Chapter Text
Orphan in the storm, that's a role I've played before.
I've learned not to tremble when I hear the thunder roar.
I don't curse what I can't change, I just play the hand I'm dealt.
And when they lighten up the rations, I tighten up my belt.
I won't say I've never felt the pain, but I am not a stranger to the rain.
-- "Stranger to the Rain," Children of Eden
December Part Five
Time moved very quickly after that, swept up in a wave of finals. Éponine was grateful for them--it meant she could enjoy a brief burst of triumph when Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta finally became the absurdly adorable threesome they should have become months ago and then throw herself into thinking about verb conjugation and directional derivatives before she could start feeling bitter. They all had two people who loved them that way, and she didn’t even have one, and that was a horrible thing to be thinking when the ABC were treating her like the hero of the story. Better not to think about it at all.
She was even grateful when she left campus too early to come to the ABC’s end-of-the-semester get-together. She knew perfectly well that Cosette would be there.
(The Facebook event description, written with great aplomb by Courfeyrac, read “Dear ABC + girlfriends.” She hoped that meant she was counted as part of the former group, not that she had been overlooked.
Bossuet’s all-caps comment of “I DISLIKE THIS AS MUCH AS R DISLIKES BAD OYSTERS” when she marked herself as not going--a comment liked by Courfeyrac, Grantaire, Jehan, Musichetta, and even Enjolras of all people--did a lot to further that hope. It would have done more if Marius had liked it, too.)
--
From Gavroche: btw its a different house than it was last time
From Éponine: Of course it is. Where?
From Gavroche: kind of a shady area
Éponine: I mean how do I get there from the train station?
Gavroche: long walk? medium cab ride? idk lady you do you
Éponine sent a picture of her irritated face.
Gavroche: your face looks better than usual :D :D
Éponine: yeah, well, your face looks like a little blank black space
She hadn’t updated the contact picture for his new number, mostly because there were no pictures of her family on her phone.
Éponine: no, seriously, where's the new place?
Gavroche sent a map with a dropped pin.
Éponine: see, THAT is useful.
Gavroche: UNLIKE YOUR FACE
Éponine: My face is useful. It consumes oxygen and calories. And produces carbon dioxide and vocals.
Gavroche: so does a dying ant
Éponine: Oooh, burn. :P
Gavroche: yes fire does that too
Gavroche: your face is basically an ant on fire
Éponine: But do ants consume calories and produce vocals while on fire?
Éponine: ...okay, they probably produce vocals.
Gavroche: technically yes
Gavroche: since fire uses calories
Not for the first time, Éponine wished she could introduce Gavroche to the ABC. They would love him so much that she suspected someone (probably Courfeyrac) would try to start a petition to allow minors into college a cappella. No doubt he would come up with a memorable speech about fighting ageism and hitting the high notes.
Thinking of the ABC, she glanced at the GroupMe’s, which she had by necessity muted during finals. She could already tell she was never going to get through the backlog, which included a debate between Joly and Courfeyrac about the merits of umbrellas, an extended ramble from Grantaire about how wonderful Turkish culture was and how depressing it was that Turkey had “modernized” by eradicating said culture, and more about this Cabuc guy.
In between an extended debate about whether the term “musical secret santa” was “too Christo-centric” (seriously, the words these people came up with), her search for her own name had a single hit:
Ducky: We should add Cosette. I don't want her to feel left out because everyone likes 'Ponine more.
Combeferre: I don’t see how you can make that comparison. Only one of them is a member of this group.
Courfycat: We can add girlfriends! That just means more music to go around!
R: Hot damn!
Courfycat: FOR FUCK’S SAKE IT IS DECEMBER IT IS NOT FUNNY LET IT GO.
Jolllllllllllly: I think it’s funny.
Courfycat: You are a biased source.
She snorted and typed out a message.
Not Ophelia: I missed the memo on the Secret Secular Santa. (Also, Ducky?)
R: You get a person, you give a song. Theoretically a song that reminds you of them but like, whatever you want.
She checked her email. She had gotten Enjolras. She knew jack-shit about Enjolras. Also, she didn't have iTunes and she doubted the new house had wifi, so how was she supposed to send him a song anyway? YouTube, she supposed, but that brought her back to the knowing jack-shit about Enjolras bit.
