Work Text:
Drink, fuck, spew
Telephone you
If you’re alone in your room, what’s that boy doing?
⁂
Montparnasse has a habit of climbing up Éponine’s fire escape and tapping on her window until she gives up trying to pretend she’s asleep and lets him in. The first time he’d done it, she’d fixed him with a look that could’ve killed pigeons in midair and told him if he ever pulled this shit again she’d post his love letters on Facebook. He’d been so high at the time that he’d found the idea hilarious, and urged her to do it right then and there. She had rolled her eyes and shoved him into her bed, vowing to hamstring him if he even thought about touching her. They fell asleep curled together, his cheek pressed against the back of her neck, her knees drawn up close to her body, locking his hands in place where they rested on her stomach.
When he can’t climb the fire escape, he calls her. She always picks up because she hates listening to the messages he leaves when she doesn’t. Sometimes she’s alone, sometimes she’s not. On the night of her 20th birthday she wasn’t; she was barricaded in her room with Grantaire and Musichetta, having flatly refused a party despite general household enthusiasm for the idea. Musichetta was sitting tailor-style on Éponine’s bed, rolling a joint, while Grantaire had found Éponine’s keyboard almost as soon as he’d walked in and was still absorbed in picking out chords and melodies half-remembered from high school piano lessons.
“Éponine,” Montparnasse crooned down the line, “where are you? We’re all missing your pretty face.”
“I told you to stop calling me,” she responded coldly. Grantaire looked up at her, frowning; there weren’t many people she used that tone with, and all of them were bad news. Musichetta silently offered her a cigarette, which she took gladly.
“But it’s your birthday, sweetheart,” Montparnasse was saying, and he sounded positively fond.
Éponine pushed her window open so she could climb out onto the fire escape. “So?”
The night was warm—one of the perks of having a summer birthday, she supposed—and the sky was clear enough that she could see the stars. She could hear Musichetta asking Grantaire a question in the room behind her, but she made no effort to pick out the words when he replied; she trusted him not to say anything he shouldn’t.
“Are you doing anything to celebrate?” Montparnasse asked.
“I’m about to smoke a joint with my friends,” she mumbled around her cigarette. She tilted her head and held her phone to her ear with one shoulder while she hunted for her lighter in her jacket pockets. “And then we’re going to watch The Little Mermaid and probably fall asleep.”
There was a pause. “The Disney movie?”
She came up with her lighter and made a small noise of triumph before lighting the cigarette. “Yes, the Disney movie, what other Little Mermaid is there?” she said impatiently.
“No, you’re right, of course. Stupid question,” he said, and there was laughter clear in his voice.
“As if you’ve never gotten high and watched Disney movies.”
“I’m not denying it,” he said easily, “but I’m more of a Pixar guy, myself.”
She huffed a breath of laughter laced with smoke. “How modern of you.”
“You still hanging around with Grantaire these days? He’s too old for you,” he added, because apparently giving unsolicited opinions of Éponine’s friends was his calling in life.
She rolled her eyes, hugged a knee to her chest in an unconsciously defensive pose. “I keep telling you, we’re not fucking. He’s got a boyfriend.”
“Really? Who?”
“That is definitely none of your business. Look, you’ve got until I finish this cigarette and then I’m hanging up, so if you’ve got something important to say you’d better say it.”
“I just wanted to wish you happy birthday. That’s it, I swear.”
“If you really want to make me happy you’ll stop calling me,” she griped, knowing it wouldn’t deter him in the slightest. “And stop climbing up my fucking fire escape like a deranged stalker.”
“But then I’d never get to see you,” he said, and she could hear his shit-eating grin.
“That’s the idea,” she retorted.
“You wound me, Éponine,” he sighed. “How’s Azelma doing? I heard she moved in with a friend to get away from your parents. I didn’t know she had it in her.”
Éponine sat up straight and flicked the remainder of her cigarette over the edge of the fire escape, hissing into the phone, “You and your asshole friends stay the fuck away from my sister, do you understand me?”
“Whoa, easy, mama bear. I’m not interested in your sister, okay? Breathe.”
“I’m serious, Montparnasse—”
“I can hear that,” he interrupted, “and I’m telling you, you’ve got nothing to worry about. I was just asking. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
She shut her eyes and took a deep breath. “Good.”
“You’re a good person, Éponine.” He sounded slightly wistful, which was worrying. When Montparnasse got wistful he tended to write her letters.
“Yeah, and you’re a piece of shit. I’ve gotta go.”
“You don’t have to,” he said, and she couldn’t tell how much of that sulky tone was an act.
“Goodnight, Montparnasse.”
She hung up.
