Truth
by always-a-time
[Enjolras X Éponine]
** Clara Chevalier is When The Beating of Your Heart's OC and is by no means mine. (Along with the rest of the characters, sigh.)
Much inspiration was drawn from A Thousand Years by Christina Perri. So maybe go listen to that while you read. (You've all probably heard of that song, yeah?)
tw: some cuss words + lots of feels
Modern Day - 2008 to 2013
"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 rain splatters on the concrete as Eleanor runs, the drops hitting her chest and back, slipping down her shirt. Her skin turns wet and cold, but she doesn't feel a thing. She reaches the sanctuary of her old elementary school and yanks out her phone, leaving Elliot a message. Shaking droplets out of her hair, she waits, eyes shut as she listens through his pre-recorded message. As the answering machine comes on, she tells him she's staying over at a friend's and hangs up. Her hands are still shaking as she tucks her phone away.
Eleanor drags her tear-stained, storm-dampened self down street after street to the apartment door - she refuses to take a bus - and knocks hastily. There is a muffled reply of 'I'm coming!' followed by the door opening slightly: a pair of green eyes peek out, staring disdainfully.
"Hold on a bit - " the head of brown hair whips around, revealing red tips, "Claire! Your friend's here!" Clara retreats into the apartment, mumbling something about it being the middle of the night in a tone Eleanor is sure she is meant to hear.
(Claire and Clara share the tiny apartment, although Eleanor notes they don't seem to get along well all the time)
Eleanor couldn't go back to her own apartment because too many memories sit in her bedroom, and she can't face that just yet. The door swings open a second time, and this time a blue-eyed blonde greets Eleanor with good cheer before taking in her bedraggled state.
"Eleanor! What're you doing here? Why - oh," Claire pulls her inside, "let's get you dried off first, and then we can talk." Fluffy towels are produced, and Eleanor is perched motionless on the bar stool while Claire proceeds to rub her dry.
"What's wrong? You don't look hurt or anything. Did you and your parents get into a fight?" Claire peppers her with questions as she ruffles Eleanor's hair with another, smaller towel.
"Something up with you and your boyfriend?" Clara inserts, "That blonde - what did you say his name was?" This question is directed at Claire.
"Don't want to talk," Eleanor mumbles, head and eyes lowered. "Can I just stay here for tonight?"
"His name is Elliot," Claire answers briskly, watching Eleanor's face carefully as the latter maintains a stony exterior. Claire stands and gathers up the wet towels. "Of course you can. And if you want to talk tomorrow -"
"I won't," Eleanor promises. "So please, just drop it." She walks over to her bag, which is sitting on top of yet another towel, and zips it open,
"You won't get over it unless you talk it out with someone, so unless you're going to talk it out with whoever did this," Clara gestures to Eleanor's still dripping hair and slightly reddened eyes, "Just know we're here for you. Or," she smirks slightly, "Claire is, at least. We don't really know each other very well, do we? All I ever hear about you from Claire is how you set her up with her boyfriend," Clara cocks her head to the side and rolls her eyes, prompting a bit of a smile from Eleanor.
"I can hear you," Claire trills, reentering the room with an armful of blankets and pillows. "And I talk about other things. Things other than Matt," she clarifies.
Eleanor kicks off her soaked sneakers and peels off her socks with a wrinkled face. "I'll take the couch, alright?" The balls up the socks and stuffs them in her sneakers, which she holds awkwardly for a few moments, unsure of where to put them.
Claire tsks loudly, dropping her load onto the couch, and takes the shoes from her. "They'll never dry that way. I'll toss them in the wash tomorrow, and you can borrow a pair of mine until I can give them back." She pulls out the socks and tosses them into a laundry hamper, leaving the sneakers to dry on the doormat.
"Thanks," Eleanor makes an attempt at a weak smile, but fails miserably.
"You should really take my room," Claire says firmly, crossing her arms in a stern, motherly way that nearly sets Eleanor's teeth on edge. "You need rest."
"Okay, fine, whatever." Eleanor surrenders, too tired to argue. "I don't suppose I could borrow some pajamas while I'm here." Claire nods in a self-satisfied manner and heads back into her room.
"As long as you like pink," Clara grins widely. "That's the only colour pajamas seem to come in inside of Claire's closet."
"Again, I can hear you!"
-.-.-
He sits in his car for a full ten minutes before he starts the engine. He's half-way to Charlie's before he realizes that he can't possibly go back to their place - his friend knows him too well for that. Charles will see through him in a quick second, despite how he would try to hide it. So he does a 180 and heads for Matt and Chris' instead.