Well, she could deal with that later. For now, it was time to surrender the train station wifi and start walking.
--
The new house was a new apartment, which wasn’t especially surprising. When Éponine knocked, Gavroche came flying to the door: she could tell his speed from the sound of his shouted, "Éponine's home!" going from far away to right in her ear when the door opened. He blinked when he saw her. "Who are you and why are you so much hotter than my sister?"
"Who are you and why are you so much taller than my brother?" she retorted. "Also, even more hair." She tugged at the tips and he batted her hand away, making a face.
Azelma came next, slow, her smile small. Éponine's first thought upon seeing her sister was that she had gotten smaller--but no, of course that made no sense, it was just that she was the only one of the three who hadn't gotten bigger. Éponine reached out for a hug. Azelma clasped her wrist instead, fingers cold and timid. "I missed you," she said quietly, like it was something to be ashamed of.
"I," but Éponine abruptly realized that if she answered, "I missed you too," which she had, she would start crying. She had never gone this long without seeing Azelma before. She had never gone two days without seeing Azelma before: the others disappeared sometimes; Gavroche running away from home, her parents leaving for whatever work they were doing at the time. But Azelma had been constant, until Éponine hadn't been.
"Oh, Christ, are we gonna make this all mushy?" Gavroche demanded, rolling his eyes grandly at the ceiling.
"Are Mom and Dad home?"
"Nope." He sounded very satisfied. "Want to tour the jail cell?"
Azelma frowned. "It isn't that bad."
It was that bad. There were rust stains on the bathroom floor and windows that looked into the hallway instead of out onto anything that might have provided natural light. The room she, Azelma, and Gavroche were expected to share didn't have windows at all. "It's good," said Azelma. "We don't have to worry about being shot."
"We're on the fourth floor with no elevator, who's going to shoot us anyway?" Gavroche demanded. "But the best part!" he said gleefully, "by which I mean the only good part. Come here." He tugged Éponine to one corner and showed her how to hack a neighbor's wifi. Her phone immediately pinged.
Ducky:Bossuet changed my name and I don’t know how to change it back someone please help me :(
R: Sorry, Ducky, him touching a piece of technology and not destroying it was a sacred event. We have to immortalize it. This may never happen again.
“What’s funny?” Gavroche demanded. “Who’s making you laugh who isn’t me? We already agreed no dating until you’re forty. Remember how we agreed on that?”
“I remember how you said it and I laughed at you?” Éponine had been dating, or something like it, since she was fourteen. Gavroche didn't actually care. It was just a running joke of theirs: if Éponine (who had changed his diapers, thankyouverymuch) was going to act like a mom, then Gavroche insisted upon acting like a dad. His ideas of parenting came mostly from tv shows from back when they had a tv, so this involved a lot of Gavroche shouting "go to your room!" even though they had been sharing a room since the family inn shut down.
“You laughed with TACKIT AGREEMENT.”
“I think it’s pronounced tacit, actually.”
“Maybe at Harvard it is.”
“I don’t go to Harvard.”
“You basically go to Harvard. I mean, those fancy schools are all the same, right?”
At this point, the only acceptable thing to do was to defend her school’s honor by beginning a tickle war. She lost, but it was the principle of the matter.
***
Her parents came home late. Azelma, Éponine, and Gavroche sat on the floor, Azelma listening raptly to her stories about the ABC and making faces when Gavroche interrupted, which was often. He seemed particularly interested in Bahorel, which Éponine should have seen coming.
Éponine's father looked older, or at least, he had more facial hair. He looked a little confused when she hugged him, but he didn't object. He even patted her a little awkwardly on the back. He smelled like beer, which wasn't a bad thing; he had always smelled like beer. It was a familiar smell, from the days when she sat on his lap and he taught her how to lie.
Éponine's mother stood in the doorway, hands propped on her broad hips, wig tilting off her head. "You've gained weight."
"Seriously?" Gavroche blurted. Their mother crinkled her nose in the way she did when Gavroche talked, like a fly had landed on her face and she couldn't slap it without hitting her own face, but she certainly didn't want it there.
Gavroche had a point. Éponine was at most a quarter of her mom's girth, and much better proportioned. ("Proportioned in a way that society deems better fit for women," corrected the tiny ABC boy living in her brain.)
