A/N: Honestly, I wasn't planning on continuing this story, but since my rule still stands (update as long as you have twice the reviews as chapters), I shall write. Warning: this will probably be complete shit.
Éponine didn't manage to get much sleep; her hurt shoulder pained her too much for her eyes to properly close. Grantaire was suspicious when she told him that she was fine, but he understood the desperation behind the word so he said nothing.
Even a fourth of brandy didn't help her, and so she gave up on sleep and perched in the window, grating her teeth at the pain that came from leaning against anything. The window was half open, so her forehead rested against the glass that kept the chill from entering the upper part of the window.
Éponine drew her arms tighter around her skinny, bruised body and tried to hold in the tears. Azelma was gone. Gavroche was barely there. Marius was never hers to lose. And now she felt as if she was losing herself and she could do nothing about it.
A soft scratching sound drew her attention back to the dim room, and when her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw a disheveled Grantaire, furiously scratching out something on a sketchpad. The charcoal in his hand was barely a stub, and his red-rimmed eyes were the only sign of the fact that he was under the influence.
She watched him for a few moments until he looked up and frowned. "Turn back around, will you? I'm almost done."
An amused smile twitched on her lips as she did as she was told. She took in the sky with her dark eyes and watched as the horizon turned a lighter shade of blue, telling of the fast-approaching Thursday morning.
Grantaire's satisfied sigh came from behind her and she turned to see him flip the cover back over the pad. She descended from the window, her bare feet hitting his hardwood floor with a soft thud. "Were you drawing me?" Her voice was soft, and although she felt a little as though he was invading her privacy, she was touched.
"Yeah. I actually have to turn in a rough sketch today for AP Art. It works out well." They laughed for a few seconds as Grantaire roughly shoved the pad in his bag. Then she spoke, her voice filled with everything she had tried to hide from Grantaire.
"Why couldn't I love you instead?"
His answer was much quicker than she expected. "Because Marius is a hot piece of ass."
"I thought you said you weren't gay?"
"There are some things that one can't deny and there are some that are gay. That was on the border." He managed a crooked grin, but then his dark blue eyes softened and he said, "I wish I could love you as well."
"Well, the marble man is quite handsome, if I say so myself." Éponine winked and Grantaire smirked.
"Marble man... I think I like that." Then his face became serious, and he looked at Éponine with a newfound wariness. "When did you see him up close?"
She averted her eyes, but his hand found its way around her small, bruised wrist. He watched her closely. She couldn't put on the guise for much longer and her face crumpled. He took her in his arms, apologizing profusely. She pushed him away and went over to the bed and collapsed into the soft surface.
"He helped me last night... When I ran into a slight... Problem."
"Montparnasse." Grantaire filled in. "Did Enjolras... What did-"
"He punched him, and helped me clean up," She said, and, noting the shocked expression on Grantaire's face, added hurriedly, "That's it."
"He... Punched someone?" Grantaire moaned when Éponine nodded. "Shit. Éponine, do you realize how bad this is? Enjolras hates physical violence. He once didn't talk to me for a week when I jokingly punched Bahorel in the stomach."
Éponine shrugged and said with a hint of bitterness, "Well, he saw Montparnasse on top of me, and I AM a helpless female..."
"It's just-" Grantaire stopped for a moment and looked at little Éponine. She wasn't hideous, it was almost as if she was hiding her prettiness behind dirt and despair. And he realized what Enjolras' actions unconsciously said. And he had to hold back a smile. A plan rooted itself in his alcohol-infused brain, and he chose his next words carefully. "It's just... The colorful veins in marble run deep and dark."
She just looked at him, one messy eyebrow raising and tearing a little at the stitches on her cheek. "So he's really mad at Montparnasse?"
Grantaire could barely hold back his desire to laugh loudly and ruefully. She didn't get it. "Sure, Éponine. That's enough to knock Apollo from his pedestal."