When he arrives the only one home is Matt, much to his relief. Matt doesn't question why his friend needs a place to sleep for the night even though Elliot has his own apartment, he simply lets Elliot in, chattering about his latest date with Claire. For once the inane conversation is something he is grateful for.
"But anyhow, Chris is out somewhere, perhaps at a bar, and he told me not to expect him until early morning. You can take his room until then, he won't mind." Matt yanks a pile off books off the foot of the bed in Chris' room, sliding them easily onto a nearby shelf. "Will this do?"
"Yes. Thanks." Elliot tosses his dry (the trunk of his used car pulled through in the rain, it seems) bag onto the floor.
"Anything you need, you let me know, alright?" Matt smiles, his hand gripping the doorway. "Don't hesitate to ask. Girl trouble, whatever."
Elliot settles for nodding and throwing his tired self onto the bed, rolling to face the wall. Perhaps Matt is more perceptive than Elliot gives him credit for.
-.-.-
I have died everyday waiting for you ...
When he sees her the next day she acts as if nothing happened.
Her hair is pulled back tight, her makeup flawless as she sets the tray of coffee cups on the table. The only evidence of last night lies in her slightly bloodshot eyes. Apparently, there is no cure for a sleepless night.
"Hey," he says when she slides his cup over to him, just to see what reaction he'll get. Elliot rests his elbows lightly on the table, the edge digging into his skin.
"Hey," she says right back, warm and friendly, like they hadn't just spent the night as far away from each other as possible. Eleanor tucks some flyaway hairs behind her ears, pulling her gaze back to the tray as she gives Matt his drink. Her nonchalance doesn't hurt as much as he thought it would, because he figures this would be how she would react. So instead, he waits for the inevitable moment when her brown eyes flicker back to him, and holds them steadily with his own blue ones.
"Sleep well?" he prods her.
"Not really. You?"
"Slept like a rock." He's not really lying: rocks don't sleep. Elliot almost sighs with exasperation at himself.
"Hmmph." She seems upset that he was unaffected by last night's events, and he doesn't blame her.
"You free around 4?" A peace offering.
"Yeah, I think so."
He tries to pretend that doesn't mean anything to him, that it's just a another normal outing for the two of them. That she isn't giving him a second chance. "Sounds good. I'll come pick you up?" Back here, later, when all their friends will be out drinking or partying. He examines her face, notices the necklace she is wearing. The star-shaped charm that dangles from end's leather cord; nestled between her collarbones.
She nods stiffly, lips pursed, indicating she finds it agreeable.
"Hey, can I come too?" Grant interrupts, eyes flickering up from his phone. His feet are propped up rudely on the table, but he doesn't seem to care. "Need to pick up a few things. If you're going to the mall, that is. If not, that's okay too, we can just hang out. "
"Can't!" Matt interjects much too loudly, waving a hand in front of Grant's field of vision. "We - have - that - thing - erm ... you wanted to meet Claire? And - and - oh! Chris wanted to - uh -"
"Let me save you the trouble of making up an excuse," Eleanor shakes her head in disbelief at Matt's complete transparency. "Matt is trying to tell you that he thinks you should let Elliot and I go out together on our own."
Grant lets this implication sink in, his expression now shifting to one of interest as he sets his phone on the table. "Oh? And what say you two?"
"You can come if you want," Elliot says quietly. "But I think one of us should meet Claire before Matt does something outrageous like propose to her," he adds lightly, trying to change the subject.
Pouting, Grant throws his arm around Matt's shoulders. "Guess you and I have some wedding invitations to write. Don't worry - I'll bring my best calligraphy pens, and we'll invite Joseph, too. He can floralize - is that even a word? - the cards."
"I'm not proposing to Claire," Matt argues hotly, squirming futilely under Grant's heavy weight.
"Not for you, idiot - for these two!"
Elliot watches as Eleanor vanishes into the kitchen so she won't have to hear anymore of it. He tries to imagine how she feels and what she's thinking. She's tired of this - of everything and them and her and him - and as much as she loves him, she almost doesn't want to keep fighting. Or at least, he hopes she still loves him.
"Hmmph," Grant says, "Maybe you should pick up some flowers when you pick her up."
"That actually sounds like a good idea," Matt muses, tapping his chin with a loose index finger. "Do you suppose Claire would like some flowers? Some carnations?"
"I wasn't talking about you, Matt! Why the hell do you think everything revolves around you and your girlfriend?"
-.-.-
Darling, don't be afraid I have loved you ...
He's leaning against his beat-up car when she leaves the restaurant. Her hair is still tied back, but the makeup is gone and her face clean. Still, the look she gives him quells any greeting he might have offered.
