Cold Comfort (Tag: Parnasse)

[EPONINE THENARDIER]

The skies were a vast empty space, the countless stars hiding their light behind dark thick clouds. A cool light rain, little more than a drizzle, had begun to fall, chilling the air and giving the lamps along the streets an unearthly halo. The streets were deserted, the citizens all too aware of the volatile atmosphere that had settled over the city and had barred their doors and shuttered their windows against it. Even those not directly involved with planning to overthrow the government or in planning to oppose them knew that something was about to happen, something that would change their world, through smoke and fire and blood, no matter which side won in the end. The quiet now was just the calm before the storm.

And through that quiet walked a lonely soul, a girl whose dark hair and tattered clothes were soaked through and clung to her bony figure. Eponine had done this many times before, wandering the streets in the quiet darkness, creating a different life for herself in her mind. A life in which she went to sleep each night in a fine bed, pulling a warm blanket over herself and relishing the feel of a full belly. A life in which she walked the streets leisurely, without fear of criminals or police, and spent money freely. But most of all, a life in which she was loved, truly and completely. Whenever the world would remind her how utterly alone and inconsequential she was, she would just close her eyes and conjure up a person just for her, to tell her the world was wrong. Someone who loved her despite how broken she was and how sordid her past. Someone who would hold her close to himself when the wind would cut down the alleyways and tug at her hair. If she concentrated hard enough, the fantasy almost seemed real. She could feel the strong arms encircle her, shielding her from the rain. A warm voice whispered affirmations of love in her ears as laughter danced with adoration in his green eyes. Marius. His red hair and freckled face were unmistakable as he took center stage in her mind's escape, as he had so many times before.

Only tonight it brought her no comfort, no happiness, only a growing emptiness. Eponine found she cold not think of Marius, could not picture him, without the memory of what she had just witnessed slamming into her and destroying the illusion. Cosette and Marius had pledged their undying devotion to each other, each confirming their deep affection for the other as they embraced tightly and shared stolen kisses. And Eponine had kept her vigil from the shadows, a silent observer to a scene she'd long imagined herself in. Marius had asked her there, pleading with her to show him a way through the gathering darkness to his angel. And she'd agreed. Of course she had. Eponine would have stormed the gates of Hell itself if he'd asked it of her, just for the chance that he might notice her feelings for him. But one look at the expression on Marius's face as he gazed into Cosette's eyes told Eponine all she needed to know. Marius was never hers to lose and he would never love her. Not in the way she imagined for so long. That Marius, the one who finally saw past the teasing and the dirt and grime and bravado to the fragile dreamer underneath, was only in her mind. And there he would remain.

Twisting her fingers into the new shawl in her arms, a stab of pain broke through the melancholy. While she had made a habit of reading too much into Marius's affections for so long, it had hardened her heart, making her believe it was impossible for her observations to actually have merit. Of course Marius had never returned her feelings, but someone had. Blaise Combeferre. The quiet studious bookworm, always in the corner of the cafe, nose deep in a book. Always enduring teasing from Courfeyrac about women or leisure with an accommodating if weary smile. Of all the young men that came and went in her life, Eponine would never have dreamed it would be him before she'd stolen his book. It seemed that's when everything had changed. Eponine had seen the signs, the times she'd catch him staring, the easy laughs and smiles they'd shared, but her mind told her not to venture down that road again. That if she was wrong yet again, it may break her beyond repair. So she'd ignored it, settled into being friends and hardened her heart when she found herself around him. She'd never imagined that turning her heart to stone would have hurt her even more. And yet when he'd admitted his feelings for her, the love she'd longed for from someone in her life for so long, it had only managed to crack the shell on her heart. She didn't dare believe it, that someone like him could really love someone like her. In the end her disbelief and hesitation had shattered them both as she left to take Marius to his Lark. Eponine was sure she'd carry the pain she saw in Combeferre's eyes with her to her grave.