⁂
The next morning she found an envelope wedged against her windowsill. She sighed heavily as she opened it, and Musichetta looked up blearily from Éponine’s bed, still half-asleep. Grantaire had managed to stumble down the stairs to his room after the movie, but Musichetta had stopped giggling and started snoring softly just before Ariel had tried to comb her hair with a fork. Rather than waking her and sending to her own room, Éponine had simply curled up next to her and passed out.
“Is that a letter?” she asked, confused. Last night’s makeup was smudged around her eyes, and her lipstick had mostly worn off, but she still managed to look like some kind of sleep-rumpled pinup.
“Montparnasse,” Éponine said by way of explanation, and sat down at her desk to read. There were two pages to the letter, which she skimmed quickly before reading it properly from the beginning.
“Ah,” Musichetta said, and rolled onto her back, stretching expansively. “He’s the pretty one, right? The one who’s always looking at you like you hung the moon?”
Éponine sighed again and turned to fix her with an exasperated stare. “Yeah, that’s him.”
Musichetta smirked. “He writes you letters?”
“If you say the word ‘cute’ in relation to this I will cut you,” Éponine told her seriously. “It’s not cute. He’s a fucking psychopath.”
Musichetta hummed, unconvinced. “What does he say?”
I’m sorry if I upset you last night.
“A whole lot of bullshit.”
I promise I didn’t steal the necklace. The emerald is real and it’s a gold chain so if you hate it or hate me or whatever, please don’t throw it out, at least pawn the thing.
Necklace? Éponine frowned and upended the envelope over the desk; a fine gold chain slithered out, followed by a heavier gold pendant that clunked onto the wood and lay there looking totally out of place. It was teardrop-shaped and elaborately filigreed, set with an emerald about half the size of her pinky fingernail.
Musichetta whistled, peering over her shoulder. “Is that real?”
“Allegedly,” Éponine muttered, gingerly picking it up. “What an asshole.”
“Not a fan of emeralds?” Musichetta asked, sounding deeply amused.
“They’re my favourite. He knows that.” She said it in much the same way as she’d talk about someone putting rat poison in her coffee. “I’m going to get Gav to slash his tires.”
“That seems like an odd way to thank someone. Are you going to put it on?”
“No! I’m not going to wear this,” Éponine replied, staring at the necklace as if it was radioactive. “He already has no idea what the word ‘no’ means. If I start wearing his fucking jewellery he’ll think he’s bought me.”
Musichetta shrugged. “Your call. It’d look great with your skin tone, though.”
“Thanks, that’s helpful,” Éponine growled.
“What is your damage?” Musichetta asked, perching on the edge of her bed and idly rearranging her tousled hair. “You’re not afraid of him, are you?”
Éponine snorted derisively. “I think it’s the other way around.”
“Right. So, I mean, this is going to sound really judgmental and I swear I don’t mean it that way, but he’s this poor loser who clearly worships you and has resorted to leaving you handwritten letters and expensive jewellery on your birthday because you told him to stop calling.”
“He completely ignores me when I tell him to stop calling,” Éponine pointed out irritably.
“So change your number,” Musichetta shot back.
Éponine shrugged. “That’d be a pain in my ass, and it wouldn’t stop him coming over.”
“And that’s the only reason you don’t?” Musichetta arched an eyebrow at her. “Really?”
“Look, you don’t know Montparnasse, and I don’t like men who don’t listen when I say stop.”
Musichetta’s look turned calculating. “You’re not in trouble, are you?”
“No more than usual. But he probably is. Look, I don’t like talking about that stuff. Can we just drop it?”
“Fine.” Musichetta raised empty palms in a placating gesture. “And you’re right, you know, if you tell someone to stop bothering you and they don’t cut it out then they’re an asshole. I didn’t mean to sound like I was blaming you for not being into the guy.”
“God, I know you didn’t,” Éponine said dismissively, still staring at the necklace. “You sound like Combeferre. What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?”
“Keep it? Sell it? Make a home video of yourself fucking someone while you’re wearing it and send him a copy?”
“Okay, see, this is why I never come to you for advice.”
“What? That was stellar advice.” Musichetta stifled a yawn and got to her feet. “I’m craving French toast. You want some?”
Éponine shook her head. “I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m not hungry yet. I’ll probably just grab something on the way to work. Thanks, though.”
“Alright,” Musichetta shrugged, and pulled her into an unexpected hug, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Sorry about your stalker. Let me know if you want me to beat him up for you or something.”
Éponine smiled despite herself. “Sure.”
She considered the necklace in silence for a few minutes after Musichetta left. In the end she couldn’t come up with anything logical to do with it, so she tucked it into her wallet before she went to shower, and did her best not to think about it for the rest of the day.