Her head is turned away when she speaks, emotionless. "I'm not the girl you want me to be, Elliot. I'm not her."
"I don't understand." Eleanor still won't turn around to face him, and it's maddening. Unconsciously, her arm reaches over to adjust the strap of her shoulder bag.
"I'm not them. I'm not any of them, I'm not anyone. I'm not Émilie, or Éponine. I'm just - just Eleanor." While her tone is still guarded, it is firm. She looks so stubbornly familiar that it makes him take a mental step back to reevaluate the situation. Her hands clench a few times then become loose, yanking at the hem of her shirt before hanging limply at her sides.
"That doesn't matter to me - it never mattered to me. The only person I want is you - you don't have to remember any of it or be anyone else, Ellie. It was never about that. I'll never bring it up again if that's what you want. Just - just ask me to, and I will." He's pleading with her, begging her to stay.
She inhaled sharply. "But what if ... what if I don't. What if I never do and you spend your whole life waiting for a ghost? There's that whole part of you that I'll never be able to know. I couldn't ask that of you. To let go of that." Eleanor refuses to do that, she refuses to ask him to sacrifice that for her. "It's a part of you - I can see that, even if you can't." I don't want you to regret being with me.
"Hey," he says gently, placing a hand on her arm. His palm alone sends tingles shooting across her skin and her breath stuttering out her throat in an erratic attempt to calm itself. Elliot's eyes are like the ocean as they shine. She's always enjoyed painting him; his eyes in particular. The eyes are the window to the soul, she knows, and she can almost see all of the past lives he's lived in them. The past lives she cannot remember.
"It's easier for you to let me go," she manages to say before her flight response kicks in: she's dashing down the sidewalk away, away, away from him and his pretty, soulful eyes.
-.-.-
And all along I believed I would find you ...
There's a rapping at her door the next morning. Eleanor stirs, pulling herself up with a groan and stretching her limbs out from their uncomfortable position hunched over her desk. She manages to smear about half a dozen sheets of paper across the workspace in the process, creasing and wrinkling them. Staggering to her feet, she tugs at her unmanageable hair as best she can as she crosses the room to the door.
When she peeks through the peephole there is no one in sight. Cautiously, then, Eleanor creaks the door open to check; the hallway is empty. Instead, there lies a worn, familiar notebook on her orange welcome mat, and suddenly she can't think anymore. Nimble fingers scoop the book to her chest, she jerks around, tugging the door closed behind her with her foot. She is still clutching it to her body a few minutes later, still and unmoving.
Eleanor notes the thin paper bookmark with the carefully pressed daisy under its shiny lamination.
It takes a moment for her to gather the courage to open it to its marked page, but she does. Her own face stares back at her from the page, a mischievous smile and eager dark eyes. Her name is penned in Elliot's beautiful cursive underneath, giving a name to the girl in the drawing. Eleanor.
There are other words on the page as well, but she finds it hard to look away from her own piercing gaze. She briefly wonders what photo he used as a reference before dismissing it. He could draw her from memory, if he needed to. He surely had no such problems with references when he drew Claire.
Quietly, then, she read the passage about herself aloud.
"My best friend. Where to begin? We've known each other our whole lives - for much longer, if I'm correct - and there is nothing about her that I could describe without doing her a terrible injustice. Still, this notebook will never be complete without her. I should have known from the start that I would find her again, that there could be no doubt in that. We were always meant to find each other.
She's irritable. And quirky. She says and does things I could never do, often punctuated with witty remarks and equally witty smirks. She's caustic and completely stubborn, yet I wouldn't have her any other way. She's like a lost soul, she finds her way through her art and silly smiles and games of make believe. She's unpredictable in very aspect of the word, her mood swings faster than anyone I know, from cheerfully exuberant to petulantly childish. And she's always made me smile, even if she doesn't remember it.
And she doesn't remember any of it. That's what hurts the most, because I know she tries - she tries and fails and it hurts her too. She hides it away - buries it under her layers of shadow and mystique - and runs as far as she can in the opposite direction. And I should let her be, but I can honestly say I'm too selfish to say goodbye. I'd wait another lifetime for her, if I had to - I'd wait a thousand more.
She haunts me, sometimes. When she laughs, or when she grips my hand or tugs my curls. In every part of Eleanor I see them - the others. They're a part of her, whether she realizes it or not. They account for every part of her personality - every little snit she gets herself into, every happy tear that trickles down her cheek. I don't know how I never saw it before. It's why I don't need her to remember who she was before - she is who she was, and she always will be."
It ends there, with his scrawled signature (despite his perfect cursive, his signature is shit, which she finds hilarious).