"She looks fine, love," said Mr. Thenardier.
Mrs. Thenardier's lips thinned. "You know how these rich folks are. A lady has to be skinny as a rail to get their sympathy or fat as a cow so they just want her to go away, she looks...healthy."
"No, it's a good thing!" He smiled encouragingly. He had a new fake tooth. It was whiter than the other teeth. "She don't just look healthy, she looks respectable."
Mrs. Thenardier's eyes shifted from narrow to speculative. She traced her eyes up Éponine's body. "I suppose we can work with this."
"Welcome home, sis," Gavroche muttered.
--
To the Physics GroupMe, whose existence was now pointless since the semester was over but which remained the fastest way she could think to relay the question without a texting plan:
Not Ophelia: R, any chance you feel like sending Enjolras a song for me?
R: aww, best Christmas present ever and I’m not even goyim
R: So what do I give Jehan?
Not Ophelia: Any chance you can send him Kid by Cry Cry Cry?
R: Can do.
It was one of the songs she and Gavroche sang together. She was surprised by how easily she suggested it; usually it was a song she was protective of.
--
Montparnasse was on her first heist of winter break. He looked as beautiful as always, and as aware of his beauty: clothing spotless, every strand of glossy dark hair perfectly in place. His deep green eyes gleamed at the sight of her. “Always a pleasure,” he crooned, reaching out to take her hand as if they were in an old movie and she would allow him to kiss it.
She snatched her wrist away and curled her lip. “We have a job to do,” she reminded him, rubbing her wrist as if the light brush of his fingers had left stains.
--
Eagle: Hi Ponine! Miss you. :)
She highly doubted he missed her. She doubted he had the energy to miss her; he had two significant others and two best friends to miss. She certainly didn’t have the energy to miss most of them. It was all being spent on other things.
Marius was the exception, but he barely counted. She had been missing him for months.
--
“Is Azelma quieter?” she asked Gavroche, sitting in an alley sharing a sandwich he had stolen.
“You just asked me whether a mouse has gotten more like a mouse.” He took a much bigger bite than she had taken, but it was his theft, so fair enough.
Éponine frowned.
“It’s not her, it’s you.”
“Gee, thanks.” She nibbled at the sandwich. Cold ham and fancy mustard. She had described the dining halls in great detail several times; she was starting to remember her descriptions better than the actual meals, and it had only been a week.
“Have you seen yourself? You’re like, glowing. Super out of place.”
She frowned again, handing the sandwich back. “Is that a bad thing?”
“It’s awesome,” he said. “You’re gonna go be an engineer and make all of us look bad. Just, you know.” He tore off a crust and shoved it in his mouth, speaking before swallowing. “Makes us look bad.”
“You’re probably going to be a lawyer.”
“No, I’m gonna be the best cat burglar this side of Boston.”
“Do you have any idea where Boston is?”
He shrugged. “Not my fault no one ever taught me.”
--
The email in her inbox on the day before Christmas was from Cosette. She didn't open it.
--
Christmas was always a good day for business. Lots of strangers opening their pockets. Her parents and Azelma dressed as beggars, as usual. It wasn't that far off, anyway.
Éponine no longer had to. Now she was "collecting donations for children in need."
Gavroche, dressed as a little elf with bells on his shoes, raked in more profits than the rest of them combined. Éponine knew for a fact that he stole some of the money to buy food for street children, though whether it was because he cared about them or because he didn't feel like handing the money over to their parents was anyone's guess.
“We’ll buy a feast with this!” her father exulted, running his skinny, dirty fingers through the cash.
“Be reasonable,” Mrs. Thenardier scolded. “We need to save up.”
“It’s Christmas,” said Gavroche, probably just to argue with his mother, dare her to look at him. She never did, as if she thought she could will him out of existence with the sheer force of her silence. As if anyone could. Gavroche was a whirlwind, bringing happiness to those he cared for, anger to those he didn’t, energy to all. Some days, when her body felt so heavy she thought she might collapse, Gavroche was all that gave Éponine energy.
“Yeah, Christmas, so let’s just find some suckers giving food away!”
Éponine looked down at herself. Too curvy to be starving. Too slender to be stuck with dollar-menu meals. Too pretty to be poor. “I’ll steal you a turkey,” Gavroche told her.
