The Marble Man
Disclaimer: I don't own anything but this idea – so don't you dare steal that – but nothing else is mine, sadly.
AN: So, I think it's time for the next chapter. Thanks to Mary for being the awesomest beta and BIFF a girl could ever need, and thanks to Christine for listening to my crazy rants about whether or not to post this.
On with the story!
Chapter three:
In the week she has been working at the museum, and the two weeks she has been in town, she has gotten more and more at ease in the town of Musain. Sure, the old biddies still stare at her curiously, and she still stumbles over her words when doing these impromptu tours – but the people show up in larger groups than ever just to hear the new girl speak, and that is what the big boss likes. More visitors are always welcome.
"Eponine," she hears a familiar voice.
"Hey 'Ferre," she spots the friendly face immediately, leading a group of pre-teens in her direction. "Are you coming for a tour? My boss didn't tell me anything."
Not that she has anything better to do than to give a tour to about twenty kids, but she still would have liked to know so she could alter her tour talk a bit to fit their age and to think of a few facts that these kids would find interesting. She remembers her siblings at this age – and fuck if the reminder doesn't hurt – and she hopes she can manage without any preparation. But then again, she has been forced to prepare a day of fun for her siblings without as much as this moment's notice. She can do this.
"Oh fiddlesticks," Combeferre obviously is not allowed to curse in front of the kids.
"It's no problem," she grins at him in return. "Anything for my friends."
Going into her temporary little office, she finds the emergency pack R had left for her with a small note: "so your boss didn't tell you there was a big group of kids" – she really should have been more prepared for something like this to occur. Oh well – too late now.
"Okay, I have found the special assignments," she announces to the class as she returns with her pack and a mysterious smile on her face. "Please split into groups of four and I will give each group a special assignment to complete. But you have to work together."
With a quick wink to Combeferre, she waits for the group to sort itself out. Only, with any group of kids, there will always be the few who do not quite fit in – and of course that happens with this group as well. There is one girl who is left standing alone when all the groups are chatting, most of them with their backs to her, pointing and whispering like she is not even there to notice them gossiping about her. With a few deep breaths, the girl approaches her and tries to hide the tears forming behind her glasses. If it hadn't been for the glasses, she could have been 'Zelma.
"What's your name?" she asks the girl, giving her a smile.
"Fleur," the girl doesn't offer her hand, as her name is barely spoken above a whisper.
A few scoffs from the class break the silence, but that ends quickly with just a stern look from their teacher – and she has never seen Combeferre look this angry. He is incredibly intimidating this way, and the silence coming from the group is absolute and it will not end until Combeferre tells them that it is alright to talk again.
"Do you like art, Fleur?" she asks the girl, trying to get a read on her.
"I like Bernini," the girl holds her head higher the second she gets to talk about art. "My mommy took me to Rome with her once and it looked really cool. They looked like they were real people, and he did that extremely long ago! I wish I was good at art!"
As Combeferre prepares to lecture on the conditional clause, she just focuses on the young girl who has just lit up when talking about art most of her classmates have never even heard of – and most adults who do go to Rome tend to focus on Michelangelo and everything they can see in Vatican City, rather than visit the Galleria Borghese and stare for hours and hours. Now she really wonders what Fleur will say about her statue.
"Alright, everyone in the groups," she motions for Fleur to come stand next to her. "You will be looking for all of the items on your list. You have to write down on what painting these things are – and compare it with the pictures you have on your list. The group who has the most right answers at the end of an hour gets a prize. Now, go!"
That takes care of the groups, as they will be busy on the scavenger hunt type adventure that R has already set up in the museum for these very occasions. And she will get to talk to Fleur while Combeferre supervises the kids – and she can show the girl her statue.
"Fleur, I have a special assignment for you," she lets Combeferre follow the class, her friend giving her a grateful look. "You can do an art critic assignment! I am going to take you to my very favorite statue in the whole museum, and you can write down what you like about it and what you think is weird or not so nice. Can you do that?"
