Truth
by always-a-time
[Enjolras X Éponine]

I'm about to cry but here it is. I love the both of them so much, and I hope you love them as much as I do. As we go through the years, I hope you enjoy watching them grow up as much as I did writing them. (There's a terrible plot twist in this one, and I'm sorry for that, but I want to see how many of you can figure it out beforehand!) And there's romance adgkladhgla! This is the big one - the one we've all been waiting for. It is with great pleasure that I give you the first half of the modern day cycle.

This chapter is dedicated to my close friends and all the games of make-believe we played when we were young.

Modern Day - 1989 to 2008

The truth of the matter was that this time they had a chance at love - and that was something worth fighting for.

-.-.-

She is Eleanor. He is Elliot.

They are best friends, and will probably be best friends for the rest of their lives. They know each other at a deeper level than anyone else really knows or understands.

He is her inspiration, for when she draws and paints, it is always with him and his speech in mind.

He is the storyteller, and this is where the inspiration is drawn from, since when he speaks everyone stops to listen.

She is his muse, because without her that are no tales to tell, since she is the essential component to all of them.

She is the artist, she who brings his words to life in a way that simply saying them could never match.

Together, they struggle to accomplish what they have tried to over the course of many, many lifetimes. They strive to find the truth, and they strive to find love.

-.-.-

école maternelle (nursery school)

-1989-

They meet in preschool. He walks right up to her and introduces himself, even as the other children shuffle about shyly on the carpet. She decides she likes him when they have snack-time and he shares his mother's homemade chocolate chip cookies with her. She offers some crackers, which turn out to be his favourite. After that day, they're practically inseparable.

-.-.-

-1990-

In kindergarten, Eleanor and Elliot play dress-up, and he's the only boy in their class who will, so she counts herself lucky. He is the one who incites games where she gets lost in the market and he has to find her. They play hide-and-seek in the playground outside, and their parents think it's adorable when the two of them run about in circles, giggling to themselves. Who are they to say no when Eleanor asks to buy a purple dress-up gown because 'that's the colour Elliot says it has to be', or when Elliot insists he needs a suit to wear because 'I'm supposed to be a grown-up like papa'.

-.-.-

école primaire (primary school)

-1991-

In grade one she asks for piano lessons because that's one of their games too, when she plays and he listens attentively. Elliot eagerly encourages her to play for him, and she's happy to do it. The tunes are simple, yet she still finds a way to mess them up, but he promises that she'll get better, even when she wants to quit, so she keeps at it. Eleanor does get better, marvelously so, until she's well ahead of her age-level.

-.-.-

-1992-

In grade two she takes art lessons, too, because following a parent-teacher conference, her parents are completely convinced by the teacher, who insists her talent be nurtured. Elliot tells her stories and she draws pictures for him in her spare time. Soon, both of their rooms are filled with papers and colors from play-dates and art time at school. A particularly nice painting of the two of them goes up in her room, one where they are both dressed in what could only be 1600's era clothing. It's hard to tell at first, since she's only a child, but it's there in tiny little details and her vibrant descriptions, and her parents marvel at what a child prodigy they have on their hands.

-.-.-

-1993-

In grade three they're still playing pretend, only now they're fighting against soldiers (he had insisted that it was his job to protect her at first, and that girls weren't meant for fighting, but she kicks him hard in the shin and he relents, saying that she has to be careful, then, because he won't be able to watch her all the time) with guns. It's a fun game, and the playground is filled with the sounds of their war-cries. Some of their classmates join in, and when they lose the battle they all lay on the grass with their hands over invisible wounds in their stomach and chests.

-.-.-

-1994-

In grade four they read books, and they get into heated arguments about their favourite fictional characters. Elliot tells his own stories, sometimes, when they're tired of debating, since his stories are the kind they can both agree on. She props her chin up on her elbows and immerses herself in the epic tale of a young man with dreams of freedom. In the back of her mind, she acknowledges that the blond leader is supposed to be him, surrounded and supported by their friends as they try to save France from evil kings. They start new games of make-believe, ones where they sit in a circle and draw battle plans in the dirt, Elliot's voice rising above the rest to direct them all.

