Taking the Jump|(Mercutio/INACTIVE)

[ÉPONINE THÉNARDIER]

Éponine could not believe she was here. It was so stupid, coming to this place, after making a dumb arrangement on an internet chat room of all places. She should have just let it lie like a sleeping - or dead - dog. She should have left the chat room the minute she saw that Mercutio was on the same site. Was she asking for punishment? The whole ball thing - the "Catapult Ball" as dubbed by Sodapop - was supposed to be one time only. She didn't want to drag it out into her everyday life and spoil everything. She was afraid that this was what was going to happen. There couldn't be anything between her and Mercutio, not logically. Typically Éponine wasn't very good with things like logic, but this wasn't such a stretch for her. A girl like her and a guy like him just didn't belong together.

So why was she here? Why did she still hold any sort of hope for the two of them? He was high the first time they met, and the second time was over the internet. How could he be sure that he wouldn't find her completely repulsive when he was sober? She hoped he would come sober. There was no guarantee of that, though. It occurred to her that she should have made that stipulation before leaving the chat room, but she had been in quite the rush to leave. She had been stealing her ... Montparnasse's computer while he was at work. She'd been crashing with him for a couple of days. Thankfully, he'd been to busy to really ask any favors from her. He wasn't the total beast that some of her father's other compatriots were, but he was still a man. He still "had his needs." She had explained to him that she didn't want to be like that anymore, and for the most part he was good with it. They were on-and-off lovers. Right now they were off, so he didn't expect much from her. Thankfully, he still had her back when it came to a place to sleep (and really sleep).

Montparnasse was pretty much the complete opposite of Mercutio. He was extremely muscular, but not in the I-go-to-the-gym-and-press-250 way. He was muscular because life constantly demanded it of him. He didn't do drugs because he preferred to have his head screwed on right as much as he could. He occasionally had a drink or two, and his own abstinence from hallucinogens did not mean he did not provide others with the same high - for the right price. He was a gang person, but for the most part he didn't treat Éponine like dirt. That was good, and it made her trust him. Mercutio, on the other hand, was that kind of guy that maintained his body because he could, not because he had to. The high was not only enjoyed, but sought after. As for how he treated women, Éponine had yet to find that out. She hoped she wouldn't be too disappointed.

She waited on the Brooklyn Bridge, along the pedestrian walkway. She faced in the direction of the wind, so it whipped back her dark hair, which was getting too long, into a dark fan behind her head. She hadn't eaten very well since the ball, and that constant grip of hunger in her abdomen was there once more. She didn't look very nice today. The clothes that she had bought at the Salvation Army just before the ball were getting worn and dirty, which made sense considering she'd worn them every day for just short of two months. The formerly purple t-shirt still had some of its color, but it was mostly obscured by a layer of grime. The jeans were ripped at the knees and fraying at the hem. She had shoes. That was a bonus. Her hat was the same "animal" that she'd had since winter, and she hoped she could manage to hang on to it through this next winter. She knew it was a long way off, but she had to try.

She couldn't believe Mercutio had agreed to see her like this. The last time they'd been together, she'd been dressed up all fancy with makeup and clean hair and all of that. That was no longer a part of her attire. She had sold the dress and mask promptly after the ball and gotten some decent money for it. She had given some to Azelma, spent most of it on food, and hidden the rest in a secret stash she had in one of the mostly empty subway stations. She had plans for it in the future. She'd warned Mercutio that she would not be glamorous when he saw her, though. If he was horrified by what he saw, that was his fault. Éponine couldn't do anything about who she was or what she looked like. At least, not yet. That's what her stash was for.

[/blockquote]

[queenmab]

Mercutio's Jacket

"Tell me something that'll save me, I need a man who makes me alright," he sang as he strutted down the street, fists jammed in his jacket pockets. The young man's hips swayed to the infectious beat of Lady Gaga's Teeth that played in his mind. "Tell me something that'll change me, I'm gonna love you with my hand tied, show me your teeth!"

