Chapter Twenty-Four

On Mothers, Memories, and Mutual Comfort

A/N: This is a really important chapter for both of them.

Content warning for more Éponine angst. All of this has just been a lot to process in a short amount of time and she's not okay. But I promise some fluff—well, angsty fluff—too, as they try to process stuff together.

And random waistcoat note because the garment was mentioned so much in the last chapter: if you look up men's waistcoats from the 1830s, there were some examples that button up all the way up over the shirt-front with a standing collar, and that's 100% what I envision this 1830s Erik wearing, so that he can cover his shirt completely and no light will reflect off of it, allowing him to be all stealthy and phantomy in the dark. That is all.


"That is not how wine is meant to be drunk! I'm not going to give you any more if you insist on downing it like that! Or, at the very least, I'll buy some awful watered-down stuff more suitable for you to pour down your throat without even tasting it!"

Éponine gave him a sleepy smile. She liked it when he fussed and pouted over nonsense.

"Your bath is ready. And I made sure the water is no longer scalding, in case you also make a habit of throwing yourself in without even testing the temperature first." He frowned irritably at her empty wine glass.

She found the tub waiting for her in the little bathroom which opened off of her bedroom. The tub was shaped to look like a very graceful boat, and rested on an elaborately carved wooden stand. It was large enough for her to stretch out in, and the water was exactly the perfect temperature. Éponine peeled off the muddy and slightly damp layers of clothes, stopping to examine her chest wound. It would be nice to have a mirror—the wound was hard for her to see because of where it was located: just above her left breast, near her shoulder. But it seemed to be healing well. And she was getting strength back every day. And soon her rib would be healed. And then she would have to think about what came next for her. But she wouldn't think about that right now. For now, she gratefully sunk herself into the warm bath.

In the drawing room, the piano started to play. Tentative, explorative, wandering without a destination. It cut off abruptly. Then, it started again, sounding more purposeful, but contemplative and sad. And again, silence.

Éponine found a bar of soap and started to scrub herself. She needed to get the smell of Montparnasse off of her, and the mud, and the feeling of sleeping in the rain.

The piano music started up again, fast in tempo, driving towards or away from something with singular impetus.

She needed to get rid of all of the memories of things she'd always blamed her father for, which were actually her own fault. She was only here, in this nice warm bath in a comfortable house with someone who was kind and gentle and took care of her, her stomach filled with food and her heart softened with wine, because of all of those things she'd been an accomplice in, all of the things she'd done, all of the things she'd let happen to her. Because if she had stood up for herself sooner and met an untimely end because of it, or if she'd said "enough is enough" and thrown herself into the Seine, then she wouldn't be here right now. She scrubbed harder.

Just as it was reaching a crescendo, the piano abruptly went silent again. The silence was interrupted by some mindless and aimless plinking of keys here and there. Then, he returned to that contemplative and sad one from before, only it slowly built into a melody that sounded soft and hopeful and uplifting. But underneath all of that, there was a tinge of sadness. Bittersweet.

It released something inside Éponine, and she thought of her brother's face, dirt-smeared but smiling, sunlight coming off of his curls, as he made some clever little quip. She thought of the flowers spilling into the lane in Montfermeil, and Maman making a swing for her and Azelma with the busted-up old wagon. She thought of herself and Azelma curled up in their bed at the inn on some frosty night, Azelma's baby breath hot on her face, Éponine's arm draped protectively over her tiny sister. Crawling up onto Papa's lap and asking to taste his drink, which she promptly wrinkled her nose and spat out, and the warmth she felt when she made him laugh heartily and pinch her nose because she'd immediately asked for more. Maman playfully snapping a dish rag so that iridescent little soap bubbles tickled the end of Éponine's nose in the dark and dingy kitchen of the inn. A hand tapping her on the back in a busy market in Paris, making her jump, but there was no one there when she turned around, and then, an apple being placed in her hand, and the sound of Gavroche's laughter, and whirling around to rumple his hair and chide him for scaring her, even as a wave of fondness and relief rushed over her, because she hadn't seen him in days.

