Chapter Text
I.
was a long and dark december
when the banks became cathedrals
and a fox became God
The maids think it's peculiar but it's not their place to ask. They talk about it in whispers instead: Master Enjolras has taken to the new still maid. They are with each other often, out at the market place or the gardens or the library. He calls for her often. Though still maid is her title, she is regarded a little higher; she is, after all, the only one the young Enjolras seems to seek out constantly.
Lady Dubois, no longer able to contain her curiosity, decides to ask one October evening. She is in the pantry with Éponine, sorting through their products, when she asks as innocently as she can: "Had you known Master Enjolras prior to your employment?"
Éponine, who is turning bread over in her hands to see if there's molding, pauses and looks thoughtful. "No," she says after a moment. "I did not know him at all."
The answer underwhelms Lady Dubois. How else would the master open up so suddenly to a stranger?
"And now that you do? What do you think of him?" she presses.
There's another pause. Lady Dubois, whose back had been turned to Éponine, turns to look over her shoulder to catch the smallest of smiles on the younger girl's face right as she attempts to mask it.
"He is not anything you would expect." Éponine answers, and Lady Dubois grins a little herself.
"Where is your brother?"
Éponine looks up at Enjolras with mild surprise. The two are out on the garden, splayed underneath the last days of heat before winter rolls in. Enjolras is pulling at the grass while Éponine is making a chain of the common daisies.
"Gavroche?"
"He is your brother, correct?"
Éponine lets out a snort, setting aside her daisy chain to start on a new one. "He is back home in Paris." she tells him. "I couldn't bring him with me. I send him part of my pay every month—he knows to come collect on the same day, at the same place."
"And your parents?"
The question turns Éponine's expression to stone. "Dead, hopefully." she says under her breath.
She only half means it, but Enjolras is jolted nonetheless. They teeter in awkward silence before Enjolras falls backward on to the grass, raising an arm to shield his eyes from the noonday sun. It is so uncharacteristically calm of him that Éponine shoots him an amused, affectionate expression.
Enjolras lazily adjusts his arm so that his expression isn't visible. It's when he speaks that Éponine realizes why.
"The nights leading up to the death of La Marque," he begins slowly. "I had nightmares."
Éponine pauses from her menial task to try and comprehend what Enjolras is saying. It's only the second time he's brought up the revolution, and she can feel him tensing already.
"What kind of nightmares?" she asks as calmly as she can. Her fingertips quiver as she goes about linking the flowers, waiting for Enjolras to respond.
"Red." he answers simply. "The streets flooded with blood and death. All my friends gone except me."
"Are you glad it never happened?"
The question is past Éponine's lips before she can think about it. Instantly, the air begins to feel like ice, but Éponine refuses to regret. To apologize. As Enjolras sits up to brush the grass from his knees, nothing on his expression gives away what he might answer.
It is only Éponine's resolve that prevents her from taking back what she'd asked; her stubbornness that remains hopeful that he will say yes.
"I am glad that none of my friends are dead," he seems to decide.
When he turns to look at Éponine, the sadness in his eyes makes the breath in her throat hitch.
"But if I had to—if I knew it would only be at the cost of my own life—"
"Don't," Éponine says sternly, not even wanting to entertain the hypothetical thought of it. "Don't you dare."
Enjolras's lips purse in to a thin line and he merely shrugs in response.
A few minutes pass in silence. Though she knows there's nothing that can undo the damage that's been done, Éponine absently plops the daisy chain she'd been working on atop Enjolras's head. The confused and disgruntled look on his face—juxtaposed with the innocent flower crown—makes her chuckle.
"Merde," he swears, shaking the chain out of his hair.
He turns it over in his hands and tries to feign annoyance, but he breaks in to a smile as Éponine fails to contain her giggles. Eventually, the two find themselves in hysterics.
"What are we even laughing about?"
"Everything!"
"That doesn't make sense!"
"Does it have to?"
In between his chuckles, Enjolras falls back on to the grass. He appears breathless from all the laughter; once again, he covers his eyes with his arm, but there's no mistaking the brightness of his smile.
Mindlessly, Éponine lies beside him. Enjolras doesn't move.
"I almost forgot what this feels like," he says.
"This?"
"To be alive."
The gratitude in his voice makes Éponine's heart swell. As much as she wants to let the feeling linger, though, the tone had already shifted far too much for her to completely take him seriously.
"Were you anything else but?" she jokes, propping herself up on one elbow to look at Enjolras. She puts on an expression of exaggerated fear. "Don't tell me I've been talking to a ghost all this time. Or a statue? Is that why they call you the—"
Without warning, Enjolras tosses a handful of grass in Éponine's face. It hits her squarely in the mouth, sending her in to a coughing fit.
