Chapter Text
“You’re bi?” asked Montparnasse. “Wow, that’s hot”
Éponine could tell, right away, that coming out to her new flat-mates was not going to be as painless as she had hoped.
She rolled her eyes and tried to suppress the urge to punch someone. Punching someone would definitely be in violation of the university’s terms of tenancy.
Up until about five minutes ago, everything had been going so well.
It was the last weekend of Freshers’ fortnight, and the assortment of students living along Éponine’s corridor in the university halls had been pre-drinking for one last, consequence-less night out before lectures began.
Besides Éponine, there were seven of them in total: Montparnasse, a Theatre student, who had arrived with four suitcases of clothes and few other possessions; Gueulemer, a body-building type with an incredible beard, who had chosen to study Geography because he’d heard it was ‘a bit of a doss’; Babet, an angular Pharmacology student; Boulatruelle, who, okay, was always passed out drunk (Éponine had yet to exchange more than a few words with him, or figure out what degree he was taking), but he seemed fun; Brujon, a guy with a greasy ponytail who appeared to be doing Law just to learn how to break it; Fauntleroy, the only other girl, who was another Geography student and went in for the whole flower crowns and float-y top aesthetic; Panchaud, who was doing Biosciences and smoked like an engine; and Claquesous, a Maths student who left his room only very briefly, and only at night, yet always wore shades.
Despite having known each other for only two weeks, they had all been getting along wonderfully. Éponine should have known that something would happen to disturb the peace. Since when had anything in her life gone wonderfully?
This ‘something’ that had happened had come in the form of a pile of flyers left on the communal kitchen table.
Alongside reminders about the rubbish bins, coupons, and promotional leaflets from campus societies, there had been a leaflet for something called ‘The ABC’. Apparently, this was an unofficial LGBT+ campaign group on campus.
Upon discovering it, Éponine’s flatmates had been very entertained.
“Why’ve we even been given this crap?” Fantleroy had asked, “It’s not like any of us are that way.”
Éponine had, of course, not been able to keep her mouth shut. She had spent enough time on being a shy queer back in school, and much preferred the angry queer identity that she had developed over more recent years. So she had told Fauntleroy what was what. And now everyone was staring at her.
Well, some were staring; others were leering.
“No it isn’t,” Éponine said, in response to Montparnasse. The comeback was a tad too late for it seem quite as cool as she had intended.
“It is, though,” said Montparnasse.
“Yeah,” agreed Panchaud. This seemed to be his favourite word – Éponine didn’t think he was capable of any conversation that went beyond agreeing with whatever opinion was currently being voiced.
Gueulemer leaned in closer over the kitchen table, smirking. “Can I watch?” he asked.
“Watch what?” asked Éponine. “Me existing as a bi person?” This comeback, she thought, was mildly snappier than the last. Still, she was hardly on top form. What was wrong with her tonight?
“You guys are gross,” said Fauntleroy, wrinkling her nose.
For a moment, Éponine thought that she had found an unexpected ally against the men. Then she realised that Fauntleroy was also including Éponine in the ‘gross’ category. Fucking typical.
“I don’t feel safe now,” Fauntleroy continued. “I can’t believe the uni would just, like, put you in accommodation with other girls without warning them. We share a bathroom.”
“You share a bathroom with all these straight men, sweetie,” Éponine replied, indicating the various straight men with a sweep of her hand.
Montparnasse patted Fauntleroy on the shoulder, making a soothing noise. “It’s alright, ‘Roy,” he said, “everyone knows girls just say they’re bi for attention anyway. She’s not actually going to do anything to you.”
Éponine tried not to think about how satisfying it would be to stab Montparnasse several times with the kitchen’s paring knife. Instead, she forced her face into a smile, clenched her fists under the table, and tried to count to ten.
Before she could get halfway, Montparnasse was talking again.
“Although,” he was saying, “I wouldn’t mind some sandwich action with the two of you girls.”
The other men murmured in agreement (Apart from Boulatruelle, who was already fast asleep on the floor).
“In your fucking dreams,” said Éponine.
“Aw,” said Brujon, “don’t be a prude. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that I don’t want to fuck anyone in this fucking room.”
“But why?” asked Brujon.
Éponine could see that this conversation was going to go round and round in circles. A torturous night of fielding sexuality questions loomed before her; her head pulsed just at the possibility.
Sometimes there was just no arguing with ignorance, Éponine thought. Sometimes you just had to lie.
“I’m dating someone,” she said.
“What,” asked Montparnasse, “a man?” He nudged Fauntleroy, “Told you she was just saying it for attention.”
“No,” said Éponine, “a woman. A girlfriend.”
Everyone seemed to consider this for a few moments.
“So…” said Gueulemer, having turned the information over in his mind, “Can I watch?”
-
Éponine ended up spending her last, consequence-less night in her room, unpacking the last of her books and trying not to cry. Even if she did cry a little bit, they were tears of righteous anger. There had never been tears more righteous.
She certainly wasn’t crying because she was upset by something some straight men had said.
Her first seminar was scheduled for the following morning. While Éponine wasn’t keen on the idea of leaving her room and listening to more crap from her flatmates, she refused to let herself live like Claquesous now, venturing out only to use the bathroom or to get food.
No: it was embarrassing enough that she had missed her last night of freedom. She wasn’t going to take any more heterosexual bullshit.
Most of her flatmates were too hung-over for her actually to encounter them when she left her room. She did run into Fauntleroy, however, as Éponine left the bathroom.