-.-.-

-1995-

In grade five he puts words to paper, rich, vibrant characters that she knows to be them. Eleanor finds herself longing for more than just being friends with boys, however. She takes to wearing dresses and skirts, cries over skinned knees and sticks her tongue out at him when he bumps her. Elliot notes the change in his best friend, and instead begins to write of pretty gowns and brave heroines. It's not the same as what he normally writes, but he does it to please her. His teacher praise his creative abilities, and soon his own parents invest in private lessons. He excels in all his academics, and the school takes notice.

-.-.-

collège (junior high)

-1996-

In grade six they are split up, and she hates it. She pouts and throws tantrums, but her parents won't budge and neither will the teachers. Elliot is in a class for more advanced students, and there's nothing she can do about it. He promises things won't change aside from that - that they'll always be best friends. They have different lunch periods now, and she doesn't see him until after school. Lunch time is boring without him, and she sits on their bench by herself, kicking her legs. Matt comes up and tries to talk to her, and she lets him, only because he's Elliot's friend too. On a dare, Eleanor kisses him - her face is scrunched the whole time and her lower lip is accidentally cut on his braces. She doesn't notice later when Elliot berates her a bit more than usual as she shows him the little cut.

-.-.-

-1997-

In grade seven they are reunited, and Eleanor highly suspects Elliot made it happen. His parents seem slightly disappointed, but neither Elliot or Eleanor care about that. His parents do, however, hire more tutors for private lessons, because they won't let him leave the special class otherwise. They eat lunch together again and go to the library on weekends when they are both free. Sometimes Matt will drag them both out to the shopping center, or insist they play video games at his house.

One summer day finds them both at the park - Eleanor immersed in her book and Elliot in his writing - when something changes.

"Let's play pretend," he says suddenly, tugging on the sleeve of her loose, white blouse. She's grown out of the little-girl phase, and now tends to dress as an adult more than anything else.

"What?" she asks, irritated. Eleanor is reading Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, and doesn't like to be bothered when she's reading by herself, just as Elliot doesn't like her interrupting his writing. Looking up, she can see he's put away his papers in favour of standing.

"Like we used to," Elliot insists, a tiny smile playing the corners of his lips. "Come on, Ellie, it'll be fun."

"We're too old for that now," she tells him pointedly, still disgruntled. They've had the unspoken rule to not interrupt each other ever since she can remember, and she doesn't know why he feels like breaking it now.

"Come on, you can even choose what we do - I don't mind. You can be a revolutionary, too."

"Can't I just finish my book?" Eleanor is annoyed now, and her brow furrow as she tries to find her place on the page again. "We can play your silly make-believe game later." She knows it's not nice - that it's the wrong thing to say even before she gazes up to see his boyish face crumple slightly. He sits back down on the bench, almost as if he's been shot. Immediately, she relents. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. I - I just - " she struggles for words, but none are forthcoming.

"It's okay," he says slowly, giving her a fake half-smile. Then his gaze jerks away and he frowns at his backpack. "I know you didn't mean it. I know it's just - just a game," he struggles to get the words out. "You can go back to reading." He looks so dejected that she puts down her book and wraps him in a hug.

"I'm really sorry," she whispers quietly. "We can if you want to, I don't mind." Eleanor gently inhales, smelling his boy-scent, resting her head on his shoulder. It's not uncommon for them, their friendship is purely platonic and they treat each other like close siblings. "I was only kidding before." She doesn't mean to call the games silly.

His posture relaxes minutely. "Yeah?" Elliot asks, turning his head to face her. He looks so - so hopeful, for some reason, and she finds herself smiling, even as a tiny hint of confusion pricks the back of her mind.

