A/N: Another update? Twice in one week? Annie, that's unheard of! Well, guess what. It happened. Boom. Enjoy! ;-) Also, I'm doing a little dance right now! My chapters are finally in the double digits! One last thing, I would reeeeally appreciate it if you guys would comment, just let me know if you enjoy it! Thanks :-)
CHAPTER TEN | NO PICTURES
Enjolras awoke to a distant humming and the smell of steam.
He rolled over in bed, running a hand down his face before squinting his eyes open to read the clock at his bedside table. It was a few minutes of staring at the analog hands before he finally was able to read 9:35, especially through blurred vision. Clumsily, his hands snagged the tortoise shell glasses from the table and flung them on his face in a haphazard daze.
It took him a moment to remember everything that had taken place the night before; from the loud parties going on above and beneath him to the dirty street corner where he picked up a girl he'd met at some steel mill; from the stairwell to the balcony, and from the bedroom to the fireworks display at two in the morning.
Éponine, he thought simply. Her name was starting to sound familiar in his head, even if only by a little. Then, as the sound of soft water and music started to sink in, he sat up in bed and sniffed twice.
She can't be...
He sluggishly made his way out of bed, tugging on his soft robe and walking out into the living room. The place where Éponine had slept the night before was empty, leaving a mess of wadded blankets in the girl's wake.
Enjolras didn't have to check to know where she'd gone. The shower's loud thrumming sent a faint steam seeping beneath the bathroom door at the end of the hall, and the slightly raspy twang of a melody melted through the walls. He briefly closed his eyes to listen, to appreciate it quietly for a time, before coming back down and heading to the kitchen for his morning ritual: brewing a pot of coffee...
...Which he was surprised to have been already done for him. The little red light that blinked when the pot was ready was sputtering, and as he curiously lifted the glass holding from the base, the smooth smell of caffeine hit his nostrils.
Very strange, indeed.
He poured himself a cup and took a sip. It was hot, so he was careful not to take too much or he would run the risk of burning his tongue. The coffee was strong, just the way he liked it, and all ten cups had been brewed to his specifications. Had Éponine really figured him out so quickly? It was true that this aspect of himself was not such a secret, but it took both an observant and bold person to adapt so quickly, and to take charge enough to run themselves a shower and start making coffee in a stranger's house.
Sighing, he slid the pot back into its dock and started toward the living room. The mug got set on the table as he folded up her blankets, laid them neatly on the pillow, and stuck them once again at the end of the couch. Petit was nowhere in sight, although Enjolras' guess was that he had stirred upon Éponine's wake and immediately tried to erase any evidence he had been there at all.
He plopped down onto the couch and took a breath. It smelled the way she did – mud and sweat with a slightness of cherries. The scent stirred something in him; it wasn't repulsion, but rather a memory. Summertime in the heart of Paris – it was 1961 and he held only 19 years to his name – with a warmness radiating through the air as he biked through the streets toward the Café Musain. His skin was drenched from the heat and activity, and he was out of breath upon his arrival. Enjolras and Combeferre rode together because, at the time, they had lived on the same street, growing up as neighbors and brothers for the majority of their young lives before moving out at the end of the summer.
The café welcomed the boys, all ten of them (or eleven, if he included the little one that always tagged along). Without fail, every Friday and Saturday the two tables in the corner would get pushed together and they would talk of changing the world six ways to Sunday. They would drink and laugh and enjoy the freedom that came in each passing day without school. Les Amis de l'ABC were students who took their studies seriously but knew when it was time to relax.
That summer before everything ended was the best summer of Enjolras' life.
The sound of the bathroom door opening shook him from his reverie and caused him to spill his coffee on the hardwood floor at his feet. Éponine stood in the doorway, hair up in a towel with a brown, oversized sweater hanging off her small frame. A toothbrush jutted out from between her lips.
Enjolras immediately stood, turning to face her.
"Mornin'," she said softly. A small hand – now clean – found the toothbrush in her mouth and continued scrubbing as she took a seat at the counter.
Enjolras nodded to her once in reply, to which she gave a little smirk and headed toward him. "Got you all excited now, Monsieur?" She flung her hair out of the towel atop her head and pressed it to the floor with her foot, soaking up the spilt coffee. Without skipping a beat, she spoke again. "How did you like your coffee?"
"It was fine," he replied shortly. "What I drank of it, at least."
"Scared you a bit, did I?"
"You startled me. That was all."
Éponine grinned smugly and stood from her stool, brushing past him to return to the bathroom. The sound of vicious water lapping at the sink's ceramic bowl, a bit of gargling, and a gruff spitting echoed through the hall. She emerged after a moment and headed for the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water from the cabinet before filling it with sink water. She took a long gulp.
"No coffee?" Enjolras asked.
"I hate coffee," she said, leaning across the countertop at him. She scrunched her nose up in repulsion.
"I just thought, after going through the trouble of making it..."
