"I Love You"
Chapter 3
There is nothing so pure as the friendship between a young man and woman as they blossom into maturity. During their time spent together, Eponine and Enjolras shared a new kind of compassion for one another, one which, unbeknownst to them, stemmed from their shared love.
On a particularly stormy night at Le Café Musain, as the wind howled through the cracked windows and the rain pounded angrily against the roof, the couple worked fervently on a new plan of attack. The tiny candle by which they read had nearly burned itself out, drowning in its own melted wax like the sun dissolving into the ocean. The manual clock on the wall had long since stopped, for no one bothered to rewind its key, but it was easily past three o'clock.
Poor Enjolras was exhausted, yet he pressed on, determined to finish his labor. The intense crystal eyes Eponine now adored were aflame with intensity, despite their lack of rest. His normally neat dark hair began to protest, and a soft, shiny lock fell stubbornly about his forehead.
He brushed it away with a sigh and leaned closer to his paper, scribbling furious, illegible lines which caused Eponine to smile.
Suddenly, his every move was endearing to her, for every time he fidgeted, she felt a sort of knowing warmth. She had picked up the ability to predict his movements, each one of them familiar to her now, and could almost copy his natural rhythms.
Enjolras stopped his writing abruptly and stared at his document for a moment, only to utter a small growl and a curse.
"What if they attack from the side?" he snarled, exasperated at his slight error. Angrily, he crumpled the paper into a ball and shoved it away, starting fresh with a new sheet.
"Enjolras," Eponine sighed, her eyes softening with sympathy for the poor, tired young man. "That's enough for tonight. You've been at this for hours. It's time for you to go home and go to bed."
"Out of the question," he replied tightly. "There is work that must be done. The state of the country is at stake. I cannot rest when I have not even finished a simple plan."
He lowered his quill to rub his eyes in frustration, then picked it up again to write some more, raking his left hand through his hair. He worked a few minutes more before Eponine intervened.
"You won't accomplish anything like this," she persisted. "Your mind is tired. You'll not do any good to the country tonight, not like this."
This time, Enjolras looked up at her, considering her words. Even in his exhaustion, he was a gorgeous boy, with a kind of masculine beauty and grandeur that could never fade with fatigue. Eponine's heart thumped madly when he looked at her with his gaze of fire, though his eyes were as blue as ice. Swallowing her strange sensation, she pressed further.
"If you get some rest, your head will work better. I promise, Enjolras, you'll think more clearly in the morning."
"It is morning already," Enjolras argued, still reluctant to abandon his quill.
Eponine rolled her eyes, though his dedication and perseverance charmed her. Reaching across the table, she brushed away the same unruly lock of hair which had previously disturbed him and smiled.
"You'll make yourself ill," she insisted. "Just ask Joly. He's a doctor, he'll tell you. Anyway, I'd be worried sick to find you in poor health."
Despite his frustration, Enjolras smirked in amusement. Although he usually paid no mind to the women who swooned over his exquisite good looks, Eponine was hard to ignore. In fact, she was almost as stubborn as he was.
"Would you?" he inquired, feigning indifference.
"Yes, M'sieur," replied Eponine. "Very much so. Now, why don't you close your eyes and lay down your head for a while? It is my turn to work."
At last, the boy obeyed, unable to resist the call of sweet, refreshing sleep. Like a child, he folded his arms on the table and rested his head, smiling with weary gratitude to the kind girl who rescued him from the strain of consciousness. Eponine immediately picked up a quill and started to work, humming a soft melody.
As Enjolras drifted into the harmony of night, he took pleasure in the sound of Eponine's lullaby.
The girl bent over the paper, sketching out a rough map and planning every detail of attack. She used all the power in her cunning brain, which she inherited from her father, to create a flawless battle strategy. At least she put her mind to good use.
As she toiled, she could not help but occasionally glance up at the sleeping boy next to her, watching his slow, regular breathing cause his chest to rise and fall. Never before had she noticed his magnificent beauty. When he was not talking of revolution or working tensely on his diagrams, he was an angelic boy, precious and dear while he slept.
When at last Eponine had created a flawless line of attack, she lowered the paper and stared intently at her darling Enjolras. His lips appeared so soft, slightly parted and full. She wished nothing more than to kiss him as he rested, to hold him in her arms and caress his smooth, silky skin with the palm of her hand.
She returned her eyes to her work and smiled. Raising her quill one last time, she etched three tiny words in the upper-right corner of the parchment: "I love you."
Then, laying the paper in the center of the table, she stood and leaned over Enjolras' sleeping form. Without causing him to stir, she placed a gentle kiss on his cheek and ran a hand through his thick, glossy hair. He was warm.
Smiling, she hugged her old coat tightly around her body and exited the café.