"Va te faire enculer," he curses coolly.
"Oh, it's on," Éponine shrieks, retaliating by grabbing a fistful of grass and mussing it in to his hair.
Their laughter echoes so loudly that everyone in the household hears.
They are at the cusp of winter when he caves.
Monsieur Enjolras grumbles complaints yet does nothing. Madame Enjolras attempts, only to come out in tears. The maids steer clear but gossip about it over their work; they wonder what triggered it. It has been a while, after all, since he's been like this.
Lady Dubois shakes Éponine awake. "I'm sorry to wake you. I know you're tired from a long day's work," the woman tersely tells a groggy Éponine. "But you are the only one in the house that I think may make a difference."
Éponine follows the loud sounds, and they lead her to his room. She sweeps her lamp around the hallway and the maids who had been standing watch scuttle away like street rats. The otherwise calm evening is ripped apart by the crashes coming from his locked quarters; every now and then, the walls shake from the force.
Éponine steels her nerves and raps on the door. No one responds from the inside. "Monsieur?" she calls out, knocking once more. "It's me."
The sound of Enjolras's muffled voice comes from the inside. "Please leave." he says, eerily calm.
Despite herself, Éponine rolls her eyes. She sits on the floor and leans her back against Enjolras's door. "I didn't think dealing with the tantrums of bourgeois boys was part of my job," she taunts.
It's only the tip of the iceberg of her prepared cutthroat, but it's enough; the doors swing open and Éponine gets to her feet to face him.
He has no tears. Instead, his eyes are wild. There is no passion, just pure rage. He towers over her with his jaw clenched, and Éponine recoils without meaning to. She had seen this brand of anger before; had stared murderous rage like his in her own father.
Enjolras notices. Enjolras realizes.
He runs his hands over his face. He doesn't apologize, thankfully. Instead, he stalks back in to his room, leaving the door wide open. An invitation. Éponine doesn't take him up on it just yet; from the hallway, she does damage control.
Torn books are strewn across the floor. Some furniture have splintered. One part of the wall seems to have been punched repeatedly; there's a hole the size of a fist fragmenting the wood and the wallpaper, letting in the December chill.
Cautiously, Éponine steps in to the room. She walks around the wreckage and moves to Enjolras's side. She casts the light down on him and he squints up at her, managing to look irritated in spite it all. "I've seen worse." she says cheekily, and her answer seems to shock him sufficiently.
A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of him. Éponine takes his as her cue to sit next to him, setting the lamp between them as Enjolras's chuckles die down.
"There was a rat."
"That's an awful lot of missed attempts to get a rat."
"Merde, Éponine."
Éponine, in turn, flashes him a smile. "Just trying to lighten the mood," she says, and some of the tenseness in Enjolras's body gives way.
"There was a rat, in the revolution," Enjolras mumbles bitterly. Surprised, Éponine turns to him.
The sadness outweighs his resentment, it seems, as he refuses to meet Éponine's eyes. "How else could Javert have known? Someone from the Les Amis told and it's driving me mad, guessing which of the boys it could be. Grantaire? Marius?"
"You shouldn't do that to yourself. Or them." Éponine jumps in at the mention of Marius's name.
Enjolras shakes his head, visibly incredulous at her defensiveness over the boy, but he lets it pass.
"We were supposed to win." he says wretchedly. "Even if we weren't, we were supposed to at least try."
Enjolras does not tear up. Instead, he lashes out, taking hold of the nearest discarded book and hurling it across the room. The scream comes out of him right after. He balls his hands in to fists and begins to slam his knuckles against the floor, each punch coupled with a howl of frustration.
Helpless, Éponine reaches out to put an arm over Enjolras's shoulders and attempts to hold him down. "Enjolras. Enjolras," she says desperately over each wail and each slam. "Enjolras, it's over."
The three words seem to take out the fight in him; she repeats them over and over, as much as she hates to, until he's calmed down. He slus in to her, exhausted, and Éponine slowly pulls away to hold his wrists in her hands. She waits until he is looking her in the eyes.
Defeated. There is no other way to describe him.
"Enjolras," she says softly. "It's over."
Quietly, he begins to weep, and all his marble breaks.
II.
i don't want to be a soldier
who the captain of a sinking ship
would stow, far below
so if you love me, why'd you let me go?
While Enjolras is typically adept at keeping his composure, he is obviously bothered by Éponine being firsthand witness to his outburst.
In all of Lady Dubois' years working in the household, it had been the first time that anyone had gotten to Enjolras amid his hissy fit. Some of the older maids yapped that he had even sobbed. "Impossible," Lady Dubois huffed, silencing them immediately. "Why, I don't even think he cried as a baby—I was there!"