More and more little glimpses and moments flooded into her mind, and not all of them were as pretty, but they all made her feel something like homesickness, even though it wasn't for any actual home she had ever known. It wasn't for the rowdy and unsafe inn at Montfermeil, nor the squalor of the Gorbeau tenement, nor the wet and smelly streets. It wasn't for any time when her family had been wholly together and happy at once, because she couldn't really recall any such time.

It was homesickness for a time and a place that had never happened, and now could never be. She covered her face with her hands.

The piano music had stopped at some point, and there was a hesitant knock on the door. She realised she had been sobbing, and the sounds had probably been bouncing off of the walls and resonating through the little house.

"Éponine?" Erik's voice was gentle but discomfited. "I'm not going to open the door," he said quickly. "I just—are you...do you need anything?"

She shook her head, then realised he couldn't hear a head-shake through the door. "No."

There was silence for a moment, and she thought he may have left. But then: "You're weeping."

"No." As she choked on a sob.

Another very long silence.

Éponine remained frozen, and the sounds of her sniffling seemed deafening.

She didn't know if he was still behind the door.

Not really caring if he wasn't there and didn't hear her—she really wouldn't mind if he didn't—she said, "I found out that my maman has died." Her voice dropped lower, as she recounted the detail that seemed the most personal and shameful. It felt very telling. "She died in prison."

There was no sound behind the door. Probably he wasn't there any longer.

"And my—" Her stomach lurched and it felt like the sky was caving in above her, and she crammed her hand into her mouth and bit it to keep from shouting. No. She still couldn't say the words aloud. She squeezed her eyes shut against the memory of Gavroche's teasing eyes and tip-tilted, freckled nose. His laugh and his wit and his songs could never be silenced. Certainly not forever.

She shakily got out of the tub and dried herself off. She put on a clean nightgown, fastened the blue dressing gown securely around herself, and waited a few minutes to make sure she wasn't going to cry any more. Then, she slowly opened the door.

Erik was sitting on the floor directly beside the door, with his back leaned against the wall. When she opened the door and looked down and saw him, he lifted his eyes to hers, and the emotion she saw in them was overwhelming. He stood up, and then he held his arms out just slightly, and Éponine took a small step toward him, but then froze.

If she accepted an embrace, she was going to start crying again, and she had already cried far too much. And if she let herself dissolve into a blubbering mess in his arms, she was probably never going to be able to put herself back together again. So she abruptly walked past him with what she hoped was an apologetic smile, or some kind of smile—something that let him know it wasn't him she was rejecting, exactly—and sat down at the dressing table to brush her hair. She couldn't look at him, because she was afraid he might look sad, so she stared down at her lap.

Trying to dispel the heaviness of the emotions in the air, she started talking, as she brushed her hair. "Thank you for the bath, that felt wonderful. I love the tub—where did you find something like that? It's so clever, the way it looks like a boat. Did I ever tell you that we all had to sleep under a boat for shelter once? No—it wasn't so bad, it's actually kind of funny, isn't it? I mean, boats are supposed to go on top of the water, but we used a boat to keep the water off of us. It's funny. And..." she trailed off, biting her lip hard.

Erik was silent, and she didn't dare look at him. In the periphery of her vision, she saw that he was standing next to her now. She realised he probably didn't find himself needing to comfort someone very often—had he ever? He had offered her a hug, tentatively, like he wasn't sure it was the right thing to do. She had rejected it. And now he was probably at a loss for anything else to do.

It dawned on Éponine that, were they to swap places, she wouldn't fare any better. She'd probably just start babbling, or asking him if there was anything she could do. What could she do, how could she make him happy again? As if there was any service another person could perform that would just take away the crushing weight of loss, and that would be that.

She started braiding her hair. How were you supposed to comfort someone? She knew how to comfort a small child who got scraped or bumped. Maman used to do it for her, when she was very tiny and Maman was happier. And she'd done it for her baby brothers, since they didn't have a mother who would. All it took was a hug, some soft words, kisses. That's all it took, and everything was fine again. She knew how to do that.

