Post by EPONINE THENARDIER on Jun 11, 2013 16:11:10 GMT -5
(This took hold of my muse last week and would not turn her lose until I wrote it. I figured I'd share it since it took me a while to get it out. Modern AU. Enjoy.)
They say you never forget your first love. Whoever "they" are. They say it's a completely magical experience, that when you meet that one person you're meant to be with, you just know. Birds will sing, bells will chime, the heavens will part, and all that other crap that Broadway musicals would have you believe. What they don't tell you is how many times you will mistake something for first love. And that you'll remember every one of them.
I can easily remember the first boy I thought I loved. At just 15 and being shuffled through the foster care system after my parents were arrested, I suppose I was just looking for someone, anyone to notice me, to care about me. Perhaps that's why I fell so hard for Michel Montparnasse, why my young heart was so ready to believe it was in love. He was a couple years older than me and both of us made orphans by the justice system. Rather him by his mom's drug addiction and tendency to whore herself out to pay for a fix. And me by my parents' greed and habit of forging, extorting, or downright stealing. Michel was the poster child for kids in foster care and how it screws them up. He smoked and drank, but stayed away from the harder stuff because of what it did to his mom. He was a rather accomplished thief, hardly ever getting caught. That kept him in the coolest clothes, but don't let the appearance fool you. He always had a switchblade on him and the idiots at school only made the mistake of messing with him once. Most kids our age were afraid of him, even if half the girls wanted him at the same time. Both our foster parents and his social worker were frustrated with him.
And I adored him.
From the moment he stepped to my side at school, warning off the pretty girls with their teasing smiles and cutting words. No one had ever stood up for me before, certainly no one who looked like him. The way he looked longingly at me, the protective arm around my shoulders, the stolen kisses in darkened corners. He desired me, like no one ever had before. I was his, completely succumbed. And that's just what he wanted. Michel was my first in more ways than one. The first boy I thought I was in love with, the first boy I ever kissed, the first boy I had sex with (I refuse to call what we did making love), and the first boy I was ever truly afraid of. Because desire is not the same as love. Very quickly began a cycle that took me years to put a name to. Things would be good, almost idyllic. There would be gifts and dates and loving words. Then like a gathering storm, everything would darken. The longing looks would turn to pointed glares, the protective embrace would tighten into a controlling grip. It usually took just one thing to break loose. Any perceived slight or insult to him. Perhaps I talked to another boy just a little too flirtatiously, or looked at a friend just a little too long. Or I was just a little too late making it to our usual meeting place after school. Whatever the trigger, when the storm came, wild and angry, all I could do was batten down the hatches, ride it out, and hide the damage when it had passed.
Michel's anger left me with a network of scars, both outside and inside. Plenty of people probably suspected what was going on, but I never told anyone. Not while it was happening anyway. I wish I could tell you I was strong and made it out on my own, but I'd be lying. In the end, a twist of irony made Michel's anger, the same anger that blackened my sky with storm clouds, into my savior. Attempted murder, that damn switchblade, pulled on the wrong guy in the wrong place, and Michel was out of my life for ten to fifteen years with the possibility of parole. As far as I know he's still rotting in prison. Good riddance.
After Michel, it would be years before I would let myself think I was in love again. It would take me colliding with a boy in the hall outside my English Lit class my sophomore year of college, a flurry of papers and books and an overwhelming embarrassment to make me feel that spark again. Kneeling to help me gather my papers and sputtering an apology, the freckled redhead introduced himself as Marius and asked me to lunch to make up for running me over and scattering my stuff. Something in his green eyes struck me to the core and I heard myself agreeing before I even knew what was happening. I fell for him over that lunch and just like before, I fell hard. But Marius Pontmercy was nothing like Michel. He was awkward and animated, funny and compassionate. His major was political science, but he wanted to go on to law school after college. He came from money, but hated to show it off. He was never angry, and he never gave me any reason to be afraid of him.
From that moment on, not a day went by that we didn't at least speak to one another on the phone. He introduced me to his friends, a motley crew of students with similar ideals. We would plan lunches together, walk to our classes together, hang out nearly every night, either alone or with our friends. He was everything I could have wanted in a guy. But as much as I wished, he never loved me. We were just friends. If anyone asked him, he might even name me as one of his best friends, one of the people he can count on to always be there when he needs them. And I was, reliably there by his side, integrated into his circle of friends. We teased each other, harmless flirting. Surely some of them knew how I felt, but if they did, they never showed it.
