"Dance with me," Éponine enjoined Grantaire one day, holding her hands out to him. Her gaze was calm and level, as though her request was nothing out of the ordinary, but Grantaire's eyebrows shot upward.
"Pardon me?"
"You're a dancer, aren't you? I want to learn. Teach me."
Grantaire stared at her a moment, then turned his head over his shoulder and glanced about his flat. "You want to dance here?"
"Sure," she shrugged. "Why not?"
"We don't have any music."
"'S'okay. We'll pretend."
Grantaire scratched the back of his head awkwardly.
Éponine grinned at him, persistently proffering her hands. "Come on, 'Taire. Please."
His mouth quirked into a small smile and he stepped toward her, reaching down and clasping one of her small, rough hands in his. "What kind of dance do you want to learn?"
She shrugged. "I don't know anything about kinds. I just like watching the couples dance at all the festivals. You can teach me that?"
He nodded. "Okay. Sure. You ever danced with anyone before?"
Éponine shook her head. "Nope. I asked 'Parnasse once at the Mardi Gras festival, but he just laughed at me."
Grantaire flinched at the familiar yet faceless name. Éponine pretended not to notice. She wasn't in the mood for squabbling today — she wanted to learn how to dance.
Éponine raised her free hand and dropped it down on Grantaire's right shoulder. "This right?"
Grantaire effortfully shut out the unpleasantness of Montparnasse's name. He moved his hand up to cover Éponine's and pulled it a little further down. "Not quite on the top of my shoulder — that's for ballroom styles, which folks don't do so much at festivals. Just have your hand resting here, at the top of my arm, see? And — no, don't grip. You need to be able to slide off me easily if I decide to move you out." He twirled Éponine outward to demonstrate.
Her face cracked into an unabashedly delighted grin. It made Grantaire's heart surge.
"Alright," he continued, through a smile. "Now, I'll hold you here when we're in closed position." He placed a hand on her back, between her shoulder blades. "Closed position is basically the resting position, if I'm not making you do anything fancy."
She nodded astutely. Grantaire suppressed a wider grin. He didn't want her to think he was laughing at her. He wasn't. He was just happy to see her happy.
"Okay, now, I don't think I want you to worry about footwork just yet," he said. "Let's just go right, left, right, left, for a while, so we get the feel of moving together. Just try to stay connected to me and feel my weight shifts." He commenced swaying and Éponine followed along. He nodded in encouragement. "Good." His eyes crinkled at her kindly. "That's good, Ép."
Éponine gazed up at him, her face sparkling. Then suddenly, she stepped toward him, closing what little distance there was between them. She dropped her head onto the space between his shoulder and collarbone and hummed contentedly.
Grantaire started. "Oh. This… this isn't really right…"
Éponine chuckled lightly. "Shush," she murmured into him. "We don't need to do it right just yet. We're just getting the feel of moving together, you said."
"I…" He trailed off. "Ok. Yeah I guess."
He felt, rather than saw her smile, and she softened further against him. Drawing a slow breath through his nose, Grantaire released Éponine's hand and back and instead hooked both arms around her waist. He bowed his neck until his chin was resting on the crown of her head. Her swaying slowed and he matched her tempo.
It could have been incredibly awkward — swaying like that in his unassuming flat, no music even to dance to. But it wasn't awkward. It was just Éponine…
No, not 'just'. It was Éponine.
Grantaire's eyelids fluttered shut and his body relaxed against hers. He felt her grip shift on his shoulders. Soon her spindly arms were wound tightly around his neck. Then a moment later, one of her hands moved up to the back of his head and her fingers nestled in his hair.
She was so sharp, so angular… all her bones jutted out from her undernourished body and poked into him. But to Grantaire, it was the most comfortable sensation in the world.
He opened his eyes so he could look at her. He couldn't see her face, as it was still buried in his chest. So he gazed at her hair, which hung in a tangled mane over her shoulders and back. How he'd come to love that colourless hair…
Grantaire detached one hand from Éponine's waist and used it to sweep her hair aside, exposing the right side of her neck. Her skin was rough and chapped… But God, she was so beautiful. He couldn't fathom how he'd thought Éponine ugly, when first he laid eyes on her. She was bloody radiant. She was —
She was bruised.
Grantaire stiffened. Feeling it, Éponine stirred against him. Grantaire brought his face closer to Éponine's neck, scrutinizing it. There was no mistake. On her neck were several tiny bruises in the shape of fingerprints.
It was as though a hand had seized Grantaire's insides and twisted. All the peace and pleasure of the moment evaporated in an instant.
Grantaire had observed the hickeys littering Éponine's throat and collarbone earlier that day, but he'd managed to hold his tongue… by biting it to the point of tasting blood. He knew by now that raising these matters with Éponine did no good. When he tried to do so, she'd only angrily remind him of his promise and then avoid him for a day or two afterwards — a day or two during which he'd drive himself to madness wondering where she was, who she was with, and what they were doing to her. But in the face of these smaller marks, which he couldn't fail to identify, Grantaire broke. Something about the signs of Éponine's abuse invading such a pure, intimate moment between them caught him off guard and knocked him to his knees.
"Éponine," Grantaire rasped. "Whose fingerprints are these?"
Éponine's hand — the one which was on the back of his head — clenched into a fist in his hair.
"Don't, 'Taire."
"Éponine —"
"Please." There was a pained tremor in her voice, which was different from the commanding gruffness she usually used to reject his solicitude. She released his hair and dropped her hand to his back, clasping him tightly against her. Then she pressed her face more fervidly into his shoulder. "Please don't ruin this."
If the bruises had knocked him to his knees, Éponine's desperate plea knocked him flat on his stomach.
Trembling, Grantaire moved his hand back to the spot in between her shoulder blades and began rubbing in comforting circles. "Alright," he whispered, weakly. "Alright, I'm here."
Éponine recommenced swaying to the imaginary music. A tear rolled off the tip of Grantaire's nose and fell, soaking into the fabric of Éponine's tattered chemise.
He held her.
It was all he could do.