And she knew how to fix things up for people, when it was something simple. For instance, when she knew Marius was upset—she knew he was upset because he'd spoken harshly to her, and he wasn't like that; he'd been kind and good to her that very morning—she'd told him to put her to use; she'd do anything. She'd sort it out, she'd follow someone, she'd go from door to door, she'd talk to people, or she'd find an address—ah, that was what he wanted. He wanted her to find the address of the beautiful young lady. Well, so be it. She could do that for him, even if it was like a knife in her heart at the time. If it would make him smile. And it had. It made him so very happy, when she finally showed him the address. She knew how to fix things up for people, like that.

But she didn't know what you were supposed to do for someone when things were not all right, and never would be again—not all right in the same way they had been before. When something was taken that could never be recovered; something was broken that could never be repaired; something was lost that could never be replaced. Those were the times when someone could use comfort more than ever, so surely if you really cared for someone you should comfort them then. But Éponine didn't know how, because no one had ever done it for her. During those times, she had just had to squash everything down, and told herself it was either move on and keep going, or else feed the worms. That was life.

But if it were Erik sitting in her spot, she wouldn't want him to just squash everything down and keep moving. She would want to comfort him, somehow, even if she couldn't make it better. And she guessed that was probably how he was feeling too, otherwise why was he still standing there?

So she reached for his hand, and he eagerly took her hand and held it. She suggested they go into the drawing room, and they did.

"Maybe you could pour me another glass of wine?" she asked sweetly, as she settled herself into what she was coming to think of as her chair, even though it really wasn't, of course. It was funny though, how quickly they had fallen into little patterns. Whenever they sat together in front of the fire, she always sat on the left.

"I think tea would be better," he said gently. "Wine will just make your nose all stuffed up, since you've been cry— Oh, no I'm sorry. You said you weren't. Still—"

Her mouth curled in a fragile smile. "It's all right. We both know I was. Tea would be nice."

He went into the kitchen and came back with tea a short while later. She gratefully accepted a cup, wrapping her hands around its warmth. Before sitting down himself, he stoked the fire into a brilliant, merry blaze. They were silent for a little while, but even the silence was somewhat comforting when there was the tea and the fire and Erik sitting near.

In a careful voice, she finally spoke. "You told me that your mother never let you kiss her."

"Yes. My poor, unhappy mother."

"She's—she isn't still alive."

Erik shook his head.

"I think...I think in some ways it makes it harder, doesn't it?" She realised he couldn't know what she was talking about. She hardly knew. She wetted her lips with her tongue as she searched for the words. "I think if I had a mother who was soft and sweet like little Cosette's mother was—or, I think she was. She seemed to be, the day she came to leave her with us. I never talked to Cosette about her mother. But I think she was very sweet and soft and gentle."

Erik was looking at the fire, but she knew he was listening to her, even if he didn't know what Éponine was talking about—didn't know who any of these people were.

"I think if I had a mother like that, I would miss her very much. But maybe it might be a little easier. Because..."

"Because her memory would be a simple one. A happy one," Erik finished. "Yes. Yes. Our memories of our mothers are not simple, are they, Éponine?"

"No. I loved her. But no."

"This furniture: have I told you that it is all I have left of my mother?"

Éponine shook her head, and once again looked appreciatively at the shiny, beautifully carved wood.

"It's not true."

She tilted her head.

"I've pretended that before, but it's all make believe." There was a bitter note in his voice. "Other people's mothers leave them furniture, but not mine."

"Not mine, either," Éponine said. And she gave a cathartic little laugh, because it was such a nonsensical thing to say, and yet it still made perfect sense to her, what he meant by it. They fell silent again. After a few moments, "It was my maman who gave me the name Éponine. It was out of one of her novels she liked to read, and it's kind of funny, isn't it? I mean, she gave my sister and I such grand names, and, well. Look at us. Erik is sort of an unusual name too, isn't it? I haven't met anybody else called Erik before."

"Merely a name I got by accident."

"Oh."

And then, softly: "You mentioned before that your brother was also at the barricade. I take it... I'm very sorry, Éponine." His voice was halting but gentle.

She swallowed and nodded. She tried to smile at him, grateful that he had said it so she wouldn't have to. But oh, that was all she could take. She folded herself in half, her head bent over her knees, and just lost herself in tears.

