~3~
She remembered the lunch and the talking long after. She remembered them because she came home late, and left the letters she was to deliver, and so her father kicked her in the side with his old boots. The skin bruised over, and she treasured it, a memorial to her time in the old cafe with the young man who had no hair, who treated her like a peculiar something between a fine lady and another man, with a cynical truthfullness that was irrisitable. She couldn't help but smile, then, when her father's boot caught her and flung her body down, because she knew it would make a kind of momento. She only regretted the smile, however nice it had felt, for it earned her a slap in the face for grinning life a fool while recieving a beating. She retreated to a corner of the room, so dreamy that her mother questioned what was wrong with her. She gave no answer, nursing her side, rather able to taste the tough meat from the stew, the soft crust of the bread, which still made her gums bleed, the faint lingering of the cheap wine that he'd laughingly purchased, claiming that in her company, it was champange. It was nice to be teased without malice, just as it was nice to have a wide bruise to remember it by. She put the fragrance and the taste and the ache into her torn shift pocket where it would be safe, nestled in the young man's smile.
~~~
She tears down the street, catching her foot on the side of a building, the impact ripping through even the toughened protection she's gained, spilling behind herself small red footprints. She's looking for a cafe with a special name, with a name he mentioned in passing, a name that goes with another name; Musain and Enjolras. Enjolras might have been an ancient philosopher for all she knows, but he's in talked about as the young man's leader, and the leader lives in the back room of the Musain, is all she's certain of. Perhaps he only meant it as a joke, that Enjolras worked there often, but it is of no importance. Only that he is likely to be there as well, with the Enjolras and the Enjolras' idea and being and spirit, and there she will find him.
Her eyes scan the street for the name, hungrily grasping for the letters. She can read. She's proud of it. It made him smile and praise her, and she's awfully proud of it.
...Corinth. Musain.
She spins in the door, looking about herself wildly, searching. She catches the sleeve of a waitress, a fat, unlovely woman, panting hard, nearly upsetting them both, gasping out the name of Enjolras who leads Musain. The woman points to a door that she'd have noticed, but not immediately, and she rushes to it. Thanks are not needed. Why should she spare even those minutes? She flings the door open.
And there he is, sitting at a table in the back, chatting amiably with a boy wearing a pale blue cravat with pinky-orange stripes. At the tables are seated other men, but she has no need to see them, or be aware of them. She ignores them all, even the one as beautiful as Montparnasse, more beautiful than M'sieur Marius, even the one with kind eyes, even the one with a handsome face and roguish smile. She runs to him, to hers, knocking over a chair in reckless abandon, falling to her knees at his feet, clinging to his sleeve. He stares at her, astonished, amazed.
"It's 'Ponine, my musical 'Ponine. Whatever's wrong?"
She cannot see the angry glare of the boy with tousled blond curls, nor the disbelieving look of the one with a playbill before him. She cannot hear the harsh, wry voice of the one with the bottle commenting on her looks uncomplimentary, nor the soft, gentle one of the boy with the horrible scarf, anxious of the reason for her tears.
Hers, Himself, stands, murmuring quietly to her, excusing himself from the stern disapproval of the lovely one, and the inquisitive, alert eyes of the one with worn hands. He leads her from the room, an arm about her shoulders, allowing her his shirtfront to cry in. She shivers at his sleeve across her shoulders, for they are bare, the shift's bodice having slipped again.
"'Ponine, wherefore you cry?" The words are flippant but the tone is not, deeply worried. He tilts her chin up with two fingers, forcing her to look into his eyes with her aching, salt-filled ones.
"I - there was a rat in the apartment - and I couldn't help it, I couldn't, I swear to Christ! Only I wanted - "
"Wanted what?" Although his face blurs in and away from view by the tears, she can hear the frown in his voice, and loathes it, longs for it to leave her alone, and for his approval, though no one could ever approve of what she's done.
"I didn't mean to, I just wanted - wanted to taste - I couldn't help it! I've never seen a rat bleed before, and it was warm! Warm! And it shivered! And I - I - "
"You didn't eat it, did you?" He's horrified. She can't blame him, but how she wishes he wasn't.
"No! But I tore it open, and it screamed, and everything inside came out, and - oh, Jesus! God! It was so - "
"Hush..." He wraps gentle arms about her, holding her closely, not thrusting her away as she's expected. He brushes a hand through her hair, seeming ignorant or uncaring to the grease and dirt, to the thinness of it. He murmurs again, as well, rocking her, as they stand upright. Finally, her tears begin to die, and they stand, she in his embrace, and he embracing.
