My sincerest thanks go to all my followers. And a special thank you for you lovely reviewers. Cosette-haters be warned, I'm introducing her in this chapter. I personally am a Cosette-lover, not only because she's the character I relate most to, but also because I feel we underestimate everyday heroes. Just the fact that she recovers remarkably well from her childhood trauma and grows up to be A NICE PERSON means a lot. *end rant*
I have never owned Les Misérables. I never will.
This time, she's the one who ends their embrace.
It isn't until he wraps his arms around her and starts kissing her back that he realizes she's crying silently.
"Marius," she whispers.
He stares at the ceiling and wonders whether this deadweight inside his chest is what she feels every day.
…
Once her tears have dried, he leaves her, trying very hard not to imagine the pale silk of the water enveloping her, trailing down her pale skin and settling into the hollows between her ribs.
Her eyes are dead with suppressed emotion. She's a sealed vessel, he knows. He wonders how those tears forced their way out at all. There's a tiny but very vocal part of him that feels immeasurably blessed that it was him she broke in front of. The rest of him, a vast majority, is torn between wanting to pound Marius' face in and longing for her wry little smirk.
…
When she comes out of the bathroom, he's asleep on the chair. She reaches out to wake him, to insist he use the bed, but something about the crease between his eyes stops her.
Loving?
Loving.
They both sleep beside their usual companion, Loneliness, who has become a stranger overnight.
…
She refuses to come to church with him the next day. The brown dress, made for his petite late sister, hangs from her bony shoulders. Still, he notices that her fingers trace constantly along the pleats at the waist, the cuffs, the neat and tiny stitches. He's made her happy, on some level.
He refuses to look Marius in the eye that day at the café. He doubts, somehow, that the oblivious fool even notices, caught up as he is in his idyll of a life. Enjolras speaks with a passion that now borders on fervor, remembers a girl in rags crouched in the corner with her eyes fixed on Marius' face. He speaks directly to her, she whose life he is determine to salvage. And because this is a daydream, she actually listens.
Loving someone is exhausting, he notices. He runs out of words too soon. But he's made an impression on his friends. When he walks home, he leaves behind a charged silence that somehow means more than cheers.
He's shocked, to say the least, when he finds her arranging plates onto his table. He hadn't guessed she could cook. But she can, that's evident. And he hasn't tasted actual cooking in years.
She clears her throat. "I thought you might be hungry. I used to be an innkeeper's daughter, after all. Some things you don't forget."
There are so many things he desperately want to say, things that get lost somewhere on the way to his mouth. All that comes out is a feeble "Yes, thank you."
…
He leaves for class while she's still sleeping, and returns just after noon. "Les Amis are meeting at the café today. I'd like you to come."
She's reading again. Her mouth forms each word on the page, but she's silent.
"Eponine?"
"Yes. I'll come."
It hits him, suddenly, that this is a very bad idea. She shouldn't be within ten miles of Pontmercy. But he doesn't want her alone there. He's losing her. Even if she was never his to lose.
…
He doesn't realize just how bad his idea is until he steps inside the café and sees that Marius has brought Cosette.
"Eponine," he says quietly, turning to block her way in. "I want you to go home. This is no place for you."
It's the worst possible thing he could have said. Her chin raises a notch. The deadness fades a little from her eyes as she pushes past him.
He watches her carefully for her reaction. She takes him by surprise again. A smile plucks at the corner of her mouth, and she begins to sing, brokenly, under her breath.
Alouette, gentille alouette/Alouette, je te plumerai…
None of the men hear her thin string of a voice. But Cosette does. When it's the past calling, none can help but listen. Her pretty blue eyes widen and her porcelain skin goes white.
She's perfect, down to the fingerless lace gloves she wears. But surrounded by the soundtrack of her nightmares, she is suddenly the haunted one.
Eponine smiles.
Some things never change.
But others do.
Cosette takes a deep breath, straightens the damask folds of her navy skirts. Her smile would be convincing, if it didn't contrast so much with the tears in her eyes.
"Eponine. How good it is to see you so well looked after." Cosette extends her hand, lowers it again after a moment.
Eponine only stiffens. The song has sealed her voice inside her. She wonders what has happened to her words, and wishes, briefly, for Enjolras' gift.
He rescues her. "Cosette, I take it," he says formally. "I've heard so much about you."
Cosette smiles, genuinely charmed. "Nothing too awful, I hope."
"Oh, I think we all considered wringing either your neck or his after listening to him sing your praises for hours straight. But it's nothing personal."
Eponine listens, still silent. She isn't quite sure which shocks her more: that Enjolras is flirting with Cosette, or that this actually bothers her.
And suddenly, it's all too much. Cosette's perfect smile and the demure way she folds her hands. Enjolras' voice, effortless and teasing. And Marius' eyes, fixed upon his angel. The room is spinning, and traitorous tears prick at her eyes. The faint smell of alcohol, normally pleasantly numbing, burns her nose. She whirls around, and the unfamiliar weight and volume of her skirts almost trip her. She stumbles for the door.
The hand that grasps for her wrist, stopping her, is foreign and yet hauntingly familiar. She stares dumbly at the neat ovals of Cosette's nails, glowing pink with health, and tries very hard not to remember.
When she looks up, Cosette's smile has faded and her brows are knit together. "I haven't forgotten the apple," Cosette mouths, and then lets go. Eponine has. The little scrap of kindness she once showed Cosette, the wrinkled winter apple thrust covertly into a chapped hand marred by chilblains and weak from hunger, has been completely lost in an ocean of guilt and jealousy.
Eponine makes it out the door before the first sob chokes its way out. She doesn't notice the way Enjolras watches her retreating back, the way he stares at the door she disappears through long after she's gone. Maybe it's a good thing. She wouldn't have been able to bear seeing him turn away.
…
Back at Enjolras' apartment, she tears herself out of the brown dress and wraps her own rags around her. She stares at the loaf of bread on his countertop for almost a minute before turning away, empty-handed.
She leaves a note for him on the table.
I keep my promises. I am leaving. Do not follow me this time.
The words below that are smaller and even shakier.
Thank you.
A single tear mars the page, the saltwater making the last few letters smear.
Chapter 4, in which the plot (I do have one!) will emerge, will be up soon. Reviews are appreciated!