The girl nods so enthusiastically that she worries about her head snapping right off, but it also serves to make her smile, and to ignite her passion for art just a little bit more – she remembers when she wanted to teach kids about art history.
"So, here we have the statue called Man Protesting," she starts a short lecture to make Fleur a bit more familiar with the work. "I want you to write down what you think."
All the kids had been given stuff to write with and on, so she is sure that Fleur can start her little project – and maybe she should not have singled the girl out, but forcing her into a group would only make the other kids more resentful of her.
"Can I talk to you while I write?" Fleur asks, suddenly shy again.
"Definitely," she relaxes on the floor, grabbing her sketchpad. "I'll work on my drawing."
When Fleur starts telling stories about her workaholic mother and how her little brother lives with her father, she starts to hide her face in the sketchpad so the little girl won't see her choking back tears. She hasn't felt this alone in a good long while.
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"Did I ever tell you about my siblings?" she ponders, looking at him over her shoulder.
Of course he remains stubbornly silent, waiting for her to just come out with her story already – he already knows that she is going to tell him the story no matter the response she gets. She just needs to get this off her chest and he is the only one she can trust to listen to it all and keep her secrets safe.
"I have a younger sister and three younger brothers," she just keeps talking because this word vomit isn't stopping any time soon, and he'll listen for as long as she needs him to – because he has no choice but to listen. "It's been a while since I last saw them, though. I can't even remember how old they all are again without doing some serious math. And I'm really bad at anything involving math, so I hardly ever do it."
She has not taken math classes since high school, and she never misses it. She is good enough at the basic calculation when it comes to bills – but nobody should ever ask her to do anything more complicated than to count how much money she has left to try and last the rest of the month with. That's the only math skill she still uses.
"Okay, now I've really reached pathetic," she tells him, finally owning up to it. "Here I am, still at work long after the museum has closed, and I'm talking to a fucking statue!"
With those words she actually stands to face him, and seeing him in the very same position that he was in before she is almost startled. Somehow she keeps expecting him to move, just because he is starting to seem so very real to her – she can often predict what he would answer to her many questions, and what he would say about her stories if he ever gained the ability to talk. She is sure that he would have a lot of shit to say about a lot of things, but she's sure he'd still be her friend, even though he might not always agree with what she thinks of things – and mostly he would disagree with what she thinks of herself. He would think more of her, because he would be her friend.
Just like he is now – her closest friend.
"I know what you'd say," she rolls her eyes at her own behavior, picturing a slight smile on his face as he responds to her. "You'd tell me to talk about this to someone real, and not just you, my statue, my friend. I can't. I can't talk about it."
He'd huff about this denial – he actually believes that she is stronger than she even thinks she is, and he is her strongest supporter and her closest confidant. He is the only one who could possibly understand – and that is how it will always be.
"And you might tell me to stop cursing so much," she teases him, just as she imagines she would tease him if he were real. "And I'd tell you to use contractions like a real person."
She can imagine the kind of friendly bickering that would take place with an ease that surprises even her – and she is the one fantasizing about all of this. She can imagine his blue eyes shining with humor even though his face would project an air of disinterest and frustration. Really, that would be because he'd want her to think that he was frustrated at her jokes at his expense – but he'd actually find it a bit funny.
"Well, remember that I told you my parents used to own an old inn?" she just continues talking to him, because that is something she can do. "I learned my worst bits of language from listening in on the back room of the café."
To that she imagines him huffing and saying something about eavesdropping never paying off, and she'd have to counter with the time she only found out her parents were planning on giving her siblings away by listening in on that same back room. She learned a lot of things she was never meant to know, but she will never regret that.
"I also heard the best stories and learned the worst secrets," she ponders, thinking about how Jehan must be waiting for her already. "Well, it's that time again, Statue Boy!"
With regret in her heart, she walks away from him to turn off the lights in the next-door gallery, knowing she'll at least walk past him before she leaves. She has made a habit of seeing him before she goes, and she can't leave without taking one last glance at him and wondering what he'd be like if he ever woke up from this so-called curse that the town claims he is under. She just wonders if he could ever be real.
