iii.


He knows it won't be long until both he and Éponine, too, go their separate ways; and to think he won't be seeing her every day sends a chill shivering through his bones.

She's talking animatedly to him now, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee while the others gesticulates wildly through the air, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake from the cigarette held slackly between her fingers.

He'd given up all attempts to force her to quit several months ago, for he really does hate the damn things. (Mind you, there's something about the slight rasp it injects into her voice that makes his heart beat wildly against his ribcage.)

At almost eighteen years old, the future is suddenly upon them and the pressures of being a real adult are starting to weigh upon their young shoulders. What do you want to do with your life? They seem to ask it every day.

He'll be going off to college soon, and even though Éponine has picked the same campus, Enjolras cannot help but feel the looming terror of new friends and new priorities.

"Enjolras? Enjolras are you listening to me?"

He starts out of his reverie to see her gazing at him across the table, eyebrow raised and a halo of smoke crowning her loosely plaited hair.

She tilts her head to the side questioningly, a frown playing across her forehead as she opens her cherry red lips to reprimand his inattentiveness.

And before he knows it, he has blurted out the question.

"Do you want to live together in college?"


He knows how to touch her as something fragile and holy, knows how to elicit the muffled cries and soft breaths at intervals which echo down the empty hall outside her bedroom, none to hear it in the stillness of the night but the paper flowers which decorate the walls of their shared apartment and the lone mouse which has made its home behind the skirting board near the front door.

He knows how to trail his fingertips across the faint scars on her knee, testimony to all those times they attempted to climb the old chestnut tree in the park as children. (Their parents would scold every time they arrived home with cuts and scrapes, but the pair would not rest until the day they would reach the very top branches.)

He knows how to plant soft kisses down the ridges of her spine, which send her body arching back into his chest; knows that her arms will loop around him with a gentle tug at the hairline on the base of her neck.

He knows that a nibble at her collarbone will send her toes curling at his ankles.

And when she clutches his hair and rubs her nose against his, he knows that she feels safe here with him; and so he nestles her closer, hoping that his heart will beat a warm and loyal promise into hers.


He knows not to argue when she forgets to meet him for their dinner reservations three times in a row.

University life has demanded a busy routine and both Enjolras and Éponine have hit the ground running. As competitive as ever, the two young students are determined to excel at their studies.

The autumn winds cast a sharp nip into the air as the winter nights draw in, and Enjolras spends most of his time rushing to and fro between his classes and the library, occasionally bumping into Éponine and her friends as they too do circuits of campus, scarves wrapped tightly around their throats to protect from the bitter gales. And in the comfort of their apartment, they discuss their days over a bowl of hot tomato soup which thaws out their freezing hands.

The months go by like hours, the days like minutes; and it is not long before haggard lines start to appear on her forehead, fatigue beneath his eyes.

Between the occasional pizza party hosted for their friends, the pair continue their dance, running for lectures early in the morning and studying long into the night, and every once in a while, it is suddenly 11.30pm on a Friday evening and they've barely spoken in three days.

On these occasions Enjolras forces himself from his books and gently lifts the pen from her hand, tugging her towards the sofa for a movie night.

Still, there is a distance in her gaze far beyond where he once could follow, and they no longer laugh like they used to.

Enjolras cannot stop his mother's voice from echoing in his ears.

"Should've been gypsies, loyal to nothing and no one. People like them, they don't stick around."

So, at a loss for words, he simply showers the girl with affection, catching her wrist every so often to press his lips to her knuckles, twirling her around in a wild dance across the kitchen tiles before she pulls away with an apologetic smile, and shuts herself inside her room.

And every touch seems to say, "I'm here, you know";

every kiss, "remember me."


iv.


"Will you ever forgive it, my letting go?"

"I do, Ep. But I'm not sure I'll ever understand it."


He knows she is drifting away from him in their final year of university, for she spends almost all of their free time taking weekend trips away on her own, and Enjolras can't help but feel they've reached the end of the road.

For a while he forgets how to talk to her entirely, can't remember the last time they shared anything more than a passing Good Morning or Good Night.