Regardless, she's forced to reassign Éponine to a few different responsibilities as per Madame Enjolras's gentle prodding. "He stiffens every time she walks in to the room," she'd confided in Lady Dubois one morning that Enjolras had decided to sleep in. "I have no idea why Enjolras is so affected by her—but he is. Perhaps we can give her tasks that keeps her away from him, in the mean time..."
As Lady Dubois tries to lie about the rationale of her reassignment, Éponine merely smiles.
"It's quite alright, mademoiselle," she says peacefully, pausing from her brewing. "I'm aware why this is necessary."
Lady Dubois heaves out a sigh of relief. "Good. It was getting hard to think of a good excuse."
The two share a chuckle. "I just want to be clear, however..." Éponine trails off, visibly on edge. "This isn't—I'm not being sacked, am I?"
"Heavens, child. Of course not!" Lady Dubois assures. "I'd dare say you're the best thing that's happened to this house's still room since I was a still room maid myself!"
Much of the nervousness in Éponine's expression disappears as she laughs. "It's winter soon," she confides. "And I've got a brother and a sister, back in Paris. The pay I have here provides for them. I just need to make sure they're fed and warm, especially in times like these."
Lady Dubois nods sympathetically. She was all too familiar with the feeling of being a family's breadwinner.
"It's a shame that Master Enjolras has let his outburst rattle him," she comments, glancing around to see if anyone else is within earshot. "You were so good for him. We all thought so."
Éponine looks shocked.
"Has it really never occurred to you?" Lady Dubois asks. "I don't suppose I've ever seen him act his age until you came around."
Éponine regards Lady Dubois thoughtfully before her expression softens. "I know where he's coming from," is all the younger girl says as she shifts her gaze to somewhere outside the window.
It takes Lady Dubois aback, how different and similar Enjolras and Éponine are in more ways than one. Watching her now, it makes sense why he'd taken such a liking to her; they were both so pensive without ever being passive, both always careful without losing heart.
"It's snowing," Éponine says factually, a bit of worry lurking in her tone.
Lady Dubois looks out the window as well and catches sight of what Éponine had been watching: Enjolras, severely under dressed for the weather, staring blankly up at the sky as the snow fell.
"That it is," Lady Dubois replies.
She grabs her coat and an umbrella before nodding to Éponine, silently indicating that their conversation has come to an end. Éponine mouths a 'thank you' before going back to her rose water, and Lady Dubois stalks out of the house to bring Enjolras back in from the cold.
It takes Enjolras a full week to realize that Éponine is not, in fact, avoiding him.
When Éponine disappeared from her usual posts, Enjolras first took it as a sign that she'd been scared off by his rage. He knew he had the capacity to be awful if he wanted to, and it embarrassed him that Éponine had to bear firsthand witness to it. Not everyone from the Les Amis had. Courfeyrac and Comebeferre had, once; Grantaire, too. All three men had cowered from Enjolras then.
Éponine hadn't. It was both terrifying and amazing to Enjolras, that she could still serve him his tea with a straight face.
It occurred to him, eventually, that she had withdrawn from her typical responsibilities as per some higher power. He figured that it was his mother; she would dismiss anything about the still room and passed on duties involving direct contact with Enjolras to any other junior maid.
(Some part of Enjolras was irked that Éponine wasn't reaching out.)
He simmered in his pride and sulked in her absence until Lady Dubois knocked on his door one morning to deliver him fresh towels.
"We'll be one person short of staff starting this afternoon," she says innocently as she organizes his closet.
There's no need to mention any names. Lady Dubois wouldn't have relayed this information to him if it were anyone else.
Enjolras does a poor job at tucking away his concern. "Why so?" he asks, flipping the page of his novel a little too forcefully for comfort.
"It's not my position to tell. She intends to return, of course," she says quickly to ease Enjolras's worried look. "But she is back in her room packing her belongings as we speak."
She shoots Enjolras a pointed look. "Merci, Lady Dubois," he replies. He marks the page he'd been reading and puts his book down. "If you'll excuse me, I have somewhere to be."
Enjolras practically sprints down the halls to the maid's quarters. Many of them speak in hushed voices among themselves at the disheveled sight of him but he can't be bothered to tell them off about it. "Has she gone?" he hastily asks the nearest maid.
"Not yet, young sir," the girl squeaks in response. "Her room's the second one down the hall, to the left."
He thanks her before brisk walking to the room he'd been instructed. Forgetting to knock, he swings open the door and catches sight of Éponine still hunched over her luggage. (He lets out a sigh of relief.)
"Master Enjolras," she greets him, sounding pleasantly surprised.