Now Marius was lost to Cosette and she had let Combeferre slip through her fingers because she didn't dare believe what he said to be true. The pain in her heart was more than she had felt in so long. It ached with every aimless step she took, and not even her usual escape into her mind offered sanctuary. She needed something, anything to numb the ache. She needed to forget, to not be the girl who had pined over Marius for so long she'd lost possibly her only chance at being loved. There was one person in all of Paris that Eponine knew she could go to, who would make her feel desirable, even if it was at the same time he made her feel worthless. He would pull her back into his life, letting her sink down into the underworld of the city beside him. Somewhere in her wanderings she had even pointed herself towards the abandoned flat he called home. Standing outside his door, dripping water that pooled on the floor round her feet, she raised a fist and rapped quietly against the wood.

[MICHEL MONTPARNASSE]

The flat was, officially, entirely empty—save perhaps for the rats that Montparnasse had always been far too familiar with. In practice he was the sole human inhabitant of it, though an assortment of other vagrants had taken up residence in other parts of the building. None challenged him for his choice of the rooms, and he had managed mostly to get rid of the rats. The first night he successfully killed one with a thrown knife he remembered with some small degree of pleasure, the squeaks of terror from the dying rodent oddly similar to those of a man killed with a similar lack of finesse. Whatever his skill with a knife in a tight spot, Michel Montparnasse needed more practice throwing them.

What furniture there was in the flat was mostly worn, broken, abandoned there by the previous inhabitant or small enough that Montparnasse had been able to drag it in himself—despite his aversion to any kind of physical labor. Far too much work for far too little reward, and there was no way that any man in all of Paris might set himself up such a fine flat for free unless he had the nerve and the talent to imitate the young dandy's lifestyle. No, it was better and easier to steal and to kill than to seek out 'honest' work, and the moral implications were irrelevant in the mind of Montparnasse.

Better than average amongst the flat's sparse furnishings, however, was the divan he had taken to using as his bed. That had been in the flat when he had found it; why it was left was beyond the young thief, for it was still in surprisingly good condition and even comfortable. It was on this he had stretched himself out, barefoot and dressed in his shirtsleeves. The possibility that he might still go out later in the night remained but for now, as the rain fell, he found it more comfortable to remain indoors with an open bottle of brandy on the floor beside him.

The knock at the door jolted him out of a pleasant but directionless daydream, scented heavily in not only the brandy that really was there but in the soft white smoke of opium and whatever other exotic luxury he might call to mind. He sat up abruptly, swinging his feet onto the floor and standing up—knife already in hand. It was not a usual thing for someone to be bold enough to pay him a visit, much less without any arrangement made ahead of time. Crossing the distance between the divan and the door with light steps, he flung it open, knife concealed in his hand and ready to thrust forward.

Eponine. Not the figure he had been expecting, but far more welcome. He regarded her for a moment, critical of the distinctly half-drowned-rat aspect of the girl's appearance after being caught in the rain, but stepped aside to admit her into the flat. His eyes remained glued on her. There were some better points to her clothes being soaked through, he admitted to himself with a smirk. “Why are you here?”

[EPONINE THENARDIER]

As the door opened, Eponine crossed her arms across her chest, shivering from the rainwater still dripping off her. She looked up to see Montparnasse smirking down at her. He was only half dressed, his shirt hanging loosely around his chest. She had seen him plenty of times without his vest and coat, but it still never ceased to make her uncomfortable. There was something unsettling about seeing him without the clothes he cherished so much, almost primal, as if he was about to commit some act that risked him ruining them. Which of course she had seen him do plenty of times as well. But tonight it looked as if he was only relaxing at home, and she was grateful to find him there. She had sought him out for several things before. A roof over her head for the night, or warmth when the winter winds howled. Safety when the dangers of the street got to be too much for her. A meal when the hunger filled her with that empty hollow feeling. She always left feeling worse about herself in the end, but told herself she was only doing what she had to to survive.