Enjolras made a note to find Grantaire and compliment his skills. For a useless drunk, he had incredible talent. One of his drawings hung on the wall outside the art room, and Enjolras couldn't look away. The charcoal sketch depicted a slender woman with her face turned away from the artist. She was curled in a small window with her knees tucked up against her chest. Grantaire had drawn a flowing dress on her, but somehow Enjolras could tell that it was added after the initial drawing. Her hair, darkened with expert shading on Grantaire's part, tumbled down her bony back. Her bare arms bore bruises and her shoulders slumped slightly forward, displaying to the viewer the woman's pain. He'd called it, "Injured Angel".
Enjolras, who wasn't one for art, suddenly wanted to see the woman's face. Not for her apparent beauty, but simply so that he could see the pain straight on. A voice suddenly said from behind him, "'Injured Angel'? Really?"
He reluctantly took his eyes off the art and looked towards the speaker. It was the girl from the night before, with the dull eyes and the stitched-up scar. She wore an expression of being both flattered and hurt. And he knew. He knew that she was the woman in the picture. He knew that Grantaire had (thankfully) excluded her mangled back from the drawing. He knew that she caught him staring at her. (Or, a drawing of her)
When she recognized him, her face switched emotions almost too quickly for him to decipher them. First she seemed to soften, then she looked pained, then angry, then guilty, and finally she managed a mask of indifference.
"Oh, it's you." He said for sake of something breaking their silence. She grimaced, before she gently tried to usher him in the direction of the stairwell. He tugged his wrist out of her grasp.
"What are you doing?" He asked, trying to keep he confusion out of his voice.
"I need to talk to you. In private."
He nodded, and allowed himself to be led into the abandoned south stairwell. He should have known better. Really, who would willingly go into an empty place with a secretive, emotionally unstable teenage girl?
As soon as the door closed behind them, she shoved him against the wall with a sudden and surprising surge of strength. She had a knife out in a flash of silver and it was pressed against his neck. His heart started to race
"There are cameras, you know." He said, and she jerked her head in the direction of the security camera. The device had been turned around to face the corner in opposition of revealing the two teenagers."What if someone comes in?"
"The doors are locked."
"You really thought this through, didn't you?"
"Don't. Say. Anything." She hissed, and he knew what she was talking about.
"Is the knife really necessary?" he asked, and she pulled it back a little so that he could see its sharpness. However, one thing caught his eye and kept it.
"Would you stop asking questions?" she said, her voice betraying her nerves. "Will you just promise to say nothing?"
"Yeah, sure." He answered, and she pulled away from him, allowing him release from the uncomfortable position of being pinned against the wall. He dusted off his red hoodie and ran his hands through his hair, still thinking about the knife. Suddenly, he said something that came into his mind. "He put you up to this."
She stiffened, the knife still in her outstretched hand. She nodded, but said nothing. He saw an opportunity and dove for it, taking advantage of her loosened grip. He plucked the knife from her hand and put it in his pocket. She didn't even try to fight. She crossed her arms and glared, her walls being rebuilt once again. "Give it back. It's not mine, you know."
"Whose blood is it?"
She looked down at her shoes- a pair of worn-through gym shoes that were four sizes too big and undoubtedly belonged to Grantaire. Then her voice quivered. "Mine."
He wasn't expecting that as an answer, and he knew that she was telling the truth when he noticed the stitches on her cheek. He took a step forward and gently reached his hand towards the cut. She didn't flinch away; she let the marble man run his fingertips along the stitches in a rare moment of intimacy.
They left the stairwell under a mutual agreement. He knew that she was desperate to keep her abuse a secret, and she knew that he somehow understood her desperation and lonliness. However, Éponine didn't understand the burning in the pit of her stomach. It wasn't the fluttering, light feeling she got from being around Marius, nor the strange mix of longing and repulsion that she felt around Montparnasse. This was different; it felt deeper, and she could have sworn that it almost felt like... Needless to say, it was a strange new feeling that wasn't entirely unwelcome.
Enjolras, well... Grantaire was right. The colorful veins in marble run deep and dark.