Oh my gosh. Everyone, I am SO SORRY. I feel completely terrible. The last time I updated this story was Christmas. I literally feel awful. I'm so sorry I made you all wait for so long. I've been really busy with the end of high school and getting ready for college in the fall, and, on top of it, I've been writing a novel that I have been focusing on instead of my fanfictions. I feel terrible, but I will not just abandon all of you, who have been so wonderful to me in the past. I hope some of you might still be interested in reading this (because I intend to continue with it now), and I hope you can forgive me for that far too long hiatus.
CHAPTER XXVII
Broken Pieces
How does one pick up the fractured and scattered pieces of his life and put them back together? Life is fragile, like every human soul. It is made of glass. If that glass falls, it breaks. Sometimes it shatters. It shatters into billions of sharp splitters, needle-like daggers that shoot into the flesh and make it bleed. Sometimes, even these tiny fragments are divided, crushed into dust. How can a man be expected to take them up in his hands, mend them, bind them like an old wound, stitch them with thread, conceal them under bandages, and go on as if nothing had happened? Even old wounds ache. They can take months, years to heal. Some wounds never heal entirely. Some pains are borne to the grave. Some things are too broken. Some lives can only be fixed by death.
He could not do this. It was impossible. His life was too broken to be fixed. The temple was destroyed, and it could not be rebuilt. The Messiah, Jesus, could rebuild the Temple in three days; but for this fallen sinner, it would take considerably longer. It would take a lifetime… which was more than he had left. His body was too wounded to be healed. His soul was too darkened to see light again. His heart was too hard.
He knew was he had to do, but he could not do it. It was impossible. Four years ago, it might have been possible, and even if it was not, he would have fought it. He would have fought this affliction without hesitation; he would have marched courageously into battle, ready to face his life and his death, unafraid of either. Four years ago, he would not have backed down to anything. But four years ago, he was a different man. That man was dead now. He was slain when he was hardly more than a boy, and he was gone now. Now, he was a man ruined by man, destroyed by their cruelty and hatred, as well as his own. He could not fight. He was not strong enough anymore.
It is impossible to disappear and reappear and go on as if you never left. It is impossible to miss four years of your life and came back to the same life you left. How can any one expect to pick up where he left off? As if the earth halted in her tracks and waited for him? It is impossible to make the world stop turning. You may vanish but the world does not. Your world may be reduced to darkness, but the sun will continue to rise each morning. You may stumble and fall and find yourself buried underground. Time will not wait for you. He goes on without you, and you are left behind. If ever you manage to catch up to your life, you will not recognize it.
He could not do this. It was impossible. He had everything he ever wanted, and, even still, even when he knew how selfish it was, he could not help but feel as if he had nothing at all. He had lost everything. His life was stolen from him, and, four years later, it was given back. Four years later, he could not recognize it. Four years later, he was not sure he still wanted it.
"Enjolras…" her voice whispered over him, somewhere high over him, as if from another world.
"Enjolras, you need to eat…"
She was right next to him. Her hand was on his shoulder. And yet, she was so far away. So distant. Even now, when he could have taken her into his arms and held her her forever, he could not have her. She was alive, and he was dead. She was good, and he was evil. She was and angel, and he was the devil.
"Enjolras, please…" Her voice cracked slightly, and it seemed she was trying to choke back her emotions. He wondered if she was about to cry. "Please, answer me…"
With great difficult, he swallowed. He swallowed the painful bulge in his aching throat—it was so inflamed and infected now that he could hardly speak—and the pungent and repulsive taste of bloody mucus. He strained his withered vocal cords, and somehow managed to produce a hoarse sound. "I am not hungry."
"You have to eat, Enjolras! You are going to starve yourself!"
I have been starving for the last four years, and I have survived. If starvation was going to kill me, it would have done it a long time ago. But God is not that merciful.
He did not answer. He did not move. He did not even act as if he heard her.
"Enjolras, look at me…"
He did not look at her. He could not. Be could not bring himself to look into those pretty eyes—those sad, scared, desperate eyes, that were constantly begging him to hold on, to stay with her, not to let go, not to give up—one more time. Guilt was already too heavy. If anymore weight was added, it would crush him.
"Enjolras!"
He was lying on his stomach in their bed. His head rested limply against his pillow, and his face was turned toward the wall. Éponine sat beside him, gently rubbing his shoulder, desperate to comfort him in anyway possible, desperate to coax out of him even the smallest sign of life. His life, it seemed, was fading quickly. If something did not change, and fast, she feared his life would not endure much longer.
