Title: The Garret of a Bohemian
Author: Camberleigh Fauconbridge
Rating: PG - 13 / T
Pairings: Enjonine [Éponine/Enjolras] Mosette [Marius/Cosette]
Summary: Inspired by Giacomo Puccini's "La bohème". The world's greatest example of redemption is combined with the world's greatest romantic tragedy. A group of friends argue and fall in love as they struggle to survive in a Parisian garret. Not based off RENT. 25th Anniversary. AU. É/E.
Disclaimer: Les Misérables and its musical counterpart are the property of Victor Hugo, Cameron Mackintosh, Claude-Michel Schönberg, Alain Boublil, Herbert Kretzmer, Trevor Nunn, John Caird, all of the casts and all of the creative teams that have produced any production of Les Misérables. La bohème is the property of Giacomo Puccini, Henri Murger, Luigi Illica, Giuseppe Giacosa, Théodore Barrière, Robert Dornhelm, all the casts and all the creative teams that have produced any production of La bohème. No money is being made from this story, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Imagined Cast: Ramin Karimloo as Enjolras/Rodolfo; Samantha Barks as Éponine/Mimì; Hadley Fraser as Grantaire/Marcello; Nick Jonas as Marius/Schaunard; Jonathan Williams as Combeferre/Colline
Author's Note: Éponine as Mimì comes in for this chapter!
One thing I have to clear up: there will be no Marius/Éponine. I know it's canon in Les Misérables, but it wouldn't work with this. Can you picture Mimì and Schaunard? I thought not. And Enjolras/Éponine is basically considered crack canon in the Les Misérables musical archive, anyway.
Act I: Rodolfo
Scene 3
Enjolras opened the door to see a young woman.
He recognized her to be Éponine, but he had never looked at her before; at best, they had given each other polite glances as they passed each other on the staircase.
The first thing he noticed was that she was very, very, very slender. Not frail, but thin, as if she had a decent meal only once a week. She wore a formfitting, low-cut dress of decent quality that went along with the rumors of her being a lover to many men. Her dark hair was pulled back, and her eyes, because of the dim light, were an undistinguishable dark color.
"Excuse me, monsieur," she said. "May I ask a favor of you?"
"Yes."
"Thank you. Well, my candle went out in my apartment, and I don't have anything to start a fire with to relight the candle. Would you be so kind..."
"Of course, come in—"
Suddenly Éponine was doubled over, coughing so violently it sounded as if her lungs were going to give out from exertion. She grasped the doorpost in a effort to steady herself. In a lapse in the coughing, Enjolras went to Éponine's side and helped her to a chair inside the garret. "Are you all right, mademoiselle?"
"It's nothing, really—" But she began coughing once more.
He looked around for a glass of water— but there wasn't any; and if there was, it probably wouldn't be safe to drink— there was only the wine. He filled a glass and carefully handed it to her. "Water would be better, I know, but this is better than nothing. Mademoiselle, are you sure you are all right? You seem ill."
"It's nothing, monsieur, it was just the staircase..." She drank some of the wine. Gradually the color returned to her features.
"Are you feeling any better?"
She nodded. "I— I believe so. Thank you, monsieur, I'm so sorry to bother you, I'll just light the..." She never finished the sentence, however, when she realized her that, strangely, both her candle and her key was gone. Enjolras didn't remember her dropping them.
"Where did you drop the candle?"
"I don't remember, exactly. I don't even remember dropping it. I'm being an inconvenience to you, monsieur, I'm sorry—"
Then, as luck would have it, the fire finally burned itself out on the last of the firewood until only embers were left. There was not enough to relight her candle even if they did find it.
"It's my turn to be an inconvenience to you, mademoiselle. I—" He glanced over at the now nonexistent woodpile— "do not have a way to restart the fire. I'll help you back to your apartment so you don't break your neck going down the stairs in the dark."
"That won't be necessary, monsieur, because I don't have my key."
"You don't?"
"I must have dropped it along with the candle." She looked away, embarrassed. "I normally don't do this, monsieur. And rest assured, this isn't a ploy for your affections or anything like that. I'm too ill to be coy, anyway."
"If you're that ill, you shouldn't be staying in a cold room with no fire, mademoiselle."
"Forgive me, but this garret is basically the same as my apartment, temperature-wise. And I'm getting on your nerves, I see."
"You're not, mademoiselle, and I can restart the fire somehow, if you wish."
"I— all right."
Once he looked a second time, Enjolras realized there were, in fact, a few pieces of wood that he hadn't seen because of the dim light. He stoked the fire as Éponine finished her glass of wine.
Why he was insisting she stay, he did not know.
Éponine was searching around the door, stepping carefully. "I think I may have dropped it around here," she explained. After they both searched for a few minutes, Enjolras saw a glimmer of silver in the dim light. He bent down to pick up what he hoped was the key.
