A snowball in the face is surely the perfect beginning to a lasting friendship.
…
Combeferre's too young to understand why it is that he's being separated from his parents. All he knows is that his mother is crying and his father looks stony faced. A woman takes his hand and leads him to the train.
His breath fogs the window of the compartment as the train takes him away.
He thinks that he falls asleep, because when he wakes up, the doors of the car are open and snow is flurrying inside like a whisper for escape. However young Combeferre has never been one to run, so he takes the hand that is offered and allows himself to be led from the train.
The little town sparkles in the winter frost, seeming like a glazed treat. Combeferre looks around in wonder at the quietness that's taken over the place he's to live for whoever knows how long. The morning is crisp and cool. Even through the windows of the cab, Combeferre can feel the chill that wrenches his bones to attention. It feels like a warning. It feels like an ending. It feels like a new beginning.
The cab rolls to a stop in front of a pleasant yet simple house surrounded by ones much poorer in comparison. Outside, two boys a few years older than Combeferre are rambunctiously throwing snowballs at each other. One of them has a high hairline and what little hair he has is frozen to his scalp. He's bundled up and even then he's shaking.
The other has a mass of blond curls and a fiery ferocity despite the cold weather. His red jacket's sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and he's built himself a wall against the other boy's attacks.
"VIVE LA FRANCE!" yells the blond one.
"OH MEIN GOTT! ENJOLRAS THE FRENCH REVOLUTION WAS MORE THAN ONE HUNDRED YEARS AGO!"
It's then that a snowball goes amiss and hits little Combeferre in the face, knocking him into the snow with a small whimper. There is a stern, warm voice from a distance that scolds the boys. Combeferre is hiding behind his hands, trying not to cry. There must have been a rock or something in that snowball, because now Combeferre's face hurts.
"Here, child." Repeats the stern voice, now more accommodating and very close. Combeferre rubs his eyes and sees a blurry face situated very close to him (well, to be fair, everything is blurry to him). A gentle hand helps him to stand.
"Are-are-are you my new daddy?" Combeferre asks. The old man takes a moment before nodding.
"If you want me to be." He looks up at the social worker. "I'll take him from here."
"Sorry about hitting you…" Says the blond boy, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck and shooting a half-smile at Combeferre.
"It's alright."
"I'm Enjolras, I suppose that I'm to be your new foster brother."
"I'm Combeferre." He can't help but feel intimidated. Enjolras can only be about two years his senior and yet the older boy has a very disconcerting and aggressive presence. Enjolras seems to sense this and tries to soften his face.
"Come meet Joly; he's got a cold. He'll give you a lecture about how contagious it is, but you need to meet him. Oh, and Bossuet, this is Bossuet." Enjolras indicates the other boy, who's talking (more like complaining) to the kind man. "And our foster dad is Myriel."
Myriel seems to hear this, for he looks over at Combeferre and says warmly, "Welcome home."
…
~A DEFINITION NOT FOUND
IN THE DICTIONARY~
Not leaving: an act of trust and love,
often deciphered by children
…
He meets Éponine one day at school.
He's been having trouble reading. He's always loved words when he can actually focus on them, but for some reason everything seems to become an incomprehensible mush of ink and paper. The teacher asks him to read aloud, but he has to duck his head and admit that he cannot.
That day, during lunch break, an older kid starts to tease him about his inability to read. The friends of this bullying child join in and soon there's a ring of voices and laughter and childish horror that is worst when they are unable to understand it themselves.
A loud voice breaks through the din, a voice that's childlike in nature and yet mature beyond its young years. The crowd parts like the sea before Moses and a small girl comes up to Combeferre. He sees a wicked gleam in her eyes and he winces, ready to receive a physical blow. However, he instead feels a hand on his shoulder and hears the silence.
Before long, the once-loud jeers fade to mumbles and curses to the girl who remains by Combeferre's side. The children leave the pair and then the girl turns to him.
She's around his age, and dirtier than he's ever been. Her brown eyes are deep-set in her sharp face. Her body lacks most of the childish fat that softens the appearance of other children. Her hair is long and tangled; it shows the different colors her hair has been throughout her life. The tips of her hair are a German-brand blond, and yet as it goes to her scalp it darkens to a light chestnut color near her roots.
Having dark hair and eyes is a dangerous thing, being where they were and living when they lived.
"I'm Éponine." She says.
"Combeferre." He responds, gruffly. He looks down, feeling ashamed at his weakness. He can feel the girl's displeased frown before her fingers are lifting his chin up to look at her face.