"I thought I'd told you to call me—"
"Enjolras." A small smile tugs at her lips. "Come to see me off?"
"You didn't tell me you were going to leave," he says, sounding more accusatory than hurt. Éponine shrugs.
"We haven't exactly been on speaking terms," she shoots back in the same tone.
The two of them size each other up. Éponine is the one who cracks first. "My sister Azelma has come down with the flu because of the weather," she admits, not even concealing her distress. "Gavroche wrote to me about it, and I think he's coming down with the same thing as well. Joly has been so kind to take care of them—"
"Joly?"
No matter how weary she is, Éponine manages to muster enough frustration to glare at Enjolras.
"Yes, Enjolras. Joly," she snaps. "And do you know whose roof they've been under? Bahorel. Who, by the way, lives right next door to Grantaire."
"Why are you telling me this?" Enjolras asks, pained.
Exasperated, Éponine slams her luggage close and strides up to him. Though she's a head smaller than he is, she seems larger than life to him when pulled to her full height. "Because you asked," she spits.
"I don't recall asking you anything."
"You wouldn't be here right now if you didn't want to know!"
"I wanted to know about you! Not—not about—"
"The Les Amis? Your friends?" Éponine hisses. "Why do you hate to hear that they have lives beyond the revolution? They've come to terms with their losses and they've accepted it as part of the past. When will you? When will you be something more than your failed rebellion?"
Enjolras stumbles backward as though she physically struck him. Almost immediately, Éponine realizes she crossed some line, too; she flinches at her own candor. She takes back none of it, though. Instead, she fixes Enjolras with a firm gaze.
"If you no longer want me in this household due to my actions," she declares slowly, with an air of finality. (Enjolras recognizes the desperation in her eyes, though. A fear that she would have nowhere else to go.) "Let Lady Dubois know so that she might write me a letter and I can stay in Paris. Until then, I have my siblings to care for. Au revoir, monsieur."
As she moves to squeeze past Enjolras, her fingers catch his. It is a quick grip—she lets go as fast as she held him—but it sends his mind in to overdrive. It's not quite an apology. It's closer to a farewell.
He barely has the time to process it as he watches her walk down the hall without so much of another glance his way.
Enjolras flexes his hand absentmindedly.
III.
i took my love down to violet hill
there we sat in snow
all the time she was silent and still
Éponine comes down with the same flu just as Azelma and Gavroche are healing from it.
"I strongly advise you not to return to Montpellier just yet," Joly says firmly as he places a damp handkerchief over Éponine's forehead.
"I'm expected to be back," she replies fiercely, her ferociousness cushioned by the coughs that wrack her frame. In one corner of the room, Bahorel lets out a disbelieving snort of laughter.
"It's more than a day's journey," Joly hisses disapprovingly.
"I'm expected to be back!"
"You are in no condition to travel, and that is final!"
Grantaire interrupts the bickering by walking in to the room, balancing three glasses of water in his hands. "Better listen to the hypochondriac, 'Ponine," he says gruffly, passing the drinks out to everyone in the room. "It'll do you no good to bring that virus to the Enjolrases."
Dejected, Éponine sinks further in to Grantaire's sheets.
"Where are—"
"Azelma and Gavroche can stay under my roof in the mean time," Bahorel pipes up. "It's no bother. I've been in and out."
Éponine lets out a sigh of exasperation. The three boys brace themselves for her next argument until they hear a soft snore; she'd fallen asleep on them, expression still visibly dissatisfied with her plans being thwarted.
Bahorel shakes his head and takes a sip of his water. "What a force to deal with, huh?"
"We should send them news, don't you think?" Joly asks, glancing hesitantly at Éponine. "I suppose she's worried that she won't have a household to return to."
The three lapse in to thoughtful silence, broken only when Grantaire starts to chuckle.
"What's so funny?" Bahorel asks, although he's starting to crack a smile himself.
"The statue hasn't heard from us in a while," Grantaire says good-humoredly. He crosses the room towards one of his dressers and pulls out a quill. "Imagine his shock..."
"His horror," Bahorel chimes in.
"His joy?" Joly offers.
A pause.
"I can write the letter," Grantaire says decisively. The two boys don't interject. "Bahroel, could you—"
"I'll have it out by tomorrow morning."
"And Joly—"
"I shan't leave Éponine's side." Éponine sneezes in her sleep, and Joly takes a sudden step backwards. Grantaire gives him a sharp look. "The room, at least. I won't leave the room."
Grantaire nods before shutting his drawer with an air of finality. "It's settled then. Bah, this whole being responsible thing is such a terrible bore," he says, going on to take a large swig of his drink. "If I am going to write to our marble man, I'm going to need something a little stronger than water."