"Look at me!"
He let out a deep sighed. As he inhaled, they could both hear the infection frothing inside of his lungs. "Fine," he grumbled under his breath. He rolled over abruptly. He hardened his heart so it would not feel, and he looked into her glistening brown eyes. "I am looking at you," he said flatly. "And what difference does it make?"
She stared at the man before her, shocked. Devastated. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. She could hardly believe that this was the same man she knew four years ago, when they were both young and free, when they were not afraid of darkness. She could not believe this was the same man she fell in love with. It wasn't.
"Why are you doing this?" Éponine demanded. Her eyes gazed severely into his. Her face was cold. Her heart ached painfully, but it was becoming angry as well.
"Why am I doing what?" Enjolras growled, his own anger flaring up inside of him.
"This!" Éponine cried, in a terrible confliction of outrage and terror, anger and grief. She was trying to yell at him, and at the same time she wanted to throw her arms around him and hug him as tightly as she could, hold onto him and never let go. She was trying to be confident, and at the same time she was trying not to cry. Her voice broke as she shouted, "Why are you doing this!? What are you giving up!? I thought you were stronger than that! I thought you were better than that!"
"I'm not giving up, Éponine!" Enjolras snapped back, glaring harshly at her. He strained the weakened muscles in his dying body and sat up abruptly. Sitting before each other, he was taller than her again. He was above her. This made him feel at least a little less weak. He looked straight into her eyes. "I am not giving up," he said very sternly, very assertively. His words were firm and cold, but they were not cruel. Hidden beneath the ice, Éponine knew there was warmth. Beneath this faulty mask of apparent indifference, she knew there was love. She knew him too well. Enjolras always tried to mask his emotions. He always acted angry when he was trying to cover up his fear.
"You are not trying too hard!" she argued. "Why won't you eat, why won't you go to the hospital, why won't you let us help you!?" Her anger was dying, and the last flames simmered out. Fear and sorrow were left. Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "Enjolras, why won't you let me help you?"
Enjolras was silent. Considering this. At last, he sighed and looked away. He spoke in a voice of stone: "There is nothing you can do."
"Yes, there is!" She moved closer to him and gently pressed her hand against his cheek. "Combeferre can help you. I do not understand why you won't let—"
"There are a lot of things you do not understand, Éponine!" His words came suddenly harsh, cruel, at her like bullets. She did not see it coming. She was surprised, startled. She was hurt. Enjolras jerked away from her, and her hand fell limply against the bed. Relentless blue eyes, as cold as ice and as lethal as fire, glared at her, and she was trapped under his gaze. Mercilessly, in a tone like winter's chill, he spoke in a low growl, "So stop acting like this is my fault. I wouldn't be dying if I had a choice."
He got up. Leaving Éponine alone in the room, he climbed out of bed and, trying not to limp, went out. He did not look back once, but he could see her face. Without glancing at her, he could see the hurt—the agony, devastation—in her eyes, perhaps tears in them as well. He wondered if she was going to cry now. He hoped she wouldn't. Éponine never used to cry, which made it more than twice as painful to watch her cry now. He would not watch. If she was going to cry, he would make sure he did not see it.
Choking down the pain as if it were poison—four weeks after leaving Combeferre's and he was still in dreadful pain—he made it to the bathroom and went in. He closed the door behind him and made sure it was locked. The last time he ate anything was three days ago, when Éponine forced him to eat some of the supper she had cooked. He spent most of that night throwing up. (The fact that Éponine had never cooked anything until these last few weeks, in which she had become the wife and mother of the household, might have had something to do with it, but being that she and Andras both kept their meals down fine, he doubted it.) He had ingested nothing but water and medicine since then, and, even still, he felt as if he would vomit now. Instead, however, he doubled over the sink and started coughing up mucus filled with blood. When he got most of it out of his lungs, his chest was raw and throbbing with his heartbeat. He urinated, which was painful, and then there was blood in the toilet too. Most of the external wounds had closed. But on the inside, he was still bleeding. He would not admit it aloud, but he knew there was something terribly wrong inside of him. Inside his body, and inside his soul.
After he cleaned the basin and dumped water into the toilet, disposing of the evidence, he went downstairs. Every step made something in his abdomen lurch with pain, as if one of his organs was on the verge of rupturing. Doing his best to ignore it, doing his best not to worry about it—worry is useless; it does not help anything, but only makes one's suffering worse—he made it, at length, to the lower level of the house.