The girl took another loud gulp from the cup in her hand. "Dunno," she sighed, "it's not something I ever got in to, I suppose. Parents never bought it, I never felt the need, and I don't see myself starting anytime soon."
He nodded once, staring down into his mug before taking another sip. A strange girl she was, indeed.
"So," she started again, forcing his attention back onto her. "Still up for going to the Eiffel Tower?"
"What is it with you and that place?" he shot back. "It's just a sight to see for tourists."
Éponine was suddenly very defensive. "It's not 'just a sight to see for tourists.'" She made air quotes before flinging her hands down onto the counter with a loud slam. Her temper was rising, the one he remembered seeing at the factory – the one he had almost forgotten about the night before, as he watched her sleeping soundly.
She went on. "It's the happiest place on Earth to me. The tourists are so glad to be there, the place they save up hundreds and hundreds of their dollars just to come see, smiling and laughing, families together..." she trailed off wistfully.
And then he saw it again, that look on her face. She wasn't so quick to mask it this time which made something inside him twist sharply, much like a knife.
"Mon père, he used to take me when I was little," she finished softly. Her hands, which had once been balled up into fists on the white countertop, had unraveled delicately as memories flashed in her eyes. It was almost as though Enjolras could visibly see them, but he looked away almost as soon as he had. After all, it wasn't his business, and there was no room left in his heart for harboring pain.
He then straightened. "I'll need a few minutes to get ready," was all he said before setting his cup down.
For some strange reason, Éponine brightened, and Enjolras had a strange feeling as though he'd never seen that look on her face before.
As he exited the room, Éponine grinned madly; she bit down on her lower lip, teeth starting to show, and her eyes squinted shut. She lifted one hand upward to the necklace hanging beneath her shirt, between her collarbones that still held bruises from just days before. A small charm dangled from the thin silver chain – an Eiffel Tower.
Perhaps this Christmas won't be so bad, she thought to herself. Perhaps, for just one day, you might be able to forget.
xxxxxxxxxx
In the end, they decided to walk because it was only about a mile to the Eiffel Tower and Enjolras didn't feel like trying to navigate traffic on Christmas Day. The streets were already crowded enough as it was. Many times on their walk – which was, for the most part, quiet – Enjolras found himself accidentally knocking into the girl, just as she would often bump into him. She wasn't angry this time, and neither felt the need to apologize for it. Mostly, it was a comfort to know that the other was close by and hadn't gotten lost in the crowd.
"You had to go to the Eiffel Tower today," Enjolras fumed as yet another stranger knocked him in the shoulder.
Éponine didn't say anything, and instead folded her arms across her chest in defense.
"I should have known this was a bad idea," he thought aloud, "and if I hear one more Christmas song I think I might go mad."
"You're talking to yourself," Éponine deadpanned. "Think you're a bit past the point of mad." And when he shot a glare at her, she simply raised her eyebrows high in triumph and smirked widely.
Just then, a chorus of 'O Peuple Fidèle' erupted in the crowd and Enjolras shriveled in disgust. However, another sound pierced his ears immediately following the choir's outburst: a raspy bell-like clamor coming from the girl on his left. Laughter. Her head was thrown back in uncontrollable humor as she pressed one hand to her chest. The people walking behind her narrowed their eyes at the girl, as her laughter was starting to impair the pace she had been walking before. Enjolras rolled his eyes and took her by the shoulder, leading her in front of him through the crowd.
His hands lingered on her shoulders for a moment before dropping to his sides, but just long enough for Éponine to take notice.
"You should have seen your face," was all she managed between airy giggles that began to trail off.
"You should have seen the people's faces behind you," he retorted.
Éponine pursed her lips sourly. "Well, unlike you, I don't care what other people think of me. They were probably just a bunch of spoilt brats anyway."
"Most people who come to Paris are spoilt brats."
After a few minutes of silence, the girl felt herself sadden. Of course, not everyone in the city was spoilt, which she knew firsthand through a certain boy living in Vanves – which might as well have been Paris due to how rich most people who lived there were.
Having money doesn't always make you spoilt, Eponine thought bitterly. It just makes you privileged.
Éponine was pulled from her thoughts as she saw a crowd of people gathering, and then as she led Enjolras out into the street from behind a building, the Eiffel Tower burst into view. A shiver crawled up her spine, a shiver that was not caused by the cold but instead by her excitement.
Trying to mask this, she tightened her lips and put both hands on her hips. She approached with Enjolras at her side, starting across the courtyard as they followed the large cobblestone pathway. Her eyes glinted as they tilted up to meet the peak, and as they drew even closer, her heartbeat began to race.
The blond at her right glanced down at her and noticed a visible shaking – like a small puppy trying to bottle its excitement. A knit hat was pressed down firmly over her ears, its bill drawing over her eyes just enough to mask them from his vantage point. In the end, however, it was her body language that gave her away; Enjolras needed only glance at the girl to know.