If curses exist, why not wishes? Could she not wish for him to be real?
The mere idea of it seems silly to her, because she hardly believes in magic and curses and wishes anymore. The days of fairytales are long over, and harsh reality has gotten its claws into her and it is never letting her go, not ever again.
"Good night, my friend," she smiles at him one last time before rushing off.
She calls him friend so easily, and she is still not quite sure how that has come to pass, because she has only been working at the museum for a week or so, and been in town for two – and here she is confiding in a statue and thinking of wishes.
Honestly, she should focus on her flesh and blood friends; even though she has taken great care not to tell them her last name, or anything else that would give them any clues about who she is and where she comes from. She hates talking about these things, and were it not for her ever-listening statue, she would never have anyone to tell these stories to. She would never speak of this to anyone who could understand.
It is almost like having a pet to talk to: someone who will listen, but never respond, and this person has no possible way of telling anyone her secrets.
What was that line she once heard on that cop show? Something about how it's always best to not tell anyone about your secrets, but second best is telling just one person about it – and there is no third best. She will stick with the best – and not even second best because it is not like her statue can reveal her secrets.
"Jehan, you home?" she yells as soon as she reaches the house.
She just cannot seem to call it home – she has not had a home since that old inn was taken away from her family. And this house is just a temporary place to crash; she is already thinking about where she will go next. Sure, she might regret leaving her statue behind, but she got what she came for: she got her inspiration back. If her inspiration is centered entirely around drawing shirtless men with golden curls, that is just a matter of her personal preference and it has very little to do with these stupid stories about his curse and about the brave man with golden hair. It has nothing to do with him at all; really it was all about admiring the artistry about the statue.
"There's dinner for you in the microwave," Jehan shouts back from the living room.
Judging by his tone of voice, her real friend is still suffering from a pretty bad case of being heart-broken. R has called the house several times over the course of the last week, but he either sounded very happy about what he was doing, or he sounded like he was under the influence of something. Either way, Jehan was pissed at the latter, and depressed about the former – he wanted R to pine away for him, in her opinion.
And R really was not obliging Jehan in any way.
"Thanks," she calls out to him, testing the temperature of the food.
So, it's somewhere between doable and really fucking cold, so she kind of has to use the microwave – that's what she gets for hanging out at the museum and talking to her statue friend instead of coming back to have dinner with her real friend. Her real friend who is legitimately upset about their other friend – and they should really talk about getting R some help or fixing something at least.
The microwave beeps, pulling her out of her thoughts again, leaving her determined to act instead of thinking about things all the time.
"How much of an idiot was he today?" she plops down on the couch with her grub.
"He was high again," Jehan actually sounds broken at this point, voice cracking with the effort to hold back tears. "I think it might have been cocaine this time."
Fuck! She keeps cursing under her breath, because if R keeps going like this he might do something that they cannot bring him back from – something without an undo button that she can try to press with Jehan. There is nothing they can do if he does stupid things and if he does not want to be helped. If he does not want to stop using, if that is the only way he can deal with his problems… She can say whatever she wants, and Jehan can plead with him and cry, but he won't listen unless he really wants to change.
"Okay, so he was a really big idiot," she goes for the understatement.
"You could say that again," Jehan is almost huffy with her.
The melodrama has gotten a bit tiring to her, but she continues to try and accept these things about Jehan. He is a lovely fellow when he is having a good day, all light jokes and banter – but she never knows how to deal with him when he is not having a good day, when everything she says is cause for dramatics and he makes terrifying statements that leave her just as worried about him as she is about R.
"How are you?" she decides to ask, and she waits for the dramatic answer.
"I want to pull my blankets over my head and make the world disappear," Jehan replies.
Oh dear, it is definitely one of those days, one of the days where she is torn between listening to whatever her friend has to say and hoping that is enough to make things better – or just to escape from this drama and move on to the next town. She has never had to deal with anyone's mood swings but her own, and she finds it particularly hard to adjust to Jehan's frequently changing moods. He changes like quicksilver.
