Author's Note: I know it's been awhile since I've done anything here. My apologies.
Here's a little story concept that's been swimming around in my mind for years, and I mean, years. I have quite a few false starts with it, and even this one took awhile to get down. This will have two parts, and the writing of part two is almost done. I was going to divide into three, but then the final part was going to be way longer than the rest and that didn't sit well me.
Any grammatical errors and the like are mine.
Without further ado, enjoy!
I - The Gamine
July 1830. Candles fill the room. The smells of brandy and wine hangs in the air, the alcohol passed around in pints and mugs and bottles. The laughter and joyous cheers. Music. Dancing. Singing. All in a little upstairs room of an old café.
Eponine twirls around from Courfeyrac's hand and into Marius' arms, smiling. Her mind drifts for moment, foggy with wine, staring up into his eyes. Let it stay this way, she thinks, don't let this moment end. She turns around, a few steps to the left, to the right, and it's over as she's twirled once again into the arms of another Ami.
When the music stops, she curtsies with an exaggerated flair, and sits down, reaching for the nearest bottle of wine.
"Haven't you downed enough of that tonight, Miss Jondrette?"
She stares her questioner in the eye, and takes a swig from the bottle and sets it down. "You'd be a hypocrite for judging me, Grantaire. Besides, it's a night of celebration. I don't get much fun like this."
"Ah, yes, of course." Grantaire rolls his eyes. "The daughter of an innkeeper who can't find a bottle of wine."
"Former innkeeper, mind you," she dismisses. "I don't get much of anything these days. With these meetings, I take what little I can get."
"Yes, because it's not just to stare at Pontmercy." She turns to glare at him, but he shrugs. "I have eyes, Eponine. Don't play dumb with me."
"Who said I was playing dumb?" She takes another swig of the bottle. "Am I not allowed some curiosity as to what you boys think of the world, what your views are for this world, this France?"
"We'll see how it goes." He turns to the corner of room where three men stand. "Interesting, even Enjolras is partaking in tonight's festivities."
"You say that like the man never has a bit of fun."
"Because he doesn't—He's too focused on 'changing the world' and 'progress' to think about anything otherwise."
"I think you're wrong," Eponine says. "He cares about the people, even those like me who are dirt beneath his feet."
Grantaire sighs. "He cares too much, perhaps. Focusing on change is one thing, but it's another to be so absorbed in your work to ignore the obvious happenings around you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
The music starts up again, and Grantaire remains silent as an enthusiastic Feuilly pulls her back into the dancing.
She wakes up in an unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar bed. She spots a shattered wine bottle on the floor, some of its contents spilling onto discarded clothes and abandoned notes on parchment. A window shines in the bright light of the morning sun, and she squints.
There's the soft breathing of another beside her, likely the owner of whatever lodgings she was in. Too many personal effects for an inn.
She turns over, the figure beside her still asleep, and her eyes widen. She reaches for the blond hair obscuring her view of the face and brushes it aside, confirming her suspicions.
"Merde," she whispers, then gets to her feet, searching for her clothes on the floor. She cannot stay here, will not, and she hopes no one caught her coming here with him; he'd resent her for it, were rumors to go around.
She trips over a pair of trousers as she puts on her skirt, letting out a yelp as she falls to the floor. He sits up in the bed and reaches for the book on his nightstand, but pauses when she makes eye contact with him.
"Good morning, Enjolras," she says from the floor, covering herself with his discarded shirt.
"Mademoiselle Jondrette?" His eyebrows furrow, leading her to believe he has not yet grasped the occurrences of the previous night.
Eponine reaches for the trousers and makes an attempt to toss them to him. "You might want these."
"Pardon?"
She gestures to the clothes on the floor, then to the bed. She watches as he puts together the pieces, and sighs.
"My apologies," he says, turning his head away. "There's a bathroom right outside the door, should you desire to change your clothes with privacy."
"What does it matter? You've seen everything."
He places a hand on his forehead and squints when the sunlight hits his eyes. "Let me rephrase: please gather the reminder of your clothes and put them on in the other room."
"You've got nothing to be ashamed of, monsieur," she smirks, throwing him his shirt then picking up the rest of her clothes.
He offers her a cup of tea and the two sit at the small table by the window of the kitchenette. She stares at the happenings below, hearing muffled chatter through the window, blended with the sound of ceramic mugs being picked up and set down.
"We should talk," he says, and she's startled by the breaking of the silence.
She turns toward him. "What is there to discuss? What happened, happened, and will never happen again. I don't see what should change."
"I do not want you to feel as if you should not return to the Musain because you and I…" He waves his hand.
"You think I'm hurt for this?" she asks, setting down her mug. "You've probably broken many hearts by your mere presence, but even so, you've done me no harm. I don't see any reason to be concerned about future interactions."
