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Warmth. The flickering flames of a living room hearth. The scent of pine floats about the room, mixed with burning wood and hot cocoa. A glance out the window, snowflakes falling.
Glimpses of a couple reclined on a sofa, two small forms sitting on the floor in front of them, eyes transfixed on the television. The mother murmurs softly, the father chuckles.
Soft, comforting, safe.
When she wakes, it’s all she remembers.
Freezing. Gusts of wind against the house tosses out any heat. The stench of alcohol and tobacco. Darkness, shadows invisible except the faint moonlight peaking in through the window from the storm.
Shouts behind a closed door. Five small forms, huddled together, wrapped in blankets, shivering. A young girl among them speaks, but much of her words are drowned out by the wind slamming against the exterior.
Fear, frozen, vulnerable.
He wakes, tangled in his bedsheets and blankets, feeling the cold deep within his bones.
For Eponine, most of her nights are welcomed with memories of happiness and fondness, an escape from the harshness of her reality.
Memories that are not hers.
She knows not whose they are, not personally, at least. But she knows his face, knows his voice.
She’s there, inserted in these dreams where she feels loved, where creeping shadows and living terrors vanish. She’s welcomed, granted a small piece in this life she has never lived.
For Enjolras, his nights come with dread, where at times he avoids sleep to keep the terror from touching him.
He catches the worry, the anger that forms in her dark eyes. She has walls built around her, always on guard, shielding her.
Her memories are of pain, of horror. The atrocities he sees lead him to move forward, protect her, but he’s pushed away towards cement floors and brick walls.
He’s grateful for the daytime that is his reality.
There are, occasionally, nights where they do not see into the lives of the other. They are brought together, in a place of peace, and they are alone.
More often than not, her skin is covered with bruises and scars, dark hair a ragged mess. Her clothes are worn, patched up, stitched, and stained.
To her, he’s pristine. Neat blond curls, his clothing crisp and clean. His eyes, a deep stone blue, give the impression he’s as cold and heartless as those of the same financial status as him, looking down on her, but rather, towards her, she finds warmth, pity, concern.
How much of her pain does he know? Surely, he’s seen the terrors she experiences every day, as she’s seen the comfortable life he lives!
Does he experience or bear witness to every punch, every cut, every verbal sting telling her she’s worthless, that there’s no way out of this gutter life except death? Has he heard her screams, seen her tears as she does what she can to fight? Does he know of her darkest moments, where in her father’s lost bets to his friends she becomes their prize for the night, where she pleads and asks herself what wrong she did to deserve this, where she feels ill, dirty, and used?
Sleep is her only reprieve, her safe place from reality.
He hates seeing her like this.
Battered, bruised, yet unwilling to break. Cracks remain part of her façade, but she refuses to crumble, even in a space where her reality cannot touch her.
Nights where she’s shuddering from terror, she will not let him hold her hand, brush her shoulder. Such gestures only terrify her more. If his coat or a blanket is available, he’ll wrap it around her shoulders, the rare instance she’ll take anything of comfort from him.
The words they share in these instances…he tries to speak of warmth, of her strength, but he doubts she believes him; from all he’s witnessed, her life is a living nightmare. All she can look forward to is the break sleep provides.
Does she even trust him? They are strangers in reality, but what do these nightmares and dreams do for them? What is there to gain?
If she knew him, if they met, would she be hostile, fiery, as he’s sometimes seen her to be? Or would she reveal herself cautious and guarded?
“It’s not a matter of if, but when,” she says, wrapped in a blanket, the pair of them sitting on a bench, viewing the reflection of moonlight on the Seine this time. “If the stories are to be what they say, we will meet some day.”
“I’ve never given the stories much credit,” he replies.
She shrugs. “Neither do I, especially after what it’s brought my parents. Though, of what I’ve seen of your parents, I do have some hope in this world I’ll be in love for myself one day.”
And if what they say is true, it will be with me, he keeps to himself.
There’s a part of him that wants to fight his predetermined fate, deny it and find his own path as he’s meant to find it, if he ever finds it at all.
Yet, the more he meets with her, the more he feels contending with it will be an uphill battle.
He likes her, cares about her, but he refuses to say he loves her.
Not yet, anyway.
A rarer instance still, are foresights.
Everything around her blinds her, white, sterile. The bed covers, her gown, the walls and floors.
Heaviness in her eyes near draws her back to sleep. She aches and her drowsiness does not permit her the will to move. A glance to her arms, and for the first time, bruises are absent.
And on her left hand, a silver band.
She turns to the window, and glimpses a flash of red.
He’s there, sitting in a chair, looking towards the small bundle in his arms. A loving smile, adoring eyes, such care as he talks softly.
A small cry comes from the bundle.
“Mama will be awake soon; she’s been through quite a bit today, too,” he murmurs, glancing towards her. There’s a moment of pause as he takes in what he sees, and he carefully gets to his feet to greet her. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired still, but given what happened this morning, I think it’s warranted,” she replies, managing a smile.
He sits down on the edge of the bed, and she peers into the bundle to see the resting face of a newborn baby. And if anything is to be said about the setting and the matching silver band on his finger, their newborn baby.
And she’s in awe.
It’s a joy well-deserved, he keeps to himself as she smiles wide at the sleeping bundle.
All her pain, all her terrors are years behind her. This is only a portion of what the future has for her, for the both of them.
After all, there’s steps taken before this moment, and they haven’t met in the waking world yet.
A few years later, she’s out of college and on her own, away from the darkness that once plagued her life. And she is grateful for it.
She still sees him, in her dreams. As far as she can tell, his life is just as bright and comfortable as it’s always been, while hers has gotten better; if his behavior towards her is of any indication, he’s taken notice how her past is gone, the fear vanished.
Every Saturday, weather permitting, she goes out after dawn, grabs a coffee from the nearest shop, and takes a seat on a bench alongside the Seine. It’s relatively peaceful, to her at least, the sounds of cars passing by, the glimmer of sunlight on the water, watching the boats pass by. She’ll bring a novel or sketchbook with her, spend a few hours, and be home by noon.
It's a warm autumn day when she goes through this routine, and she arrives to find her usual bench occupied by a young man. No bother, she thinks, and she decides to walk a little further down for another one.
Only, as she walks by, she pauses at the familiarity of the young man, who at the present is engrossed in the contents of his phone to notice her stare. She’s seen much of those blond curls, that to not recognize him would be a lapse on her part.
She almost continues walking past, let them meet when they’re meant to, not force the situation. But perhaps, this is her chance.
She takes a deep breath and walks toward him.
“Pardon me, monsieur, but is this seat taken?”
He looks up, prepared to say no and move over a bit to give the young woman more room to sit on the free side of the bench, only for the word to die on his lips.
“It’s you,” he says, eyes wide.
“It’s me,” she smiles.
It takes a few moments to register, to see her face in reality, which until now, had been untouched by her presence. And she’s just as he’s dreamt her to be, no longer marred by bruises and cuts. And happy, she’s at a point where she’s finally happy.
“Please, go ahead,” he manages, moving over to one side of the bench.
“Thank you.” She sets her bag down at her feet.
And that is how it begins.