And just like that, he was gone. Not out of my life, but definitely "off the market" as they say. He couldn't have known how I felt, not with the way he called the night he met her. I was his best friend, and he had to share his happy news. He was in love. Love at first sight, and it was everything the storybooks and love songs had promised. The girl was perfect, some blonde haired beauty he had seen across the coffeehouse where he liked to study. The way he described her, you would have thought she was some angel or goddess, deigning to live among us mortals. I tore my heart in two, but I listened, feigned cheerfulness for his sake. I told him how happy I was for him and sure, I'd love to meet her. By the time I hung up, I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes.
I remember meeting her, this angel named Cosette, and thinking she was just as pretty as Marius had said. And so damn nice. Why did she have to be so nice to me? To everyone? It would have been easier to hate her if she had been mean or spiteful or controlling, but she was just too. Damn. Nice. It's no wonder he was in love with her. Hell, I wasn't one hundred percent sure I wasn't in love with her. Rather than be around the perfectly happy couple, I started making excuses, pulling away and shutting myself up more.
And then I did something supremely stupid, as usual. I don't remember most of it. One night, someone mentioned a club and I was more than happy to tag along. A club meant loud music, lots of dancing... and a bar. A bar with plenty of drinks to drown my heartache in. I remember piling a bunch of our friends into my car and driving across town, paying the cover charge at the door, and then the night gets hazy. I found out later I had parked myself at a table with a glass, no one could recall how many times I emptied it. Apparently I started dancing and flirting and generally making a drunken fool of myself, trying to pick up anything that wasn't of the fairer sex. I even tried to drive myself home before someone took my keys. I don't remember any of it. All I know is I woke up alone the next morning with a killer headache in a bed that wasn't mine. At first I panicked, fearing the worst, but I was still fully clothed. Although my shoes were off and neatly set on the floor beside the bed.
My fears were pretty much silenced when I finally stumbled out of the room to find myself in his flat. Blaise Combeferre, the group's go to DD. It seems like he'd had plenty of practice at this too as there was already warm tea with lemon and honey, toast and a fresh banana waiting for me on the kitchen table. For his part, he didn't fuss over me, didn't ask too many questions or scold me for my foolishness. Just sat there, across the table from me, sipping his tea and reading a book. He always had a book with him. I ate in silence, keeping my eyes on my food, trying to piece together what had happened between entering the club and waking up that morning, and praying that the food would stay down. It didn't and I had to make a mad dash for his bathroom. By the time I was done, I was crying, ashamed of how far I had fallen, how I'd let myself be hurt and humiliated myself.
Blessedly, Blaise was there. He just held my hair and rubbed my back, placing a cold cloth over the back of my neck. He didn't try to hold me or tell me to stop crying. He didn't say anything, but he didn't leave either. He leaned against the doorway, a mere foot away on his bathroom floor, just close enough to make it clear he was there if I needed him. It was like he knew that I didn't want to be pitied, if I was going to get comfort, I needed to seek it out rather than have it offered. My pride wouldn't allow me to sob into his chest like a child. I'm not even sure how long I sat there, my legs pulled up to my chest, crying into my knees, but I finally managed an apology. Blaise waved it off, saying he'd done this for plenty of his friends before.
His next words floored me. He told me Marius was an idiot. The shock was enough that I stopped crying and looked up at his blue eyes in disbelief. He just shrugged and told me that he thought I should know. I should have guessed. Quiet, reserved Blaise, always blending into the background of our friends, but always watching. Besides Christian, he was probably the most observant of them. There was little his bespectacled eyes missed. He knew every one of our friends' quirks and tells. It made him a monster at poker. Of course he knew about my feelings for Marius. Of course he knew why I wasn't around as much, and it had nothing to do with papers or work or imaginary illnesses and everything to do with a broken heart. He offered me his bed for the rest of the day and a ride back to my car that afternoon and an open door if I ever needed anything.