Back in their room, she pressed herself into the corner with wifi, waving her phone around until she found the signal. The ABC GroupMe was abuzz with reactions to the Secret Santa songs. Apparently in not reading the full conversation, she had missed the fact that there was a way to send the songs anonymously. Good thing she had asked Grantaire.
Combeferre: I presume “Why Don’t You Do Right” was Courfeyrac’s responsibility, and I can’t say I disapprove.
Courfycat: You know what I approve of? Whoever sent me “Get Lucky.”
Jehan: I got a beautiful love song!
Eagle: Of course you did.
R: Baldy I know you gave me “Shots” you little shit
R: (Also, LFMAO two years in a row? Creatively bankrupt much?)
Eagle: Yeah like you didn’t give me “Clumsy”
Eagle: (Tell me “I’m Sexy and I Know It” wasn’t perfect for Courf. I dare you.)
R: You know who I gave music to, you great bald moron. Although hats off to whoever came up with “Clumsy.”
R: (See, I can take my hat off, because I have hair.)
Eagle: Yes. Yes, take your hat off, for all our sakes. For the sake of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Dead One.
Jollllllllllllllllllly: Clumsy was Musichetta’s idea. She asked me to do the submission.
Eagle: That’s so sweet!
R: I’m really sensing a double standard here.
Cosette hadn’t bothered to get someone to do an anonymous submission, Éponine thought, not sure if it made her feel resentful or just viciously satisfied.
Ducky: Sorry I couldn’t figure out how to do the anonymous submission :(
Oh. Not Cosette’s fault, after all.
Ducky: Ponine, did you like your song?
Éponine nearly dropped the phone.
She wasn’t stupid. She knew he was just asking because Cosette had asked him to ask, but wasn’t that worth something? That Cosette thought them close enough for her to ask him Éponine’s opinion.
No, she was just overthinking things. Probably.
She logged into her email anyway.
Dear Eponine,
I know we don’t know each other very well, but Marius (and everyone in the ABC, really) has said lovely things about you. Some of the stories made me think of this song. Merry Christmas!
Love,
Cosette
She let herself indulge in everything annoying about the email: the assumption that Éponine celebrated Christmas, the ease with which Cosette threw around the word “love,” the spelling “Eponine,” the fact that she thought they didn’t know each other. Then she listened to the song.
Her instinct was to be annoyed again. The whole song seemed to be about passively and steadfastly accepting sorrow, which, who was Cosette to judge that she had an unhappy life? And who was she to judge whether Éponine wanted tears shed for her? Was there actually anything admirable about being left in the rain and claiming, “I’ll turn my face into the spray,” or was it just a soothing story the dry ones told themselves?
She particularly took objection to the verse, “and to the boy who’s given me the sweetest love I’ve known, I wish for him another love, so he won’t be alone.” It felt like Cosette simultaneously acknowledging her feelings for Marius and thanking her for not minding their relationship, with all the presumption and condescension of someone who wrote letters about their failures and incompetence with phrases like “thanks for understanding,” without giving her the option to decide for herself whether or not she fucking understood.
Éponine did enjoy the line, “and when the storm comes crashing on the plain, I will dance before the lightning to music sacred and profane.” But. That was just one line.
When the song ended, she blinked several times, but she didn’t cry. She also didn’t delete the email, but no one needed to know that.
***
Gavroche found her huddled, staring at her phone with bleary eyes. The Facebook picture was from Thanksgiving: Cosette, an old white-haired man, and Marius, seated at a grand table covered in food.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Gavroche when he saw the look on Éponine’s face. He snatched the phone.
“Hey!” shrieked Éponine, scrambling to her feet and chasing Gavroche as he sprinted from the room, phone held aloft in his hand.
“Too slow, can’t catch,” he chanted, ducking under her arm and racing in the opposite direction.
There wasn’t much room to run in the tiny apartment, so it took all of four seconds for Mrs. Thenardier to shout, “what’s this nonsense?” and pluck the phone from Gavroche’s hand, scolding, “quit harassing your sister, she’s here for three weeks, you little--”
She froze, eyes on the screen. When she whispered, “I never forget a face,” Éponine felt her stomach sink.
“It’s just some kids from school. They have nothing to do with us,” she protested, even as her mother turned to her father and barked, “look here!”