He's in front of her apartment. She can sense this even as she bolts to the windows to yank open the blinds, open notebook still balanced in one hand. And then Eleanor is bounding out, slamming the door in place, lock forgotten in her haste. There's nothing valuable in her flat, anyways. Skipping out on the elevator, she takes the steps two at a time, nearly killing herself as she almost misses the last step.
When she sees him she is breathless. Everything slides into place; crystal clear. She doesn't need those memories. She needs him.
The boyish hopeful expression is back on his face, and it's all she can do not to pull him to her and kiss it off him.
He nods at the book, which is still in her hand, a gesture of acknowledgement.
Eleanor allows a small smile to show: "Where to, Ellie?"
-.-.-
Time has brought your heart to me ...
Elliot silently opens the passenger seat door, and when she slips inside the familiar movement of it disturbs him. It seems she's always been like a ghost to him, never quite there when either of them needed or wanted her to be. The car ride is silent, the occasion limb shifting and Eleanor tapping her foot on the floor. He hasn't the heart to tell her to stop, even though he finds it distracting.
When they arrive at the park a small, wistful expression steals over her face. Her figure dips and she runs her fingertips over the long, uncut grass. Eleanor strolls across the path and he follows, merely a shadow in her wake.
Elliot reaches out and takes her hand, smoothing his fingers over her knuckles. She does not pull away, which he takes as a good sign. He inhales deeply, mind going over what he had planned to say. Suddenly it all seems wrong. So Elliot starts again and lets the words flow from where she most needs to hear them: his heart.
"I've waited what is probably more than a few lifetimes for you. I don't want to wait anymore: so I won't. It's a lot easier than you think it is to let go of my ghosts. I don't need those memories to be happy, and I certainly don't need them to be with you; you won't need them anymore than I do. To let go of that would be easy - it's letting go of you I have a problem with.
If you can't remember our past, we'll make a new future, a better one. We'll leave it all behind and build new memories and new lives. One where there's no war and no death; only the boring monotony of our day-to-day lives that's sometimes sidetracked by our insane friends and their wonderful senses of humor. And I'll stay with you as long as you want me to, you only have to ask. Just ask me to, and I will."
He tilts his mouth into a lopsided smile that charms her to no end. "Does that sound agreeable to you?"
"Yeah." As she speaks he breathes again, his smile morphing into a softer version of itself. "I - I think it does." Eleanor glances down their hands, slowly turning hers over and entwining their fingers, brushing her fingertips over his skin. "I would really like that."
-.-.-
I have loved you for a thousand years ...
-2009-
Things fall into a new routine.
Hands are held and legs are brushed; smiles exchanged and words whispered. Sketches and words are passed along, scattered across both of their dwellings and the back room of the café Eleanor works at (she's assistant manager now, and the back room is practically hers). Paint eventually finds a home on his clothes as well as hers, but he doesn't mind it. Matt and Claire even insist on double dating at first (an idea which both Eleanor and Elliot abhor), but thankfully Clara and Chris agree to go with them instead. Grant begins to complain (raucously) about the lack of public displays of sexual tension between the two of them. Their parents are exhilarated that their kids have finally gotten together, and approve - perhaps too much so - of what they see as an impending union.
Their first anniversary is shared painting under a full, starry sky in the field where they first kissed.
("I'll admit I'm a bit reminiscent today," he tells her.
"I'll admit I'm a little bit in love," she says right back, swinging their joined hands upwards towards the stars.
He smiles, then, and kisses her with fervor. "I am, too.")
-.-.-
-2010-
That summer they visit museums.
Their history is their main point of focus, but that doesn't stop Eleanor from venturing into art history, or Elliot into law and politics (which is sort-of related, in a sense). He'll point out things they knew; things that they had; things that they had seen become a part of history. She absorbs it all attentively, because it's still important to her - to them both - to try. He holds her hand the whole time and blushes profusely when she teases him. They buy over-priced souvenirs from the gift shops and start a collection in the(ir) back room, even though Elliot protests the commercialism of big companies that rely on third-world labour.
Their second anniversary is when she presents him with a new, full-sized painting of him from the 1870's.
("You look dashing!" she says, eyes sparkling. "I should dress you as a gentleman more often."
"Only in paintings," he allows.
Her smirk grows taunting. "We'll see about that, won't we?")
-.-.-
-2011-
The art blog is meant to help them find the others.
Eleanor updates when she can, with paintings of their group: Elliot, Matt, Claire, Chris, Charlie, Grant, and herself. François is found, through a mutual appreciation of art, and along with him comes Jeremy, Louis and Bernard. Elliot is positively thrilled to be reunited with his friends, and four more pages are added to his notebook. They fill the back room of Le Jardin with laughter and parties, jokes and artwork.