If Michel was a gathering storm and Marius was a lightning bolt, Blaise was an early spring rain. The warm, gentle kind that washes the earth clean and makes way for new life. It snuck up on us both, that rain. Neither of us knew it was happening until we were both too far gone. It started out simple enough. I asked him to dinner to pay him back for rescuing my drunk ass from whatever disaster I was headed for that night. He agreed but only after I swore to him that I would not be breaking the bank on this meal. We spent the entire evening talking, about anything and everything. It was an odd feeling, but since Blaise had already seen me at my worst, I was more relaxed, less worried with trying to impress him. It had been a long time since I had been that vulnerable around someone and it was liberating. It wasn't until we were informed that the restaurant was closing that we realized we had been talking for hours.
From there it was little things. I learned that he liked his tea so hot the steam would fog his glasses even in the middle of summer. He learned that my favorite comfort food was Double Stuf Oreos and hot cocoa, but only if it had marshmallows and whipped cream. I learned his favorite movies were psychological thrillers, the ones that had the hero having to out think the villain and usually kept you guessing until the end how it would all turn out only to twist it all on its head in the last fifteen minutes. He learned that I loved Christmas decorations and would drag anyone I knew through the stores as soon as they were stocked, even if it was September.
And those little things grew into bigger things. I let him see the scars left by my "first love" and the ones left by my inability to cope with the same. His fingers brushed over them as he said I was beautiful. Not in spite of my scars, but because of them, because they showed how strong I was and how far I'd come. He told me about his greatest fears, letting down his friends and family, not being there when they really needed him, never being good enough. My hand found his as I saw the scared little boy behind the glasses and told him he was better than any of us deserved. That he didn't have to be strong all the time, it was okay to lean on someone now and then. That I would be that someone if he wanted.
It seems we were always headed for this. That's the only thing I can think as I gaze in the mirror, smoothing my hand over the simple white sundress, taking in the tiny white flowers nestled in my dark curls. Everything in my life led me here. Every good thing and bad. Every defeat and triumph, mistake and victory. Every single thing that made me who I am. Because who I am is the woman that Blaise Combeferre loves. And everything in his life made him the man I love.
My first, and only, real love.
As I step out into the sunlight, a small bouquet of daisies in my hand, my arm linked through my little brother's and look across the gathering at the blonde in the dove grey suit next to the preacher, for just a moment I swear I could hear birds singing and bells chiming.
They say you never forget your first love. Whoever "they" are. They say it's a completely magical experience, that when you meet that one person you're meant to be with, you just know. Birds will sing, bells will chime, the heavens will part, and all that other crap that Broadway musicals would have you believe. What they don't tell you is how many times you will mistake something for first love. And that you'll remember every one of them.
I can easily remember the first boy I thought I loved. At just 15 and being shuffled through the foster care system after my parents were arrested, I suppose I was just looking for someone, anyone to notice me, to care about me. Perhaps that's why I fell so hard for Michel Montparnasse, why my young heart was so ready to believe it was in love. He was a couple years older than me and both of us made orphans by the justice system. Rather him by his mom's drug addiction and tendency to whore herself out to pay for a fix. And me by my parents' greed and habit of forging, extorting, or downright stealing. Michel was the poster child for kids in foster care and how it screws them up. He smoked and drank, but stayed away from the harder stuff because of what it did to his mom. He was a rather accomplished thief, hardly ever getting caught. That kept him in the coolest clothes, but don't let the appearance fool you. He always had a switchblade on him and the idiots at school only made the mistake of messing with him once. Most kids our age were afraid of him, even if half the girls wanted him at the same time. Both our foster parents and his social worker were frustrated with him.
And I adored him.
From the moment he stepped to my side at school, warning off the pretty girls with their teasing smiles and cutting words. No one had ever stood up for me before, certainly no one who looked like him. The way he looked longingly at me, the protective arm around my shoulders, the stolen kisses in darkened corners. He desired me, like no one ever had before. I was his, completely succumbed. And that's just what he wanted. Michel was my first in more ways than one. The first boy I thought I was in love with, the first boy I ever kissed, the first boy I had sex with (I refuse to call what we did making love), and the first boy I was ever truly afraid of. Because desire is not the same as love. Very quickly began a cycle that took me years to put a name to. Things would be good, almost idyllic. There would be gifts and dates and loving words. Then like a gathering storm, everything would darken. The longing looks would turn to pointed glares, the protective embrace would tighten into a controlling grip. It usually took just one thing to break loose. Any perceived slight or insult to him. Perhaps I talked to another boy just a little too flirtatiously, or looked at a friend just a little too long. Or I was just a little too late making it to our usual meeting place after school. Whatever the trigger, when the storm came, wild and angry, all I could do was batten down the hatches, ride it out, and hide the damage when it had passed.