Julien Enjolras
Montpellier, Hérault
How odd it is, to refer to you by your birth given name. We've had our fun with the knowledge already, although I thought you ought to know how much joy it brought us on particularly trying days in prison. (I suppose this is a rather touchy topic to delve in to, so I shan't give you details.) Julien, like Julianus, like Julius. How pretentious. How utterly fitting.
This is, of course, not why you have the pleasure of hearing from me. I personally wish it were under better circumstances but alas, I am today's bearer of bad news. Éponine has fallen terribly ill and cannot resume her duties in your household any time soon. She looks like death, although I'm sure she will insist otherwise. On her behalf—as she is currently incapacitated—we've decided to inform you of her condition and implore that you do not replace her. She sorely needs the position and will be utterly devastated to have to give it up.
If you'll have me for a few more musings: Éponine divulged the conversation you two had prior to her return home. She was quite drunk, so I can't speak for the accuracy of her statements but—if what she has said is true—then I hope you know how much of an idiot you are. (I am quite drunk myself as I write this, but that's not anything new to you.) If, however, her statements are a mere product of intoxication, I still stand by my statement. You are an absolute prat, Julien Enjolras. And we are that prat's friends, awaiting his return.
With love, Sincerely yours, Respectfully,
- Grantaire
P.S.: Not that you have ever listened to me, but do consider coming to visit us me our dear Éponine. She mumbles your name in the most restless of her sleeps. While I cannot tell you why, I presume you already have some idea. Or are you a fool in matters of the heart as well?
"What are you doing here?"
It takes Enjolras aback, how displeased Éponine sounds. She looks almost angry at his presence, only toned down by the fact that Joly had swaddled her in a ridiculous number of blankets.
He chooses to ignore her question by posing one of his own. "How sick are you?" he demands.
"Sick enough to be graced by your presence. Heaven knows why."
"Éponine."
"Enjolras."
The two glare at each other, neither wanting to give way. Joly warily looks between them before settling on addressing Enjolras. "It's nice to see you," he says delicately.
Without meaning to, Enjolras softens. "Joly," he responds delicately, carefully. "How have you been?"
It's a loaded gun of a question but Joly is benevolent. "I've been 'Ponine's caretaker these past few days," he beams, visibly proud with his task. "She's almost healed. She should be able to start standing on her own in a few days."
"Merde," Enjolras snaps, turning to Éponine who has turned red in embarrassment. "You can't even stand, Éponine!"
"Joly is exaggerating!" she screeches. Flailing off all her duvets, she starts to struggle to get to her feet. Joly lets out a sound of protest but Enjolras holds out his hand to signal that they should wait; out of instinct, Joly follows Enjolras's lead. "I can stand on my own feet, thank you ver—"
Enjolras makes sure to catch her before she crumples to the floor. He bears her full weight until she slumps in to his arms, visibly exhausted from having to prove a point.
"What are you being so difficult for?" he asks in a harsh whisper.
"I can't lose my job," she retorts.
"Who said you would?" Enjolras says, voiced tinged with annoyance. Carefully, he lifts her up back on to the bed. Joly begins to fret—tucking her in to blankets, checking for bruises—but Éponine's eyes are only on Enjolras.
"I'm indisposed."
"We all are sometimes."
"I've always taken time to... heal from these things."
"Then we will wait until you're well."
"But Madame Enjolras—and Lady Dubois—"
"Lady Dubois would replace half the household staff before dismissing you," Enjolras says impatiently. Despite her worries, Éponine flushes with pride. (It tugs at something inside Enjolras, to see her try to hide a smile over such a small, simple truth.) "Now, if you'd stop worrying about such trivial matters, then maybe you could let Joly do his job and you might heal faster. Be back home with me sooner."
Éponine merely nods, but there's an unmistakable grateful gleam in her eyes. Enjolras decides he'll take it.
"Would you be so kind to get us her medicine?" Joly asks, apprehensively addressing Enjolras. He's obviously not used to commanding the latter to something. "It should be out by the kitchen counter."
"Of course. Give me a minute."
When Enjolras steps out of the bedroom and swiftly closes the door behind him, he finds himself frozen in his tracks. Coming in from the front door—standing right across him—are Grantaire, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac.
The three had come in laughing and arguing over something but they, too, come to a halt at the sight of Enjolras.
For a full, heart-stopping moment, Enjolras is convinced they despise him. There is no other explanation for the silence that stretches in to what feels like eternity, or the blank, expressionless looks on their faces as they regard him. He's not quite sure what he wants to do—try to charm his way through them, make a run for it—and he is still in the middle of deciding when Courfeyrac breaks the ice.
"Do my eyes deceive me?" he asks pompously, the grin slowly stretching across his face. "Do you see him too, 'Ferre? Grantaire?"