Even Mercutio's head bobbed a little as he did his proud little jig along the sidewalk, the soles of his pointed loafers quietly tapping the pavement with every step. He never listened to any portable music device, such as an Ipod, when he was in public. He preferred to feel connected to what was happening in the real world that surrounded him, and to stay firmly rooted to the city as he explored its many sights and sounds. Besides, it was a considerably difficult feat, nearly impossible it seemed, to ever truly and completely detach from the in-your-face razzle dazzle of New York. The only man Mercutio knew who was capable of doing so was his dear friend Romeo Montague, a faraway dreamer whos pretty little head was more often stuck in the clouds than on earth. Romeo was the kind of guy who might narrate his life based on profound poetry or music, a man who figured that the experience of love and romance felt just as the haunting voices from the songs he listened to told him they would.

Benvolio, on the other hand, was not like that at all. He was a fairly logical and pragmatic thinker. When they were not together he was no doubt constantly bustling about in his daily routines and chores on his academic journey to dronehood. What a resigning cage that must be, to labor and work during the majority of one's life. And the reward being what? None other than the weight of perpetually watching over and bearing responsibility for the ill, the needy and the dying. One cage Mercutio wouldn't dare risk being caught within. But when matters of love interfered with his work, Benvolio would likely rather not. His science, his practice and his research came as first priority, and the raging tramps and vamps of the world would need to wait in line.

The outline of the great and momumental Brooklyn Bridge stood out starkly against the line of the horizon as he made his way up the hill towards it. The petite figure of a lone girl was visible from his distance, the trail of her dark hair riding along strong gusts of wind like the great wing of a raven. Mercutio narrowed his eyes, squinting against the rays of sunlight as he shuffled closer. It appeared that she hadn't yet noticed him approaching.

Finally, he started along the pedestrian pathway towards where she waited. He could clearly see that she was dressed in street attire, a far cry from the elegant gown that had so mystefied him into thinking she was an outerworldly, angelic creature in his altered state. But Mercutio didn't mind what he saw. No, not at all. Unlike the fair and delicate flowers Romeo liked to pick, she was rough and isolated in a most real way, and he couldn't feel more tempted.

"Hello" he said as he edged closer, his bright blue eyes taking in the sight of her for the first time. "This was the sight I was supposed to abhor? Surely, I must be meeting the wrong girl, for there is nothing that inspires fear within me when I look at you." A crooked smirk played his lips.

She wasn't an angel, alright. But she wasn't a monster either, at least until she proved otherwise.

[ÉPONINE THÉNARDIER]

Éponine stared out over the river pensively, remembering how familiar she was the the Brooklyn Bridge. She was too familiar with it, if the truth shall be told. When she'd first moved to New York, he family had had an apartment for a little while, but as usual her father had tried to get away with not paying rent and they had been evicted. Directly after that, Éponine, her parents, and her sister Azelma went to living on the streets. The Brooklyn Bridge had been their home, or rather under the Brooklyn Bridge. They had stayed in a tent insulated with cardboard panels. It was a sour blessing that it had been a fairly warm winter by New York standards. Once spring had hit, Éponine's father managed to find a place that would take them if he paid rent ahead of time. From that point on, they'd been in and out of shelters in various conditions. They'd been back to living under the Brooklyn Bridge twice since then, but not for very long. Her father had discovered another way to make money. He sold his daughter. Not permanently, only for a few hours at a time, but it was enough for him. It was too much for her.

Azelma was lucky. She had been too young when that horrid idea had struck their father. No one would be willing to pay for services from a fourteen-year-old girl for fear of child molestation charges. Éponine had never been able to understand what one year's age difference made, but she had always looked a little older than she actually was. And the customers never asked questions. It had been a few months after she'd been involved with this that she had come back here, not to live, but to die. Éponine had stood almost where she was standing now and seriously considered jumping into the river below. She knew it would work because she couldn't swim. She hated the water. When that senator's daughter had fallen into the pool at the ball, Éponine had felt ice cold dread all over her body, because she could only imagine what it felt like to have the water close over her head like that. Thankfully, the same thought had occurred to her as she was standing on the rail eighteen months ago. She hadn't been able to do it. Instead, she'd dragged herself to Montparnasse's place for comfort and crashed there for a while. She hadn't wanted to return to her father, but where else had she to go? So she'd gone back, and a few months later, her father had gone to prison and Éponine had finally been able to stop following his orders.