Michel's anger left me with a network of scars, both outside and inside. Plenty of people probably suspected what was going on, but I never told anyone. Not while it was happening anyway. I wish I could tell you I was strong and made it out on my own, but I'd be lying. In the end, a twist of irony made Michel's anger, the same anger that blackened my sky with storm clouds, into my savior. Attempted murder, that damn switchblade, pulled on the wrong guy in the wrong place, and Michel was out of my life for ten to fifteen years with the possibility of parole. As far as I know he's still rotting in prison. Good riddance.
After Michel, it would be years before I would let myself think I was in love again. It would take me colliding with a boy in the hall outside my English Lit class my sophomore year of college, a flurry of papers and books and an overwhelming embarrassment to make me feel that spark again. Kneeling to help me gather my papers and sputtering an apology, the freckled redhead introduced himself as Marius and asked me to lunch to make up for running me over and scattering my stuff. Something in his green eyes struck me to the core and I heard myself agreeing before I even knew what was happening. I fell for him over that lunch and just like before, I fell hard. But Marius Pontmercy was nothing like Michel. He was awkward and animated, funny and compassionate. His major was political science, but he wanted to go on to law school after college. He came from money, but hated to show it off. He was never angry, and he never gave me any reason to be afraid of him.
From that moment on, not a day went by that we didn't at least speak to one another on the phone. He introduced me to his friends, a motley crew of students with similar ideals. We would plan lunches together, walk to our classes together, hang out nearly every night, either alone or with our friends. He was everything I could have wanted in a guy. But as much as I wished, he never loved me. We were just friends. If anyone asked him, he might even name me as one of his best friends, one of the people he can count on to always be there when he needs them. And I was, reliably there by his side, integrated into his circle of friends. We teased each other, harmless flirting. Surely some of them knew how I felt, but if they did, they never showed it.
And just like that, he was gone. Not out of my life, but definitely "off the market" as they say. He couldn't have known how I felt, not with the way he called the night he met her. I was his best friend, and he had to share his happy news. He was in love. Love at first sight, and it was everything the storybooks and love songs had promised. The girl was perfect, some blonde haired beauty he had seen across the coffeehouse where he liked to study. The way he described her, you would have thought she was some angel or goddess, deigning to live among us mortals. I tore my heart in two, but I listened, feigned cheerfulness for his sake. I told him how happy I was for him and sure, I'd love to meet her. By the time I hung up, I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes.
I remember meeting her, this angel named Cosette, and thinking she was just as pretty as Marius had said. And so damn nice. Why did she have to be so nice to me? To everyone? It would have been easier to hate her if she had been mean or spiteful or controlling, but she was just too. Damn. Nice. It's no wonder he was in love with her. Hell, I wasn't one hundred percent sure I wasn't in love with her. Rather than be around the perfectly happy couple, I started making excuses, pulling away and shutting myself up more.
And then I did something supremely stupid, as usual. I don't remember most of it. One night, someone mentioned a club and I was more than happy to tag along. A club meant loud music, lots of dancing... and a bar. A bar with plenty of drinks to drown my heartache in. I remember piling a bunch of our friends into my car and driving across town, paying the cover charge at the door, and then the night gets hazy. I found out later I had parked myself at a table with a glass, no one could recall how many times I emptied it. Apparently I started dancing and flirting and generally making a drunken fool of myself, trying to pick up anything that wasn't of the fairer sex. I even tried to drive myself home before someone took my keys. I don't remember any of it. All I know is I woke up alone the next morning with a killer headache in a bed that wasn't mine. At first I panicked, fearing the worst, but I was still fully clothed. Although my shoes were off and neatly set on the floor beside the bed.