"Yeah, I mean it," she promises, glad to have the temporary bump in their relationship smoothed over. Eleanor has never seen him so genuinely upset before, and although she won't say it, it scares her. Elliot is her rock, he grounds her and brings her back to reality when she spirals into one of her moods. Sometimes they're dour, and sometimes they're artsy, but he puts up with all of them better than anyone she knows.

His arm slips around her waist and he presses his forehead against her soft brown hair. "Want to go get a soda? It's my treat."

"I'd like that," she answers softly.

They sit for a moment longer, then get up and walk to the nearest corner-store hand in hand.

-.-.-

lycée (high school)

-2000-

Time flies, and soon the incident is far from her mind. Eleanor gets a part-time waitressing job at a local restaurant and quits her piano lessons to make time. "I can learn to play on my own time," she says when he asks her about it. "I'm not really learning anything new (a lie) and I know where all the keys are (not quite a lie), I'll figure it out myself (a lie). I'll still play for you whenever you want me to (not a lie)." He doesn't quite approve, she can tell, but it's her life so he lets her be.

Matt and Grant stop by for coffee one day, dragging Elliot along with them. He's engrossed in his notebook, as always, and when she brings him a croissant she catches a glimpse of the page. "Who's that?"

"Oh," he looks up, "someone I met in class yesterday."

Eleanor examines the page again, "What is this, though? It looks like you're making him a criminal profile," she jokes.

He scrunches his forehead slightly, "Yeah, I guess it does." Elliot shrugs, accepting the plate and taking a bit out of the buttery pastry. "I just wanted to copy this down before I forgot it."

"I see," she teases, "because you're never going to see him again, am I right? And you haven't made plans to go to the library and study, or whatever -" Eleanor presses a finger to a spot on the page, "- 'studious' people like you do."

"She's got you there," Grant snorts, dumping yet another packet of sugar into his coffee. "Honestly, I've no idea about you sometimes, Elliot."

"Better watch out," Eleanor says, grinning widely, "or he'll profile you next."

"Or you," Elliot retorts equally, raising an eyebrow at her as he holds up the notebook.

"Oh no, don't profile me!" Grant blinks his eyes and opens his mouth in a comical expression of fear. Then, in a more ominous tone, "Maybe you'll be next, Matt." He swoops over and flicks Matt on the forehead, cackling evilly as he does so.

Eleanor laughs, "You are all hopeless," she says fondly before heading back behind the counter to fix the next customer their order.

"Hey," Grant says, his attention drawn back to Elliot, who is wearing a mixed expression. "You have done one for her, haven't you?"

"Because goodness know you two don't know enough about each other," Matt complains, shaking his head. "You two are like - like soul mates or something."

Elliot appears to actually consider this. "Maybe," he allows.

"You can't be serious," Grant groans dramatically. "They're obviously the same person or something like that. Separated twins from birth. I can't imagine Elliot with anyone, let alone Eleanor."

Disgruntled, Elliot shuts his book. "Why's that?"

"You're too school-oriented," Matt suggests. "Social justice and everything. Girls are the last thing anyone asks you for advice about. Plus you and her are kind of really connected, like Grant said. Don't you think being in a relationship would be kind of - I don't know - weird?"

Making a non-committal sound, Elliot picks his croissant back up and deliberately takes a large bite so he won't have to answer.

"Oh, he's got it bad," Grant answers in his stead. "I'd kill to be there when she finds out."

-.-.-

université (university)

Now I remember ...

-2006-

They take their baccalauréat, and they both apply to the same universities and get accepted, he with a literature major and her with an art one. She still sketches for him in her spare time, the summer before she works feverishly on a large canvas. He's there when she finishes, her hair is knotted and her cheeks are smudged as she emerges, a goofy pleased smile under her paint-dotted nose. He works out the colours red and black from the flecks on her worn clothing.

Elliot stands up, putting his writing aside. "Is the masterpiece finally ready for public viewing?" he jokes, but she slips back into her room wordlessly, leaving the door open behind her. Eleanor has been like this since June, and his curiosity is now sufficiently peaked. He follows her in, and the art room smells of paint even though the window is cranked wide open, the early fall breeze whipping his blonde curls around his face.