"I see."
"As long as we agree to never speak of it to anyone."
Grantaire chokes on his glass of brandy.
"You two did what?!" he whispers, his eyes scanning the room to make sure no one overheard.
"It was an accident, and it will never happen again," Eponine says. "Nor will we speak of it again."
"You tell me that, then expect no further inquiries?"
"Yes, I do, because you're among the few I trust enough to keep their trap shut, even after ten bottles of whisky," she replies, turning her head to where Enjolras, Feuilly, and Courfeyrac are looking over a map. "As far as him and I are concerned, we're the only two that know of it—don't imply to him that you know something."
"I've got it. Keep my mouth shut. Never mention it again. Better off forgetting about it." Grantaire takes a sip from his glass.
"Yes." Eponine looks to the floor. "Best to forget it."
Life would be easy if she could just forget. Forget about that night, forget about all of Life's torments, forget about all the memories of pain and suffering. Life would be happier that way.
Ah, but Life likes to throw her mistakes back in her face.
"Eponine, this is fourth time this week you've been ill. I doubt you're all right," Azelma says, holding her hair back from the chamber pot. "Any of those friends doctors? Perhaps they could check, make sure you aren't dying, because from what I can tell, that's what it looks like."
Eponine responds after a breath. "It's just something I ate. It happens when you go looking for scraps."
"I'm worried; you haven't kept much down. In the seventeen years I've known you, I've never seen that."
"I'll be fine."
Azelma huffs. "Fine, my arse. Maybe I should tell Maman…"
"No!" Eponine says, then throws up once more. "Just give it time, please. If I'm still ill next week, then we'll talk to her, alright?"
Azelma rolls her eyes and sighs. "Fine. One week."
Her suspicions were confirmed by then. Eponine knew how much time had gone by since she bled, and combining that with her sickness was enough; she didn't need a doctor to tell her that, and yet, one had.
"Not too far along," the doctor tells her mother. "I would expect the child to be here late in the spring, early in the summer."
Eponine shields her face from her mother's glare, looking towards the blank wall. She knew she'd be in hell the moment the doctor left.
"Thank you, good monsieur." Madame Thenardier escorts the doctor from the room and into the stairwell. "And I appreciate not costing us a sous."
The door closes by the time Eponine gets to her feet, Azelma beside her, and Madame Thenardier walks straight toward Eponine and grabs hold of her wrist. She expects to either be tossed across the room or slapped in the face, and braces herself, but nothing comes.
"Did your father force you to the streets again?" her mother asks, her voice gentle.
Eponine's eyes widen.
"That greedy bastard!" she says through clenched teeth, and releases Eponine's wrist. "Subjecting his daughter to that!"
Eponine watches as her mother glances at the door at the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, then back at her.
"Do not breathe a word of this to your father, either of you." Madame Thenardier looks both of her daughters in the eye. "I don't want to know what he'd do if he knew."
II - The Cynic
"Grantaire, I have to go away for awhile."
He pours himself a glass of wine. "So that's why you knocked on my door in the middle of the night? To tell me you're leaving?"
She plays with the worn edges of her skirt as she sits on the couch. She brings her gaze to the floor, seeing him out of the corner of her eye as he sits down in the chair.
"It's more complicated than that, isn't it?"
She lifts her head, pursing her lips. He stands up and sits down next to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. Tears begin to sting her eyes, and when she tries to speak, the words are lost on her tongue.
"You know you can tell me, right?"
She nods, choking on a sob as she leans into his chest, seeking comfort. Her body shakes, trying to even out her breath, to find the words to speak, but they fail her. Instead, she takes his hand and places it on her stomach, then looks up, waiting for his response.
Grantaire's eyes flicker downward to his hand, and in the candlelight, Eponine sees his face go pale.
They sit there like this for a time. Rain begins to patter against the window. He remains frozen, his eyes blank as he processes the information given to him. Her eyes shift around the room, from the few burning candles to the pile of books stacked in the far corner of the room to the floor.
"It's his, isn't it?"
She nods, her breath shaking as she replies, "Yes, yes, it is."
Grantaire takes a deep breath. "What are you going to do?"
"Stay with my mother's sister just outside Paris until they're born," Eponine replies, her hands playing with the edges of her skirt again. "The child will remain there, and she'll raise it as her own."
"What are Enjolras' thoughts on this?"
"I don't need his thoughts on the matter," she replies, leaning back on the couch. "He doesn't need to know."
Grantaire's brows furrow. "Are you sure?"
"I'm not ruining him with this; let me be the sole person to fall."
"He would help you, you know that."
"I'm not placing this burden on him—there's more important things for him to be concerned about."