"I can't do too much about that," she says just to fill the silence while she thinks.
"I know," Jehan has basically dismissed her already, "but thanks for listening."
She is left with her mouth open, trying to find words to make him feel better, but he has apparently decided that it would be better for him to drown in his sorrows, rather than to actually try to make himself feel better. Well, she will not hear of that.
"I wasn't done yet," she protests, not having any of this bullshit.
There may not be any kind of quick and easy and painless solution to Jehan's problems, but she now sees that she cannot leave him alone with these dark thoughts. She can at least attempt to get him to see a little light in the darkness. Even if she has to create that light all on her own, she will just keep trying until she succeeds.
"What?" Jehan seems surprised that she has not left yet.
Is he that used to people leaving him when he gets these moods that he starts expecting people to leave? Sure, she has not always known how to deal with him when he gets like this, but she has always at least offered her help before leaving him alone – because it seemed that was what he wanted. He never acted as if he was particularly happy to have her beside him, even though it has been just the two of them for a week now.
"Do you want to talk?" she tries to offer more help.
"I'm done talking about him," Jehan shrugs. "I just want to wallow in it for a while."
One of these days she is going to lock Jehan and R into a room together and not let them out until they've either had wicked good sex, or killed each other. Apparently that sort of thing works in the movies, and she has no other ideas to fix this thing.
"Want me to put on a movie?" she tries desperately to keep him talking.
"Moulin Rouge," is all that Jehan says in response.
"Ouch," she almost winces when she remembers the movie. "That's a killer."
It is an extremely over-the-top drama-fest – and now she is wondering why she has not seen Jehan watching it before. It is exactly the type of thing he would love, with flashing lights and dancers and poets and music and courtesans and romance until a dying day.
"But it's romantic," Jehan sounds wistful and just a little pained.
Romance like this does not exist in real life – and she would not want it to, because it is all heightened reality and no substance. She dies so soon, before they can experience the real day-to-day life together, when the first thrill of the affair has worn off and routine and boredom starts to set in. Are the flames that burn shortest always the ones that burn the brightest? It seems to be the case in all the movies – and she doubts that things are any different here in the real world.
"I'll go get it," she practically runs to the other side of the room.
"Thank you," his feelings of appreciation seem genuine this time.
She pulls the movie in question from the unorganized pile of DVDs – honestly, there is just no system in this house and she wishes someone would bring some kind of order back in this place. Still, she knows that the person in question will not be her.
Jehan takes the disc from her and puts it into the player, rushing through the DVD's menu to just start the damn movie already – he seems very impatient, at least.
"I don't get this movie," she blurts it out as soon as the music starts playing.
Yep, she has just ruined Jehan's entire movie watching experience for the night, but she just cannot help herself. The bright lights and the fast dancing, the whole damn story – it is all just too ridiculous, and too over-the-top to ever be considered real. So she cannot believe the love story either – it seems as ridiculous as the rest of the movie.
"Why not?" Jehan's tone of voice is calm enough.
"This whole idea about romantic love lasting forever," she just tells him.
Eventually, when the first wave of attraction and being in love starts to fade, and romance becomes just another thing to be done before bedtime, and it all becomes a sad routine – that is when feelings die and real life steps in. Nothing lasts in love; sometimes not even family can be trusted to love you forever.
"It's ridiculous," Jehan completely floors her with his response.
"Exactly," she manages to say. "So why watch this?"
She cannot even imagine why someone would want to keep being reminded of these things that would never happen in the real world. With a movie like this one, the contrast between the splendored beauty of love in movie and the harsh reality only seems all the more sharp and vivid. It makes the wake up call so much worse.
"Because it looks beautiful," the wistfulness in her friend's voice nearly breaks her.
"There's that," is all that she can think of to say.
Sure, these visions of beauty feed into Jehan's ideal of frills and fripperies, so she can let him stare at these dancers on screen to keep the feelings of real life away. Since she does not know what to say anymore, the music on screen can be used to fill the silence.
"And it's a good way to keep writing," Jehan ends the silence. "It's almost inspiring."