She wished Azelma could do the same. The poor girl, who would turn seventeen in two months, still paid visits to her father in prison and carried secret messages from him to the other goons of Petit Minon who had evaded capture. She was so compliant, so submissive. She would never have the nerve to do what her big sister had almost done in an attempt to escape. Éponine remembered the time that a philanthropist had come to the Gorbeau house on a charity trip and their father had forced Azelma to put her fist through a window to make them look poorer. Azelma still had the scars. Éponine hoped Azelma was doing okay with the money Éponine had given her. Maybe she'd been smart and bought herself some canned food. However, it wasn't too hard to assume that she had taken the money to their father. The thought made Éponine sick.

She was so lost in her own thoughts that she almost didn't hear Mercutio approach. She heard a male voice, but men didn't usually speak to her unless they were trying to get something from her. She turned her head to lok at him and the wind blew her black hair into her face where it stuck. She brushed it out of the way and stuffed some haphazardly up into her hat. Her sunken eyes looked Mercutio up and down, instinctively comparing herself to him. The difference was shameful. He wasn't even dressed up immaculately, just nicely, and Éponine still felt like garbage next to him. She rolled her eyes at his almost-compliment. "Well, zen I'm not doin' somezin' right. People are supposed ta be scared a me. Keeps me safe." This was all the truth. If she looked intimidating, like she could defend herself, creeps wouldn't bug her as much. Poor Azelma looked too pretty and innocent sometimes, but so far she'd been safe.

The question was burning Éponine's tongue. She knew it probably wasn't polite to ask it, but being polite wasn't her personal forte. "So, tell me, why ze 'ell are ya 'ere? Why come ta see me? Why not just 'ave one fun night and let zings alone?" Everyone else did that. She'd never once been contacted by any of the other men or boys she'd begged from after they'd gotten what they wanted from her. Besides, she was a fake, not what he thought she was. She could not comprehend why he was so interested in her. It couldn't be charity. He wasn't that kind of guy. She could tell right away. There was no logical explanation for his presence here, and Éponine had wanted to address the elephant on the bridge before she exploded from the curiosity.

[/blockquote]

[queenmab]

Mercutio rocked on the balls of his feet idly as he felt her abnormally large eyes trace his frame head to toe. Sizing him up no doubt, but that was fair. He'd just taken quite the gander at her as well. Now that he could observe her up close, sans layer of paste and whatever else girls painted their faces with these days, he could notice key bone structures in her face that protruded slightly, such as her cheeks. She'd swapped the mask for a hat this time, and her street clothes were dusty upon a more thorough inspection.

But none of this genuinely bothered him. Despite his wealth and good fortune, Mercutio was a man who preferred to let the real ones in, that being those few who had good taste yet didn't rely on the latest fashion trends or gimmicks to boost their self-esteem. He lived to mock, well everything he could, but he especially roasted those damned prima donas.

"It doesn't matter what you do, for there will always be that one person who gets off on your appeal, and for them you serve as satisfaction for their primal needs" he replied matter-of-factly, then grinned a little devilishly.

Mercutio found it difficult to believe that Éponine was under the impression that she could just ward away all the boogeymen and monsters that lurked under bridges and within dark shadows by her strength and determination alone. Yes, she had spunk and a fair temper when moved to, but she was also tiny and appeared as though she could easily slip through a crack and vanish completely.

The subject was changed quickly and rashly, and Mercutio chuckled, since he had been expecting nothing less than blunt inquiries shot in his face.

"I arrived as you asked me to, yes? You seem exceptionally perplexed that I remained true to my word. I must've missed the memo that decreed the day our last conversation took place to be opposite day." He raised his eyebrows a little, still wearing a highly amused expression on his face. Éponine wondered why he hadn't just taken her home to his place and taken advantage of her, and just let her go afterward. No strings attached, no questions asked. Mercutio was no stranger to sex or pleasure, and he'd had one night stands before. But he hadn't for a moment considered sleeping with her, and he hadn't actually taken time to ponder upon this simple fact either. What made her so different?

"I might've easily gone through with that, as I have before, but I didn't because I simply did not feel like doing so with you. Most one night stand girls are desolately draining or tiresome personalities in their day to day lives, and I just want to be rid of them as soon as they've unloaded me."