Of course, he knows Courfeyrac is right when he tells him Éponine just needs some time alone, to figure out her life and find her own feet.

He spends his days with his friends, trying not to bombard Cosette and Musichetta with the never-ending questions that run through his mind. How is Éponine? Has she been home to see her mother? How did she find her exam last week? Let me know if you see her, she's always gone by morning but never comes home until late.

The cigarette smoke that lingers in the apartment catches in his throat and makes his eyes water, but Enjolras insists that he enjoys the taste on his tongue, the smell in the air.

(Although he won't explain why).

And so, he retreats into the books that are stacked mountain-high by his bedside table, and listens for the creak of the front door, reading long into the night until the letters become squiggles on the page.

The other students cast him the odd pitiful look and small smile, and speak of other things.


He knows things are looking up again when she bounces through the door one afternoon, and it's the first time he has seen her look so alive in a long time.

For the last few years they have spoken only a handful of times, as she drifted in and out of his life like a ghost; coming and going with solemn eyes and a heavy suitcase, and leaving little indication if or when she would return.

But suddenly here she is, and before his heart even has time to do its customary leap, she is in his arms, laughing and kissing his face.

She looks fresher, happier somehow, and the old sparkles that used to light up her eyes have finally rekindled. Enjolras thinks it could have been yesterday that she'd knocked his ice cream into his face, and giving a shaky laugh, he breathes easy for the first time in forever, holding her close in a tight embrace from which he never wants to be freed.

They stay like that for a long time, until at last Éponine pipes up in a husky voice.

"You stink of ciggies."

Laughing, he forces himself to pull away, and gently rests his forehead against hers.

"So you're back."

She closes her eyes and smiles, inhaling the familiar comforting scent of coffee and books and cigarette smoke.

"So I'm back."


One day at breakfast she sits down in front of him at the table, coffee in hand and hair dishevelled.

He always sees her in these mornings, though each day is never quite the same as the one before.

When the warm 9 a.m. sunlight comes glinting through the window frames, her dark hair is wreathed in flecks of gold and grey, no sound in the warm kitchen but the ticking of the old clock that hangs on the wall and an occasional rustle of a newspaper.

Sometimes it rains, heavy drops bouncing off the little path leading to the front door, where untended weeds have pushed their way through the cracks in the pavement after a long and frosty winter. (His father, God rest his soul, would lament such negligence of a garden, but Enjolras is rather slower on his feet than he used to be, and it's been years since any ankles have been stung by a nettle anyway, for the children have long since flown the nest, their bicycles and tennis rackets rusting by the garden shed). On these occasions they often do not rise, but stay and eat breakfast in bed, listening to the raindrops fall against the skylight windows, and he thinks she is beautiful under the dim canopy of light.

This morning the sky is a clear blue, the sunflowers lifting their heads to worship the rising sun, and Éponine flashes him a sleepy smile before picking up her magazine and taking a sip of her coffee.

Enjolras watches her read for a while, smiling gently and thinking back over their years together.

He remembers the day she'd found the tattered scrap of paper, worn from use and years, but which still bore her name in faded childish handwriting. She'd laughed at his sheepish explanation and kissed him lightly on the cheek, but later that night he had caught her placing it tenderly inside the old nursery book she had always cherished, the keepsake from her childhood that now seems so, so long ago.

He remembers the days when he thought he had lost her forever, days he will never ask her about, for life has taught him that some hurts run too deep to ever really be understood by another. Those chapters of her story do not belong to him.

Still, she is here now, and the time for explanation has long since passed; at last he understands that she will always return to him, no matter how far she wanders.

He glances through the open window at the glorious sunny morning, where the birds are singing merrily against the ocean blue of the summer sky, and faint music can be heard drifting over the rooftops; the recently arrived carnival in full swing.

An idea pops into his head, and he reaches across to touch Éponine's arm.

"Would you like an ice cream?"

Her face lights up and she nods as, laying the magazine to one side, Éponine hoists herself to her feet with a knobbly walking stick and holds out her hand to her husband.

"With extra pistachios."


The End.