Here they are, hanging on the couch watching a sad movie and commiserating about the downside of love – this is something that friends do, and it is something she has not had the chance to do in a very long time. She has not had that many friends, and especially not the kind of friends she would watch movies with – especially not dramatic ones.
"We need wine for this," the shots of the Moulin Rouge are making her dizzy.
"There's a nice bottle of red on the counter just for the occasion," her friend grins.
Oh yes, that will suit the ache and the frustration quite nicely.
"You read my mind," she grins, hopping off the couch within seconds.
They make a toast to better days silently, just touching glasses and staring into each other's eyes for a second. They turn back to face the screen almost simultaneously, right on time to look at the ridiculous hijinks when Christian is mistaken for the Duke.
"Oh come on," they both scream at the umpteenth 'coincidence'.
If anyone who happens to be in the neighborhood hears them singing "Come What May" at the top of their lungs less than two hours later, they will swear that the wine was entirely to blame for all of it – especially the drunken imitation she does of the Green Fairy, and the way Jehan attempts to speak like the Argentinian.
Blame that on the alcohol!
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Her hangover is mostly gone by the end of her next shift at the museum, and the amount of visitors was significantly lower than it had been in the days before. She worries that the town has tired of her and that she will be sent on her way before R even comes back from his extended visit – his sister's party has come and gone, but her friend has yet to return from the big city. She would worry about him being in a gutter somewhere if he had not called earlier – Jehan messaged to let her know.
When R does get back, he can expect to get his ass kicked. There will be no mercy.
"You'd help me kick his ass, wouldn't you?" she asks of her closest friend.
Because no matter how many movie nights she and Jehan may have in the future, somehow he still cannot compare to her statue – the friend who knows her and supports her and does not judge her in any way. Her statue would just smile kindly at her and never say bad things unless he was teasing her. Though he would probably help her hold R down so Jehan could land a few punches – not that Jehan would need any help with that. Her new friend is scary good at several kinds of martial arts. She figured that out after some very drunken demonstrations the night before.
"You'll always help me," she tells him, smiling at him.
She wants to stay with him some more, and tell him about that one time that Azelma hid her father's favorite hat – it all ended with the man having sat on it several times and not figuring out where it was until her mother yanked it out from under him. It is one of the few silly stories she remembers from her childhood, and she is in the mood for laughter and silliness at this point. Moulin Rouge took all the need for any kind of drama away.
At this point, she can almost hear his deep voice promising that he will support her and be with her no matter what – yes, she has given him a deep voice along with golden curls and blue eyes. Also, he is currently begging for her to give him a shirt or something – he is tired of being ogled and being shirtless all of the time.
"You wake up and I'll personally pick out a shirt for you," the break in her voice is just because of a sore throat. "And I promise it'll be something you'll hate."
She thinks red would suit him best, a nice deep red that will show his strength and vibrancy to everyone who sees him. It would be a bit morbid to dress him in the color of blood, but she can see him wearing a red coat in her mind's eye.
"Hold on," she stops his response in her head. "It's my phone."
There is no ringtone echoing through the silence of the museum, just a faint buzzing sound coming from her pocket – it is barely enough for her to take notice, but she could feel the vibration against her body and she never gets calls on the damn thing so she suddenly finds herself understandably on edge.
"Fuck," she cusses when she sees the caller ID.
Getting a call from this number has never meant something good. Now she wishes more than ever that her statue was real enough to hold her and soothe her while she listens to her life falling apart just a little bit more. If only her friend were real!
"Hi sweetie," her voice is cracking already, trying to be gentle.
"Fuck you and your sweetie," her sister's voice is harsh. "Where are you?"
It has been months since the last call, and all 'Zelma ever does in these calls is yell about how she should not have gone to college even though she got a scholarship – she should not have left her siblings behind to secure her own future, according to her younger sister. She was not allowed to take the chance to get away from her father and the dark memories of her mother – not even if she was taking the scholarship to be able to provide for her siblings later on.
No, she cannot keep thinking about this. She can't take the reminders.