[ÉPONINE THÉNARDIER]

]This particular situation was one that Éponine was completely unfamiliar with. For her day-to-day life, she had in her mind a set of scenarios that she could possibly encounter or experience. With each scenario came a set of reactions that she could see herself using. It was a simple survival technique that she'd developed early on. Until recently, there hadn't been too many deviations from this list of standard, familiar situations. That had changed. First, she had been thrown into a high-class ball so quickly she couldn't even recall saying that she would go. Once there, she had been so uncomfortable and overwhelmed that she had first slipped into French when conversing with the Count, which she never did and then become so overwhelmed that she'd had to run outside to get a hold of herself. Then Mercutio had followed her out and things had gone on from there. None of these situations met the criteria of the normal things she was used to. She had no idea how to respond at all, and that frightened her.

The same applied here. She would never let Mercutio know this, but she was scared. She didn't know how to react to him at all. As much as she tried to treat him like he was just another of the filthy males she was used to, he wasn't. He had money, an identity, and a certain amount of influence in the community. Éponine had none of these things. She could shed names just like she could shed clothing. If she had been living alone in the city for all these years without her parents, it wouldn't have surprised her if she'd forgotten her own name because she used so many. Nina Fagin, Nina Jondrette, Emmeline Genflot, Angelique Fabantou, Eva Alvarès, and Veronique Balizard were all names that she had used in the past few years. Not one was better than any of the others. She was still the same person underneath the pseudonyms. Mercutio didn't have various false names. He had always been Mercutio, as far as she knew. He'd never been through the things that she had, so she didn't know how to relate with or react to him. She partially hated him for this fact, but she was also envious of him. And because he was paying attention to her, did that mean that there was something about her that didn't blend in with the pavement?

"It doesn't matter what you do, for there will always be that one person who gets off on your appeal, and for them you serve as satisfaction for their primal needs."

Éponine cringed. The words felt like a smack. She knew Mercutio didn't mean it like that. She could tell because of the smile on his face. He didn't understand what exactly he had said, so she didn't get mad at him. Still, his words only reminded her yet again of what a whore she was. She had more than enough experience with primal needs. She felt like filth every time someone was through with her. Somehow, they found something attractive about her, but she felt anything but attractive at the end of the evening. Éponine did not want to really address this. She didn't trust Mercutio enough to give him a look at what was going on underneath her tough exterior. It could potentially be the death of her. So she turned her head away from him for a moment, looking out over the river, and muttered, "Tell me about it."

She had changed the subject to deflect, because they were treading on territory that she was uncomfortable with. She'd also been dying to address the situation directly. It was true that the French were good with playing with words, but that was in French, not English, and not on such an emotionally difficult topic. At least not Éponine. Still, his answer was confusing. "Well, yeah. But, no offense or nuzzing, but you're not ze kind of person I often keep ze company of," she replied, slightly unsure. "I didn't zink anyone of any respectability would wanna be seen wiz me, eizer." She was putting herself down again. She always did this, because she didn't know how not to and she didn't have any reason not to. Her father never treated her like she was worth anything. Her mother, when she had been alive, had told Éponine that was was beautiful, but Mme. had not been very pretty herself. It had meant little. To her customers, she was never pretty or beautiful, just a sexy bitch. So she didn't have any reason to think highly of herself.

Éponine studied Mercutio's face as he spoke about his reasoning behind not just taking her home. He probably didn't realize how shallow it made him sound, but Éponine was not the sort of person who could claim to be deep herself. "Zey are, are zey? 'Ow do ya know I'm not zat way? I've 'ad my own share a zose. Not by choice, sure, but what's ze difference?" Bile crept up the back of her throat. She hated talking about her evening life. She was ashamed by it, which was why she had stopped. Still, it left a sick stain on her that she couldn't shake or make clean. Didn't Mercutio realize that he was working with soiled goods? She cleared her throat. "Zank ya, zo. I ... uh ... appreciate zat ya didn't bring it up." It had to be said. Sure, it made her seem a little more human, which wasn't exactly what she wanted, but she couldn't be so hardened. It got exhausting after a while.

[/blockquote]

[queenmab]

(Decided to make him a set for the thread. Sorry for the wait btw! Hope it's worth it.)