Her father was extremely drunk at this point, leaning back in his chair in a manner Grantaire could have pulled off, but he could not: when he tried to rise, he tumbled to the floor, chair smacking him on its way down. Gavroche laughed. Éponine grabbed at the phone, even knowing it was useless. Mrs. Thenardier ignored all three, simply waving the phone and repeating, “look.”
For a moment that felt longer than it could possibly have been, he peered at the phone with pinched eyes. Éponine wanted to believe there might be hope, but she knew her parents too well for that.
His face cleared in a moment, lips curling into something too vicious to be a smile. “That man!” He jabbed the phone screen. “That smug bastard walked in and bought Cosette for nothing, and now he’s some big-shot senator, living with the child of a prostitute! How would his fancy political career fare if they knew he bought his daughter?”
Cosette had been the daughter of one of the sex workers trafficked in their inn. Éponine recalled little of the woman, who had been Thai or Filipina, and very young when she died. She remembered ugly, stunted Cosette with her giant eyes and ragged clothes, and she remembered the man’s warm voice and well-made clothes.
Her father bared his teeth in a grin, twitching with such glee she was surprised he wasn’t rubbing his hands together. “Oh, this is perfect. ’Ponine, what a treasure you’ve found.”
Everyone was so happy with Éponine lately. Marius, grateful for her bringing Cosette to him when she felt sick every time she saw them together. The ABC, thrilled with her for running their sound when she couldn’t even get all the mics to work, proud of her bringing Musichetta and Joly and Bossuet together when her role had primarily consisted of threats and manipulation and waving a knife. And now this.
Éponine used to enjoy when people were happy with her.
“Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll write a letter, polite little thing, just reminding him of secrets shared and debts owed, and you’ll--”
“No.”
He bristled. “Say again?”
“No.” Her voice sounded very loud in her ears, perhaps because of the rushing blood. “They’ve done nothing. They owe us nothing.”
He raised his hand. Éponine refused to look at it. She kept her eyes on his forehead, rumpled with anger or confusion. When he was drunk, the two often amounted to the same thing. “Fine,” he growled between his teeth. “I’ll take care of it myself.”
“No you won’t. You’ll leave them alone, or I’ll call the police.” She met his eyes now. She knew her parents, but they knew her: it was clear from his eyes that he was not too drunk to know she meant it.
His hand slammed down, striking her mouth. Éponine was relieved he had finally gotten to it. Anticipation of being hit was always so much worse than actually being hit. “Bitch!” he shouted.
Her eyes had closed automatically when his hand swung. She opened her eyes. “Alright. I’m a bitch. I’m a bitch who knows every crime you’ve ever committed.” She spat her blood on the ground. Her head felt light. Dizzy.
“What’s this nonsense?” her mother demanded.
Éponine traced her tongue along the inside of her mouth, finding the tear. Her mother stepped forward. Mrs. Thenardier was taller and broader than Mr. Thenardier, and clearly trying to be menacing.
When Éponine laughed, her father flinched. Maybe the blood on her teeth made her a frightful sight. Good. “You think I’m afraid of you?” she cried.
This time it was Mrs. Thenardier’s hand that came down, but it didn’t manage to land: Gavroche lunged, nails digging into her wrist. She howled in pain and flung him to the ground. When she hit Éponine, her hand left a streak of blood. Éponine felt it through the throb of pain, warm and damp.
It was a wonder that she feared pain sometimes. It was just another sensation.
“I’m not afraid of anything,” she shouted in her mother’s face. “I’m not!”
“Get out,” Mrs. Thenardier gasped out.
“What?”
“Get out of my house! Come back when you’re ready to behave like a proper daughter.”
The emotional part of Éponine was already flat, stunned away by the blow. Her thoughts raced--was there anything she needed to take with her? Of course not. She didn’t own anything. “Give back my phone.”
Her mother threw it at her. It hit her collarbone, a sharper sort of pain than the slaps had been. Éponine caught it as it fell. She glanced back at the door. She had some clothing. Not much.
“You’ll take nothing else of ours,” her mother raged. “There’s nothing you own we didn’t give you, you’re lucky to be stealing the clothes on your back and the phone in your hand, how much money it cost--”
Gavroche pulled his body from the floor and started to lunge. “Don’t,” said Éponine. Her voice sounded far away to her ears, but it must have been audible, because Gavroche stopped.