Andras was sitting on the floor into the middle of the parlor, playing, content to entertain himself, at home in this foreign house, obvious that the building was collapsing around him. Despite all of the hundreds of pounds of stress and confusion and pain weighing down on him, Enjolras's heavy heart lightened at the sight of his son. Although Enjolras's health was deteriorating instead of improving, Andras—thank God—had never been healthier. He had new clothes now, clothes that fit him, clean and warm. His blond curls were no longer tangled or dirty but lush and thick, soft and beautiful. His wide eyes were no longer dark but bright and blue, gleaming like a sunbathing sky. The sickly hue was gone from his face, and his skin glowed with an angelic innocence, as if Jesus, Himself, Who loved the children most, remained in the presence of this boy, shielding him from the evil of his own parents.
Andras was unaware of Enjolras's presence, so the father made no sound. He let the moment last as long as it could, simply looking into the room and watching his son play, a smile in his heart and the beginnings of one on his lips. Andras was playing with the two little soldiers, the two toys he had since he was a baby, and the wooden pieces of a chess set. Enjolras laughed silently to himself as he watched the boy and did not even attempt to understand what kind of game he was playing. It is true a child can scarcely understand the worlds of adults. They cannot be expected to. Their minds are pure, unstained by reality. However, even though he was once a child, himself, an adult cannot understand the world of a child. That is something age takes from him. Ignorance is something he forgets. Innocence is something that dies. Once a man embarks into the real world, where there is corruption and evil, he cannot go back.
It might have been five minutes or longer before Andras finally looked up and realized there was at man standing at the entrance of the room, looking in at him. The expression dropped from the boy's face, and he stared at the man with gaping eyes. A warm smile spread across Enjolras's lips. "Hello, Andras," he greeted his son in that soft and tender voice he used to address no one else. He went into the room and sat down on the floor in front of his child. Andras continued to stare at him wordless. He did not move or attempt to back away, but Enjolras knew he was nervous.
"Do you want me to teach you how to play?" Enjolras asked, gesturing toward the scattered chess pieces and the board discarded to the side. The child did not answer, or express any desire for this man to teach him anything, but Enjolras went ahead anyway. He spread the wooden board open on the floor between them and began setting up the pieces. "You can be the white army," he said, "and I will be the black army. The object of the game is to jump the other person's king—that is this piece, here."
Andras said nothing. Sitting across from him, only the board separating them, he stared mutely at his father, unsure if this man was a friend or a danger.
Enjolras finished explaining how each of the pieces moves and tried a smile at his son. "Do you want to go first, or do want me to, since you've never played before?"
Andras did not answer. Although he had not taken those wide blue eyes off of him, Enjolras was not sure the child was listening to a word he said.
He sighed, trying not to let himself get frustrated. He was trying. He was trying, like Éponine wanted him to. He was trying to be a good father, and, yet, it did not seem this child wanted a father in his life. It seemed, maybe, Andras would be better off without one.
"Alright, I'll go first…" Enjolras muttered. "There. See? I moved a pawn, and the pawns can move two spaces the first time they move. Now, it's your turn to move. Now, you can move one of your paws—that's… these pieces, remember? Go on. Your move."
Andras made no attempt to move any of his chess pieces. He did not even reach for the board. Staring at Enjolras, his eyes seemed to be filling up with fear. Enjolras was afraid he was going to cry.
He sighed again, abruptly this time. Even though he knew he shouldn't—Andras was just a child, and he had every right to be uneasy of him—Enjolras was starting to get annoyed. "Go on, Andras," he said a little firmer this time. "Make your move."
"He's too young to play that game, Enjolras," a dry voice said from across the room. He turned his head and saw Éponine standing by the entrance, watching them. Her face was cold and expressionless. Her eyes were empty, as if all of the emotion had drained out of them with her tears. The only clue that she had been crying was a faint redness in her eyes. Her face was like stone.
She went into the room and straight to her son. He reached for her as she approached, and Éponine took him up into her arms. At once, he latched onto her hip, hugging her neck and burying his face against her shoulder. Éponine met Enjolras's gaze with cold eyes. "He's too young," she repeated. Without another word or a smile or a sign of forgiveness, she turned her back and left the room. Enjolras was left alone sitting on the parlor floor.
He stared at the empty entrance way, bewildered. Outraged. What the hell, Éponine!? he wanted to yell furiously after her, but he bit his tongue and kept quiet. But really, what the devil did she want from him? She says she wanted him to try, to try to go on, to try to be a good father, to try to fix things, and then, when he does try, she comes and takes his son from him! She got angry at him when he stayed in his room, and she got angry at him when he tried to be a part of his own family! Then, what in hell did she want him to do!?