"I believe I found your key, mademoiselle," he said as he handed it to her. He purposefully tried to avoid letting their fingers touch— after all, he had no desire to be involved with a woman— but it didn't work.
What surprised him, however, was not a "shock", but the feeling of the deathly, unnatural, icy feel to Éponine's hand. The only ones he knew that had hands that cold were those that were affected by a disease; coupled with her violent coughing, he came to a conclusion.
"Mademoiselle, I know you've been claiming that you are fine, but you don't seem well at all. This may be coming from my duties as a host, but I insist that you stay here where the temperature is actually decent. I will not have you freeze to death."
"Oh, that's so kind of you, monsieur," she said sarcastically. "I insist that I leave, because I am clearly irritating you and you should be out celebrating with your family or your friends. If I freeze to death, that's my problem."
"Mademoiselle—" He sighed. "The only reason that you are irritating me is because you are insisting you leave. It is Christmas Eve, after all. What kind of a host would I be if I let you go back to your freezing apartment?"
"A logical one."
"All right." He pulled up the only chair. "Then I won't be logical, because no one should be alone on Christmas Eve. We can argue each other to death if you want, instead."
"But we don't know each other. We can't exactly argue that way." She conceded and sat down. "Tell me about yourself so we can properly argue."
"All right." He sat on the trunk that was filled with his papers.
He was a columnist for a revolutionary newspaper, he told her. He had attended the University of Paris for a time, but his rebellious, treasonous talk had made him expelled from the university. As a result, his parents, from the shame of having a son that had been expelled, cut him from their will and refused to help support him any longer. He now made his living as a journalist, instead of as a lawyer, as he had originally planned.
"Your talk at the university must have been quite treasonous for you to be expelled. I though money would compensate."
"That's what I thought as well, but the university is quite Royalist-oriented, you see."
"What was your talk that was so traitorous?"
"I am a Republican, if that's saying anything."
"Oh." She looked surprised. "And you went to a Royalist university?"
"I didn't much of a choice."
"Do you enjoy life as a journalist-type, then? Or do you still want to be a lawyer?"
"What I—"
Wait a minute.
"Are you a Royalist, mademoiselle?"
Her eyes grew hard. "Not with the country the way it is, no."
"Then I won't offend you with what I'm going to say."
"Do you think I couldn't handle it?"
"No, I just do not want to get into an argument about politics when I still don't know anything about you."
"All right then." She leaned back and folded her arms, waiting. "Go ahead."
"The July Monarchy needs to be overturned."
"What? Have you actually thought about what you are saying? You could be arrested or killed for that!"
"Your reaction is exactly why I'm not in the University of Paris."
"Well— I mean— really, monsieur. I hope you don't go around saying this in broad daylight."
"Do you think so little of me?"
"No— it just came as a shock, that all. Goodness. Have you been arrested before?"
"No, and I'm planning on keeping it that way. But I've been talking for a while and not being a gentleman— what is your story, mademoiselle?"
"You don't want to hear it."
"Why not?"
"It's quite dull compared to yours. There's no treason in mine."
"That's a good thing. Mademoiselle, it can't be that uninteresting. I promise I'll act as if it's as interesting as Così fan tutte if that will help you."
"Really, I—"
"I just told you something that could get me arrested, mademoiselle. Whatever you have can't be that bad."
She looked at him, and he noticed the firelight made her high cheekbones stand out prominently.
"All right, fine, I'll tell you." She still did not seem comfortable with talking about herself.
She was a seamstress, he learned, and also embroidered for extra money. She had come to Paris when she was fifteen with her family, but soon after their arrival she ran away to make it on her own.
The one thing she did not say— the one thing that Enjolras had guessed beforehand— was an explanation about the men she would occasionally meet. But he hadn't expected her to explain that part of her life, anyway.
"Why did you leave your family?"
"Because they were just— content— to live in the slums. I wasn't satisfied with living the rest of my life that way."
"So it was ambition that made you run?"
"I guess you could call it that."
"Does being a seamstress pay good money?"
She looked away. "No, but it's something, at least. I can survive on it, so that's good enough. So now I suppose you want to know about the men I meet."
"It wouldn't have been gentlemanly of me to ask, mademoiselle."
Then she looked at him, her eyes filled with shadows and firelight. "You're the first man in years that has the thought of gallantry when in proximity with me. It's sad that it feels strange now."
"You deserve gallantry, mademoiselle."
He did not know this Éponine from the floor below. He'd only courted once, before he was expelled— and not very well, he would freely admit— because his father had told him he must be married, and a respectable girl had materialized. He knew nothing of romance or the right things to say or how to talk a girl into bed.
He only thought it sad, really, that this interesting young woman had been treated so carelessly.
Then, out of nowhere, there came several sharp, high-pitched tinkling noises came from the window.
"Excuse me, mademoiselle," he said, and stepped over to the window.