"You need glasses, you know." She says calmly. "I know how to get you a pair."
She dances away from him, her breath a stark white against the clear of the cold. He watches her. She doesn't appear to be anything but a flittering bird that he will never be able to catch. She looks over her shoulder and that multi-colored hair tumbles down her back.
"Are you coming?"
It only takes one word for Combeferre to fall even deeper than his ten-year-old self thought he was able.
"Yes."
…
Together, they would watch everything that was so carefully planned collapse, and they would smile at the beauty of destruction.
…
The days roll into spring and Éponine's skin starts being more exposed. Combeferre finds her discolored skin odd, but he decides not to mention it when he sees how she tries to hide them with her hands. It's this naivity that costs him greatly later on.
When she hears that he likes to read but his foster father lives too humbly to afford books, she teaches him the ways of quick fingers and baggy clothes. He steals so many books and she watches. She's never been one to keep words. She prefers to watch them drift away, unsaid and lost.
Combeferre, however, holds onto them with a fierce passion. He reads all that he can absorb and then he retells everything to Éponine in his own words. She likes his words, but doesn't like responding. She will watch and feel them. She'll taste them and engulf them in every way but actually saying them.
She and Enjolras already knew each other before Combeferre came to this little town, and she seems to be a fairly constant installment of the family. Combeferre will come downstairs with bleary eyes to see her trying to avoid Joly's blubbering list of all the diseases she probably has from not bathing properly. Or he'll see her slip Enjolras a red apple (his favorite) when none of the teachers are looking.
Together, they were quite the interesting pair. She stole the books that he read. She released the words he gave her.
…
It amazes me what humans can do, even when streams are flowing down their faces and they stagger on…
…
Things change that summer that Combeferre and Éponine turn eleven. One night, Myriel is assisting Bossuet with rebinding his textbook that fell apart. There is a timid knock on the door, and Myriel looks around the room at the lot of his boys. Enjolras with a pencil in hand, Combeferre with his nose in a book, Joly with his washcloth and Bossuet trying to reassemble his book.
Myriel opens the door to see a pair of (what he assumes to be) siblings. The boy is holding a copy of Mein Komph and the girl holds onto his waist.
"Our mother mentioned something about a bible." Says the boy. Myriel nods wordlessly and ushers the children in.
(A man, tired from fighting, stumbled into a nearby town and collapsed. Another man dropped a bible nearby and he picked it up, clutching it to his chest. The bible helped him; healed him.
A young girl found him lying there and helped him to a warm place. There she rinsed the holy book from the dirty snow that has soiled the pages.
"What is your name, child?" he asked her.
"Fantine." She responded.)
The boy is nearly seventeen by the looks of him and the girl is about twelve. The boy has red-rimmed eyes that are focused solely on the distracted Enjolras and the girl clutches to her brother.
"Your mother was-"
"Yes." Says the boy, not even allowing Myriel to finish.
"What's become of her?" Asks Myriel, and the girl's face scrunches and she looks as if she's bound to cry.
"Sent to a camp along with Musichetta's twin." The boy indicates the girl and looks back up at Myriel. "I'm Grantaire."
"She's written about you." Myriel smiles. "Make yourselves at home."
Bossuet and Joly both scramble to make room for Musichetta, who, by most standards, is a pretty child. Her hair is long and russet and her skin is creamy and fair. However, Combeferre thinks that he believes Éponine- weather beaten, dark-haired Éponine- to be prettier.
Grantaire sits close by Enjolras but never actually says a word to him, instead watching the younger boy with a reverence similar to ancient peoples looking towards one of their gods.
Combeferre, from behind his book, observes these happenings quietly. Myriel comes beside him and, with a warm and fatherly smile, says, "Combeferre, could you assist me in cleaning the basement for our guests?"
At first the boy doesn't understand, but it is there in the dank cold that his foster father explains the situation. Grantaire and Musichetta are Jewish and are being hunted by the government. Combeferre is not, under any circumstances to tell anyone about Musichetta or Grantaire.
"Even Éponine?"
"Even Éponine."
…
Imagine smiling after a slap in the face. Then think of doing it twenty-four hours a day.
…
Combeferre takes longer than he is proud of to notice Éponine's strange behavior. In the weeks following the eventful appearance of the siblings, Combeferre's attention has been unfocused on his best friend. In all honesty, reality hits him like a hurricane one day when the two of them are skipping stones in a large puddle.
"Éponine, there is a bruise on your cheek."