She remembered the lunch and the talking long after. She remembered them because she came home late, and left the letters she was to deliver, and so her father kicked her in the side with his old boots. The skin bruised over, and she treasured it, a memorial to her time in the old cafe with the young man who had no hair, who treated her like a peculiar something between a fine lady and another man, with a cynical truthfullness that was irrisitable. She couldn't help but smile, then, when her father's boot caught her and flung her body down, because she knew it would make a kind of momento. She only regretted the smile, however nice it had felt, for it earned her a slap in the face for grinning life a fool while recieving a beating. She retreated to a corner of the room, so dreamy that her mother questioned what was wrong with her. She gave no answer, nursing her side, rather able to taste the tough meat from the stew, the soft crust of the bread, which still made her gums bleed, the faint lingering of the cheap wine that he'd laughingly purchased, claiming that in her company, it was champange. It was nice to be teased without malice, just as it was nice to have a wide bruise to remember it by. She put the fragrance and the taste and the ache into her torn shift pocket where it would be safe, nestled in the young man's smile.
~~~
She tears down the street, catching her foot on the side of a building, the impact ripping through even the toughened protection she's gained, spilling behind herself small red footprints. She's looking for a cafe with a special name, with a name he mentioned in passing, a name that goes with another name; Musain and Enjolras. Enjolras might have been an ancient philosopher for all she knows, but he's in talked about as the young man's leader, and the leader lives in the back room of the Musain, is all she's certain of. Perhaps he only meant it as a joke, that Enjolras worked there often, but it is of no importance. Only that he is likely to be there as well, with the Enjolras and the Enjolras' idea and being and spirit, and there she will find him.
Her eyes scan the street for the name, hungrily grasping for the letters. She can read. She's proud of it. It made him smile and praise her, and she's awfully proud of it.
...Corinth. Musain.
She spins in the door, looking about herself wildly, searching. She catches the sleeve of a waitress, a fat, unlovely woman, panting hard, nearly upsetting them both, gasping out the name of Enjolras who leads Musain. The woman points to a door that she'd have noticed, but not immediately, and she rushes to it. Thanks are not needed. Why should she spare even those minutes? She flings the door open.
And there he is, sitting at a table in the back, chatting amiably with a boy wearing a pale blue cravat with pinky-orange stripes. At the tables are seated other men, but she has no need to see them, or be aware of them. She ignores them all, even the one as beautiful as Montparnasse, more beautiful than M'sieur Marius, even the one with kind eyes, even the one with a handsome face and roguish smile. She runs to him, to hers, knocking over a chair in reckless abandon, falling to her knees at his feet, clinging to his sleeve. He stares at her, astonished, amazed.
"It's 'Ponine, my musical 'Ponine. Whatever's wrong?"
She cannot see the angry glare of the boy with tousled blond curls, nor the disbelieving look of the one with a playbill before him. She cannot hear the harsh, wry voice of the one with the bottle commenting on her looks uncomplimentary, nor the soft, gentle one of the boy with the horrible scarf, anxious of the reason for her tears.
Hers, Himself, stands, murmuring quietly to her, excusing himself from the stern disapproval of the lovely one, and the inquisitive, alert eyes of the one with worn hands. He leads her from the room, an arm about her shoulders, allowing her his shirtfront to cry in. She shivers at his sleeve across her shoulders, for they are bare, the shift's bodice having slipped again.
"'Ponine, wherefore you cry?" The words are flippant but the tone is not, deeply worried. He tilts her chin up with two fingers, forcing her to look into his eyes with her aching, salt-filled ones.
"I - there was a rat in the apartment - and I couldn't help it, I couldn't, I swear to Christ! Only I wanted - "
"Wanted what?" Although his face blurs in and away from view by the tears, she can hear the frown in his voice, and loathes it, longs for it to leave her alone, and for his approval, though no one could ever approve of what she's done.
"I didn't mean to, I just wanted - wanted to taste - I couldn't help it! I've never seen a rat bleed before, and it was warm! Warm! And it shivered! And I - I - "
"You didn't eat it, did you?" He's horrified. She can't blame him, but how she wishes he wasn't.
"No! But I tore it open, and it screamed, and everything inside came out, and - oh, Jesus! God! It was so - "
"Hush..." He wraps gentle arms about her, holding her closely, not thrusting her away as she's expected. He brushes a hand through her hair, seeming ignorant or uncaring to the grease and dirt, to the thinness of it. He murmurs again, as well, rocking her, as they stand upright. Finally, her tears begin to die, and they stand, she in his embrace, and he embracing.