Marius, Grantaire and Combeferre were standing in the street, waving and shouting. Combeferre called out as Enjolras opened the window. "Enjolras! Finish the paper and come to the café! It's freezing out here!"
"Who are they?" Éponine asked.
Enjolras turned to see Éponine standing just in the right position for the moonlight, dim though it may be from the dirty snow-covered window, to fall on her.
Éponine had, in his eyes, been pretty, at least, but the moonlight made her look especially lovely. It was not in the traditional sense, it was not something to be immortalized in a world-famous artwork. But there was something in her questioning eyes, the proud tilt of her neck, that perhaps Grantaire would think to capture. Here was the very image of Patria herself, proud and aloof and willing to fight, yet still gentle.
He wondered, perhaps, if he was drunk.
"It's just my other friends who live here. They're trying to coax me into going out to dinner with them."
"I'll go, then, and let you go out," Éponine said, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, both candle and key in hand. "I'm sorry to have taken up so much of your time, you could have been out celebrating Christmas Eve."
"I forgot about it. But—"
"Yes?"
"—you shouldn't be staying in your apartment in your condition."
"That again. M. Enjolras, I won't die if I stay in my apartment tonight. Stop worrying if I'm going to keep over, if you please. I insist."
"If you're that determined, at least light your candle before you leave so you don't break your neck going down the stairs."
"That's what started this whole thing, wasn't it?" But Éponine was smiling as she knelt and lit the wick, and carefully shielded the flame with her hand. "I'll take my leave, then. Thank you for your hospitality, and has a merry Christmas Eve." Enjolras opened the door for her, and she curtsied gracefully and left.
Then he heard what he guessed were three pairs of footsteps loudly coming up to the door. Combeferre, Marius, and Grantaire burst in a few seconds later.
"It's nearly eleven thirty, Enjolras. We kept the table as long as we could, but the managers threw us out after eleven. What was it that you were writing for so long?"
"Marius—" But Marius was already looking at the paper before Enjolras could take it back.
"There's one sentence on here, Enjolras. It did not take nearly three hours to write one sentence."
"And why was Mlle. Éponine from the floor below coming from the garret?" Combeferre asked.
Before Enjolras could answer, Grantaire started laughing. Enjolras turned to him, irritated. "What, Grantaire?"
"Can't we all put the pieces together? Éponine from the floor below comes from the garret, and Enjolras hadn't gotten any work done. Isn't it obvious?"
"Grantaire—"
"Even the fact that he's trying to explain it away points to the conclusion that I think we've all come to. Enjolras has fallen in love! Or went to bed with Éponine from the floor below, whichever one you want. I've heard on the street that it's difficult to talk her into bed, but—"
"Grantaire!"
"What? Are you going to confess that you're secretly a Don Giovanni at heart...?"
"That's enough, Grantaire!"
For a few seconds, all four stared at each other.
Then Enjolras grabbed his coat and slammed the door behind him.
Combeferre started to go after him, but Grantaire stopped him, saying, "I was just being sarcastic, he should know that by now!"
"Is it that hard to think before you open your mouth, wine-cask?" Combeferre shot back as he left the garret.
He went to the end of the little hallway, to a small, nondescript door which was already open. He went up the small staircase inside the doorway, which led to the roof.
Enjolras was standing at the edge of the roof, ankle deep in snow. He did not turn when Combeferre called out his name.
"Before you say anything, Combeferre," he said as Combeferre reached the edge of the roof, "no, I am not in love, no, I didn't sleep with her, and all we did was talk. Satisfied? Take that back to Grantaire before he tells everyone in the building."
"He was being sarcastic, he said so himself."
"He was drunk, that's what he was."
"Enjolras, I can't keep being the mediator between you two, just go back and—"
"And what? Apologize? This isn't some petty one time occurrence, he's been talking and jumping to conclusions ever since we moved into the garret. I've been seriously thinking about making him leave and survive on his own for a while, but now it's looking like a possibility. And she happens to be a decent person, not just some woman who trades lovers like matches. She'll hear about this, and she'll get kicked out, you know how Bougon is, and it'll all be because of Grantaire."
"I hadn't thought about that. Do you really think Bougon would kick her out?"
"Bougon is hypocritical because of her Benoît and her husband, and she can't stand seeing an unmarried woman— sleeping around without any intention of getting married. You know that."
"I'll keep Grantaire quiet. How long are you going to stay up here?"
"I'm not sure. For a while."
Combeferre sighed. "All right. Just don't kill Grantaire when you come back." Enjolras nodded to show he had heard but said nothing. He heard Combeferre going back into the building's interior, leaving him alone.
He was not in love with Éponine, and he had no desire to sleep with her. But she could turn out to be a friend, and Grantaire's words could cause a large amount of damage if it got out.
You're the first man in years that has the thought of gallantry when in proximity with me. It's sad that it feels strange now.
No, Grantaire's words could never get out.