"I know." Is all she says. He waits for more, but hears nothing approaching. However, his now-glassed eyes catch sight of strange scars that mar her skin and old yellow bruises that color the contours of her body. A sick feeling washes up inside him like a tidal wave; how could he have been this selfish? How could he be so blind?
"'Ponine…" He whispers, and gently takes her hand. She lets him. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"We used to be one of them you know." She indicates the hill covered in rich manors. "My father gambled it all away. Shortly after you came here was when we moved in to where we used to live-remember? The three-bedroomed home? And now we live in a dump," here she laughs coldly, a strange sound for a child's mouth to produce. "He's started hitting us now, 'Ferre."
"Your father did that to you?" Combeferre is filled with an uncharacteristic anger and moves to stand up, but Éponine pulls him back down.
"Thank you for caring."
"Can I get a kiss for caring?" He asks, shyly. She just laughs and bumps their shoulders together.
"You wish."
Oh, how he does.
…
The only thing worse than a boy who hates you: a boy that loves you.
…
The years pass easily by. Soon Combeferre and Éponine are thirteen and Musichetta has turned fourteen. In doing so, the little Jewish girl has grown beautiful in that strange way that youth molds things. If Joly and Bossuet weren't both charmed, they are now. She finds herself constantly dealing with their strange assortment of gifts and their unique brand of courting.
(Musichetta, I've brought you a stone… yes, it is awfully shiny- no, I didn't buy it, it's quite authentic. I just did not wish to release some awful disease upon you… It's sanitary, that I can assure you….)
(Ah yes… It was supposed to be flowers, but I dropped them…. And a car rolled over them… then a dog grabbed at them. Oh- Sorry about that. I didn't realize the mud was so wet… Oh, there it goes…)
And in the mean time, Enjolras was dealing with Grantaire's constant presence. That was one thing the third piner had over the other two; he was fairly subtle in his love.
(Grantaire, why do you offer to help me with schoolwork if you never actually help? Seriously. Also, but that bottle down. You're good for nothing with it, fool. Are you hearing anything that I say?
Yes. Every word)
While his elder brothers all had their own troubles in love, however ignorant they were towards such things, Combeferre fancied himself the 'normal' one. Although, there was this strange burning feeling in the pit of his stomach whenever he was in Éponine's presence that was awfully strange.
He began asking for kisses more often, and every time she would say 'no' with a laugh. He felt his heart sink a touch in his chest with every denial.
But he can handle it, and the two of them continue their routine. She steals, he reads. They are the book thieves, and that's how they've always been and how they'll always be.
…
She was saying goodbye and she didn't even know it.
…
"I'm leaving!" She cries, spinning around excitedly. "Oh, Combeferre! I'm so happy! I'm leaving!"
"What do you mean?" He's up in a minute, panic coursing through his veins. She pauses, her suddenly present chest heaving.
"I'm getting out of here." She repeats.
"But.. How? I thought they were only taking boys!" Combeferre is confused. The soldiers had some to his home as well, but Myriel politely declined the request to take Enjolras with his lean muscles or Bossuet with his bulkiness. All during the conversation, Grantaire and Musichetta sat curled in the basement, shivering in fear.
"They… They are." She admits. Her eyes lower. "They wanted- they requested- Gavroche, but I couldn't just… I couldn't let him go."
He doesn't understand. As much as she tries to explain, he can't bring himself to understand. When she tries to come and say goodbye before she goes off, (a hat and a coat firmly disguising her), he ignores her and allows her to remain silent on their doorstep before dejectedly leaving.
For Good? He wonders.
…
I'm always finding humans at their best and worst. I see their ugly and their beauty, and I wonder how the same thing can be both.
…
Enjolras is widely known for being a charming young man capable of being terrible. He was oppositely very, very known for being shockingly good.
The latter behavior was noticed by a few when the first wave of prisoners came through their little town on the way to Dachau. He'd employed a few boys that were Combeferre's age to strategically place bits of bread all over the road so that those marching could reach for them if need be.
Joly, when waiting in the trees for the parade to pass, sees a familiar face and feels his heart stop. He leans out to look closely and relaxes. It isn't Musichetta, she is still in their basement. But it is a girl identical to her in every way. The young girl is holding hands with a tall, gangly boy and on her other side is a beautiful, sad blonde woman who stands close to her.
It is Fantine, Cosette, and Cosette's lover.
Enjolras sees this as well and strides out of his hiding place. His brothers can only watch in silence as his lean figure cuts a path through the crowd to stand by the trio. The guards have seen him and are advancing quickly.