Éponine smeared a hand across her eyes, as the door closed behind her and she hurried to get out into the streets. She took off in haste, eager to get away from this place. She turned he first corner she came to and disappeared into the city. Then she heaved a sigh of relief.
She needed some air. She needed time alone—independence. She was used to being on her own everyday, fending for herself, providing for herself, protecting herself, being by herself, living on the streets, living in rags, fighting just to live, stealing when she had to, doing everything and anything just to stay alive… and to keep her son alive. However, since Enjolras returned, everything was different. Now, all of the sudden, she had to abandon her old way of life—the only life she every knew—and transform into a "good wife."
She did not know the first thing about being a good wife or a proper lady. Basically, she concluded, it meant act like Cosette, and that was what she tried to do. She bathed a few times a week to keep her body free of grime and odor. She brushed her hair each morning, which she hated, because it was always a mess of knots and tangles. She wore clean dresses that weren't falling apart and that did not reveal her chest, or thighs, or arms. She bought breakfast and cooked dinner (or at least, she tried: she was a terribly cook, much like her mother, and she usually burned something before the night was over). She took care of her son, which was the only thing that hadn't changed, and she took care of her husband, who acted as if he would rather her disappear from his life.
Éponine could not understand Enjolras. He was so happy to see her at the church the night they reunited, he could hardly stop kissing her when they were at Combeferre's house, and now that they were in their own house, with their own family, living the dream they longed for when they were young and in love… he acted as if he did not want it. When she tried to help him or comfort him or love him, he pushed her away. He acted as if he did not want her, as if he would be better off without her…
Éponine gritted her teeth. Anger was building up inside her chest like toxic fluid. All her life, she lived through hell. She went to the devil and back in order to stay alive, to stay with Enjolras, to raise his child, and to stay faithful to him even after she believed he was dead. And how did he repay her for giving up her life for him!? As soon as they could finallybe together, he gives up. He stops trying. He stops loving her.
No! the outraged—and terrified—voice in her head scolded her, at once. How dare you even think that!? Of course, Enjolras loves you! He always loved you, and he always will. He's just… injured.
It was not just his body that was injured. It was everything. His body, his mind, his heart, and his soul.
Éponine's heart hardened to rock, and she faced the bitter truth. He's changed.
Stop judging him, urged the forgiving voice in her heart. You don't know what he's been through. You don't realize how much he's given up for you. Stop being selfish. He loves you. He needs you.
But Éponine was never very good at forgiveness.
Maybe he needs me, but he doesn't want me, she retorted spitefully. And I'm sick of it.
Another part of her heart immediately tried to convince her it wasn't true—of course, Enjolras wanted her; he loved her!—but Éponine blocked it out and ignored it. She was tried of this. She was tired of Enjolras and his ridiculous pride. Didn't he realize pride did not matter!? That was something Éponine realized when she was a child, and she learned the only way to live was to live with out it. If Enjolras was going to live, he would have to surrender his pride, and it seemed something he was unwilling to do. Then he would have to chose, between his pride and his family—he could not have them both, because his family was from the gutter. And if he wanted Éponine's help, he would have to start asking for it. She was done reaching out and being turned away.
"Hey!" a familiar voice met Éponine's ears for the first time in a while, and her dark heart brightened just a little a bit. "Hey, Éponine!"
She stopped and turned around to see him, wearing his usual hat, his usual grin, and the usual teasing gleam in his green eyes, jogging down the street toward her. She found her our taught lips spreading into a smile. She grinned at him, as he arrived to her side. "Montparnasse! Hey!" For a fleeting moment, she felt the impost to throw her arms around him and embrace him, but it was an impulse she ignored. Obviously. She crossed her arms and grinned. "I haven't seen you in a while."
"Over five weeks," he replied. Snidely, he smirked and added, "It's been a huge relief, but I guess my luck had to run out sometime."
Éponine laughed, because she knew he was joking. She knew he was happy to see her. And, she could not deny, she was very happy to see him. He was, at least, one person in her life who hadn't changed. One person she could still rely on. One person she could still trust. One person she could still be around and be herself. She did not have to be a "proper lady" around Montparnasse. She did not have to be a good wife. All she had to so was smirk and laugh, and joke and let things be the way they used to be. She could act as if everything was still the same as it was before.
Montparnasse looked Éponine up and down. "The devil, Éponine," he muttered, examining her new dress, her smooth skin, and pretty face. "You look…" Éponine was already starting to scoff and roll her eyes, because she was expecting some flirtatious comment about her much cleaner (and more attractive) appearance, so she was shocked when the word Montparnasse decided to settle for was, "…different."
"It's an improvement, don't you think?" she quipped with a playful grin.
He shrugged and grumbled, "I guess. But, personally, I preferred the dress with the holes in it. It showed off a bit more skin."
She scoffed, offended, and pushed him away. She turned her back on him and started off down the street, as if she was angry. However, when Montparnasse caught up to her and looked at her face, Éponine was smiling. He smiled too.
"It's a bit strange," Montparnasse observed thoughtfully, as he and Éponine through Paris together, side by side.
Éponine glanced at him. "What's a bit strange?"
"You've been living with him for five weeks, you haven't even mentioned Enjolras."
Éponine's stomach rolled over, making room for dread to come seeping in, like black ink invading clear water. Of course, she hadn't mentioned Enjolras. The reason she left the house was to get away from Enjolras for a little while. Enjolras was injured, and ill, and mentally disturbed, and, at the moment, she was not sure he even wanted her in his life. She did not forget that she loved him… but, for a brief time, she wanted to forget. She wanted to forget the pain.
She shrugged half-hearted, trying to blow off the comment. "I just assumed you already heard about him, and clearly I was right," she muttered. She did not look at Montparnasse as she said this.
He scoffed. "You're a good liar, Éponine, but you can't lie to me. I know you better than that."
Éponine's jaws clamped tighter together. She did not answer.
"What's wrong?" Montparnasse pressed, when he realized Éponine was not going to explain anything to him. "Aren't you happy with him? I thought you said you loved him."
"Of course, I love him!" Éponine cried. "He's my husband!" She halted in her tracks and turned abruptly to face Montparnasse. He stopped to and, crossing his arms, met her eyes. To his shock, he did not see anger in them. Instead, she saw only distress. Fear.
"Well," he corrected flatly, "your illegal husband."
"I thought you would be proud of me for that."
She started walking again. Montparnasse grinned slightly as he hurried after her and came to her side. "I am proud," he teased her, "but I would a lot prouder if you picked to illegally marry someone a bit more… charming."
A small smile started to form at the corner of her mouth. She glanced at him and asked dryly, "Who did you have in mind?"
"Oh, I don't know," he answered with a cool shrug, but he jokingly and comically made it obvious that he was referring to himself, which Éponine already knew. He made a huge show of running his fingers through his long raven curls and brushing them out of his face, adjusting his hat so it sat perfectly on his head, brushing off his coat, and fixing the rose in the buttonhole of his waistcoat. Éponine laughed all the while—she had tried to look unamused, but she failed and started grinning, unable to hide her laughter. Then, she realized: she had not laughed in what seemed like… she did not know how long. She did not want to hide it.
It was starting to get dark, when Éponine decided she better head back to the house. Andras would be getting hungry for dinner soon, even if her way-too-stubborn husband refused to eat. "I need to go," she told Montparnasse, but he shrugged and said he would walk her home. ("The streets can be very dangerous for a woman after nightfall," he said teasingly. "You never know who might just grab you!" He grabbed Éponine's waist as he said that and startled tickling her. Éponine pushed him off and rolled her eyes. But she was still smiling.)
"So this is the place?" Montparnasse said when the arrived at the house.
Éponine nodded. "Yes."
"Hm," he grunted. His emerald green eyes wandered up and down the house, all over the building, examining every detail. He would not admit it, but she could tell her was impressed. "Who paid for this?"
Éponine wished he hadn't asked that. She was a bit embarrassed as she admitted, "Some of our friends chipped in and helped pay for it."
"I'm your friend," he retorted, as if offended, "why wasn't I asked to chip in?"
She grinned and rolled her eyes. "You don't have any money, Montparnasse."
"Sure I do. I just have to steal it first."
Éponine started to laugh and opened her mouth to answer. Before she could speak, a voice like thunder shouted her name, "Éponine!"
Éponine jumped, and looked frightened as she turned her head. Montparnasse looked extremely annoyed and mildly outraged. Enjolras burst out the front door, rushed toward them, and practically ran Éponine. Before she could say a word, he took her by the shoulders and piercing blue eyes stared harshly into her face.
"Éponine, where the devil have you been!?" he shouted. He sounded angry, but she could see the fear in his eyes. He was terrified. "I was so worried about you! You just disappeared! You didn't even tell me you were leaving! Someone could have kidnapped you for all I knew!"
"Enjolras, I'm fine," she said gently, trying to calm him down. "You don't have to worry; I'm by myself in the street all the time—"
"Never do that again!" Enjolras ordered. "Do you understand me!?"
"I…" Éponine closed her mouth and frowned at him. Maybe, a good wife would have said, Of course, husband, whatever you say, but Éponine was not too keen on this whole "good wife" thing.
She loved Enjolras. She respected him. She realized she should have told him before she left, especially after what he had been through. He was probably terrified the police had come by and dragged her off to prison to torture her like they had tortured him for the last four years. He was right. She should not have just disappeared like that. She should not have done that to him.
However, at the same time… did Enjolras really have the right to tell her she couldn't go off on her own if she wanted to? She had been on her own for her entire life. Even after they were married, Éponine was always on her own. He was never there for her. So now he was back in her life, he was always pushing her away when they were together, and yet she was not allowed to leave? No, Enjolras darling. That's not how it works.
"Enjolras, I'm fine," she said again. "Trust me, I can handle myself on the streets. I've done it my entire life."
"I don't care!" Enjolras roared. He tightened his grip on her shoulders and shook her slightly. "I said, never do that again! Something could have happened to you! Someone could have hurt you! I've already lost so much in my life, Éponine," he cried through clenched teeth, "I will not lose you too!"
Éponine sighed. "I know, Enjolras," she said quietly. "I know." She could not help but feel a bit annoyed, but, at the same time, she was touched. Despite how he had been acting for the last four weeks, now, in his fear, Enjolras's true emotions were unveiled to her, and she could see how much he feared to lose her. She could see how much he wanted her. She could see how much he loved her. She took his cheek gently in her hands and leaned in kiss him on the lips. Enjolras did not react much, but he let her kiss him. In fact, she felt his tense body relax at her soft touch.
Montparnasse grunted—a sound similar to disgust—and looked away. This ended their kiss, as they both turned to stare at him. Enjolras took heed on the man for the first time, and his eyes took fire. He glared at Montparnasse. Anger burned inside of him. Anger… and jealously.
He put his arm around Éponine and pulled her close to him, keeping her safe. Claiming his territory. "Who are you?" he snapped coldly, distrustfully at Montparnasse.
"He's my friend," Éponine answered before Montparnasse could shoot back some snide retort, like she knew he would, "Montparnasse."
"Éponine and I have been friends since we were children," Montparnasse added, staring bitterly at his friend's husband, already decided how much he hated this man. "I've known her a lot longer than you have."
Enjolras was not impressed. His face was like stone… except for the gruesome distortion on one side of his face. It was healing, but right now it still looked terrible.
Montparnasse glared at him, before he looked to Éponine and smiled friendly. "See you around, Ponine" he said—hoping it made her husband jealous. "See you soon. Maybe, we can go to the Leroy Pub and get drinks, like we always used to do."
Éponine smiled faintly. For the first time, she began to feel uncomfortable, torn between to loyalties, trapped between to men. "Maybe…" she said slowly, not wanting to offend Montparnasse but at the same time not wanting to offend Enjolras.
"Bye, then," said Montparnasse. He waved at Éponine and went away, disappearing into the shadowy street.
"I don't want you seeing him anymore," Enjolras said as soon as he and Éponine were alone inside.
Éponine turned to him, shocked and appalled. "Who? Montparnasse?" Éponine almost expected he was joking.
He wasn't. He stared at her, his arms crossed, his face cold, and his eyes dark. "Yes," he answered flatly.
"Are you being serious!?" Éponine exploded, forgetting a good wife was supposed to respect her husband. "Why not!?"
"I don't trust him" he answered simply.
"You don't trust him!? You don't even know him! Montparnasse is like my brother! He has always been there for me; he was there when you weren't! Your wife and your son would probably be dread right now, if it weren't for Montparnasse watching out for us."
Enjolras gritted his teeth. His anger and jealousy were growing stronger. But so was his guilt. Nonetheless, he held his ground. "I don't like you being alone with other men," he insisted, his voice raising as he spoke.
"Why not!?" Éponine shouted. Then she hit the nail on the head, "Are you jealous!?"
"No!" he immediately denied. "I am worried about you. Being alone with a man is dangerous. …And it's just not appropriate. I am your husband."
"Well," Éponine snapped through her teeth, outraged and furious, "why don't you start acting like it!?" She turned her back on him and stormed out of the room.