But tonight was different. Her little home in the alley protected her from the rain soaking the streets. She had managed a bit food in the last few days, enough that she didn't need to beg of Parnasse. Tonight she was seeking a completely different kind of comfort, the kind that sadly only Montparnasse could provide. As she stepped inside his flat, she was all too aware of his eyes roaming over her damp form, how her clothes clung to her body. His question didn't catch her off guard, he was right to be suspicious. A visit from her, especially this late at night was nearly unprecedented. She opened her mouth to shoot back a snarky retort like she always did, to tell him that he should be glad she came round at all, but found her usual fire had been extinguished.

In her mind, Eponine had finally come accept, through the whims of fate or her own blindness, Parnasse was the best she could ever hope for in a man. He had money, albeit stolen. She could care for herself, true, but between the two of them, they could live in relative comfort. He could be cruel at times, but so could she. And even though he didn't love her, he desired her. And maybe that was all she needed anymore. Without so much as an explanation, Eponine grabbed the collar of Parnasse's shirt, the rainwater on her hands soaking into the fabric, and pulled him down to her. Her lips collided with his in a manner that was usually reserved for the end of a long tear through the streets. She could feel her heart breaking all the way to his flat, but now resolved to numb it all, the whole of this wretched evening. Breaking away to catch a breath, her face just inches from his, she looked up at him with watery eyes. Her voice was quieter, calmer than she was used to around him as she softly begged. "Make me forget."

[MICHEL MONTPARNASSE]

She seemed pathetic to him in her present condition. His eyes continued to roam her body, not much left to his imagination both from the wet cloth and prior knowledge. It was all that Montparnasse found attractive about her with her demeanor so broken, but it was enough. She was lucky to find him at home, the fault of the rain more than anything else. It had too much potential to ruin his hat, and it was still practically new.

He felt unprotected without his vest and coat, now that he was not alone. It wasn't acute with Eponine, but it still made him feel small. A creature of skin and blood and bones, not of shadows and swatches of expensive cloth. He

His breathing quickened and blood flowed faster as he took in the contours of Eponine's body. Yes, however pathetic she was, he wanted her. She wouldn't resist him, and, as she seized hold of him, he realized that she might even initiate it entirely. He pulled back at her lunge forward, instinctively afraid of becoming trapped—but relaxed again as she pulled him into a kiss. Her clothes were cold, and he refrained from touching her. When she broke the kiss, he smirked. He could make her forget well enough, and make himself forget the weather too—but not if she was going to feel like a wet fish in his bed.

“Your clothes are soaked.” He kept his voice soft, low, half a whisper. “You'll catch cold.” His concern was partially feigned, more a ruse to get her out of her clothes than real fear for her well-being. But then, she would look nicer when not soaked, would be less likely to damage his furniture and his clothing, and he didn't want to get sick. Nor did he want her sick. “The schoolboys spurn you?” The sharp edge of a knife crept into his tone of voice, almost mocking. He was jealous of the effect their attention and their neglect had on her, but now she once again was his.

With nimble fingers, he reached to unfasten her clothing, ignoring the unpleasant coldness of the cloth beneath his fingers. The chill on her flesh was more appealing, the knowledge that he could bring to it a flush and warmth. He leaned forward to kiss her again, impatient and with a sudden sense of urgency. Of all the men in Paris, she had come crawling back to him for this. It gave him a sense of power, almost of ownership. Breaking off the kiss again, he allowed himself a humorless chuckle. If she belonged to him--and there was no doubt that she did--then he was a talented thief indeed, robbing not only the schoolboys she tried to give herself to but Thenardier himself.

[EPONINE THENARDIER]

((Sorry it took so long. I had several versions but I was a little wary on how much passion to put onto the forums. Especially since this is supposed to obviously grow from here, I needed a fairly subdued bit at first. So after about 15 drafts, here we go.))

As he smirked down at her, his eyes roaming over her body, Eponine felt a shiver go through her, and not from the cold damp clothes clinging to her. Already she could feel the pain of the evening slipping away as she kissed him hungrily. It didn't escape her notice that he didn't dare to hold her, not even touch her, but she could hardly expect him to soak his precious clothes. When he smiled down at her and warned her she might catch cold, she willfully let her believe he might actually care about her well-being. In her heart, she knew it was just a pretense, but if he was willing to pretend, then so was she. She could imagine they were more than just thieves, seeking base comfort in each other, that they were lovers, in every sense of the words. She could push back the memories of the pain and fear and regret that seemed to surround 'Parnasse in her mind. Anything to fool herself that her life was better than it truly was.