"You're not going to tell him anything, are you?" Grantaire asks.
"No, and I would prefer you didn't him, either," Eponine begs. "Let that be my choice, if/when he finds out."
"Alright," he says, pulling her in for a hug. "He won't hear it from me."
The late autumn breeze sweeps in through the window of the Café Musain. All is normal: chatter, a few bottles of wine and brandy spread out among the tables, papers scattered, minor quarrels, the smoke of someone's pipe.
Grantaire has decided to keep his mouth shut tonight, and instead place himself in a corner to observe the happenings tonight brings. Joly gestures to Combeferre about something on his arm. Courfeyrac leans back in a chair, talking as Bahorel writes something down. Jehan sits by the window with a book. Bossuet looks over something handed to him by Marius. Feuilly and Enjolras stand side by side, exchanging notes.
A typical evening in the café when nothing is being discussed.
Marius walks over to him, pausing for a moment to search the café. "Have you seen Eponine?"
Grantaire shakes his head. Such questions have been on repeat for weeks.
"It's odd for her to disappear," Marius says as he grabs a chair and sits down. "I have not seen her around the Gorbeau House, either. I know her family's there, I have seen them about, but her, it's as if she vanished. I hope her father did not get her caught in one of his schemes; she suffers enough because of him."
"I'm sure she's fine, Pontmercy; she knows how to take care of herself," Grantaire replies, taking a sip of brandy. "Could be laying low for awhile for whatever reason as a precaution."
"I suppose." Marius shrugs. "I only fear something awful has become of her."
"There is the possibility, but I doubt she'd let such a thing happen."
"Her father's an awful man, Grantaire, greedy enough to sell her for pocket change." Marius reaches for the bottle of brandy, only for his hand to curl up in a fist before it reaches the glass. "I'd report every plan I hear through the wall if I did not owe him a debt."
Grantaire raises an eyebrow. "A debt, you say?"
"He's the man who found my father after the defeat at Waterloo," Marius says, his eyes downcast. "I made a promise to my father after he died to be grateful to him, but the longer I know him the more I'd rather wish he'd been stricken down by a bayonet.
"Eponine, because of that promise, has become a sister to me." Marius takes a deep breath. "If something bad happened to her, whether it was something caused by her father or not, I would feel terrible for not protecting her."
Grantaire purses his lips, fighting the urge to explain the truth of Eponine's disappearance to him. The look of worry on Marius' face makes it appear that he is fighting his tears.
"You'll tell me if you see her, won't you?" Marius asks with a wavering voice.
Grantaire nods.
The evening passes on uneventful otherwise until he and Enjolras are the only ones left.
"I have to close up," Enjolras says as he gathers books and papers. "Are you able to walk home on your own, or have you had so much brandy you cannot see five feet in front of you?"
Grantaire scoffs. "Good to know you care."
"You say that as if I should not."
"Because you're usually too absorbed in whatever it is you're fighting to care about much else."
"If you do not like the political discussions, you do not have to be here," Enjolras replies, gathering the empty bottles. "Your presence only trods on the spirit. Tell me, Grantaire: what caused your negativity towards a better tomorrow?"
"A few too many situations where what was happy became terrible," Grantaire answers. "It's only being realistic, Enjolras. You think the people would be willing to rise up again against the King of the French before they have wiped the blood of July off their faces. It's taken forty years to rebel against the result of 1789, yet in a matter months, you expect them all to be at arms again?"
"If the people believe that he has taken a step too far, it is only a matter of time."
"But will they have the courage to take the risk?"
"That will be for them to decide, but the people will do what is right."
"I pray you're right."
Enjolras huffs, then resumes cleaning up the room. "Have you heard from Eponine as of late? I have a few topics I would like her thoughts on."
Grantaire sighs. "I'll tell you what I've told everyone else: no."
Enjolras nods. "I hope she is all right."
"I'm sure she's fine." Grantaire passes the empty glass bottle in front of him from side to side, the bottom scraping on the wooden surface of the table. "She's lived on the streets for most of her life, knows how to take care of herself. If something bad had happened, we all would've heard about it by now."
Something passes by the front window, and Enjolras turns his head, then walks out to study the dark streets below.
"I promise you that you won't find her there," Grantaire calls to him. Enjolras, still for only a moment, leans forward against the front rail, his blond hair waving in the breeze.
"Quiet, silence, it can be unnerving," Enjolras says, his voice almost lost to wind from where Grantaire sat. "Without her, it is as if we as a group have fallen silent. Out of fear for being wrong, out of concern for her, I know not, but her missing presence is felt."
The chair scrapes across the floor as Grantaire stands. His feet brush against the floor as he walks toward Enjolras, whose head is bowed. He leans against rail beside him.