Outfit Clicky

Mercutio was the master of speaking in vague riddles with his crafty mouth. He could say a whole lot, paint a colourful picture with his brush stroke terminology, without revealing what he was really thinking if he so wished. Romeo was a different kind of thinker. He vexed and brooded until his ponderings constricted his mind to a box, and by then he’d lost all hope for a clear perspective. When this happened, it was irritating because it easily interfered with their spontaneous outings and shindigs, or in the worst case scenario, Romeo’s line of thought was potentially dangerous to his own health. Though Mercutio knew that Romeo's mind was his own worst enemy, he didn't expect that it would be the means to his inevitable end. He predicted that "love" would be the cause and consequence, as much as it disgusted him to believe so.

Éponine shifted for a moment, not talking right away. A smug grin turned the corners of his lips. Could he be getting to her, rattling her cage just a little bit? He’d like to think so. Because you see, as much as Mercutio loved to tease and roast the crap out of everyone he knew and every stranger he encountered, he genuinely didn’t want to hurt anyone. No, he saved the punches for his rivals, and for anyone who disrespected or dishonored either any of his buddies. He was actually more angered by the slandering of their names rather than his own, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t afraid to stand up for himself either.

She just held her head up high and gave a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders, all tough and cool. “Tell me about it.” Mercutio raised his eyebrows slightly. Her stance and attitude reminded him a little of Olivia Newton-John’s “transformed” Sandy at the end of Grease, minus the shameless seduction that had oozed from Sandy’s voice. He briefly recalled a fond memory, one where he had a sleepover with Ben and Romeo when they were a few years younger. They had watched the movie together, along with several other classics that hadn’t fit in genre-wise, being Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining and Disney’s The Lion King. They put on Grease after watching the horror movie first to ease the tension. When all the good choreographed dance and song numbers came on, Romeo and Mercutio got up and started dancing and singing along enthusiastically, shirtless and in their underwear. “Guys, you’re blocking the screen!” Benvolio had whined. “I’d like to watch the actors sing and dance, not you idiots! Isn’t it torture enough to be scarred by your antics every day of my life?!”

So she could be sassy, too, but in a more subtle way. The girl had a thick skin, and she showed no fear. Her voice didn’t stutter and it was firm without being sharp, so he could tell she wasn’t trying to be hostile with him, and that she was actually attempting to connect with him the best way she could. Whether or not Éponine was successful in feeling comfortable in his presence was another issue altogether, but at least she wasn’t writing him off immediately.

In a few short moments, Éponine addressed his comments regarding one-time sexual escapades and the nameless, faceless women he had been with and it became clear that she indeed wasn’t on the same wavelength as he was. This didn’t faze Mercutio one bit – most people he conversed with usually had difficulty understanding him, especially if it was their first meeting. Even his closest friends still had trouble decoding his words from time to time.

Mercutio shook his head. “No, it’s not the same. You and I couldn’t be more opposite when the subject is sex. You’re in disbelief because I’ve kept my word to meet you here because I’m a blessed ol’ bum and you’re a river rat. We speak in different tongues because our teeth are fitted to aid us in different ways – your bite is stronger than your bark because you rely on fear tactics and strength to survive. My bark is more famous than my bite because I hardly encounter a cause that moves me to strike…”

His big blue eyes surveyed her closely. “You insist that I shouldn’t be in your company, and I know that it is because I possess copious amounts of which you lack – wealth and reputation. Do you think it’s my face that makes girls run to slip under my sack?” he grinned. “No, no, Romeo is the pretty boy, he’s the passionate one. I’ve always instigated the fun and games. Sex is sex – gratification, satisfaction, pleasure. But in your case…it’s do or die. It’s starve their sexual appetites or be starved of a meal.”

He paused for a moment thoughtfully. Maybe what he’d said would sound harsh to her ears, and perhaps she’d become indignant and she’d deny it all and tell him he was wrong. But Mercutio had a sneaking suspicion that at least the bulk of what he’d said was true, and very much the reality for Éponine.

“I ... uh ... appreciate zat ya didn't bring it up,” she said.

“…You’re welcome” he added softly. He leaned against the bridge and lit a cigarette. “I wouldn’t want to encourage a filthy habit to a blushing flower like you” he teased sarcastically, smiling a bit. But if she asked for one, he’d give it to her. Naturally, Mercutio had to mess with her first.