Éponine turned her eyes to meet the gray sky above her; it was heavy with snowflakes threatening to fall at any moment, and in contrast to the very peak of the tower's glowing lights, it seemed dark.
"I've never seen it at this time of year," she said softly. Enjolras looked over at her and saw that spark in her eyes, illuminated by something other than the faraway tower lights. "It's nice, I think. Kind of like a big, metal Christmas tree."
Enjolras was silent, watchful, and overly-observant as his eyes scanned the crowd gathering at the base of the tower. There were more people there than he had ever seen, and decided this was either because he didn't spend much time at the Eiffel Tower or because he hadn't been around Paris much in the past few years. He lived there, but he didn't see it.
Maybe that was how Éponine lived, too. Before, he had wondered why this place meant so much to a girl who had seen an unhealthy amount of campy tourists in her lifetime – a girl who lived in the same France he did, only living a few cities away from Paris, but still longed for this place.
"Time stops here," she said suddenly, as though reading Enjolras' thoughts. "It's like a little corner of heaven, you know?"
A few feet away, he heard a stout, robust woman holding a Polaroid camera shouting bonjour! and oui oui! at passersby.
"Yes," Enjolras replied somewhat sarcastically, straight-faced as ever. "A heaven full of Americans mocking our dialect."
Éponine almost started another argument with him, but for some reason decided against it. "Their impressions really are terrible," she agreed finally, shooting the woman and her family a sideways glance. That's when she noticed it.
"Oi, Enjolras," she said, nudging him in the side with her elbow, "that oui oui lady has a camera. Let's get our picture taken!"
"No," he said without hesitation. "No pictures."
She didn't seem to hear him. Instead, the small brunette walked straight up to the woman and, in the best English she could manage (albeit her so-called 'English' was terribly broken) she requested to have a picture taken. Their conversation was comprised mainly of hand gestures, which Enjolras noted duly, and lots of overwhelmingly obtuse motions to the Eiffel Tower.
The woman said something in a southern-American accent, which Enjolras found hard to decipher (which had to mean that Éponine was clueless). The woman recognized that her translation was lost but smiled at the two nonetheless.
"No, no, no," Enjolras hissed at Éponine through clenched teeth. "I told you-"
"Oh, be quiet!" she interjected sharply. Éponine glanced over her shoulder at the woman who waited for them to position themselves and, after a beat of hesitation, took Enjolras by the crook of his arm, linking hers with his. Before he could object she lightly kicked him on the back of his leg; out of the corner of her mouth, she said in a hushed tone, "Just try and smile, alright?"
"Oon, doe, twahh," the woman grinned cheekily, looking through the camera's eyehole and immediately clicking the shutter.
As the flash sounded, Enjolras flinched. He had every good reason not to like pictures, as they made for an uncomfortable and fake moment that was more or less an empty memory – and, besides, he had enough pictures collecting dust in the wicker basket beneath his bed. As though he needed one more.
"Vwa-lah!" Her chubby hands snagged the snapshot popping out the slit at the end of the camera. She flicked it back and forth twice before extending it out to them, her cheeks extra rosy from what Éponine assumed to be a morning spent in a cognac's loving arms. Through twangy English, the woman wished them a Merry Christmas and gave a small wave before trotting back to her family.
"Strange woman," Éponine decided aloud, "but kind." She held the photograph gently; it was still developing, and she pinched the white outer edge between her thumb and forefinger before waving it through the chilly breeze.
When she looked up, Enjolras had gone quiet, a frown etched in his lips. He seemed so serious – perhaps even a bit angry – which deterred her greatly. She found herself unintentionally pouting, looking down at her dirty boots once again. Perhaps if she had not been so forward, perhaps if she had not been so adamant and forceful...
Enjolras glanced over at the girl whose eyes were once again hidden by the bill of her cap and sighed. With one foot, he nudged her leg the same way she had done to him just moments before.
Her almond eyes found his, and he lifted his chin.
"Stop pouting," he said. His tone was softer than before. "It doesn't suit you."
Éponine quickly looked away, fighting to find something else for her attention to hold before it was too late... Oh, but it was, and that dreadful, involuntary smile was already beginning to envelope upon her lips.
After a moment, she lifted the photograph to her eyes to inspect it, then flipped it over to show the man standing across from her. His eyes squinted, peering down his nose through semi-fogged glasses.
"Hm," he said, his unaffected tone masking how much he inwardly cringed at the sight of it. Standing beside Éponine, whose grin cheesed blindingly, his glasses reflected the camera's flash like two plates of white sheilding his eyes. His chin seemed pressed back a bit too far – likely caused by how unready he was for the shutter's snap – and his lips parted awkwardly.
Éponine laughed, looking at it once more before tucking it safely in her pocket.
"I don't care what you say," she murmured – more to herself than to him. "J'adore."