"Enjolras," Combeferre says laughingly. Surging forward, he envelops Enjolras in an embrace. If Combeferre is bothered by Enjolras's stiffness, he doesn't let on; instead, he holds his friend tightly. "We've missed you."
"The Chief has returned to his Guide and Centre," Grantaire taunts, leaning on the door frame as Courfeyrac rushed to be part of the hug. From between the two, Enjolras looks over to meet Grantaire's eyes. He can't quite make out what's on the skeptic's expression—disappointment, or anger, or veneration—but Grantaire's next few words are clear.
"Took you long enough, Apollo."
News gets around quick. It takes only an hour or so for the rest of the Les Amis de l'ABC to congregate, cramming themselves in Grantaire's railroad flat. There are some exceptions—like Marius supposedly off in his marriage home with the lark and Jehan still under his parents' close watch—but, otherwise, all the schoolboys have found their way to Grantaire's upon hearing that Enjolras was in town.
"Even Musichetta was wondering where you went," Lesgle says cheekily, pressing a bottle of pilsner in Enjolras's hands.
"I've got to return home tonight—" Enjolras is trying to say when Feuilly interrupts him by tossing an arm over his shoulders. "The man of marble doth protest too much, methinks!" the fan-maker cries in a sing-song voice, already visibly intoxicated.
"Methinks you are correct, Feuilly," Grantaire calls from across the room. "Do be careful where you go swinging your limbs, though! You'll be paying for anything you break!"
"We haven't heard from you in months, Enjolras. I believe you could stay a while," Bahorel says, tilting his bottle as an invitation. Powerless to the peer pressure of his friends, Enjolras follows Bahorel's lead and takes a swig of the lager.
"Bah! Has Montpellier made you soft, Julien?"
"Don't call me that," Enjolras snaps sternly before downing the entire bottle.
"Now that's the Enjolras we know!" Leslge cheers, and the rest of the group roars with laughter as another bottle is passed to Enjolras.
There was actually a reason why Enjolras refused all alcohol offered to him during their days at the Café Musain: He wasn't particularly good at holding it down. A glass of wine was often enough to knock him out already—and yet here he was, still on his feet after five bottles. He was light-headed, yes, and swaying a bit. And maybe the first few buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned; and maybe his vision was blurring at the edges, too. But he was still drinking—something he didn't think he was quite capable of.
Joly is the only one to pick up on Enjolras's inebriation. (Everyone else is simply more drunk, possibly.)
"You may want to slow down," he warns laughingly as Enjolras stumbles in his direction.
"Joly!" Enjolras says cheerily then winces at the loudness of his own voice. "I've been meaning to ask, Joly—since, you've been—you know, you've been—"
"About Éponine?" Joly finishes, trying to conceal his amusement.
"Yes! Éponine. I'm curious, of course, as her employer. As I should be. Don't you think so, Joly? Don't you think I should be concerned? I mean, I'm also here to pay you all a visit. Of course. That's why I'm extending my stay. Why I'm here."
Unable to contain it anymore, Joly starts laughing loudly. "Why are you laughing, Joly?" Enjolras asks defensively, rocking from side to side. "What's so funny?"
"You are funny, Enjolras." Joly replies. With a shake of his head, the boy gestures towards the rest of the people in the room—all somewhat subdued and in varying degrees of intoxication, falling asleep on Grantaire's furniture. "We all know that you're back here in Paris for a reason, and it's surely not us."
There's a pause. Enjolras stares at the bottle in his hand before asking the question that had been nagging him the whole night.
"Do you hate me, Joly?"
"What?"
"That I never came back. That I'm only coming back now." Enjolras can't stop himself. All the words come pouring out. "That the revolution failed and you had to spend weeks in that prison cell—in that dirty, cramped space. And I'm sure you despised every minute of it, but I—did you—"
"I did," Joly mumbles. He looks ashamed to admit it, but relieved, too; Enjolras feels the same, to hear a semblance of the truth. "When I wasn't having a panic attack, I was envisioning how I'd murder you for putting me through... that." Joly shudders. "But then I got out. And I went to therapy for a bit. I've forgiven you, Enjolras."
It's such a simple admission but it knocks the wind out of Enjolras nonetheless. Joly doesn't realize the gravity of it, though, as he smiles and gingerly takes Enjolras's drink from his hands.
"Do they hate me?" Enjolras presses. The alcohol in his system and the emotion in the pit of his stomach are churning, not really mixing well, but he has to know. He has to find out. "Am I—Do any of them—" He trails off, and Joly smiles kindly.
"Of course you're inarticulate when you're drunk," Joly teases. "I quite like it. Makes you more human."
