Chapter Twenty-Five

The Importance of Sleep and Having Someone to Care for


Pulling on her dressing gown and picking up her candle, Éponine stepped out into the dark drawing room and marched over to Erik's door. Yes, she was annoyed at being woken up yet again by a nocturnal concert on an instrument she'd never much cared for in the first place. But beyond that, she was also very concerned for him. During her time at the house on the lake, it was very apparent that Erik did not sleep much. And especially given all of the heightened and wildly changing emotions they had just been through, sleep was very important.

She gave a perfunctory knock, even though she had previously established that he couldn't hear knocking or the sound of his name over that blasted instrument. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and once again entered the room which should rightly belong to a dead person, not a living one.

Erik, his entire attention absorbed in the music that he played, was fully dressed. Éponine's concern deepened as she decided it seemed more likely that he had never gone to bed at all, rather than that he had risen and dressed himself at two o'clock in the morning. She crossed the room and nudged his arm, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Éponine!"

"Good morning. I guess." She settled herself beside him on the bench, except backwards, leaning her back against the edge of the imposing and elaborate instrument.

"Did I wake you?" The fact that he seemed genuinely shocked by the very possibility—while pretty absurd considering the volume of his music—softened Éponine's annoyance quite a bit.

"You did. I'm used to it by now—you wake me nearly every night." As if to underscore her point, a yawn escaped her.

He looked between his hands and the monstrous musical instrument as though they had conspired to betray him, and his horror was quite endearing. "My deepest apologies. I thought once you'd already fallen asleep, it wouldn't bother you."

She reached behind her and pressed her entire palm down on several of the keys, causing a loud blaring sound. She looked at him pointedly. "That's loud enough to wake the dead. And I'm a light sleeper, you know."

"I'm terribly sorry. I'm so used to living alone, and I didn't think—"

She put a hand on his arm to quiet him. "I know. But it's not just that you wake me up. I'm worried because you're not sleeping."

"I sleep when I am tired. Erik does not require very much sleep."

"Everybody needs sleep. Lots and lots of sleep. Believe me, I know. Sometimes I'd stay up all night, just walking by myself. Didn't much want to go home, and sleeping out in the open can be not such a good idea. I always felt awful the next morning. When you don't sleep much, you get used to it. But then you finally get enough sleep, and you feel so much better, and so you realise how badly you felt when you weren't sleeping enough. When you wake up rested, your head is so much clearer and your feelings are less confusing." She paused for breath and thought of another argument. "Why do you think the nighttime is so long? It's because people really need that much sleep."

"Perhaps, but it's different for me." Erik crossed his arms like a stubborn child.

"No it isn't. You're just a man, and you need sleep like anybody else."

She knew that would soften him, and it did. As much as he often spoke of other humans in a way that implied he wasn't one of them, and made strange choices like hanging his room all in black and having a coffin instead of a bed, she knew Erik was really very desperate to be like anybody else—he'd admitted it. She was encouraged to see the barely perceptible relaxing of his shoulders, letting her know she was getting somewhere.

"Do you sleep there?" She pointed over to the coffin, which stood where a bed should be, under the elaborate red-brocade canopy.

"Yes. Does that horrify you?" He watched her face carefully, expectantly.

She shook her head, because it honestly didn't. She had a lot of thoughts and feelings about it, but horror wasn't one. It was just a box for dead people, after all. And it was an empty one. "No. But I do sort of wonder why."

"It helps me get used to eternity."

And suddenly the expectant look made sense to her, and the realisation helped her restrain her impulse to roll her eyes, and she instead kept her face impassive, not reacting at all. He was just being melodramatic and sad, and hoping for a reaction. Why did he insist on trying to be purposefully shocking to people?

Instead of responding at all to what he said, she pushed herself off of the bench and strode over to his coffin. She examined it for a moment, and then she climbed inside.

"What are you doing?" His voice sounded somewhat alarmed.

"It's awfully uncomfortable. This cushioning is made for a dead person who can't feel it."

She didn't hear a response from him.

"Do you close the lid? When you sleep in here?"

Now his voice was irritable. "No. I still need to breathe."

"You can't hardly roll over in here," Éponine complained. "A person doesn't even have room to stretch out. And it feels cramped to me—you're bigger than I am."

"Can you please get out of my bed?"

She climbed out. "No wonder you don't feel like sleeping. It's not very comfortable in there."

"It isn't meant to be comfortable," he said sullenly.

"No," she agreed. "It's meant for a dead person—which you aren't. Come on. Get changed."

"What?"

"I'll turn around."

"I don't—"

"Put on your sleeping clothes. I'm not leaving, because if I do we both know you're not going to sleep."

He grumbled in acquiescence and walked over to his chest of drawers. Éponine turned her back and covered her eyes for good measure. It was silent except for the fabric noises.