"I think I love him." He says to Fantine, who understands and cups the blond boy's cheek before a whip comes flailing out of nowhere and slaps his back. Combeferre finally cries out and goes to run to Enjolras, but one of his friends named Bahorel holds him back. The whip cracks down one, two, three, four, five times before Enjolras is thrown into the gutter like a piece of garbage to be overlooked.
They rush him at once, and of course they all ask what it is that he said to Grantaire and Musichetta's mother. He reveals nothing, just smiles through the pain that etches into his delicate features.
That night, words are spoken. Among them are the words I and love and you. The next day, the brother and sister are gone, leaving a simple note of apology and thanks- they insist that they have to leave so as to not endanger those they love.
All the hearts in the Myriel household are a little broken that night.
…
Perhaps it was the sudden bumpiness of love she felt for him. Or had she always loved him?… He was her best friend.
…
The prisoners come through one more time in which Combeferre is finally, thoroughly changed. When Éponine first left, letters were exchanged between the friends. A few months later, they slowed until finally Combeferre received no letters at all.
He sits with his brothers and friends, watching the sad procession of humility until he spots a familiar pair of dark eyes. His heart seizes and he pushes through more quickly, more smoothly than Enjolras had. He comes to stand beside her and grasps at her hand. She looks up at him and her eyes fill with tears.
Éponine has lost weight to the point of looking starving. Her once curly, chocolate hair has become a tangled mess of dark. Her skin bears more signs of abuse than ever before and he wonders how he could have ever let her go.
"They found me, and kept me…" She shudders. "For a while. When they bored of me, I was sent to-"
"Don't say it," Says Combeferre, his voice breaking. "Please."
"Okay." She agrees. They walk in silence, hand in hand, the prisoner and the scholar. "Will you kiss me?" Her smirk is only half-kidding. "For good luck, of course."
"For good luck." He repeats. His hand gently strokes the side of her face and he leans in to finally gain that contact he's been longing for. When their lips are ghosting the other, he is violently yanked away. Their hands are ripped apart as she is pulled in the other direction.
The last he sees of her is her small hand, forever reaching to him.
…
If you can't imagine it, think clumsy silence. Think bits and pieces of floating despair.
…
The bombs come in the night. Enjolras, Bossuet and Joly are caught in the streets and Myriel in his bed. All of their friends are snatched from their beds and brought into death without another warning. Combeferre, however, Combeferre got lucky.
He'd taken up the stealing bit of their steal-and-read routine. Of course, being Combeferre, he was caught rather quickly and kept in the local police station until morning. The way that the station was set up caused the floor to dip so that the cells were very nearly underground. Combeferre is sleeping in the deepest corner when the earth shakes around him. He hears dim yelling from the streets and he doesn't know what to think.
The apocalypse, perhaps. Maybe giants' footsteps are raining down on their little town.
He knows that something is wrong when hours pass and not a sound is made. Something is more than wrong. Something is terribly, irreversibly wrong.
The only noise is his hearbeat, nice and steady, until finally deep voices break through the cadence.
"HERE!" he yells, desperately, shaking the bars. "I'M IN HERE!"
A search team stumbles into the untouched room (the building has been buried by debris) and sees him grabbing at his confinement.
"You're only a boy!" One of them exclaims. "Why are you in here?"
"I stole a book." Combeferre says. "Or, tried to. What's happened? What's going on?"
The men exchange looks, and one of them bends in front of Combeferre as if he is a small boy.
"Everyone's dead."
The silence returns but for a moment before Combeferre sinks to the ground in a tortured howl.
…
He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It's his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.
…
It is years later, long after the war has finished. A young woman comes stumbling into the bleak landscape of what once was her home. She sees the many grave markings around her house and the house of the boy in her life and she cries.
She cries so hard that tears prevent her from seeing anything. She stumbles around the destroyed streets until finally collapsing in front of what used to be the school house.
"They're all gone," she whispers to herself.
A man's voice speaks up from behind her. She turns and sees a tall form leaning against a surviving pillar of brick. His hair is light and tussled by the wind and his eyes are blocked by a pair of eye glasses, the glass of which reflects the dimmed sunlight.
"There was one survivor." He tells her. "A boy with a book."
Hope that wasn't too bad! Warning: This was written while simultaneously watching Graceland and attempting to complete French work. All the quotes in italics belong to Marcus Zusak.
Lotsa love,
Kaylee.
P.S: All feedback is appreciated. Please?