"I have no authority to speak for them. You may want to consider unpacking this at your own time—perhaps when you haven't had so much liquor," he continues diplomatically. "I've got to go check on the others, but—as far as I'm concerned—there's only one person here who hasn't fully forgiven you."
"Who?"
Joly smiles sadly. "You haven't forgiven yourself, Enjolras. Maybe you ought to start there."
Éponine is just about to fall asleep when she hears the door to the room crack open. She can smell the liquor off Enjolras from across the room; it makes her crumple her nose up in distaste as she sits up.
She finds herself laughing disbelievingly, though, at the disheveled sight of him. "What did they do to you?" she asks amusedly as Enjolras lumbers towards the bed. He slumps at her bed side, his head narrowly missing the bed side drawer.
"Merde!" Éponine hisses. She reaches out to pull Enjolras up to his feet. "Monsieur, you're heavy—and I'm—"
Without a word, Enjolras pushes himself up and flounders on to the bed next to Éponine. Letting out a squeak of surprise, she finds her face inches from Enjolras's. Even in the darkness, she can make out his most attractive features.
"Éponine," Enjolras whispers, the scent of spirits so overpowering that Éponine wants to retch. Instead, she swallows hard, waiting for him to say or do something more.
Eventually, Enjolras wraps an arm around Éponine's waist and buries his face in her hair. Éponine lets out a breath she didn't know she had been holding. The position is a little compromising, to say the least, but something about it was comfortable, too; natural, almost, even though it had never happened before.
"They have made worms' meat of me," Enjolras whines, mumbling the words in to Éponine's hair.
She laughs softly. "And soundly, too," she says in the same hushed tone, letting herself rest her head on Enjolras's chest. "But we will avenge you."
"Is your sickness contagious?"
"Not anymore, no."
"I would like to rest here for the night. Like this. If you'd permit it."
Éponine is stunned in to a brief silence. She wants to consider all the implications, but Enjolras is so warm and soft, and she is already so sleepy. And it feels right, to be in his arms. (She doesn't quite know why. It must be the delirium from her medication, she rationalizes. It must be why she would give anything to stay here, like this, for forever.)
"Éponine?" Enjolras asks again, already bracing himself to pull away.
"I permit it." she says quickly, quietly.
She doesn't have to see his face to know that he's smiling.
IV.
so if you love me
won't you let me know?
It's not the splitting headache the morning after that jolts Enjolras.
It's the moment he wakes up with the sun streaming through the windows, blinding him temporarily; the moment that he tries to raise a hand to shield his eyes only to realize that there is a weight pressed against him. He looks down and sees Éponine fast asleep in his arms, and he balks.
Luckily, she is a heavy sleeper. Enjolras twitching in surprise only makes Éponine turn in her sleep a bit and nuzzles in to Enjolras's chest, away from the heat of the sun. Enjolras is dazed by it—how endearingly serene she looks—and as he's studying her mannerisms, he finally makes sense of Grantaire's words.
I will not be a fool in matters of the heart as well.
Slowly and deliberately, Enjolras (rather reluctantly) peels himself free from Éponine. He lingers to watch her and almost curls back in when her eyebrows unconsciously furrow at his absence, but he knows what he has to do.
He's halfway out the door when she says his name in her sleep. "Julien," she says, almost like a sigh.
Enjolras looks over his shoulder to make sure that she's still asleep. And then he leaves her.
The rest of the Les Amis are already awake from their drunken stupors. They're all packed in to Grantaire's small dining table; sharing seats, passing each other glasses of water and pieces of toast, bickering in low voices. When Enjolras walks in, they stop talking and look up at him expectantly.
It reminds him of their days at the Café Musain. There is no pain anymore in the flash of a memory, though; it comes and goes, and he takes it as he ought to.
All eyes are on him as he assumes the empty seat at the head of the table.
"I suppose some apologies are in order," he begins in a leveled voice, only to be interrupted by Grantaire.
"Your days of speeches and tirades are over, Julius Caesar," the latter taunts. Even as Enjolras shoots daggers at him, he proceeds warmly. "The amnesty has been granted! What more can you offer us?"
"Friendship."
This visibly startles the group. Enjolras shifts uncomfortably, suddenly acutely aware of how distant he'd been; how he'd kept them at an arm's distance so as to not have to grieve them, if worst comes to worst. During the revolution, they had all acted so much older than their age. So much larger than their little lives. Politics was not the only thing Enjolras worried about post-rebellion.
He had feared not having friends to come back to.
"If you'll have me," he adds hastily, hesitantly. Grantaire is the first to speak.
"You are an absolute ass, Julien Enjolras."
Then Feuilly, disbelievingly: "A dunce. The biggest I've seen."
