave Enjolras, who fights for justice, being seen with one of the people he is supposedly fighting for? There would be an outrage."
Enjolras shakes his head. "Sometimes, Eponine, I am not sure whether to take all that you say seriously, or to take none of it seriously."
"You used my name," is the only thing she says.
"Would you prefer I called you Mademoiselle?"
"Eponine is fine." She insists, a curious look creeping onto her features.
(He really doesn't know what goes on in that head of hers, but he thinks if he ever found out, it would be like reading the last page of a good book before he's gotten to the end. It would spoil the whole thing for him.)
Enjolras doesn't mean to, but sometimes he finds that he actually looks forward to that time of night when it is just the two of them, alone in the café. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they do not, but one day it hits him that they may have developed a friendship, and for some odd reason, that makes him smile.
'The bourgeoisie boy and the woman of the street', she calls them.
"Why do you call yourself a woman, and call me a boy? I am at least 5 years older than you."
"Little boy, you may be older in years, but you are have not lived as much as I have. You have not experienced the things that I have. I am not older than you, but I am wiser, and I know more."
"I think that is a debatable statement."
"I think you use big words when you know that somebody else has proved you wrong."
"Alright, you win that one."
When they are not alone together during the night, they barely glance at eachother. It is as if they are in a different world when it's just the two of them. Enjolras has never wanted to be in the presence of someone this much. It's terrifying and exciting at the same time.
"Why are you afraid of love, monsieur?"
"It is not fear that keeps me away from love. It is common sense. Love turns good men into fools."
"Bah. You are as bad as any man, and don't think you aren't – you just don't enjoy yourself as much as another of your kind might."
"I haven't the slightest idea what you mean."
"Now you know how I feel at your damn meetings."
"Why do you attend?"
"For the cause."
He thinks of her as a riddle. Every time she reveals a little bit about herself, it is a clue. He learns that she has lost contact with all but one of her siblings. He learns that she delivers letters for Marius almost every day, but he never learns why (love does not seem like a good enough reason, though that is her answer when he asks her why she bothers to go to so much trouble for such a clueless idiot). He learns that after her parents lost their money and were unable to pay for a tutor for her, she stole books to try and continue her education.
(He admires her particularly for the last part, but he would never tell her that. She would probably hurt him if he did.)
"I think you are not better off in life for ignoring love." Eponine says one evening.
"Mm?" Enjolras replies, not particularly interested – they've had this conversation many times before.
"Love brings out the stupidity in people, of course, and the jealousy and the insecurity – are you proud of all the big words I am using thanks to your presence?"
"We both know you used those words before I met you. But go on, do not start a sentence and then trail off."
"Ah – yes, love brings out the worst in people a lot of the time. However, it also brings out the best. I am a selfish girl, certainly, but there is nothing I would not do for you or Monsieur Marius."
"You love me?" Enjolras asks, bewildered.
Eponine immediately draws back from the conversation. "I tolerate you."
"Ah, love and toleration... such similar emotions." He replies dryly.
"You cannot have one without the other."
"I would argue that plenty of people could fall in love with somebody who they cannot bear to be around."
"I would argue that you are wrong."
"That's not an argument."
"I am still correct."
She smirks when he has nothing to say to that.
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
Enjolras' friends notice him pulling back slightly from talk of the revolution. He is, of course, still completely devoted to the cause, but having somebody in his life that he can talk to about things other than politics and strategies and the like is quite refreshing. He finds that he quickly tires of long conversations about things that are not relevant to the cause, if the conversations are not with Eponine. He is happy to discuss anything for hours with her, but he has no patience for such conversations with his friends. Normally he would throw himself into a debate about Napoleon with Marius, but lately, he is not as interested as he used to be.
"It's going to happen soon." Enjolras says one night. His friend (he has now definitely come to think of her as a friend) doesn't look up from where she's carving a pattern into the table with a knife.
"What's going to happen?"
