Author Note: Welcome to A Beautiful Day for a Neighbor, written for zany-charmainey on tumblr. É/E Modern AU for the drabblegiftexchange. Prompt: Éponine and Enjolras as apartment neigbors. :)
(And yes, the title is taken from Mr. Rogers's theme song. :D)
Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.
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A Beautiful Day for a Neighbor
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She's fiddling with the lock of her door, a pile of books tucked underneath one arm as she turns the key, the first time he ever sees her.
He's moving into the apartment across from hers, and he's got one box balanced on his hip as he yells at Courfeyrac to actually take care with the packages marked "fragile." His friend doesn't listen, though, being too busy gawking at the girl, who's startlingly lovely even in yoga pants and an overlarge sweater, her dark hair caught up in a pony tail and her long lashes sweeping down over high cheekbones as she bites down on her full, generous lips with her even white teeth. She finally gets the door open and lets out a satisfied grunt, those lips curving into a smile.
Her gaze meets his just as she closes the door behind her, and he thinks he's never seen eyes so bright with life before.
"God, you lucky bastard, why do you get the hot neighbor?" Courfeyrac complains.
"Shut up," Enjolras mutters before shaking his head.
Hot neighbor or not, he's not looking for a relationship.
(Still, those laughing eyes of hers linger in his memory.)
They don't really talk much, both of them keeping to their sides of the hallway. He'll nod at her on the stairwell or whenever they happen to be picking up their mail at the same time, and now and then he sees her jogging or grabbing a cup of coffee and a pastry from the little bakery down the corner.
She always smiles when she sees him, a polite half-smile that never quite reaches her eyes, and he wonders what it would take to get her to really smile at him, to bring back that spark he saw the first time he met her glance.
She has a cat, a beautiful, sleek, elegant, all-black creature that greets her at the door whenever she gets home.
The first time he ever hears her voice, she's saying its name.
"Sabinus," she croons, her voice a deep, rich alto that sends a shiver up his spine. "Have you missed me, darling?"
The cat yowls back in answer, and Enjolras catches a glimpse of her happy grin, sharp and bright and breath-taking.
(He is mildly disconcerted to find himself jealous of a cat, of all things.)
She blares music sometimes, and it drifts through the hallways. None of their neighbors seem to mind it, and Enjolras finds himself impressed with her taste, which ranges from classical to Disney soundtracks, from memorable film scores to opera, from indie folk to old school jazz.
He doesn't know half the songs she plays, but he finds himself humming them under his breath as he works.
He blinks in consternation when he mentions her to his friends as "The Woman."
Combeferre's brows lift in surprise. "Really, Enjolras? 'The Woman.' Stealing Sherlock Holmes's epithet, are we now?"
"It simply fits her, alright?" he mutters in reply, and thankfully they leave it at that, tactfully not mentioning the blush staining his cheeks a mortified red.
He didn't mean to make her The Woman in his mind; she just…took the title.
One day, there's a no-nonsense knock at his door, and he opens it to find her on the other side.
"Hi, neighbor," she says as casually as if they've always known each other and have already had a million conversations, instead of a grand total of zero vocal interactions. "Do you have any baking soda I can borrow? I'm out and I don't want to head to the grocery store for just one thing."
He does have baking soda, as it turns out, and when he gets back from rummaging through his cupboard, she's idly perusing his bookshelves, lingering by his movie and music collection.
"You have Miles Davis," she says, and he doesn't think he's imagining the faintly impressed note in her voice.
It's one of the CDs he bought after she played it and he had Jehan identify it for him after humming a few songs.
He awkwardly clears his throat and hopes he isn't blushing as he meets her eyes, which are currently glinting with that vibrant spark that he's longed to see. "I like his music," he says, then wants to curse himself for sounding so inane.
Her mouth quirks in amusement. "I guessed that. No Ella, though, which is a shame."
"Ella?" he asks.
"Ella Fitzgerald—First Lady of Song. You should listen to her." She gives him another mega-watt smile before grabbing the baking soda and waving goodbye.
It's only after he's closed the door behind her that he realizes that he still doesn't know her name.
He finds out the next day when she knocks on the door and waltzes in the minute he opens it, a few CDs clutched in her hand that are meant to help "broaden his horizons and change his world forever," she quipped.
They're half an hour into the conversation, both of them curled up on opposite ends of his couch, when she says, "I'm Éponine, by the way."
"Enjolras," he says, extending his hand.
She grins again as she takes it. "Nice to meet you."
It isn't long until she's navigating his apartment as easily as her own, and it seems like there's a permanent spot by his door for her shoes, a hanger in his closet meant specifically for her coat, and a chair at his dinner table that he's come to think of as hers.
She leaves books and scarves and pens and even a coffee mug or two scattered all over his living room, and his friends leap to the obvious conclusion once she installs an old record player in his study.
"Who would've thought you of all people could be domesticated?" Grantaire says, smirking. "Look at you, the perfect little boyfriend."
"We're not dating," Enjolras snaps out. "We're just friends."
"Somebody's in deep denial," Bahorel mutters to Jehan, and the rest of Les Amis nod sagely.
Enjolras ignores them. They don't know what they're talking about.
Except, as it turns out, they do.
For all the time she spends in his apartment, the change in their relationship actually takes place while they're at hers.
They're talking about post-Reformation France when she suddenly leans over and places her hand against his lips.
"What are you doing?" he murmurs against the soft pads of her fingertips, resisting the urge to dart out his tongue and taste them.
"I'm just wondering if you'll ever make a move, or if I should," she answers.
"Wait, what?"
This time she doesn't reply with words, merely places her hands on his knees and kisses him, slow and languid but with that undercurrent of bold energy, like one of her favorite jazz songs.
He tangles his hands in her hair and kisses her back, wondering how in the hell he hasn't kissed her before this.
The next morning, he makes her coffee in her kitchen like he belongs there, and he's slightly embarrassed to find that he's left a mug or two of his own here in her apartment.
She strolls in wearing his shirt, sits herself down, rubs her cat behind the ears, and steals a piece of his toast. "So," she says through a mouthful of crisp bread, "are you moving into my place, or am I moving into yours?"
He's laughing when he kisses her, and her eyes are gleaming in just the way he loves when she kisses him back.
Endnote: Thank you for reading. Please, please review and tell me what you thought—it really does make my day. :)