AN: Set in the movie-verse of Les Mis because Aaron Tviet is gorgeous. The quote* in the summary is from the book and is said by Bousset.
Make sure his bed is properly made.
Leave his clothes on his dresser and take whatever needs mending down to the laundry.
Do not touch anything else.
They treat him like a king, Theresé thought as she opened the door to the small room that was rented by Monsieur Enjolras. She was given the task of taking care of every room on the third and fourth floor, including his room, but she hadn't seen him once since she started two months ago.
Theresé Bourchier was born to a French military officer and the daughter of an Italian merchant, both of whom died years ago, leaving her orphaned and penniless, causing her to fend for herself. It was a happy home and her parents loved her dearly. They always showered her with affection and had somehow gathered enough money together to allow her to go to school. Her father had spoiled her with things she now realized he couldn't afford at the time, and her mother would amuse her with stories that contained infinite wisdom. She couldn't have asked for more loving parents, and she saw that they truly loved each other as well. Why else, when they died in a carriage accident, would they have been found with their hands clasped together between them? It was a sign that told her that they would always remain together. She reached for the locket her parents had given her for her sixteenth birthday; the last gift they had ever given her. It was her most prized possession and she never went a day without wearing it.
It was three years ago that the accident happened. Theresé was left alone and destitute, until she met someone who did housework for a noblewoman and was hired as a seamstress. After that, it was one job after another until she found work in this apartment building as a maid. She lived in a room in the basement with another girl, even younger than she was, and was given Sundays off to attend church and run personal errands.
When she entered the room of Monsieur Enjolras, she was appalled. It was one of the nicer rooms in the building, but it looked as if a storm had occurred within. His bed was a mess of rumpled sheets and the pillows were on the wrong end. His clothes were tossed haphazardly on top of a chair and even some on the floor, leaving her to wonder which items were clean and which were to be taken down as laundry. There were papers all about the couch and the floor, nearly making the hardwood disappear. Some, she saw, were messy scribbles and quickly thought ideas, while a good deal of the pile had Vive La France! written ferociously on them. She tiptoed around the paper, careful not to step on any and began her work on the bed.
She was so absorbed in her task that she didn't hear the door open behind her or the sound of footsteps approaching from the hall. As she bent to pick up a pillow she had dropped on the ground, she heard a wolf-whistle from behind her and jumped around in shock. Four young men, probably no older than she was, all stood in the doorway with their eyes on her.
"Please, Mademoiselle, do not let us interfere with your work," one of them said with a mischievous grin on his face. His curly black hair shot up and out from all directions and he held a bottle of unopened wine in his hand. "We were quite enjoying it."
"M-Monsieur Enjolras?" Theresé asked, still trying to compose herself.
"I'm sure he wishes he was, but this is he." Another youth, with short brown hair and numerous freckles strewn across his handsome face, clapped his hand on the shoulder of the man who stood in front of him. Enjolras' stern gaze raked over her, his cold, dark blue eyes calculating her size. He was a striking man, Theresé thought to herself despite her fear as he walked about the room. He was young, surely, but his face was worn and weary. His full mouth was drawn into a tight line and the stubble on his strong jaw matched the blonde in his carelessly styled hair. He was without doubt the most fiercely beautiful man she had ever seen.
"What are you doing in my room, Mademoiselle...?" His authoritative voice pierced through her thoughts.
"Theresé. I'm the maid for this floor." She realized she was still holding the pillow and tossed it back on the bed. "I'm sorry, Monsieur; I was told you would not be back at least until the evening." Theresé grew nervous under his stare, and fixed her eyes on her hands folded in front of her.
"Enjolras, can't you see you're frightening the poor girl?" Another young man came forward; his curly brown hair falling over his small brown eyes and his friendly smile set her at ease when she finally looked up. That is, until Enjolras began walking towards her.
"Did you touch anything?" he asked her, holding her stare.
"No, Monsieur, save for the bed. I was going to ask you what needed to be taken down for laundry and mending. I wasn't sure what—"
"Here," he said as he began tossing clothes at her. Theresé remained still for a moment before reaching out and catching the different items, her face turning scarlet again and this time, with anger. What gave him the right to treat her so rudely? She tucked the clothes into a bundle and met his cold look with one of her own.
"With your permission, Monsieur Enjolras, I will have these clothes back by the end of the week," she said sarcastically, drawling out his name. "Bonne journée." She gave him a curt nod but smiled at the young men who parted ways for her to get to the door and walked out with her spine straight and head held high.
*"I admire Enjolras," said Bousset. "His impassive boldness astonishes me. He lives alone, which makes him perhaps a little sad. Enjolras suffers for his greatness, which binds him to widowhood. The rest of us have all, more or less, mistresses who make fools of us...all our heroisms come from our women. A man without a woman is a pistol without a hammer; it's the woman who makes the man go off. Well, Enjolras has no woman. He's not in love, yet he finds a way to be intrepid. It is an incredible thing that a man can be as cold as ice and as bold as fire." -Bousset,Les Misérables