"You miss her?" Grantaire asks.
Enjolras looks up, a faint, forlorn smile on his lips.
August 1831. Heated discussions and debates. Conversations about what happened on rue Saint-Denis in June, what happened as a result of the elections in July. Some shouting and raised voices, but no violence.
Grantaire sits at a table in the corner, following his usual habits of swallowing the nearest bottle of alcohol. Combeferre is talking about how events may unravel due to the election results, a few pages of prepared notes in his hand. Enjolras nods. Feuilly interjects here and there, as does Joly.
The chatter falls silent when they hear footsteps coming up the stairs. A precaution to not get caught in traitorous activities.
Then her face appears.
Marius is the first to run to the stairs. "Eponine!"
Grantaire looks at her for a moment. She's no longer thin, starving girl he had seen before. Her cheeks are not sunken in, nor are the bones visible to allow her to appear as a walking skeleton. In all the time he has known her, the gamine appears healthy.
The seriousness of the room vanishes, and the Amis crowd her, asking of her whereabouts and related topics.
"I was visiting my aunt," she replies. "I needed the change of scenery."
"A year's quite a long time," says Combeferre.
"We thought you were dead!" Joly says, and for a moment her eyes flicker to Grantaire.
I kept my promise.
Eponine shakes her head. "Nope, very much alive."
"This is a cause for celebration!" yells Bahorel. "A friend of ours has come back from the dead. I'll go see about a few extra bottles of wine."
Enjolras raises his hand to interject, but no one takes notice, distracted by Eponine's reappearance. Defeated, he walks over to Grantaire, and sits down at the table beside him.
"Are you going to greet her?" he asks, grasping Grantaire's wrist to prevent another sip of brandy.
"I will when the others have settled down," Grantaire replies.
"You do not appear surprised she has returned."
"Has no one listened to a word I said? She's a smart girl, knows her to care for herself. Why does her being alive seem to be a shock to you all?" Grantaire half-shouts, and Enjolras releases his wrist, his eyes wide. "This entire time I've been saying 'she's fine,' and I feel as if no one has listened to a single word of it!
"Why should I be surprised? She was gone for a year, and despite not hearing a word, I knew her well enough to be fine. Are you too thick-headed to notice that?" Grantaire stands up, setting the bottle of brandy on the table and grabbing his coat. He walks past the crowd, rushes down the stairs, and walks out to the dark, Paris streets.
Eponine knocks on his door at dawn.
The light is blinding when he opens his eyes and rises from bed. There's a sharp pain in his head, and he squints at the light coming in through the windows. He reaches the door and opens it, and Eponine walks in and embraces him.
"It's been too long," she murmurs, then parts from him to sit on one of the aged dining chairs.
"I expected you back sooner," Grantaire says, sitting across from her.
"I would've, but my aunt made me stay, care for the child for awhile; she hired a wet nurse after I insisted I must return here." Eponine explains. "He's about four months now."
Grantaire nods. "A boy, then?"
"Yes. Lucien, after his father." She smiles. "The spitting image of him, too, I think, but my aunt insists it's my nose he has. Hair's a bit darker than his father's, but quite lighter than mine. His eyes, those are definitely his father's…" She plays with the edges of her skirt.
"You miss him?"
"I do, but he's much better with her; I can't provide for him the way she can," Eponine says. "She'll take of him better than my own parents ever did with me."
"Do your parents know you've returned?" Grantaire asks, leaning back in the chair.
"Yes." Her gaze drifts to the floor. "Father isn't happy I disappeared, and I don't know what Mother told him. Got shoved around a bit, before Mother intervened. He doesn't know about Lucien, though. With any luck, he never will."
"If I know anything about your father, it's that he pokes his nose where it doesn't belong."
"I only want to keep Lucien safe, and I want to keep Enjolras out of this as long as I can for his own protection. I don't know what Father would do if he knew about my connection to either of them."
"You cannot hide this from Enjolras for forever," Grantaire tells her, reaching for her hand across the table.
"I don't plan to," she replies. "I'm trying to find a way to tell him. Give me time."
Grantaire takes a deep breath. "Alright."
June 1832. Plague runs through the streets of Paris. Political tensions have risen. General Lamarque is dead.
On the eve of the General's funeral, the gamine speaks to the cynic in an alleyway beside the Musain.
"I want you to give this to him if I don't make it." She hands over a worn piece of parchment to him.
"Why don't you go in there and tell him now?" he hisses, gesturing to the door.
"He's got enough on his mind; telling him of Lucien now would be a distraction he doesn't need!" She looks around. "If my life ceases before this is over, I don't care if he's polishing off his gun, you give that to him."
"Eponine—"
"I'm trusting you!" She straightens the cap on her head and dashes off into the dark.