"We are going to stand up and fight."
Eponine snorts. "It's about time you did, I suppose. You've been discussing it for long enough."
"Eponine – do you know what it will mean, if we go into battle?"
"I am fully aware of what you're fighting for."
"But if we lose, do you know what will happen?"
She stops carving and meets his gaze.
"We will be thrown into jail, maybe even executed."
"Then I suppose I will just have to hope that you win."
Enjolras listens to the sound of her breathing (it is always slow and heavy-sounding, as if she's wearing an extremely constricting dress rather than the loose, ragged clothes she actually does wear) for a moment before responding. "Do you think we will succeed?"
She doesn't answer.
(A sound escapes her lips that sounds suspiciously like 'no'. He ignores it. Now is not the time for losing faith in the cause.)
"When do you think it was that we became friends?" Eponine asks out of the blue. She is writing something and he is reading over Combeferre's notes on their last meeting at the Musain.
"I cannot pinpoint an exact moment, but I think it was about two weeks after you started spending your evenings here."
Her pen scratches loudly against the paper.
"May I ask what you are doing?" Enjolras asks, curiosity overtaking his respect for her privacy.
"I am documenting the story of our friendship." Eponine replies curtly.
"For what reason?"
"If I am to perish for your cause, Enjolras, I would be able to die happily knowing that somewhere in the world, our story has been written."
"Our story is not terribly interesting."
And then what she really just said hits him.
"You are not fighting with us." Enjolras says, louder than he means to, slamming his book shut. There is anger coursing through his veins in a way he's never felt before.
"You do not own, nor control me, Enjolras." The girl says calmly.
"Eponine, no."
"I will do as I please!"
"I am begging you. Do not fight with us."
This time, when his words are met with silence, he cannot stand it. He storms out of the room.
"You cannot be mad at me for exercising my right to choose my own fate."
"I care about you, Eponine – perhaps our friendship is not the most normal there ever was, but it is a friendship nonetheless – and I cannot stand here and let you choose to throw your life away."
"It will be for a good cause."
"Eponine, it is not worth your life!"
"What life do I have anyway? Do you know of my family, Enjolras? Do you know what kind of people they are? I refuse to continue existing if it means I will become them as I age. I would rather die a martyr than live as a thief."
"When did you become so noble?"
"I am certain you are the cause of it. Without you, I would probably still have a rotten soul."
"You never had a rotten soul."
"You do not bring up Marius as much as you used to." Enjolras says, as soon as all the boys are gone. Eponine is writing on that piece of paper again.
"I began to fear that I would turn into him, constantly raving about the one I love until all around me are alienated, so I tried to keep thoughts of him at bay."
"Did it work?"
Eponine looks at Enjolras thoughtfully. "Yes."
"I am happy for you."
She nods in response and continues writing.
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
A little boy rushes into the café one night when the room is busy and full, demanding their attention. Enjolras catches Eponine staring at him as if she's seen a ghost, but he doesn't focus on it for long because –
"General LeMarque is dead."
"I know what this means." Eponine says, voice weary and hoarse.
"Eponine, I cannot put the revolution on hold because of you."
"I am not asking you to!" She roars.
"Then what is it that you want from me?" Enjolras asks.
"I want you to be alive. Do you see yourself, truly, Enjolras? There has never been a soul that was so meant to be alive that it shone through his eyes and fingers until you. I swear it upon every book I've read. You are meant to be living – you are meant to grow old! If I were lucky enough to grow old as well, I would die if I did not see wrinkles mar that beautiful face of yours."
Eponine touches his face lightly with her hand.
"Eponine... I am sorry."
She rips her hand away and runs out of the café.
Combeferre and Enjolras are the last ones at the café, for a change. Eponine is avoiding him (he tries not to let it get to him, and fails).
"Do you remember that conversation we had about love?" Enjolras asks suddenly.
"Well, there has only been one, so I doubt I have gotten it confused with another. Why?"
