TheIbis-He is around 24/25ish, Musichetta is just barely 30, and Henri is 40ish. Here's chapter 13 for you :)
Anon-That they are :) I have to agree.
Punchy- The ribbon won't be mentioned for a while, unfortunately. You'll have to wait a little for that ;) And sorry! I haven't quite decided who Madame Montparnasse is yet, so both Eponine and Ceara have to have at least had the chance to be impregnated. God, that sounded so formal.
ATTENTION: The drawing in this chapter will apply for next chapter, but next chapter is all 1832, so no H/D/M until the epilogue. This takes place around early May-ish.
As June grew even closer, so did the odd trio. They told the neighbors that Dubhghlas was a friend fallen on hard times (and, to be crude, he sort of had) so as to not draw suspicion.
One Saturday morning, Musichetta rose earlier than Dubhghlas and Henri. She bade them goodbye without waking them, in that peculiar way that women can. She pressed a gentle kiss to her lovers' brows before donning a simple dress and bonnet. She left around the time that the worker's day started.
She stood out even in her plain wear. The dusty men, women and children gave her sideways looks as if debating whether or not she was worthy of being robbed. (For this reason, Musichetta chose to not bring along anything of monetary value.)
She approached a familiar child on the street and knelt down to be at her level. The child had her father's light eyes and her mother's chestnut hair and an air about her that spoke of both of them.
"Child, your name is Faye, is it not?" She asked. The child nodded suspiciously. Musichetta drew a candy from her pocket and handed it to her.
"Can you bring me to your mother, please?" Musichetta asked kindly, and Faye nodded. As if sensing the girl's hesitance to lead her, Musichetta offered her gloved hand to be led by.
The two ventured into a worn-down tenement, and when the door was opened, a frazzled woman stood in the door, cradling a baby while a young boy hid behind her skirts. Faye ducked past her mother and into the small room, while the two women stood staring each other down.
Finally Musichetta spoke. "I suppose I should call you Madame Montparnasse, now."
Madame sighed and nodded wearily. "And you are Madame Enjolras. How ironic that it is you who bears that name."
Musichetta winced even as her old friend moved aside to welcome her in. The room was fairly clean for a small space that housed a family of five. There were two old mattresses pushed in the corners and a rickety table that had no chairs to speak of.
"Faye is not your husband's child." She said it very simply, and Madame nodded her head.
"But of course. One of the two keepsakes I have of him." She looked at her eldest child fondly and cradled her legitimate child in her arms.
"But you do not have the man himself?" Musichetta asked, confused. Madam looked at her haughtily.
"Of course I do not. They all died, you should know that twice over." Once again, her friend's words made Musichetta flinch.
"But, he left the barricade once Marius told him that you were expecting…" Musichetta said, and her friend looked at her with dull eyes.
"I know that much, Madame Enjolras." She said the name meanly. "When I finally saw his body, he was clad in a National Guardsman's uniform."
"Oh, m'amie…" Musichetta crooned. "I apologize. Here I was thinking that you did not take advantage of what God granted you."
Madame placed her calloused hand on top of Musichetta's gloved one. "If he was given back to me, I would still believe in God."
They sat in a sad silence for a moment, mourning their respected lovers. Finally Madame spoke, wiping light tears from her eyes. "When did you wed ton Monsieur?"
"A good few years after. He was convincing and charming. It was at the morgue that we met, you know. He was there to mourn Marcel, and I was there, well…"
"So I see." Madame sighed. The babe in her arms had fallen asleep, so she carried him to one of the mattresses. She placed him gently there and grabbed her running toddler to wipe his dirty face. Her efforts did little to help.
"You have three, then?" Musichetta mused. "The other two…"
"My end of our deal." Madame sighed. "He would support me as long as I gave myself to him like a wife gives herself to a husband."
"I thought you wed so your child would not seem as illegitimate…" Musichetta said. Madame shook her head.
"Non. Only one man survived, you know. It was he who helped me. He scrounged up some fake marriage papers to make it seem as though I was wed at the time of the barricades. I got a job until I ran into Montparnasse." She said, and she observed her reddened hands with the air of someone who carried many regrets. "I worked until the disease became too bad. I'm strong, I've survived many outbreaks, so I survived three births whilst this ailment eats me alive. I've not long left."
"You shall be with him soon." Musichetta sighed. She wasn't jealous of her friend, because she had Dubhghlas and Henri by her side. But there were times when she missed Joly's needless complaints or Bossuet's ill-fated stories.
"Yes." Madame confirmed. "So, Madame Enjolras, what is your real reason for visiting an old friend?"
"I'm sure you were wise enough to keep some of Grantaire's drawings of him." Musichetta said. Madame nodded slowly. "Well, Henri has a certain fascination with Grantaire's work. He is following the story of Les Amis, and I know that there must be one more to complete it."
"I took only one." Madame confirmed. "I believe it was the last he ever drew." She waltzed to a loose floorboard, from where she plucked what seemed to be a red handkerchief. Once she unwrapped it, though, there was a charcoal sketch, and she handed it to Musichetta without another word.
"What is the date on it?" She knew the answer, but she asked anyway.
Madame allowed the ghost of a smile to grace her worn face. "June 5th, 1832. After you show your husband, do return it. It's how I know what he was like in the end."
"Of course." Musichetta confirmed. "It was a pleasure seeing you again."
"Yes, perhaps the last time." Madame said before she was seized by a terrible coughing fit.
The door closed, separating the two who used to be pleasant friends. Musichetta took a good look at the drawing and felt her chest constrict. She was staying in her flat with Eglantine and Éponine the entire duration of the barricades, so she never actually saw the boys in action. The most proof she saw were the random pieces of furniture that lay around the streets. But now, there was this.