Their third anniversary is spent at such an event with their friends, who tease and force karaoke on each other.
("I've missed this," he admits when everyone has gone home, "I've missed them."
"Sentimental," she sings at him, shaking her head mockingly.
He seizes her around the waist and rests his forehead against hers. "You would be too, if you were me.")
-.-.-
-2012-
They're engaged in late autumn.
The proposal is brief and heartfelt. His smile is bright and lively as he asks her to be his. Eleanor wears the extravagant engagement ring his parents insist he buys only because Elliot promises her a simpler wedding band. Everyone is excited about the preparations, with both mothers and Claire at the forefront of the wedding committee. When they insist Eleanor join in the planning, she and Clara sulk together at the end of the table while Claire discusses floral options.
"You two are unhelpful," Claire remarks idly, as both Eleanor and Clara shrug in unison at the display of magazines and order sheets in front of them. "I should get Joseph to help. At least he likes flowers. It's as if you don't even care about your own wedding, Eleanor!"
"I care about Elliot, and about getting married to him. All this -" Eleanor waves her hands over her head in a circular motion, "- is completely irrelevant to that. I'm only here to let you, my mother, and Elliot's mother knock yourselves out. I'm just showing up to get wed, alright? The flowers don't matter."
"You could elope, suggests Clara. "It's not too late for that."
("It's your bachelor party, you have to go - if not for yourself than for the other guys."
"They're not engaged to you," he rolls his eyes.
Eleanor is firm. "Too bad. And I want pictures," she instructs him. "If only to make sure they all behave."
"You just want blackmail," he mutters in return.
She's grinning ear-to-ear now. "You know me too well.")
-.-.-
I'll love you for a thousand more ...
-2013-
June 5th dawns with a fiery vengeance. The light breeze does nothing to alleviate the heat, and Eleanor scowls from underneath her veil and heavy, old-fashioned cotton gown. She has half a mind to tear the layers of fabric off, or to strip and get married in the nude, or to force Claire to wear the gown and see how she likes it swathed in fabric.
"There's nothing to be done about it," Claire is saying, partly to herself and partly of Eleanor. "You'll just have to make-do."
Clara pops her head in and informs them that there's only a few minutes left. Fidgeting now, Claire smooths her lilac bridesmaid gown.
"Ready?" Claire asks.
Eleanor's whole body suddenly becomes a bundle of nerves, and she finds it hard to breathe. Still, she waves the blonde off. "Just the humidity," Eleanor lies. Claire nods in sympathy, touching the sleeve of her white gown lightly.
"Time!" Clara declares, shoving past the pavilion flap and tugging Claire towards the main pavilion, where the boys are waiting to walk their bridesmaids down the aisle.
Claire spares Eleanor a kiss on the cheek before she leaves. "You'll be perfect, just remember your queue."
A few moments pass - then music begins to play - and her father is by her side, guiding her. He's smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkled as he gently nudges her arm.
"Don't you worry. Your best friend is waiting out there for you. As long as you remember that - remember how much you love him - the rest will follow." Her papa's arm is warm and solid and strong. She straightens as Charlie plays their queue on the piano. She is ready.
("You may now kiss the bride."
They kiss, soft lips on warm lips: ocean breeze and a fiery passion. Her entire being comes alive, and she senses every part of him. Every finger on his hand, which is wrapped around her waist and pressed against her side; the locks of hair that brush against her forehead and curl to frame his eyes, which are currently closed; his heart beating adjacent to hers; his breathing practically in unison. He doesn't want to pull away, but she does, and her eyes laughing and shining.
"I remember, Elliot - I - I remember!"
And then she's shouting it in-between peals of joy as he's picking her up off the ground, twirling her around and around, both lost to the world around them.)
AN: This was how I felt about this chapter at first: "Ugh. This whole chapter bothers me a lot. I can't write this angsty stuff for some reason? And there is so many issues I have with this I can't even ... It's completely frustrating and everything. It's all impossibly terrible in my opinion. I throw myself out the window in grief." But then I had a lovely little plot bunny hop in and pet my hair and everything became wonderful. (I'm telling you right now before the plot-bunny edit this was shit.) So now this chapter actually pleases me!
But back to business - after this is the aftermath (which is more of an epilogue for this cycle) followed by the epilogue (which is for this whole fic) and the long AN chapter I'm going to move all of my rambling to. I'm sad/happy to see this through and done. I'm going to be depressed when Eleanor and Elliot's story is over. It's been a pretty long run - I hope you'll enjoy each and every last bit as I wrap this up.