Chapter 3
There is nothing so pure as the friendship between a young man and woman as they blossom into maturity. During their time spent together, Eponine and Enjolras shared a new kind of compassion for one another, one which, unbeknownst to them, stemmed from their shared love.
On a particularly stormy night at Le Café Musain, as the wind howled through the cracked windows and the rain pounded angrily against the roof, the couple worked fervently on a new plan of attack. The tiny candle by which they read had nearly burned itself out, drowning in its own melted wax like the sun dissolving into the ocean. The manual clock on the wall had long since stopped, for no one bothered to rewind its key, but it was easily past three o'clock.
Poor Enjolras was exhausted, yet he pressed on, determined to finish his labor. The intense crystal eyes Eponine now adored were aflame with intensity, despite their lack of rest. His normally neat dark hair began to protest, and a soft, shiny lock fell stubbornly about his forehead.
He brushed it away with a sigh and leaned closer to his paper, scribbling furious, illegible lines which caused Eponine to smile.
Suddenly, his every move was endearing to her, for every time he fidgeted, she felt a sort of knowing warmth. She had picked up the ability to predict his movements, each one of them familiar to her now, and could almost copy his natural rhythms.
Enjolras stopped his writing abruptly and stared at his document for a moment, only to utter a small growl and a curse.
"What if they attack from the side?" he snarled, exasperated at his slight error. Angrily, he crumpled the paper into a ball and shoved it away, starting fresh with a new sheet.
"Enjolras," Eponine sighed, her eyes softening with sympathy for the poor, tired young man. "That's enough for tonight. You've been at this for hours. It's time for you to go home and go to bed."
"Out of the question," he replied tightly. "There is work that must be done. The state of the country is at stake. I cannot rest when I have not even finished a simple plan."
He lowered his quill to rub his eyes in frustration, then picked it up again to write some more, raking his left hand through his hair. He worked a few minutes more before Eponine intervened.
"You won't accomplish anything like this," she persisted. "Your mind is tired. You'll not do any good to the country tonight, not like this."
This time, Enjolras looked up at her, considering her words. Even in his exhaustion, he was a gorgeous boy, with a kind of masculine beauty and grandeur that could never fade with fatigue. Eponine's heart thumped madly when he looked at her with his gaze of fire, though his eyes were as blue as ice. Swallowing her strange sensation, she pressed further.
"If you get some rest, your head will work better. I promise, Enjolras, you'll think more clearly in the morning."
"It is morning already," Enjolras argued, still reluctant to abandon his quill.
Eponine rolled her eyes, though his dedication and perseverance charmed her. Reaching across the table, she brushed away the same unruly lock of hair which had previously disturbed him and smiled.
"You'll make yourself ill," she insisted. "Just ask Joly. He's a doctor, he'll tell you. Anyway, I'd be worried sick to find you in poor health."
Despite his frustration, Enjolras smirked in amusement. Although he usually paid no mind to the women who swooned over his exquisite good looks, Eponine was hard to ignore. In fact, she was almost as stubborn as he was.
"Would you?" he inquired, feigning indifference.
"Yes, M'sieur," replied Eponine. "Very much so. Now, why don't you close your eyes and lay down your head for a while? It is my turn to work."
At last, the boy obeyed, unable to resist the call of sweet, refreshing sleep. Like a child, he folded his arms on the table and rested his head, smiling with weary gratitude to the kind girl who rescued him from the strain of consciousness. Eponine immediately picked up a quill and started to work, humming a soft melody.
As Enjolras drifted into the harmony of night, he took pleasure in the sound of Eponine's lullaby.
The girl bent over the paper, sketching out a rough map and planning every detail of attack. She used all the power in her cunning brain, which she inherited from her father, to create a flawless battle strategy. At least she put her mind to good use.
As she toiled, she could not help but occasionally glance up at the sleeping boy next to her, watching his slow, regular breathing cause his chest to rise and fall. Never before had she noticed his magnificent beauty. When he was not talking of revolution or working tensely on his diagrams, he was an angelic boy, precious and dear while he slept.
When at last Eponine had created a flawless line of attack, she lowered the paper and stared intently at her darling Enjolras. His lips appeared so soft, slightly parted and full. She wished nothing more than to kiss him as he rested, to hold him in her arms and caress his smooth, silky skin with the palm of her hand.
She returned her eyes to her work and smiled. Raising her quill one last time, she etched three tiny words in the upper-right corner of the parchment: "I love you."
Then, laying the paper in the center of the table, she stood and leaned over Enjolras' sleeping form. Without causing him to stir, she placed a gentle kiss on his cheek and ran a hand through his thick, glossy hair. He was warm.
Smiling, she hugged her old coat tightly around her body and exited the café.