The canvas is propped on a wooden easel - one he had constructed for her as a school project in high school - and it take him a moment to fully realize what he is looking at.

The man is tall, brilliantly golden with long, sweat-tousled hair. A thin, straight nose and a cupid's bow mouth are pulled tight in a fierce expression. A proud chin leads to a strong neck and sturdy, wide shoulders and delicate collarbones. A loose cravat hangs over a partially unbuttoned white shirt, which is tucked into a wide sash bearing the colors of the French flag. The pants are high-waisted and buttoned at the waist. A pair of black boots cover the feet, stained with what appears to be blood and grime. It's exactly how he would have painted, if he could have. It is perfect.

"You've stopped breathing." Elliot is shaken out of his reverie as he turns to face her, puzzled as he huffs a deep breath, suddenly self-conscious.

"What?"

Eleanor grins, "I'm only kidding. But you do look like someone took the mickey out of you."

His gaze is drawn back to the picture. "Yeah, I bet," then, "This is really good. The best you've ever done, I think. It's perfect, Ellie." That's their affection nickname for each other now, 'Ellie'. It applies to both of them, and they're the only ones who call each other that. ("Our little secret.") Most boys wouldn't take to being called a girl's nickname, but he takes it in stride.

She beams at him and wipes the sheen of sweat off her forehead with her arm. It's an adorably normal gesture, and he wants to wrap his arms around her - sweat, paint and all - and pull her close. "I think I'll take a shower, and then we can go out for dinner to celebrate? My treat."

"Sounds fantastic," he replies.

-.-.-

How can it be? ...

-2007-

"I'm telling you," she laughs, a musical trill that rings in his ears, "he thought he was going mad! He kept looking at her and asking me if I had noticed anything strange, and Claire and I were just trying to hold our heads together and not give it away - and then - and then -" Eleanor had to stop for to breathe, since she was laughing so hard. "Claire waved right at him. I've never seen Matt go so pale and red at the same time. I can't believe he was so embarrassed when we told him what was really going on."

"That's what he gets for stalking her in class, I suppose," Elliot smirked, wryly amused. "You tell Claire where he's going to be every time you're with him and have her stalk him instead."

Eleanor rubbed her eyes. "I can't believe she went along with it, but I'm glad she did. She told me she liked him too, and I think the two of them dating is the only reason he'll still talk to me. But at least now that they are we won't have to put up with his mooning anymore," she commented, a pleased smile stretching across her face as she leaned back, stretching her arms behind her.

"Thank goodness for that," he murmured, blinking suddenly. "What does Claire look like, anyways? I've never met her."

Eleanor swung her legs onto the bench they were sitting at (their bench) and lay them across his lap, adjusting her plain summer dress as she did so. "She's pretty, and blonde like you. Kind of chubby, but in a cute way. I think she'll grow out of it. Oh - and she's got legs down to there." Eleanor splayed her fingers out and stretched her arms down her own legs in demonstration.

"Hmm, I see." Elliot pulls out his notebook, and Eleanor groans playfully.

"Again?" she asks, kicking off her shoes and rotating her ankles around. "You did this when we met Joseph, and again when we met Charlie."

Elliot regards her in a searching way before shaking his head a bit, as if clearing his ears of water. However, instead of pulling out a pencil and starting a description on a fresh, blank page, he simply flips the book open to a page and hands it to her.

On the page is a crude sketch of Claire, and a detailed description of her physical attributes and personality traits. Eleanor's hands shake, and her expression is frozen: eyes focused and jaw slightly slackened. Elliot is no artist, but the likeness is incredible: the almond-shaped eyes, the little pointed nose and round cheeks. The feathery blonde hair. Even the small birthmark on her neck is there, she realizes. "Did you already know her?" Eleanor questions, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't," Elliot says, hesitant, "well - I do. it's hard to explain." He pauses and stares at her in an odd way. "I thought you knew, Eleanor. I thought you understood." Elliot's cheeks seem paler, a stark contrast to his serious blue eyes.