"Can—should—would you want me to..." His voice died away, and she heard the swishing of his trousers against the rug, and then he was there kneeling beside her. He handed her a handkerchief, and without sitting up she took it and burried her face in it. Tentatively, he wrapped an arm around her back, gently patting her head with his other hand. The clumsiness and unpractised nature of it made it even more endearing and touching for Éponine. She collected herself and sat up slowly, and he removed his hands and remained there, kneeling beside her chair, looking at her with questioning eyes, as if asking what he should do next. But Éponine didn't know.

Drying her eyes and clearing her throat, she said, "I'm sorry." Her voice was gruff.

"Why are you sorry?"

She focused her eyes on the left armrest of her chair, as he was kneeling beside the right one, and she couldn't look at him. The words barely made it out of her throat: "I hate crying in front of people."

"What can I do?"

She thought for a minute. Then, turning to look at him, she touched the edge of his mask with her fingertips. "Take this off?"

He blinked in surprise. "Why?"

She shrugged. She didn't know how to express it to him, but if she was going to sit here and cry in front of him, she'd feel better if he, likewise, was not wearing a mask.

Even though he didn't understand, he complied. She rested her hand delicately on the deformed side of his face and managed to curl her mouth into something like a smile. She felt a little better.

They sat there looking at each other's eyes for a moment, neither quite sure what to do next. Then, Erik rose to his feet.

"It's been a very long day for you, Éponine. You should get some rest. I have an idea for tomorrow. I think it will amuse you, and maybe help you forget for a few hours at least."

He was right; it had been a long day. It had to be at least 24 hours now, if not more, since she'd tried to remove his mask. Drained from all that had happened, and grateful to once again be snuggled into the amazing feather bed—it felt like days had passed since she left it at five o'clock that morning—she fell asleep almost instantly.

And the next thing she knew, the organ music was waking her up. She had a sense it was still night time, but she lit a candle to make sure. Two o'clock. Pressing her mouth into a line, she shoved the covers off and slid out of bed.


A/N: Here's my little essay, while you're here.

So in Leroux when the Daroga wakes up and Erik is all "yeah, check out my furniture, it's all I have left from my mom" I remember even when I was a kid I wondered if that was true, because it kind of just didn't make sense to me logistically. Like, when he was travelling the world did he just have a storage unit back in France with his mother's furniture? Actually that's pretty hilarious to me, just the mundane details of the Phantom of the Opera putting his mother in a retirement home, and she's like "I know I never showed you any affection and I can't bear your hideous face, but I want you to keep all my furniture." So he has to move her ugly furniture into storage, and later on when he settles down in the cellars he'd kind of rather get his own furniture and just put her stuff on Facebook Marketplace, but at that point it's all he has left of his mother, and it's kinda retro so...

Yeah, amazing for its absurd normalcy, but not plausible.

And then as time went on and I better understood what Leroux was going for with the mundane abomination of ugly, mass-produced, tasteless middle-class furniture and decor, made even more horrifying by incongruously appearing in the underground lair of a madman, I kind of felt like "yeah, that bit about his mother is definitely not true." My theory was that the idea of inheriting the furniture from his mother was just as much a part of the illusion of the perfectly-bourgeois drawing room as the ostrich egg or the carefully placed antimacassars on each chair.

Which makes it extra tragic for two reasons. For one thing, the whole room and how normal it looks and the story about inheriting the furniture from his mom just makes me really super sad, because it just underscores how badly he wanted to be like anybody else, and how much meticulous detail he was willing to put into that. But of course, all of it was built on a faulty foundation. It didn't matter how many carefully-placed, super fashionable knick-knacks he had in there, it was still hidden underneath the Opera House, and it still had a torture chamber in it! And more importantly, even if he had lived in an ordinary flat, throughout the novel, his actions were not the actions of a morally-upright, ordinary human being.

And the second thing that's tragic about that lie is that all he actually has left from his mother is a ton of emotional baggage and a lack of interpersonal skills. Oh, and the great gaping hole where she failed to instil even just the most basic Daniel-the-Tiger stuff. Like sharing, or feeling your feelings without hurting people, or coping when you don't get what you want. No one ever told Erik to take a deep breath and count to 4, and it shows.

Poor Erik, indeed. :( That's all.