And Bahorel, enthusiastically: "A complete halfwit."
Then Lesgle, laughingly: "A git! A prat!"
Joly is shushing their laughter and overlapping insults as Combeferre and Courfeyrac share a look.
"A dimwit," Combeferre says solemnly. "A loon," Courfeyrac chirps in the same tone.
"Are we quite done?" Enjolras asks dryly, although he is grinning widely because he can already feel it. He already knows. His chest is about to burst with the immense comfort that he feels, watching them throw one word after another.
"Chump!" "Goon!" "Imbecile!"
When the hysterics die down and everyone breaks off in to their own muted conversations, it's Joly who passes Enjolras an empty plate. Combeferre breaks him some bread, and Courfeyrac stands to get him some jam.
Grantaire crosses to his side and hands him a cup of freshly brewed coffee, which he takes gratefully.
"So the man of marble has a heart for something after all," Grantaire quips.
For once, Enjolras smiles at him.
"Not planning a new revolution just yet?"
Enjolras let out a snort of laughter at Éponine's crassnes. It's a mannerism so unexpected of him that she has to glance his way; his head is turned away from her, gaze directed to something beyond their carriage.
"No, not any time soon. I wouldn't count it out, though."
The coachman shoots them a worried glance, and it makes Éponine chuckle.
They have five more hours until they get to Montpellier.
Enjolras had insisted that he wait until Éponine is fully healed. So that we might lessen the cost and the trouble of returning home, he'd reasoned, although Éponine secretly wondered if it was so that he might have more time to be with the Les Amis. And so it seemed, really, as he spent the past week doing anything and everything with them—exploring Paris, drinking themselves silly, debating about which school of thought mattered over the other.
(At night, he would creep in to her room, and they would talk until day break. He would sometimes linger—like he was contemplating whether he should say something, or waiting for Éponine to ask him to stay—but neither of them crossed that line.)
Upon leaving, Enjolras promised to return more often. The boys made plans of visiting him at his home, around summertime. I'd trade these streets for the beaches of Mont any day, Grantaire had said pompously, kissing Éponine on the forehead as a farewell.
"So that's it?" Éponine presses, unable to believe that Enjolras—for all his passion and fire—has given up on his cause.
He turns to look at her, lips pursed in a thin line. "The fight is far from over," he replies in a hushed tone, eyes flickering over to the eavesdroping coachman. "But—right now—there are some... matters I hope to attend to."
"Such as?"
"Finishing my education," he says, shrugging. "There is a University back home that has a fantastic law program. If they'll accept an insurgent, that is."
"And you'll stop going on about democratic freedom."
"I never said that."
The two share a smile.
"It must be nice," Éponine sighs. "To have opportunities to study, such as yours."
Enjolras's eyebrows furrow at this. "You thought I was going without you?" he says, raising one eyebrow. At Éponine's confused expression, he shakes his head. "Mother hasn't allowed me a moment of peace since I got home. She's not letting me alone anywhere. Merde, it's like I'm a child—anyway, if I go to University, she's bound to find a way for you to enroll as well. What degree do you think you'd take?"
It's a lot of things to process all at once. "You hadn't thought of running this by me first?" Éponine sputters. "Enjolras, I'm illiterate!"
"So we'll get you tutoring. What degree?"
"I barely have any belongings, any clothes—"
"Lady Dubois will handle that. Your degree?"
"—and don't even get me started on not being able to afford University—"
"Mother has her ways. No amount is too large to keep me on a leash, I'm afraid. Éponine," Enjolras says calmly. He's smiling at her now, with an expression so gentle and adoring that Éponine can't bear to meet his eyes. "What would you like to pursue, if ever?"
Éponine is quiet for a moment as she ponders it—a life she had never thought possible. Something robbed from her, being offered now on a silver platter.
"Literature," she says, voice barely above a whisper.
Enjolras nods and—unexpectedly—reaches out to grasp Éponine's hand in his. She snaps her head up to look at him. There's a flash of nervousness across his expression at her shock, and she immediately recognizes it from the days she'd obsessed over Marius. The fear of a passion not being reciprocated; of a devotion falling on deaf ears.
But Éponine knows now what she thinks of Enjolras.
"Literature." Éponine repeats decisively.
She intertwines her fingers in his and his face lights up.
"Literature," he echoes in a tone of breathless, giddy relief. She knows this sensation is fleeting—that he will probably have to revert to his stern, stoic self the moment they return home. She will have to remember her place—that of a still maid, no matter how much of a liking the master of the household takes for her—and they will steal away to late night conversations, and lazy afternoons in the garden.
But they have five more hours until Montpellier, Éponine thinks as she leans in to his side.
She can have him to herself until then.