“This has gotten out of hand,” said her father, his tone suddenly gentle. Placating. “So you don’t want us to bother this man? But we must live, we must eat. We’re your family, ’Ponine, have you forgotten so quickly?”
She blinked at him. Her mouth tasted like metal.
Joly had told her that blood didn’t actually taste like copper. It tasted like iron. When she tried to visualize the rust in the bathroom, her memory presented her with dried blood.
Maybe she had forgotten.
“What does family even mean to you?” Gavroche shouted. He wasn’t looking at Mr. Thenardier. He was looking at Azelma, who stood in the corner of the room. Éponine hadn’t realized she was there.
“You leave the old man and the girl alone,” she said, amazed at herself, amazed at the steel and iron and blood in her voice, “and I leave you alone.”
“Get out,” Mrs. Thenardier repeated.
When Éponine left, Gavroche went with her. He brought her coat, which contained everything she needed: wallet, id, two knives. She had forgotten.
She didn’t stop walking. Didn’t thank him.
She was still dressed to collect donations. That was good. It meant there were no holes in her clothes. Her feet were bare. That was also good. The gravel under her feet reminded her that she was real.
“That,” said Gavroche, “was fucking awesome.”
“You should go back,” Éponine replied.
Gavroche made a sound of glorious disdain.
“You should,” she repeated, the reality of Gavroche’s situation cracking through the armor of courage. “I can leave in two weeks. The ticket is already bought. You--”
“I would rather be anywhere else.”
She stopped walking. “Gavroche, you can’t just--”
“Seriously? I can’t just? You don’t get to be the only badass in the fam, you know.”
Éponine laughed.
“What?”
Eventually, between laughs, she managed to gasp out, “you said ‘fam.’” She kept laughing until she started coughing, and she kept coughing until her chest rattled with it.
Gavroche watched. “Has it occurred to you,” he asked when Éponine finally stopped laughing, “that you might be crazy?”
“A few times,” she admitted. “My friends get all cranky when you use that word, though.”
“The weird singing kids who are allergic to microphones?”
She nodded.
“Cool. So where are we going?”
Two weeks. She hadn’t really thought about it. She had been homeless for longer. “You should go back,” she repeated.
“You don’t actually think that.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you aren’t actually stupid.”
Éponine fell silent. Where to go? Somewhere her brother could have a bed. Who did they know with a bed? “We can go to Montparnasse.”
“Um. Doesn’t he have the hots for you? Like, big time?”
“He tries anything, I cut his hand off,” she lied smoothly.
He raised one eyebrow. “You’re sure?”
Two weeks. Two weeks, and it could be so much worse. He wasn’t that old, only in his thirties. He wasn’t...well, his violence wouldn’t apply to her, probably. He had beds. And food.
Two weeks wasn’t very long. “I’m sure,” she said, softly.
“Merry fucking Christmas,” he sighed.
--
Jehan had sent Éponine an email, a short clip that she had held off watching because she didn’t want it tainted with where she was. But it was New Year’s Eve, and Montparnasse was out doing what he described to Gavroche as “things.” She lay in Gavroche’s bed, because she didn’t have to be in Montparnasse’s tonight. Her phone buzzed with “happy new year!” messages from the GroupMe. Combeferre, having iMessage, had sent her one directly.
It was probably of the party at the end of the semester, since it was the triumvirate house and everyone was there. Everyone including Musichetta, snuggled against Joly, who was snuggled against Bossuet. Grantaire lay near them, one arm wrapped around Bossuet’s leg as he held a wine bottle in his free hand.
The clip was very, very brief: Bossuet’s glass was lifted; he was clearly mid-sentence, and the sentence ended, “to Éponine.”
“Hear fucking hear,” Grantaire agreed, raising his bottle. The camera swiveled to show all the raised glasses. Combeferre and Enjolras’s mugs of tea were raised as well.
The email was brief and simple: “Just wanted to let you know you’ve got some ABC fans yourself. :) Happy new year. <3”
She smiled and rolled over in bed, pressing her face into a pillow that smelled like her brother instead of like Montparnasse. Two weeks was an incredibly long time, but it was nice knowing she had something to come home to.