[ÉPONINE THÉNARDIER]

Éponine put on a brave face as Mercutio described their predicament to her. Éponine wasn't very good with words, but she knew as she listened that he was completely aware and understanding of her thoughts at the time. It was do or die for her. It was unfair and made her sick. Why should she have to demean herself in order to survive? Whenever she escaped to Central Park and lurked on the main drag where all the street musicians played, she would gaze at the middle-class tourists and envy them with all of her might. They would walk down with their husbands in hand and her little children running out in front of her, laughing and playing and adoring her. Éponine had never had just one man who loved her and claimed her as his own. She had never contemplated having children, because she was human enough to never want to bring children up in the filth that she called home. Birth control had been one of her primary expenses. It had been black market, of course, but it had cost her something. Thank goodness that was over with.

Éponine searched Mercutio's face for any trace of pity. She couldn't really detect it, which didn't surprise her at the same time that it did. Merc seemed the kind of person to reserve any tenderness for those he really cared about. She was just some poor wretch he had encountered by chance and was now intrigued by. She still didn't understand what attracted him to her. She was like the honey and he was the fly. He did not seem to care that once he landed on her he would be tainted for life. Éponine ruined everything she touched. It was something that she had almost come to terms with. Perhaps that was part of the reason why she was trying to deter Mercutio. He lived a charmed life. Why should she ruin that for him? The other part of the reason was her own self-preservation instinct. Her only experiences with people like him had been distinctly negative, and she was having trouble discarding that point of view. Besides, he had yet to truly prove that he was any different than all the rest like him. Until he did something completely outside of her expectations, she would keep her guard up. True, he had come close by even coming today, but that could just mean he was stupid or a glutton for punishment. He had to do something truly amazing in order for Éponine to let him truly approach her. She could hold him at arm’s length for know. Granted, arm’s length was a bit closer than she let anyone but the Greasers get.

It ruffled her feathers, the way Mercutio talked about sex. He seemed to recognize that it was not pleasurable for her and that if she could have her virginity back, she would take it instantly. Nevertheless, he didn’t quite seem to get how important that was. It was because he was raised so differently from the way Éponine was raised. His attitude about sex was worlds away from hers. He could see that, but Éponine could tell that he didn’t quite realize the magnitude of it. He couldn’t because he had never experienced it for himself. Éponine didn’t blame him for that, even though she wished he could understand, just a little bit. The strangest thought came into her mind. She found herself thinking of The Lark.

The Lark had been a little girl Éponine’s age who had been a servant of sorts for her parents at their inn. Éponine hadn’t paid her much mind, but she could look back and say that she’d been quite mean to Cosette. Cosette had lived with the Thénardiers from the time she was three to the time she was seven or eight. Then a mysterious man in a yellow coat had come and taken her away. The only reason Éponine had noticed at all was because she’d then had to do more chores and such, which she hadn’t liked. After the inn failed, Éponine hadn’t thought about Cosette much at all, even though her father had. A few months ago, he had enlisted Éponine and her sister, along with the Petit Minon, to recapture the girl. Éponine had only been keeping watch, but she had caught sight of Cosette and had been amazed at what she’d seen. It was clear right off the bat that Cosette was as virginal as a girl could possibly be. She was beautiful and she seemed to be happy. Éponine hadn’t been aware at the time that she had begun to associate virginity with beauty and happiness. It was Cosette’s fault.

That was the reason that Éponine considered herself to be so loathsome. She was not a virgin, so she could never be beautiful like Cosette or happy in the way that Cosette was happy. This was something that she couldn’t explain to anyone. It wouldn’t make sense. It was one of those things too personal and complex to articulate. Éponine looked back out over the Hudson River and sighed, her full but chapped lips pouting in the way they did whenever Éponine was deep in thought. She smelled cigarette smoke but only glanced in Mercutio’s direction. She smoked sometimes, but she was not addicted. Whenever she was in the mood, she could always get one from one of the Greasers, who seemed to have an endless fountain of cigarettes coming from their pockets. “I’m no blushing flower, zo I wish I was,” she said. “’Zat ‘appens to be one filzy ‘abit zat I ‘ave kicked for now, even zo I ‘ave plenty of ozzers to make up for it.” Here she was referring to her skills in pick-pocketing, graffiti, and sneaking around in general. She bet she could steal Mercutio’s wallet without too much difficulty here and now, but she wouldn’t. If he pissed her off, she might, but that hadn’t happened yet, so Mercutio’s valuables were safe.