"Well, explain!" she exclaims, perplexed, "This - this isn't -" Eleanor's own face goes red and she cuts herself short, dropping her eyes.

"Isn't normal?" He's still looking at her, and it's hard for her to continue to avoid his gaze.

"It's not," she whispers back, shifting closer, using his legs as leverage. Her shoulder is now pressed against his, and he can smell the shampoo she uses. Eleanor hands him the notebook. "Explain," she says firmly.

"It started in le moyenne section*," he begins, and she recognizes the tone as the same tone he has for storytelling. "When I first met you." Eleanor smiles despite herself. "And I knew I'd seen you before - maybe in a dream - I didn't really know understand it then, but ... " his voice trails and he appears to steady himself - then the words flow out, rich and smooth.

"- you were the girl in the purple overalls, your hair tugged into one long pigtail that brushed the small of your back. I'd spilt chocolate milk on my pants on the car ride over and wasn't really feeling up to talking to anybody, but I kept thinking about how I thought I knew you already. It's why I didn't feel embarrassed or shy when I walked over and sat down next to you. When we'd introduced ourselves, the first thing I'd said was: "Hey, both our names start with 'E'!", which in retrospect was probably the best way to impress a girl in preschool - by simply knowing the alphabet.

I started to remember things, then. And I might have dismissed them as dreams or fantasies if it hadn't been for the fact that in every single one of them we were adults, or young adults. They were so real to me, and I struggled with that, because I knew it wasn't normal, no one else had dreams every night about being another person. I understood it was wrong, I had thought it was wrong - until I met you.

All those stories, Ellie, all those games we played, they were all things I remembered. The markets, the barricades, the battlefields, all of it. Every passing moment I spent with you I recalled more, and I recalled it more vividly. And - and for the longest time, I thought you did, too. I thought you remembered. I clung to you - at first - because you were the one who made those dreams real for me.

Ellie, you had promised you would never forget. You promised me - as I lay dying in your arms in 1959 - that you would never forget me. You kissed me and you cried as I told you I would search the world for you - that I would never let you get away again. And I told Grant - I told him that I would see you again - and I have. I kept my promise, Ellie, and - and you have to, too. You have to remember."

His blue eyes are wide and pleading; searching her own - perhaps for a person she would never be - and she wishes with all her heart she could tell him yes. Elliot's hands grasp hers tightly, and he stares down at their entwined fingers, looking for all the world like a lost young boy.

"Elliot," she says, "I don't. I'm sorry - I'm so sorry, but I don't remember anything. All those - all those games, all those stories - that's what I thought they were. Just - just -" Eleanor bites her lower lip, her tongue swiping over the old, faint scar from their 6th grade, when she kissed Matt, partly out of anger and spite at Elliot abandoning her. "I thought they were just stories," she finishes lamely.

"I know," he tilts his head back up, and when his gaze meets hers it is hard - not cold, he always looks at her with fondness, but she can tell he is locking some part of himself away when he says, "I know that. I wish things could be different. But -" Elliot's eyes spark slightly with something akin to hope, "- we'll keep trying, won't we? You can keep trying."

"Yeah," she answers honestly, since she doesn't want to disappoint or upset him. "I'll keep trying."

Elliot sighs. "You think I'm - I'm crazy or something." His tone is flat, his posture stiff.

"I don't," Eleanor promises, squeezing his hands gently, "I would never think that. If you think these are - are -"

"Past lives," he supplies, tilting his head to face her again.

"- right, if you think these are some past lives, I believe you. You're the sanest person I know," she gives him a half-smile, which he returns. Eleanor reaches up and tugs lightly on one of his blonde curls before stretching her legs back out again, sliding back along the bench until the distance is restored between them, her ankles still hooked around his left thigh.

"So, you'll let me know if ...?"

Eleanor pats his knee exasperatedly, rolling her eyes slightly. "You'll be the first to know, and that's the truth."