Listening to him change suddenly made her feel incredibly awkward and uncomfortable, and so she started babbling. "I don't know, the coffin just makes me think about how I watched for the cops once when Montparnasse—you don't know him. He's two years older than me. Well, he wanted to rob a grave, and he asked me to keep lookout. I was maybe fourteen I think? And I just thought, well, a dead person won't mind, right? Better to steal from a dead person, and I used to sort of—well he used to always... Well, anyway so I said I'd do it. But then when I was standing there shivering in the moonlight and listening to him complaining about getting dirty, I just started thinking about the person's family, and—yes, that was one of the worst things I've ever done. It made me sick, and I kept having nightmares afterward. Then the next time I talked to Montparnasse, he told me he never wanted to do that again. And I was so happy we felt the same way about it, except, it turned out that no: he said it was too much like working, and he preferred to be idle. He said he'd much sooner use a blade than a shovel." She laughed bitterly, and then her face burned with shame, because what must Erik think of her? She cursed herself for her inane ramblings. "I don't know why I—what a terrible thing to tell you about."

And then Erik's hand was on her shoulder, and she let her hands drop away from her eyes because she knew he was done changing, but she could not look at him.

He said: "Did I not tell you that your hands are far cleaner than mine? I prefer to forget. But you like to talk, I think."

She bit her lip and flushed even more. She knew she talked too much. She couldn't help it.

"So, talk, if you wish to. Without shame. Erik is the last person who could judge you."

She turned herself around to give him a grateful, if still slightly embarrassed, smile. He was wearing a night shirt and a red dressing gown. And she noticed with appreciation that he was not wearing his mask. She just felt so much more comfortable when she was looking at his face. His real face.

Returning to the matter at hand, she extended her hand to him, and he took it with a questioning look. She turned and started for the door. "Come with me."

"What? Where?"

"To sleep in a real bed."

He halted, pulling his hand away from her. "What?! Éponine that isn't—no, we cannot—"

She whirled around and frowned at him. "I'm not suggesting anything indecent! What's the matter with you? What do you think I am?"

He looked bewildered and flustered and deeply worried. "I wasn't saying you—but you said... Of course you would never suggest—but it's still a very bad idea, Éponine, and entirely improper."

"What's improper? What are you talking about?"

Now he was even more confused and upset. That made two of them. "Weren't you saying—didn't you intend for us to share a bed?"

"God, no." She grabbed his hand again, once more urging him toward the door. "You'll take the bed."

"I can't take your bed!"

"Erik, it's very late, and I'm very tired. And it's not even my bed, anyway. I don't want to argue with you. Just come on."

He followed her, and he kept trying to maybe protest or maybe ask questions, but she wouldn't have it. When they got to her room, she took a pillow from the abundant pile of them that was on the bed, and a spare quilt that she had seen in the wardrobe, and she curled up on the little couch at the foot of the bed. It was very comfortable and meant for reclining, and she had plenty of room.

"Take the bed," she repeated. "Really Erik, this is perfect for me. And I'll sleep better here, knowing that you're sleeping, than I would in that bed worrying that you're maybe still awake." She snorted and added, "Especially because you won't be playing the organ and waking me up."

"This is a guest bed, and you are my guest, and it's very rude for me to sleep here while you sleep on the chaise longue."

Ignoring him, she pulled the quilt up to her eyes and nestled into her pillow. Making it clear that she was very comfortable and was not going to argue any longer. And he wasn't kicking her out of the bed, because she wasn't in the bed, and clearly had no intentions of moving from her little nest. He hesitated a little longer, and then she heard a rustling as he climbed into bed, which let her know he had finally relented.

"Goodnight Erik. Sleep well."

"Goodnight Éponine."

As she lay there trying to fall back asleep, she thought again of how he'd looked at her expecting some sort of shocked reaction to his coffin-bed. Poor Erik—he really didn't know what he wanted, did he? Did he want to be loved as a person and respected for his music and his talents, or did he want to make people shudder in horror? Did he want to live an ordinary life like anybody else, or did he want to fancy himself barely human and lay in a coffin and contemplate eternity?

But, when she thought about it, it made perfect sense, actually. It was because he had been denied the former that he felt he had to throw himself wholeheartedly into the latter. And Éponine could understand. She didn't like being pathetic and dirty and wearing rags that barely hid her body. And those were the things that people saw when they looked at her, whether she liked it or not. And because of that, they didn't see Éponine. They just saw the criminal's brat with a mouth full of slang, or an impersonal representation of poverty to be pitied and given charity to, or an unfortunate eye-sore like any other rubbish on the street—or whatever else she looked like through their eyes. And she didn't want herself to be associated with any of those pictures. So if she played into what they already thought of her, then it was like it wasn't really her. Make a fine lady sneer at her in distaste, not because she was unkempt and unwashed, which she couldn't help, but because she had spat in the street and said something coarse. Make someone look at her with pity not because she was just existing as herself, and they found her pitiful, but because she told them a story that even exaggerated a little how very cold and hungry she was. It was a defence for herself. By behaving insolently on purpose, she could cover over her real shame.