It was a detailed sketch, taken during a lull in the fighting. Two men sat front and center on the barricade. One was tired, a hand running through light curls and the other seemed dead to the world, his handsome features blurred by alcohol and the thin neck of a bottle was clutched in his hand. They bore the clear signs of a man whose heart had been broken.
Musichetta held the drawing gingerly in her hands. This would be greatly appreciated by both her husband and her lover.
"Monsieur?" Her voice was quiet, almost silent. He had to look around three times before he finally spotted her. Ceara was sitting on the floor with her legs tucked under her, and one arm wrapped around the leg of the table. She seemed to be a decade younger like so, and Enjolras felt a tender feeling spread about his chest.
However, he sighed at the sight of the grown girl crouching like a scared child. "Ceara, whatever are you doing?"
She fixed him with a long glance before averting her eyes and looking back out the window. Even with the opposite building blocking most of the weather, the gloom still managed to creep into the back room. There was a bright flash as lightening threw the room into white light. Ceara did not wince like he half expected her to. Instead her dimpled chin rose as if to meet the dangerous sight.
"It is storming." She finally said. When he spoke nothing in reply, she turned to him slowly. "It was storming this night many years ago when the last of my family…."
She let the sentence wiggle into nonexistence. Enjolras sighed and knelt down to be at her level. He tilted her chin up to meet his eyes.
"You are safe." He said.
"Monsieur," She began, keeping his fingers beneath her chin with one of her hands. "Do you believe in heaven?"
"The only place we will ever be truly free is in the garden of the lord." He answered honestly. His pretty words soothed her, for her features relaxed. Ceara's clear eyes roamed his face for but a moment before she averted her eyes.
"You are the only one I still call Monsieur." She said. His legs grew sore beneath him, so he sat with his legs crossed beside her. He felt somewhat silly there on the ground, but at the same time it humbled him. He enjoyed the way the candlelight rained light on her face, the way there were shadows cast on her cheeks beneath her long lashes.
"Why is that?"
"It is a title deserving of respect." She said. "I respect them in a familiar way."
He couldn't help but feel slightly hurt by that. "And you are not familiar with me?"
"You misunderstand." She said, quietly. "I respect you in a different way entirely." In a moment of boldness, she unwrapped her arm from the table leg and placed her hand on his face. Had anyone else tried this, he would have jerked back, but his face didn't even twitch as her thumb began to trace the line of his cheek.
He leaned into her careful touch. Before either of them knew it, their faces gravitated towards the other. Enjolras froze inches away from her, unsure of how to proceed. It was Ceara who initiated the first move. She spanned the space and placed a fleeting kiss to the very corner of his mouth.
Almost immediately, she pulled away and retreated back beneath the table. "I'm…. I'm so sorry…." She apologized hurriedly. His mind was racing, for summer storms increase electricity of everything, and the May night intensified what was already there between the two of them.
He reached his hand and helped her to stand. Once he was sure she was on steady feet, he lifted her to the table. Enjolras had no idea what he was doing. He allowed his hands to do what they needed to and his body what it felt was right. One of his hands grabbed one of hers and the other went to the back of her head, tangling in her caramel hair. She seemed surprised but allowed him to move with her.
He came to her until their foreheads rested together. For once, the silver-tongued golden boy couldn't find the words. And it was the foreign gamine who could supply them.
"Marcel," Usually nobody said his first name, but he allowed her. "May I let you in on a little secret?"
Each word was felt physically against his skin for with such close quarters, her hot breath met the sweaty layer over his face. Her hand, the one that was not clasped by his, rested over the spot where his heart beat sporadically. He nodded, moving his head so that the side of his nose grazed hers. Her breath hitched before she confessed, "I adore you."
Finally the floodgates broke and Enjolras seized Ceara in a desperate embrace, nothing like the either had ever experienced before. This was his answer.
His hand remained in her hair while his other released her hand to rest on his waist. One of her hands reached to rest where his neck and shoulder met and the other remained over his heart. They dared not part for fear of regaining themselves in the cadence of the quiet Musain. Ceara's skirt rode up as one leg hooked around the backs of his thighs and their kiss deepened.
Her toes tickled the fabric of his trousers, and the slight scruff that dusted his jaw scratched along her chin as they moved heads and lips to what felt natural.
Enjolras was virginal, but he was not prude. He knew how to perform the action; he understood the general motions and the physical requirements to do them. However, his confidence dwindled in his lack of experience. The street girl guided him.
He assisted her with the language of his country. She assisted him in a different language entirely.
Ceara's first substantial words to Grantaire had been defending her pride as a woman. Within two weeks of their meeting, she lost that pride to another victim of her pick pocketing, one who hadn't been as forgiving as Grantaire.
Since, she'd slept with two men for money which she used for food and dress. When she was preparing to return to the docks, she saw Grantaire on the street. In a moment of childish hope, she followed him into the Musain. It was a decision that redeemed her.
Now, lying on the table, tears came to her eyes as she realized what she'd done. First, she had been stupid enough to fall in love. Then she ruined the delicate, platonic relationship she had with the man she loved. Hearing as he pulled his clothing on, she began to believe that he was just like the three others. He would leave her naked and alone.
She didn't expect to feel the fabric of a shirt placed atop her as if it was a blanket. Nor did she expect to feel him climb back and lay next to her. She turned her head so that she faced him, and she saw him there clearly.
Thrown into brilliance by the dull light, his golden curls flopped over his sweaty face. His bare chest gleamed and she felt a smile grace her face. He smiled back.
He wouldn't leave. Not yet.
So I'm kinda sad because Libz and Bowties and Italia have kinda disappeared off the reviews :(
But Punchy is back! And TheIbis is a nice, regular reviewer! I love you, mon ami. (Innnn a platonic way because my heart belongs to Aaron Tveit.)