His next words shattered the illusion though. A spark of anger fired behind her eyes and she glared up at Montparnasse, her mouth turning down into a frown. He was mocking her, she knew, calling out her weakness for the students in an effort to remind her she didn't belong with them. Not that she needed the reminder tonight. The whole evening leading up to their heated kiss had been reminder enough. Still his words stung, just as deep and painful as if he'd stabbed his with his ever present blade. For a moment, she considered throwing them back in his face, telling him how she, the dirty gamine from Rue Saint-Denis, had gotten a proclamation of love from one of those so called schoolboys. Part of her wanted to smirk and tell him about how quiet, respectable Blaise Combeferre, who he was so sure was among those pushing her away, trying to get rid of her, had burst forth with beautiful, if awkward, affection for her.

But if she did that, she'd next have to explain why she was here with him instead of in the arms of the blonde bookworm. She'd have to admit to 'Parnasse that she had messed up, broken the man's heart and went off to have her own shattered seemingly beyond repair. And at the moment she was just not willing to be that vulnerable around the thief. Instead she bit out a simple sharp command to shut up before careening into his lips again, her own eagerness matching his. His hands finally deigned to brush against her cold skin, his fingers leaving gooseflesh as he found the stays of her bodice. Her heart began to thrum loudly in her ears as she felt the restrictive garment begin to loosen, the damp fabric reluctantly giving way. A flush crept up from her chest, across her cool damp neck and settled on her face, the anticipation of what was to come making her head swim. As her pulse began to race, she felt him pull back from her lips again, laughing coldly, no doubt pleased with himself, that he could draw her back yet again. Eponine frowned, both at the laugh and the absence of the warmth of his lips on hers. "I hardly find this funny." Even as she spoke her hands were working their way across his chest, twisting the fabric of his shirt around her fingers, inching it further up his stomach. It was all she could do not yank the offending garment away, just to quiet his self-congratulatory mood. But the last thing she wanted was to ruin this last bit of solace she had for the night.

[MICHEL MONTPARNASSE]

“I didn't ask you to find it funny,” he reached toward her, touching his fingertips lightly to her cheeks before tipping her head up so that he could stare into her eyes. It wasn't so much funny even to him, except that she might make a fool of herself in throwing herself at them. Still, Marius' name was not on her lips, and he doubted any man but him could drag her attentions away from that particular fool. “You must admit, though, that there is a note of the absurd in it.” He liked that word. Absurd. It sounded cultured, almost gentlemanly in a way that could perhaps even complete with her beloved schoolboys.

Her skin was still cold beneath his fingers, and he let them trail back down her cheeks and across her jaw, then down her neck. He stopped at the top of her bodice, the clammy edge of the fabric tickling against his skin like the flesh of some detestable frog. Unconsciously, his lip curled at the sensation. He pushed her away, gently enough not to hurt her, further into his room. He checked quickly that the door was closed and latched, locked as well as it could be since he'd broken the main locking mechanism upon taking up residence, and turned back to face her again.

She still looked angry. Maybe it was justified, but so far he hadn't said anything to her that wasn't at least mostly true. Frowning, he looked down at his own clothing, pulling it away from his body. She had left his shirt with a damp spot, cold against his skin. With a groan he took it off, holding it out to her at arm's length.

“I'm serious about the cold, though,” he finally added. “Change. You'll get us both sick.” He turned away from her, glancing back over his shoulder to steal a glimpse as adroitly as he might steal a purse. Soon enough nothing would be hidden from him, but he preferred she not be clammy when that happened. Then he went to a chest in the corner, filled with those articles of clothing that would not be harmed by being folded. Choosing a different shirt, he slipped it on over his head and turned back to face her again.