As she looked over the river, she began to absentmindedly hum a little ditty that she'd sung often after first moving to New York. "J'ai faim, mon pere. Pas de fricot. J'ai froid, ma mere. Pas de tricot. Grelotte, Lolotte! Sanglote, Jacquot!"

[translation: "I am hungry, my father. I have no food. I am cold, my mother. I have no clothes. Lolotte, shiver! Sob, Jacquot!"]

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[queenmab]

(Right, I apologize for taking so long to reply to you. Here's a little something for you.)

If there was one thing Mercutio was certain of, without a single doubt, it was that this girl standing right before him was impossible to read. Mercutio was a quick young man, possessing the knack (or talent) of analyzing the positioning of one's shoulders, the quick shift in their eyes, or the slightest lilt in a voice and translate it to an emotion. From there, he would figure out what he was in for, and how he should react (or could, because he didn't always pick the "right" way to respond to something since it just wasn't his style).

But here she was, this strange French girl with a funny little accent and a tough pout. She reminded him of a stray puppy with a viscious bark, but no proven bite. But the thing with dogs was that they could be domesticated, they could adapt to new surroundings and learn to respect their master. They could be trained.

In a sense, this was the outlook Mercutio had always lived with, and at any moment he was with any girl he picked up, down in the diviest bar or the highest, fanciest ballroom - he always knew he could pull his charm and moves out of his pocket, access them without a moment's haste. She was often skeptical, but she was like a little girl, perplexed and somewhat endeared by a boy's nasty teasing. But after a while, it would start to sink in and hurt her. And his words burned, like the intensity of heat from lit matches near to the skin. Even after he stopped taunting her, she'd slowly start to search for signs of commitment and devotion, and would not find it. This is when Mercutio would put her in her place and remind her that girls had cooties, and she would run away, crying.

But Mercutio was a legal adult, and had been for several years. Twenty-two years of age and he still slid into the habits and mannerisms he's carried since he was a teenager. One day, he'd have to face the music and settle down, like Benvolio and his father and his mother and everyfuckingperson had told him. Everyone had lectured him except for Romeo, of course, who was a golden mustang riding the wind untamed. But apparently even that could change...

Mercutio took a final drag on his cigarette, suddenly not feeling in the mood to finish. He shrugged his shoulders.

"This is not my only vice, either" he replied, flicking the unfinished cigarette and stamping it out.

He turned on her suddenly, intrigued. "Really? Enlighten me, pony..."

But before he could have his curiosity eased, she launched into a hot French melody. He wasn't familiar with the tune, but he could understand what she was saying. Mercutio began to tap dance, but in a very showmance Mercutio fashion. His noisy boots slapped against the bridge as he twirled, making grandiose but coordinated movements with his arms and feet.

He continued on for a few moments after she'd stopped singing, then did a little bow, for no reason and for no one in particular.

"What whining and bitching for such a happy little tune!" he commented finally.

"It's twisted, but a very smart way of selling the package...songs about crystal meth can be wrapped up in catchy guitar riffs, and the sons and daughters of America are singing it the next day unaware of what they're actually talking about."

[ÉPONINE THÉNARDIER]

Mercutio probably didn't realize just what was happening in Éponine's head at that moment. The poor wretch was not only miserable, but she often had bouts of insanity, where she completely wandered off from her physical surroundings and began to imagine herself someplace else. For example, right now she was no longer standing on the Brooklyn Bridge with the wind blowing on her face. She was back in her family's inn, sitting by the fire, playing with one of her favorite dolls. Mercutio was a faint echo, as though he were a guest in the inn that Éponine didn't care to pay attention to. Azelma was beside her, playing with another doll. They weren't children as they had been. They were grown, but they were healthy, and warm, and beautiful. Éponine had always secretly thought that Azelma was prettier than her, but she couldn't exactly say why. At times they had been confused for twins. Maybe it was this look of innocence that Azelma had always possessed. Anytime the sisters had gotten in trouble, Éponine had always been the instigator. Azelma was just along for the ride. She was still along for the ride. The sisters didn't - couldn't - spend as much time together as they wanted to, but Éponine still tried to look out for her. She really loved her sister. Azelma was probably the only person Éponine really loved.