“Don’t worry, ‘Roy,” Éponine told her, “I’ve made sure to queer it up for you.”
Éponine personally thought that that one had been pretty good. Fauntleroy just glared in response, shoving past her to shut the door.
The seminar Éponine was headed to was for some module called ‘Reading the Novel’. According to the university website, the module aimed to give students a comprehensive overview of the novel as a genre, and to equip them with the best ways of approaching studying and analysing novels. And to think her parents had told her that English literature was a pointless degree!
The English faculty building, when she managed to track it down, was cosy in a shabby kind of way. Her seminar was in a small, square-ish room, which smelt of Parma violets.
All the chairs inside looked like they might collapse at any minute. Éponine took the one that looked the least dangerous, next to a girl with obviously-bleached hair and a cutesy cardigan. The girl smiled at Éponine. Éponine thought they might have already met at some Freshers’ event, but she couldn’t be sure.
Once the class had begun, and the tutor insisted on everyone introducing themselves, Éponine realised why the girl had looked so familiar: her name was Cosette Fauchelevent, and Éponine had gone to primary school with her.
“What a small world!” laughed Cosette, when Éponine mentioned it at the end of the seminar. She seemed genuinely entertained by the information, which told Éponine that she must not have remembered much about their shared primary school experience. In Éponine’s recollection, Cosette had been rather bullied, and Éponine was certainly not guilt-free in that department.
“Where are you living now?” Cosette asked. “I’m in Picpus.”
Éponine grimaced. “The all-girls’ halls? Isn’t that, like, full of –” She caught herself before saying something that might cause offence. If Cosette was in Picpus, she probably fitted the Picpus stereotype of the goody-goody posh girl. “I mean,” Éponine began again, “how are your flatmates?”
“They’re nice,” said Cosette, “friendly. And I know what you were about to say: no, they’re not all devoutly religious public school-ers. Well, some of them are, but there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Sorry,” said Éponine. She had just noticed a small crucifix on a pendant around Cosette’s neck, which more or less confirmed her suspicions about Cosette’s character. “I’m in Salpetriere,” she added.
Salpetriere was notorious for being loud and grimy, but it was also the cheapest set of halls available on-campus; even with the bursary money to which she was entitled, Éponine hadn’t had much choice.
Cosette made a noise of recognition, and then they were left in silence.
Éponine shifted her weight awkwardly between feet, and tried to think of something to say to bring the conversation to a close, but then Cosette twitched as if to leave, and suddenly Éponine didn’t want their talk to be over. If their talk was over, Éponine would have to return to her halls and to her flatmates. Perhaps Cosette was a bit vanilla, but at least she was friendly.
“So,” said Éponine hurriedly, “what did you think of the seminar?”
It was a silly question, as the seminar had only been an introductory ‘what to expect’ affair – they hadn’t even started on their reading list yet.
Still, it seemed enough to hold Cosette’s attention. She hummed thoughtfully. “Well, it sounds like it’ll be interesting. It’s a lot of reading, though: a book a week!”
Éponine voiced her agreement, and then they chatted for a while about the reading list. It appeared that Cosette was most looking forwards to reading some Austen novels, which Éponine was unsurprised to hear. She had the exact look of an Austen fan: kind of blandly, politely romantic. The cardigan she was wearing had been a dead giveaway.
Éponine was more into modernist stuff. She liked the Beat generation. But, as she explained to Cosette, she didn’t like people who liked the Beat generation. People who liked the Beat generation were invariably pretentious wankers of the Montparnasse variety.
Somewhere over the course of their conversation, they decided to stop loitering around the English faculty, and ended up getting coffee in a nearby café.
“So,” asked Cosette, after they seemed to have exhausted their book-talk, “are your parents still in Hackney?” This was where Cosette and Éponine had gone to school together, back in the day.
Éponine’s parents were not still in Hackney, but she didn’t feel much like talking about their hasty move to Dagenham when she was twelve.
“Nope,” she said, “we moved elsewhere. Still London, though.” It looked like Cosette was going to ask for specifics, so she hastily added, “How about you and your mum?”
This certainly changed the subject: to Éponine’s horror, it appeared that Cosette’s mum had died shortly after the girls had gone their separate ways. Trust Éponine to put her foot in it.
“I live with my dad now,” Cosette was saying. “That is, my adopted dad. We’ve been here and there, but we’re in Cambridgeshire at the moment.”
It wasn’t the most scintillating of conversations, but Cosette was sweet, and nobody was throwing around homophobic slurs; Éponine was enjoying herself.
Eventually, they reached a point where even Éponine’s determination was not enough to keep the conversation going, and Cosette politely excused herself. She even gave Éponine a hug as she left.
It wasn’t a proper hug – just one of those single-armed, lean-in-and-squeeze hugs – but the sensation of Cosette’s body heat pressing briefly against her made Éponine realise in a rush how long it had been since someone had hugged her. When was the last time that another person had come into contact with Éponine in a way that was neither violent nor sexual? The gentleness of the touch almost came as a shock, but it was a shock that felt entirely nice.
Cosette, unaware of all this, simply drew back, smiled, and went. The smell of her perfume – something floral and ‘classic’ – lingered.
After a minute or so, Éponine cleared her throat, reminded herself to stop being a baby, and gathered her stuff to leave. By the time she had return to her halls, this new development had almost made her forget the drama of the night before.
Even when Babet kindly reminded her of it, at least Éponine knew that there was one friendly face on campus.