-.-.-

Without her, the world around me changes ...

-2008-

They're lying on the slightly dewy grass one late afternoon, both breathing heavily from their chase. Hair plastered to foreheads and sweat-dampened clothes stuck to hot skin, they sigh in unison and start to laugh. They've not had a whole day to themselves like this in a while, and they intend to take full advantage of it.

"You're faster than I remember," he pants, glaring at her playfully as if it's a fault instead of an advantage.

"We just haven't done this in a while," she rolls over and throws a warm arm across his chest, leaning her head on his shoulder. "I was always this fast, I can assure you. Maybe you've gotten slower. You spent all your time reading and studying and not enough exercising."

"Liar! I exercise more than you do!" Elliot exclaims, shifting his weight and flipping her over until he's pinned her to the ground, brown hair in tangles as she grins lazily at him. "See?"

"Maybe I let you," she argues weakly. "I could throw you off if I wanted to." It's a lie, because she doesn't really want to throw him off - not when he's so close like this, his heart pounding fiercely against her chest, long arms placed on either side of her as he watches her through loose, blonde bangs.

"Yeah?" he asks, his expression suddenly unreadable. "You think?"

"Yeah," Eleanor says, more confidently. "Yeah, I could."

He seems to guess the direction of her thoughts. "Will you, though?" Elliot is very close now, and if she tilted her head up ever so slightly their noses would touch. Her mouth is arid and her lips dry and chapped as she considers the implications of what he's saying.

"No," she finally answers him, dark eyes meeting light ones. "I don't think I will."

Elliot kisses her then, timidly, as if he's afraid of crushing her. Thin pale lips brush against her own, seeking permission. Eleanor welcomes the warm breath, the soft touch, and kisses back, so fiercely that this time their noses do bump. It's hard to tell, since their faces are already flushed to begin with, but she thinks he's blushing as he gently runs a hand through her hair. He half-pulls away, but she keeps a firm grip on his shoulder, searching his eyes with her own, trying to signal that it's alright.

Apparently he understands - he relaxes - but he doesn't kiss her again, merely keeps them both close together as he rolls onto his side, her body not-quite pressed against his. His hands strokes her cheek lingeringly, lips parted the tiniest bit as he sweeps his gaze over her face.

"Émilie," he murmurs, and whether it is unconsciously or consciously, it doesn't matter.

Eleanor finds herself blinking back tears as she extricates herself from his grasp and turns away, sitting up and pulling her knees to her chest. Immediately, he's up with her, hand on her shoulder, face concerned.

"What -" he stumbles over the word, "- Eleanor? What's wrong?"

She heaves a shuddering breath. "I can't do this." Without a word, she staggers to her feet and walks away, sneakers padding across the grass, leaving crushed footprints in her wake.

As soon as she is out of sight, it begins to rain.

The trees are bare and everywhere the streets are full of strangers ...

AN: *le moyenne section = preschool/nursery school

MANY APOLOGIES FOR THIS TERRIBLE CLIFFHANGER. I promise from the bottom of my fanfiction-author-heart that it will get better. In case anyone was confused: essentially Enjolras/Elliot remembers everything, and Eponine/Eleanor remembers nothing. (No one else has any clue as to what's going on.) Everything she drew for him (the Enjolras painting, etc) was based off of what he told her. As for why she ran away - well, if you can't figure it out you'll find out in the next chapter.

Speaking of which, next chapter will involve more Marius/Cosette and Grantaire, and more angsty stuff. I hope this isn't all too teenage-romancesque. ;w; I've never really written kissing scenes or anything before, alas I have no experience to draw back upon. Alsoooo The Beating of Your Heart please PM me with details regarding your OOC character for the next chapter. (I churned this one out pretty fast, didn't I? :D This pleases me greatly. I'm getting better at this.)

Please reviewreviewreview! And on another note this story has 90 followers, so thank you so much for all your support, I send you all virtual pocket-sized Jehans.