And Erik had probably likewise found that it was better to intentionally shock and terrify people by sleeping in a coffin, or letting them believe he was a ghost, or by doing other frightful things which he had only hinted at, than have someone react with horror and jeering when he was just being himself, and happening to look the way he did. If everybody was to view him as a monster, then that monster would be one of his creation. And Éponine felt quite sure that the resulting monster was not Erik at all, but a protection for the real Erik. The Erik that she was coming to care for very much.

Hearing the sound of Erik's breathing slow and even out made Éponine smile fondly, and finally drift off to sleep herself.

—●—●—●—●—

It took her a moment to remember where she was when she woke up again. And then she heard the peaceful rhythm of Erik's breathing. He snored just faintly. She got up and fumbled around to light a lamp. The clock told her it was half past nine, and as she tiptoed to his bedside and looked at him, he showed no signs of waking. He was lying on his side, and he had one of the pillows in a fierce embrace, with his face buried into the short edge of it. He hadn't removed his wig—she knew full well that it was a wig, even though she'd still never seen him without it. Silly man, wearing it to bed. It was very much askew. With the lightest touch, she carefully smoothed it somewhat back into place. Then, she tenderly tucked the coverlet more snugly around him, smiled at his sleeping form for another moment, and, blowing out the lamp and taking a candle with her, left him to the sleep he so clearly needed, closing the door very softly behind her.

She had never been the first one up. As she padded to the kitchen, she shivered a little in her nightgown and bare feet. Not so long ago, she might have been out in the dead of winter in little more than this. Funny how quickly things could change. She frowned, reflecting on the fact that soon enough she would be back on the streets again. Once she was fully recovered. Of course, maybe he really could get her a position as a servant, as he'd offered. But it wasn't just being out in the cold again that made her a little sad when she thought about her impending departure from the house on the lake. Anyway, she didn't need to think about any of that now.

She hadn't the faintest idea how he made the coffee, so she boiled water for tea, and she hummed quietly to herself. She wanted to have breakfast ready for him when he woke up, since he always had something ready for her. So she got the tray ready, setting out cups for the tea, and butter, and bread. Her stomach was growling, but she decided she'd be patient and eat together with him, when he woke up.

Her dreams had always been very simple dreams, and she realised that she was almost living them now. Not having warm clothes and food to eat, although those things were certainly nice aspects of her current situation. But what she had really always wanted was having someone to care for like this. Someone to tuck the covers around and make breakfast for, who spoke sweetly and took care of her in turn. That was really all it came down to, for Éponine. It was all the happiness she wanted out of life, and this was the closest she had ever come to having that. Of course, ideally it would be someone who loved her, and while she thought she could be presumptuous enough to call Erik a friend, she didn't dare to think that he loved her. She did, however, feel quite sure that she was a little bit in love with him.

Anyway, she had to remember that this was just the situation for now. It would not extend beyond her recovery. Still...

She leaned her elbows on the kitchen work table and propped her head on her hand, contemplating the wall in front of her as though she could see possible futures there. Smiling faintly, she sang softly to pass the time. "Mon bras si dodu, Ma jambe bien faite, Et le temps perdu."

She was startled by a creak in the floor, and looked up to see Erik in his red dressing gown. He was eyeing her decidedly not-plump arms with a faint trace of a smile, and his eyes snapped to hers as he noticed her looking at him. "Good morning," he said. "How long have you been awake?"

She shrugged, picking up the tray and nodding her head toward the drawing room. "Not very long. Did you sleep well?" As she passed him, he turned and followed her.

"I cannot remember when I last slept so deeply."

"Good. Now you've gotta keep doing that. Every night. Forever." She gave him a playfully-stern look as she set the tray down.

He got the fire going while she lit a couple of lamps. Then, they assumed their usual seats, and she poured his tea. She noticed he was looking at her in a very intense way, with some kind of emotion bursting behind his eyes, and it made her hand shake as she handed his tea over to him, almost sending the cup flying off of the saucer. What was he thinking about?

As they ate, Éponine remembered what he had said the night before. "What is it—the idea you said you have for today?"

But he only smiled and told her she would have to wait until the evening. Until then, she needed to rest, and he had business to take care of and errands to run.


A/N: Just so sweet and domestic and normal—everything that both of them so badly want. :,) Can it last though? That's the question...

The song she sings here (and the one she sang in another chapter) are both just kind of—I guess basically you could call them pop songs?—which she sings to herself in the brick. Very much not Erik's taste in music which is funny to me.