"I'm working," she tries frantically to explain. "I've been working all day. I have a job now, for a little while, and they expect me to be here."
She thinks of dates and weeks and days and she cannot remember a single reason why 'Zelma would be calling her in a huff. Her brothers' birthdays are not near nor have they just passed, and Azelma's birthday is not until next fall. There is nothing that would merit this angry phone call – she has never forgotten about her siblings, and she certainly has not started now. Even though Azelma will not let her see any of them.
"It's his birthday and you forgot," the accusing tone hurts like nothing else ever has.
"Pere can go burn in hell," she snipes back, "birthday or no birthday."
With that, she ends the call from hell and wonders why 'Zelma has always been so quick to forgive Father for everything when she experienced all the same things – they were children together in that terrible house after the inn was taken away, and they knew the belt and a variety of weapons very well. Still, 'Zelma will always forgive.
"I'm sorry you had to hear that," she tells her friend, choking on her feelings. "That was my sister. She – she – she still lives with our father."
Stupid 'Zelma to get so caught up in Father's ploys that she will not leave even after everything that Father did to them. Her sister is too caught up in their father's schemes, and yet Azelma is being treated as if she is doing everything right, while everyone treats her as if she just left everyone to die. Her family is gone from her.
"I'm thinking bad thoughts now," she confesses softly, but he will hear her whispers because he always does. "Azelma hates me, and I haven't been much of a sister to my brothers in years. They probably don't even remember me anymore."
At this point, she is way too close to crying. She has been carrying these burdens on her own for years, too afraid that people would judge her for leaving her siblings behind with an abusive father and memories of a harsh and cruel mother. And people would judge, she knows that much – and why would they not? It was a terrible thing to do; leaving her defenseless little brothers with her father and his crowd.
"And I'm a shit friend," she steps in closer to him, looking into his eyes and praying for him to smile down at her and comfort her. "I only talk to you. I never talk to real people."
Real people talk back – and that just makes it sound like she is so terribly in love with her own voice, and she really isn't. But she needs a supportive response that she doubts she would get from anyone but him – her statue and her friend.
It's time to go though, time to close the museum, turn off the lights and head back to a melancholy Jehan and R's empty room. She'd rather sleep at the foot of her statue.
"I wish you were real," she almost reaches out for him, but she stops herself in time.
Turning back from him to move into the next gallery feels so difficult at this point – she just wants to see him wake up, and unclench his muscles from that same old position he's been in for all these years. She wants him to wake up and smile at her and give her that friend she's been waiting for – but at the same time that idea is terrifying because then he would be able to talk about her secrets.
But somehow she feels that with him, she would be able to risk that.
"Please be real," another whisper before she turns away from him.
The lights in the other galleries are still on, so she makes her rounds in the rest of the museum, making sure there are no stray people or animals around – nothing that could trip the alarms she is supposed to turn on as she leaves. She finds each hall and each gallery completely empty, so she starts turning off the lights, one by one until she finds herself back in her favorite gallery.
She does not even notice that something is off, at first. There is a light flickering in the back, so she gives the old bulb a few twists until it works properly again – the damn thing always acts up at night. She picks up a few guides that fell to the floor during her struggle with the Bulb of Doom – and that is when she feels it. Something feels wrong, and she trusts her gut feelings, even though they have occasionally led to some dubious decisions. Still, she would always trust her feelings.
Her eyes scan the gallery until she sees a tiny bit of movement from the corner of her eye – and nothing is supposed to move in an empty gallery at night. So she turns around slowly, hands forming fists as she ponders where the nearest weapon would be.
But when she turns around and faces the place where her statue is supposed to be, she instead finds a half-naked man crumpled on the ground. His face is scrunched up in severe pain, and he barely seems to know that she is there – giving her enough time to run away. But the moment she thinks of running, he looks up, blue eyes boring into hers and golden curls tangled up on his head – and she is lost for breath, a silent scream trapped in her throat.
AN: Don't hate me. Let me know what you think! Let me know what you think is going on and will happen next!