She gestured for her sister to come closer, and she began to brush Azelma's hair. It was the same color as Éponine's, but instead of being just straight and lackluster, it was wavy and curly. Azelma had always complained about it, but Éponine loved it. Out of the corner of her eye, Éponine could see another girl sitting in the corner. It was Cosette. Cosette was grown, too, but instead of being the pretty little thing she was now, she was the same dirty maid she had been the last time Éponine had seen her. It made her feel good. Everything was back the way it was supposed to be. Her world was right. There was nothing to be sad about anymore. Her dad was still mean, but her mother was alive and loving. She was warm. She wasn't hungry. Oh, how lovely. Oh, how lovely.

"What whining and bitching for such a happy little tune!"

Éponine jumped and looked around. Azelma was gone. The fire was gone. Cosette was gone. Her mother was gone. All there was left was the gray Hudson River and the ancient bridge. Mercutio was there again. It took Éponine a moment to remember who he was. Then she recalled everything that had happened in the past few minutes. She realized what had just happened and tried to pretend that it hadn't. She knew that she had these hallucinations, but she couldn't identify them when they actually happened. Perhaps Mercutio hadn't noticed anything. She doubted that this would be the case. For everything Mercutio wasn't, he was definitely sharp. Nevertheless, she tried to pretend that nothing unusual had happened. However, she wouldn't be surprised if the gestures she'd made in her hallucinations had been gestures she'd made in real life. If that had been the case, there was no hiding it. It would have been hard not to notice Éponine stroking the air as if it were someone's hair. Then again, it seemed like he had been tap-dancing. How peculiar. Then again, she shouldn't be talking.

Éponine looked at Mercutio with confusion on her face as he made his comment about music. She didn't quite understand what he was saying. Yes, she knew was crystal meth was. She'd never taken it, but it was one of those delicacies that Montparnasse often dealt for a particular sum. She knew was guitars were. Still, she didn't quite get what he was saying. She didn't listen to music much unless it happened to be playing out of some storefront as she walked by. Montparnasse had his favorites, but she didn't remember their names. Frankly, musical culture was not one of her top concerns. If she ever listened to music, she didn't listen to the words, so Mercutio's point about negative messages in lyrics didn't really resound with her. Normally it would frustrate her that she had no idea what he was talking about, but she was still coming out of her little hallucination. It didn't quite seem important enough to get upset about. She looked right at him and said, "I know what I'm talking about." She wasn't sure it was relevant, but it seemed like he'd been implying that she'd hadn't known what she was singing about. She knew precisely what she'd been singing about. He probably knew that. Still, it was worth saying.

[/blockquote]

[queenmab]

Long after Mercutio had concluded his dance with himself, Éponine continued to sway to her own melody. The girl reached out briefly, though not in the direction of the young man. It was as if she was beckoing the ghost of whomever haunted her to come closer. Her eyes were unfocused as her hand of porcelain raised, tracing steady lines against the air. But he could not see what it was that she followed, only she could, for she appeared to be held in a moment far from this one. A moment from some other time - a memory, perhaps.

Mercutio's eyebrows twitched up in his surprise. He was familiar with what was happening, as he'd experienced rather realistic flashbacks before. In truth, he hadn't expected her to have them too. He took a few steps closer to her, bending to get a better view of her face.

Sure, she was a filthy street rat and all that poppycock, which meant it was possible she had access to the three deleterious d's - drink, drug, and disease. But despite this, Éponine had a strong presence. She held her head with self-worth, as if she was important, which meant she must have either been or felt important once. Of course, one would have to disregard the obvious broken pride that remained with her and imagine her in the past. Reversed.

The girl came to abruptly, long hair a brown flurry around her shoulders as she turned. Éponine looked frantic. Mercutio decided to hold his tongue, and watched as her expression returned to neutral. She suddenly looked at him with recognition of his presence but not of his words. She was having difficulty adjusting to his commentary as usual.

"I know what I'm talking about."

His bright blue eyes still stayed on her face as he tilted his head to the side with a sideways smirk.

"I'm certain you do..." he replied in a mock serious tone. "But I don't. Wanna enlighten me?"