"No reason."
On the day of LeMarque's funeral, she is standing, stone-faced, amongst the crowds. Enjolras makes his way over.
"Have you forgiven me?" He asks.
"No. I am regretting not spending my last few hours with you, though."
"There is time. It doesn't start for at least an hour."
Eponine looks at him. "Don't you have plans to make?"
"The others can take care of it."
She hesitates for one terrifying moment, before nodding. He takes her rough, shaking hand and pulls her away from the crowd, not caring if anybody sees them.
They stand in silence once they reach the empty café. Enjolras is not quite sure what to say now that he has her alone. They have never really been alone together during the day – their talks were always surrounded by the darkness of the Parisian streets, the warmth of the café, candles giving off a yellow glow.
"You are foolish." The girl says finally, though her tone lacks its usual bite.
"Am I?"
"Yes. But so am I."
Enjolras frowns. "How are you foolish?"
"I believed that I would be able to do this, that I would be able to let you go, but I do not think I can. I have never in my life felt the need to save somebody so strongly. Yet, I cannot stop you, because you are not mine. You belong to your country."
She turns away from him.
"Eponine-"
"Could you have loved me?" She asks suddenly.
Enjolras can't quite think of what to say.
"It does not matter now, I suppose. You are going to your death, and so am I."
"You don't know that. We could win."
"Please do not mock me." Eponine whirls around and steps closer to him. "I hear everything you tell your friends – you speak of a new world, a better world, where things will be fair. You lie to them, and they believe you, but I refuse to listen to it. You cannot truly think that this little uprising will succeed. You are schoolboys going up against an army, and you will fall."
Enjolras squeezes his eyes shut and wills himself not to believe the words.
"If you believe that, why don't you run away?" He asks after a moment, opening his eyes again to pierce her with his stare.
"Do you want the truth?"
"Always."
"Because I do not think I could ever live without you."
Enjolras opens his eyes.
"You can." He tries. "You can live without me. You must – there has to be a survivor, and that could be you. You can go on and make sure we are written about, and not forgotten. Eponine, I beg you – live for me."
"No. I will choose my own fate."
"Then you cannot be mad at me for choosing mine."
Eponine smiles. "You have me there, Enjolras... but I will remain mad at you for at least another minute."
(She does not remain true to her word.)
They talk for a while after that, but time seems to pass by quicker than it usually does.
"The men will be looking for me soon." Enjolras says finally.
"We are pulled apart so soon." Eponine replies with a sad smile.
"Eponine... there is still time. You don't have to do this."
The girl approaches him, and before he can say another word, her lips are pressed against his. It is a brief moment – she pulls back a few seconds later - but it seems to suck the air from his lungs and the thoughts from his mind. "Yes, I do." She tells him firmly.
He watches her leave the café.
(She never looks back.)
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
He is flying a flag, red fabric soaring through the air, the symbol of their fight for justice, when he sees Eponine, carrying a chair to throw onto the pile of furniture.
Enjolras is suddenly reminded of her words in the café one night.
Little boy, you may be older in years, but you are have not lived as much as I have. You have not experienced the things that I have. I am not older than you, but I am wiser, and I know more.
Dressed in men's clothes, with an oversized cap hiding her hair, Eponine has never looked more like a young girl.
(Enjolras feels terrified for the first time that day.)
Enjolras is yelling out orders as quickly and as loudly as he can when he runs into Eponine. She steadies herself by grabbing his arm, and when he meets her gaze, she shoots him a smile. They are in the middle of a battlefield. There could possibly be a war breaking out and she is smiling at him. And then it happens.
It hits him sharply and quickly. He should've known it all along. He realizes that this is what love feels like, but he realizes it too late, because a soldier has climbed over the barricade, and a loud bang is ringing out and Eponine is falling into his arms, and her shirt is stained with a colour that is a few shades darker than the colour of his flag. It takes a moment for it to sink in that she's been shot.
