Angels (Éponine, Marius, 1830)

The first time she sees him, dragging his feather-light carry-on up the stairs of the Gorbeau tenement, she cannot breathe. Without a single doubt, she knows that he's the most beautiful person she's ever seen, and when he smiles at her as he passes, she's lost.

...

It doesn't take long to become friends, though she has a niggling feeling that sometimes, he's only tolerating her after a long day translating articles and going to lectures as she hovers in front of his mirror, singing in a rough, rasping voice and chattering in a way that would be charming had she been prettier. He does his work at the wonky little table, and she pretends she can read his books, snatching them off the shelf and leafing through the pages carefully until her father or mother screeches from the room next-door, and she has to dart away, throwing a smile that is all missing, yellowing teeth and cut, chafed lips over her shoulder. He always smiles back, every time.

...

At Christmastime, when the snow is falling, blanketing the world in a layer of white icing like she's seen in the windows of patisseries before she is uncompromisingly chased away lest she scare off customers, she slips into his garret again. Her feet are freezing, but she's not going to wear those horrible shoes any longer, not with their flapping soles that are perpetually covered with a thin layer of ice. He's talking to one of his friends in a low voice, the one with the wildly curly chestnut hair and obnoxiously cheerful expression. He doesn't see her for a second, and she's free to stare at his handsome profile, the way his dark hair falls across his face. Then he's raising his head, and looking directly at her in a way that makes her breath catch in her throat, even though she knows he doesn't see her like that, at least not yet.

"Just a moment, 'Ponine. We're almost finished."

She nods, and turns back to the shelf he's put up across one wall, takes a book and flips through it, understanding about half of the words in it. It's in French, but it feels as though it could be an entirely different language all together, at least, to her. Then the friend is leaving with a smile for her - how nice his friends are in comparison to the people she usually has to spend time with - and Marius is sitting down on his pallet.

"How are you?"

"The same as I was this morning," she says, trying that thing that the lovely young ladies strolling in the Luxembourg Gardens do of filtering her look through her lashes. He doesn't even notice. "How are you?"

"Fine. Busy. Studying occupies enough time as it is without everything else...but it's alright. I shall have to make time for it."

Éponine has lost interest by now, wanders over to stand at his shoulder. There's a paper thing, slightly crumpled, lying on his desk. "What's this?"

"That?" His brow crumples for a moment, and she wants nothing more than to kiss him until it smoothes out again. "Oh, it's an angel. A paper angel. Prouvaire was making them to hang around the Musain. You can keep it, if you like."

"Truly?" Éponine stares at him, and he nods.

"Of course. Merry Christmas, 'Ponine."

"Merry Christmas, Monsieur Marius."

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