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Eponine’s so focused on the sluggishly bubbling sauce, nervously looking from cookbook to pot, that she doesn’t register the slamming door. Gavroche is playing Courfeyrac’s old GameBoy Color in his bedroom (“that’s a collectible, imp, so scratch it and so help me”), so when Eponine fees a warm body against her back, she nearly lands an elbow in Feuilly’s side before recognizing his red-gold curls in his peripheral vision. There’s an explosion of breath against her shoulder, and she feels his sharp nose in her neck.
She doesn’t speak; she knows this Feuilly, and he’ll talk when he’s ready.
“I quit my job.”
That, however, is not something she’s prepared for.
“What? Why?” The spoon clatters to the stove, and she turns roughly in his arms. “And why are you smiling?” Feuilly’s not in love with his job, she knows that, but it pays him well enough to support himself and his family, so he wouldn’t undertake something like this without a damn good reason.
He looks tired, a smear of soot across one cheekbone, but his eyes are lit. “I got the fellowship.”
“What?” It’d been an experiment, a joke, even; a stipended fellowship at Amherst, studying Scots-Irish folklore. No one—not Feuilly, not Eponine, not Combeferre, who’d suggested it—had dreamed that he’d actually get it. Professor Mabeuf is a favorite of Feuilly’s, and the feeling is to all appearances mutual, but still—this.
“Gael—congratulations!” He’s grinning from ear to ear now, and she flings her arms around his neck. “I’m—I’m so proud of you,” she murmurs.
“Joe says they’ll hold a spot for me, when I get done. But—this isn’t exactly a career move, Ep.” He moves back a little, looks her straight in the eye. “It’s hiding—going back into academia so I don’t have to face the world—“
“Stop. Stop right there.” She slides her hands towards her, along his shoulders, and laces her fingers behind his neck to meet his eyes. “Is this what you want?”
“Yes.” There’s amusement in his tone, but something else in his eyes—a plea, perhaps.
“Then fuck everyone else, Gael,” she says fiercely. “You’ve given enough. To hell with it!”
The look doesn’t go away, not entirely, but his face relaxes minutely, as he allows the grin to creep back onto it.
It vanishes, though, as he glances over her shoulder. “Ep—why is the pot smoking?”
“Shit!”
The smoke turns out to be the wooden spoon on the electric burner, and the sauce remains eminently edible. Gavroche eats quickly and absent-mindedly, clears his plate as soon as politely possible, and returns to his room with a mutter of “yellow version…”
Feuilly and Eponine eat more leisurely, with Eponine providing minutiae from her day to fill the gaps where Feuilly would usually rant about customers. He’s thoughtful, nodding and hmming in the right places but not contributing much.
She zeroes in on his hand, and it’s a testament to his preoccupation that he doesn’t notice her trail off. It’s turning something small over and over, and she recognizes the photo he keeps in his wallet, next to her own. Three generations of his family, culminating in Feuilly’s siblings—two older, three younger, all ginger—and their mother, the lone blonde in the bunch. Probably helped by dye, but she’s clearly the source of Feuilly’s warm brown eyes and brilliant smile, and those make her beautiful even as she’s aged.
He won’t be able to send them money anymore, she realizes. Not and pay for a single apartment. The position’s stipended, and it’ll put him on the fast track to completing his degree—begun before the university’s scholarship cuts, before she’d even met him—and he’s got a sister and brother to help, so it’s not like they’ll starve—but it’s a sacrifice. For them, and for him—beause not providing them will be a sacrifice. She knows him well enough for that.
He’s told her, late at night when they’ve both had one too many, about his father—the man’s man, the drinker, the rough edges and gruff words. She knows what he’s thinking of now. Men provide, he’ll hear the whisper, they don’t gallivant off and desert their responsibilities. It’s ridiculous to think that way, but he will anyway. She’s got her scars from trauma. He’s got his from conditioning—training scars, blind spots, ruts of thought processes, spinning self-doubt that he can’t wear on his sleeve the way Romantic Jehan or tortured Grantaire might.
But like hell is she letting this get away from him.
“Gael?”
“Hmm?” He’s half-listening, she can tell. But she’s going to lose her nerve if she doesn’t say it, so—
“Move in with me.”
The photo flutters from his fingers as he looks up to drill her with those brown eyes, usually warm but now frighteningly intense. “You’re serious.”
“Absolutely.” And she is, because she hadn’t been nervous about asking; she’d been nervous he’d say no.
“Eponine, I—I can’t—“
“Don’t you fucking dare, Gael Feuilly,” she hisses. “You’re not imposing, you’re not pushing me, you are getting an offer. One that benefits both of us. You think I want to keep paying full rent when you basically live here anyway?” (An overstatement, but necessary to counteract the dubious look that’s overset his features). She swallows against the sudden lump in her throat.
“But—if you don’t want—“
He looks surprised, and leans forward on his elbows. “Ep, no, I’d love to. I want to. But I don’t want you do this because you think you have to.”
“Hell, who says I am? We’ve been dating nearly two years, and…this is the next step, isn’t it?” She can feel the blush rising despite her tan skin, but she continues despite it. “I’ve already talked to Gavroche. He’s okay with it. This timing…it just works. If you want.”
The worry leaches from his face, and a sudden, disarming smile replace it—uncommon, and something that she cherishes all the more for its rarity.
She picks up the photo and places it back in his hand. He folds long, callused fingers over it and traps her hand underneath is, and the paper crinkles comfortingly.