Enjolras presses his palm to the wound and says her name over and over, as if it is some kind of chant that will instantly heal her. She chuckles at him, coughs up the same liquid that is now on his hands, and keeps her eyes locked on his.
"For the cause." She says, the glint of laughter still shining in her eye.
"For the cause." Enjolras repeats, feeling eyes on his back (his friends, he assumes, probably wondering why he is clutching a scrawny little girl as if she is his lifeline).
Eponine's hand moves slowly and then reaches into a pocket in her jacket, before pulling out a folder piece of paper. "My masterpiece." She smiles. "Read it well, if you have time. If not, clutch it in your hand throughout the fight, I beg you."
"I promise."
A single tear is making its way down his face.
She wipes it away. "Do not let them see the marble crack, Enjolras. Your tears are for my eyes only, but I fear we have an audience."
More shots are ringing out in the background.
"Go, Enjolras. Your friends need you."
"As I need you."
Eponine laughs. "You do not need me, Enjolras, though I have no doubt that I will always need you."
And then her head falls back.
Dearest Reader,
Once there was a girl who had no reason to live but a man who barely glanced her way, and then she was saved. She spent her evenings in a warm café with a man she had previously thought was emotionless and stony, and she grew to love him. That girl is me.
I am not sure what it is about that man that draws me to him. We are from different worlds, and yet, each night, we meet. Sometimes there is silence, and sometimes there are arguments. But without fail, each time I see him, I am instantly better for it. I do not know if I can say the same about him, but I am too selfish to leave him be.
I feel as though he has made me a better person. I truly know love now – before, I was obsessing over a blind man, and that was not love, but I know that this feeling is. I have no doubt that I will perish before he does, and again, I am selfish and glad, because I will have him until the end.
I have never known the warmth of another this way. He is sharp around the edges and dangerous to touch, but I have tough skin, and I am not afraid to bleed in order to get to the part of him that will love me. I fear I did not make it the whole way through. I fear he does not love me.
But he cares for me, and that is close enough to love that I think I shall die happy.
Sincerely,
Eponine Thenardier
He wants to shake her and shout, 'I did love you. I am an idiot but I loved you then and I love you now,'because some part of him is sure that if he screams the words loud enough, time will turn back and he will be able to change things.
But he remains silent and her body remains still.
He feels his friends prying his fingers off of Eponine, lifting her away from him, presumably to dump her onto the growing pile of bodies. He knows they have questions and he knows his friends are dying but he keeps re-reading the damn letter, as if he'll find something that he missed before, a message from her telling him that she's not really dead, that this is all a big show so that they can escape together.
(He tells himself he can't find it because the rain has smudged the ink and made the words unreadable.)
"Who was she?" Combeferre asks.
"Eponine." Marius answers when Enjolras says nothing. "She used to... well, I think she idolized me a bit."
"Do not talk of things you know nothing about, Pontmercy." Enjolras hears himself say.
"Enjolras, what is it? I didn't think you two were close." Marius sounds confused.
"Marius, I think Gavroche needs help with that gun." Combeferre says suddenly. Marius raises an eyebrow, then leaves.
"I did not think you would ever love a woman."
"Look where it's gotten me."
"You will find her in the next life."
Enjolras stands up. "She did not believe there was such thing as a heaven."
"They're climbing the barricade – for god's sake, we need help over here!" Bahorel yells.
"No rest for the wicked." Combeferre mutters, and then runs to help his friend.
"For the cause." Enjolras whispers to himself.
We're outnumbered-"
"Prouvaire! Prouvaire!"
"There are too many-"
"What are you doing, Bossuet? Get down from there!"
"What do we do, Enjolras? Enjolras!"
"Help him up-"
"Get inside-"
"Get out of the way!"
"Enjolras!"
He goes out in a blaze of fire and gunshots with her name on his lips.
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all the roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands