Hey readers! The end is drawing near, I think, and I honestly can't believe how far the story's come. More than 65k words! Definitely the longest thing I have ever written. Anyway, thanks for reading, hope you enjoy!
Also, shoutout to anonymous reviewer: you honestly made my day with your review, and it feels so good to know that people are enjoying my writing.
Anyway, here we go again!
Enjolras sat alone on the cramped chairs the nuns had made him sit in, counting the minutes that passed since he'd left Annette. She would want him with her eventually, she would. He needed to be there for her and Courfeyrac.
Courfeyrac's accident made him think. Guns and bullets and injuries had always been abstract concepts before, something depicted on paper but not in real life. Seeing his friend in so much pain and being completely useless, those things had shaken Enjolras to his core. He wondered, could he put his friends through this voluntarily when the time came? Could he make them stare bullets and blood and death in the face, and be willing to lay down their lives for an ideal?
Enjolras took a deep breath to center himself. It wasn't an ideal; it was a future. Their future. The next generation's future. If they didn't rise to the challenge, who would?
This is what he told himself as he tried to push Courfeyrac's pained screams from his mind.
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Combeferre decided to spend that night at Jehan's. When Jehan opened the door, the bitterness and dejection must have shown on his face because he pulled Combeferre in with a pitying look and shut the door behind them. Combeferre tried to immerse himself in the plants lining Jehan's walls, reciting their Latin names and identifying their classification. It helped to calm him for the time being, until Jehan began to question him.
"What a terrible night! How could things have gone so wrong, Auguste? I should have been there, but no, you said, there were already enough people. I could have helped, you know."
Eichhornia crassipes, anthophyta.
Jehan hesitated as Combeferre continued his silent recitations.
"There's something else, isn't there?" His voice was gentle and kind, and Combeferre knew Jehan had most likely known ever since he'd stepped foot in his apartment.
"It's Eponine," he said slowly, glad to finally have someone to talk to. Always, he was the listener. It was nice to have someone care. Like Eponine did, Combeferre found himself thinking.
Jehan nodded, urging Combeferre to speak.
Combeferre fingered the edge of his cravat. "I saw her, just before we were supposed to go together. She was...she was with another man, with..." he racked his brain, trying to remember the names Eponine had told him. "Montparnasse. She did not seem as though she wished to be...interrupted. I waited for her, Jehan, thinking how if Blaise were caught, perhaps we had a chance. I always reasoned that it must be Blaise that was holding her back. Did you know I asked her for her hand in marriage? She didn't even let me finish." He shook his head, feeling the bitterness swallow him whole.
Jehan's brow was furrowed in an expression of deep pity, yet he appeared optimistic.
"What did she say?"
"Nothing. She never mentioned it again. Except that every day she gives me looks, words, touches, and I think—just maybe—she cares."
"Perhaps you don't know the whole story, Auguste," Jehan said softly. "What she says and what she feels may be different. Have you ever read Shakespeare?"
Combeferre sighed. He ran his hand through his hair, which was damp from the rain, and suddenly he felt terrible about what he'd done. He'd left Eponine, his friend no matter what circumstance, alone in the rain. Doubtless she'd been searching for him, and he had just abandoned her on the streets, all on her own. He stood up, suddenly overcome with the desire to see her, talk to her, get the answers he'd been wishing for. He put on his coat and his hat, remembering Eponine in the rain without a coat, without shoes.
"Where are you going?" Jehan asked.
"To find Eponine."
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She was alone, all alone. The only reason Combeferre would leave her like that was because he must have been upset with her—and Eponine didn't think she'd ever seen him upset. He must have seen her with Montparnasse. What else was there? They had laughed and chatted together as usual only hours ago. Nothing had changed.
One of the only true friends she had made in her life had left her. It was for the best, no doubt. Time and time again she'd hurt Combeferre, prodded him too hard, pushed him too far. He must have misunderstood. Eponine groaned in despair, already picturing what that scene must have looked like to him.
What could she do now? If Combeferre did not want her anymore, who would? She wouldn't have Annette for long, she knew. Everyone would leave her and she'd be back to where she'd been a couple of years ago, an illiterate, unwanted gamin.
Eponine sat in her bitter puddle of misery, her teeth chattering in the cold. I should get used to this, she thought. The streets will be my home again soon. She bit her lip, remembering being spat at by strangers, kicked by the men, gossiped about by the women. Already she could see her future around her.
Eponine rose, shivering, trying to rub her numb arms to bring back warmth and feeling, but she was too cold and tired even for that. She walked a little way to get out of the rain, and sat down in the protection of a broad roof.
As she tried to find a comfortable position, she heard a voice call her name from the dark.
"Eponine! Eponine, are you still there?"
It was his voice.
His voice was like warmth: hot tea and naps in the leather armchair by the fireplace; like home: the smell of coffee, burning wood, and old books. Eponine didn't dare look up. She must be dreaming, hallucinating, one of those. Maybe she'd died from the cold already and this was it.
The thought did nothing to ease her mind and Eponine found herself suddenly distressed. She didn't want to die now, did she?
"Eponine!"
His voice was closer now, almost as though he were just a few yards away. He wouldn't see her, though, not in the dark, obscured as she was by the rain and shadows.
Should she call out to him? Should she reveal herself? But what did he want from her? To hurt her again, to remind her of her bad side?
Yet Eponine knew he was better than that.
"Auguste?" She called, her voice barely above a whisper. Over the rain and wind it was a wonder he ever heard her.
She looked up, finding him crouching next to her. His face was washed from the rain, and his hair was plastered to his forehead. His glasses must have been totally ineffective, as they were splattered with raindrops. She didn't know whether to be relieved or wary of his presence.
He offered his hand out to her, his eyes full of apology. Eponine swallowed, unwilling to give in. He'd left her. What was he doing here now? Why should she go anywhere with him?
"Eponine, I'm sorry," he said, his voice muffled by the rain. "I should have waited for you, and I was wrong. Please, come with me. You'll freeze out here." His voice was as it always was, calm and cool and collected. Eponine had always marveled at his consistency in everything. Only now, his voice was not consistent with his face.
He was not apathetic to anything. His face was tense and worried and sorry and so many other things. He was not always in control. He was not always perfect. He was sorry.
Eponine took his hand, marveling at his warmth. Combeferre helped her stand up, then drew his hand back, frowning.
"You're already freezing, Eponine." In one swift move he removed his coat and placed it around her shoulders. Eponine didn't bother protesting; she was too cold, and the coat was so warm from his body heat.
They walked together through the rain side by side. Eponine felt absurdly relieved and happy. She was not alone. He came back for me, even in the rain. No one had ever done such a thing as that for her.
"Where are we going?" She asked after a while.
Combeferre hesitated. "To my apartment. You can at least warm up there."
Eponine nodded, grinning secretly to herself.
I am not alone.
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Annette had fallen asleep when Courfeyrac woke up the next day in the middle of the middle of the morning. He watched her eyelashes flutter in her sleep, heard her slow and steady breathing. He noted how tranquil she appeared, stirring vague and jumbled memories of strawberry tarts and angel statues. He watched her through a painful throbbing haze, and almost didn't notice when she opened her eyes and gasped.
Annette found Courfeyrac staring at her when she awoke, and, startled, nearly fell out of her chair. She heard Courfeyrac chuckle, then groan as he affected his injury.
"How do you feel?" Annette asked anxiously, taking his hand and squeezing it, intending to never let go.
Courfeyrac winced. "Shitty. Sorry, Annie. What happened last night?"
Annette paused, unsure of how to deliver the news. "Blaise got away."
Courfeyrac cursed violently, again apologizing half-heartedly. Annette shook her head at him with a tiny smile.
"You should rest your impressive vocabulary. All that matters now is that you're alright."
"No, Annie, it's not." Courfeyrac's voice rose, and Annette worried he would hurt himself. "All of these months of misery have been so that he would finally be put away where he belongs. Can you truthfully tell me that you don't think this has been a waste?"
"I will not let it be a waste," Annette said.
Courfeyrac stared at her. "What does that mean?"
Annette looked away, biting her lip. She shouldn't tell him this, not here, not when he was hurt.
"Come on, Annie, tell me." Courfeyrac said angrily.
Annette turned to him quickly. "Be careful, Etienne, you'll upset the wound."
Courfeyrac was already attempting to sit up, and was leaning on his left elbow.
"If you don't tell me I will open these bandages and let it bleed," he said threateningly.
"No! What is wrong with you? Do you want me to get the nuns to tie you down to the bed?"
"Well, that depends. Are they nuns—" he made an extremely sour face— "or are they nuns?" He grinned cheekily, and Annette had to remind herself that her brother had been shot, and she was not allowed to slap him in the face.
Annette sat back and sighed. Courfeyrac's smile faded and he squeezed her hand, and Annette noted how weak it felt.
"Tell me and I'll behave," Courfeyrac said.
"How exactly?"
Courfeyrac sighed. "Like children in church."
Annette stared at the floor. "You were hurt because of a plan to protect me. How is that fair? Your life is worth more than mine, and we both know it. What if more people got hurt because of what I dragged them into?"
"So we were supposed to let a gang of murderers kill you and take your money? And what about other people? You wouldn't be the only one to get hurt by them. Annie, I'm sorry, but your logic here is flawed."
"But I'm not the one who got hurt!" Annette replied, the heat in her cheeks rising. "You were!"
"So what are you saying?" Courfeyrac looked at her steadily.
"I don't know." She didn't know anything. All she knew was she didn't want to be the reason her friends died young.
They sat in silence for a long while. Finally, Courfeyrac asked, "So what are the nuns like here? Were they swooning over my unconscious body?"
It was a last attempt to cheer her up, Annette knew. Which made it all the worse. Why was he trying to make her feel better when he was the one lying in a hospital bed?