My fears were pretty much silenced when I finally stumbled out of the room to find myself in his flat. Blaise Combeferre, the group's go to DD. It seems like he'd had plenty of practice at this too as there was already warm tea with lemon and honey, toast and a fresh banana waiting for me on the kitchen table. For his part, he didn't fuss over me, didn't ask too many questions or scold me for my foolishness. Just sat there, across the table from me, sipping his tea and reading a book. He always had a book with him. I ate in silence, keeping my eyes on my food, trying to piece together what had happened between entering the club and waking up that morning, and praying that the food would stay down. It didn't and I had to make a mad dash for his bathroom. By the time I was done, I was crying, ashamed of how far I had fallen, how I'd let myself be hurt and humiliated myself.
Blessedly, Blaise was there. He just held my hair and rubbed my back, placing a cold cloth over the back of my neck. He didn't try to hold me or tell me to stop crying. He didn't say anything, but he didn't leave either. He leaned against the doorway, a mere foot away on his bathroom floor, just close enough to make it clear he was there if I needed him. It was like he knew that I didn't want to be pitied, if I was going to get comfort, I needed to seek it out rather than have it offered. My pride wouldn't allow me to sob into his chest like a child. I'm not even sure how long I sat there, my legs pulled up to my chest, crying into my knees, but I finally managed an apology. Blaise waved it off, saying he'd done this for plenty of his friends before.
His next words floored me. He told me Marius was an idiot. The shock was enough that I stopped crying and looked up at his blue eyes in disbelief. He just shrugged and told me that he thought I should know. I should have guessed. Quiet, reserved Blaise, always blending into the background of our friends, but always watching. Besides Christian, he was probably the most observant of them. There was little his bespectacled eyes missed. He knew every one of our friends' quirks and tells. It made him a monster at poker. Of course he knew about my feelings for Marius. Of course he knew why I wasn't around as much, and it had nothing to do with papers or work or imaginary illnesses and everything to do with a broken heart. He offered me his bed for the rest of the day and a ride back to my car that afternoon and an open door if I ever needed anything.
If Michel was a gathering storm and Marius was a lightning bolt, Blaise was an early spring rain. The warm, gentle kind that washes the earth clean and makes way for new life. It snuck up on us both, that rain. Neither of us knew it was happening until we were both too far gone. It started out simple enough. I asked him to dinner to pay him back for rescuing my drunk ass from whatever disaster I was headed for that night. He agreed but only after I swore to him that I would not be breaking the bank on this meal. We spent the entire evening talking, about anything and everything. It was an odd feeling, but since Blaise had already seen me at my worst, I was more relaxed, less worried with trying to impress him. It had been a long time since I had been that vulnerable around someone and it was liberating. It wasn't until we were informed that the restaurant was closing that we realized we had been talking for hours.
From there it was little things. I learned that he liked his tea so hot the steam would fog his glasses even in the middle of summer. He learned that my favorite comfort food was Double Stuf Oreos and hot cocoa, but only if it had marshmallows and whipped cream. I learned his favorite movies were psychological thrillers, the ones that had the hero having to out think the villain and usually kept you guessing until the end how it would all turn out only to twist it all on its head in the last fifteen minutes. He learned that I loved Christmas decorations and would drag anyone I knew through the stores as soon as they were stocked, even if it was September.
And those little things grew into bigger things. I let him see the scars left by my "first love" and the ones left by my inability to cope with the same. His fingers brushed over them as he said I was beautiful. Not in spite of my scars, but because of them, because they showed how strong I was and how far I'd come. He told me about his greatest fears, letting down his friends and family, not being there when they really needed him, never being good enough. My hand found his as I saw the scared little boy behind the glasses and told him he was better than any of us deserved. That he didn't have to be strong all the time, it was okay to lean on someone now and then. That I would be that someone if he wanted.
It seems we were always headed for this. That's the only thing I can think as I gaze in the mirror, smoothing my hand over the simple white sundress, taking in the tiny white flowers nestled in my dark curls. Everything in my life led me here. Every good thing and bad. Every defeat and triumph, mistake and victory. Every single thing that made me who I am. Because who I am is the woman that Blaise Combeferre loves. And everything in his life made him the man I love.
My first, and only, real love.
As I step out into the sunlight, a small bouquet of daisies in my hand, my arm linked through my little brother's and look across the gathering at the blonde in the dove grey suit next to the preacher, for just a moment I swear I could hear birds singing and bells chiming.
