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cracking marble
act two, winter
chapter six, take my arm

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( novembre , 1831 )

          "OH SWEET GOD ABOVE!"

         A cry sounded as the door to the Musain flew open. Many customers started as Joly rushed through the doors in a state of panic.

           "It's still bleeding! It'll get infected, she's going to die!" He cried to an innocent bystander, as if the world were coming to an end.

         Feuilly and Mathilde entered a moment or two later, the blonde girl landed in Feuilly's arms upon the instance of Joly after she'd acquired a rather nasty gash on her leg while in Saint Michel.

          "Joly! I'm not dying!" Mathilde cried, exasperatedly, as the customers made way for them. "Pull yourself together! Are you a doctor or not!?"

         "Combeferre!" Joly cried, loudly as he ran up the stairs into the meeting room, Feuilly shaking his head amidst a chuckle as he followed with the blonde in his arms.

         "Yes?"

       Mathilde let out a defeated groan upon hearing her brother respond to the doctor's cry, as they reentered the room.

         "What happened?"

         The blonde craned her neck to find the source of the new voice asking the question, only to find it to be a Marius.

           "I fell off a wagon and, according to Joly, I'm apparently dying, Marius, that is what's happening." Mathilde replied, a little impatiently.

        The trio had made their way to Saint Michel with little incident, a little over an hour prior. They had visited Musichetta, who declared that she adored the book that Mathilde sought her opinion on, and promised to visit the Musain more regularly, which made the girl very happy indeed.

        However, on the way back to the Café, the blonde had made the very ill-advised decision to show Joly and Feuilly how Amélie preferred to travel around the city, and in her demonstration attempted to jump on a moving wagon.

         Attempted being the key word, as subsequently she had fallen and cut her leg in the process, and in consequence — according to Joly at least — she had approximately two hours to live if they didn't do something!

         "Your sister is dying, Combeferre!" Joly yelled at her brother, much to the amusement of the rest of the boys.

        "Oh, she's fine!" Combeferre responded, nonchalantly.

          "He speaks the truth!" Mathilde cried in agreement from Feuilly's arms, her tone exhausted from Joly's antics. "Feuilly, dear. You can put me down now."

         "I'm afraid that Joly will explode if I do anything rash." He responded, causing a light chuckle to leave her lips, as the rest of the boys continued to laugh at Joly's despair.

         "Clear the table!" Joly announced, making his way to Enjolras.

         "Oh, for God's sake, Joly!" Mathilde whined, as Feuilly followed suit and she clutched on for dear life in attempt not to fall out of his arms.

         "Enjolras, move!"

         "But I've just—!" Enjolras tried to make an excuse, as Joly began to pick up papers and move them to random spots about the room.

         He moved and grabbed a stack of papers from the corner of the desk, nearly knocking over the ink pot onto Enjolras' speech.

         "Joly!" Enjolras spat, frustratedly as he steadied the ink pot and moved it to the window sill behind him.

         "Enjolras, do you want Mathilde to die?!" Joly retorted, as Feuilly set the disgruntled girl down on the now clear table. 

        "Mathilde isn't going to die, Joly!" Combeferre called, as he approached the table, his nonchalant manner still prevailing.

        "This was funny until about five minutes ago." Mathilde muttered under her breath as Joly pulled up a chair and began examining her leg.

          "Oh really, Combeferre?" He remarked, before twisting her ankle harshly so her brother could get a better look.

         "Ouch!"

         "I'm sorry! I'm a little nervous!"

          "Really? I had no clue!" Mathilde retorted, clenching her jaw in attempt to numb the throbbing pain in her leg.

         "Look at this." Joly added, addressing her brother, showing him the full glory of the injury.

        Mathilde's older brother took one look at the gash on her leg before all the colour drained from his face and he reached for Courfeyrac to balance himself amidst his dizzy spell.

        "You're a joke, Combeferre." She uttered with a roll of her eyes, as she resisted the temptation of letting her head knock against the table. "You are a joke."

        Ferre had never been the best with blood, despite his claims of medical ambition. Mathilde had always  recalled once when they were little, how she had fallen and cut her arm — she had always been rather accident-prone — and, in consequence, her brother had been ill for nearly a week after.

          "Please don't die, Mathilde!"

         The blonde found herself whipping around in the direction of another voice, looking down to her right to find Gavroche peering up at her, looking terribly worried.

         "For the last time, I'm not dying!" She answered, sparing the boy a soft look before directing her attention back to the overzealous doctor. "Look, you and Feuilly just carried me from Saint Michel for no reason!"

         Although the cut was bothering her slightly, it was nothing she couldn't bear.

         "I fell off a wagon, Joly, not a bridge!" She cried, pulling her leg back from him and examining the wound herself. "Someone get me some cloth, it's just a cut."

        Gavroche heard the command and ran out of the room, as if his life depended on it.

        Mathilde spared a glance at Combeferre who was still leaning on Courfeyrac, who was clutching his side as his laughter filled the room.

         "Courf?" The blonde asked, with a raised eyebrow, "Would you stop laughing and get my brother some water before he passes out?"

        Courfeyrac continued to laugh, but nonetheless threw his arm around her brother and guided him to the other side of the room where he could sit down.

        "Situation handled." The blonde girl nodded at Joly, who gave a small roll of his eyes and stood up walking over to Combeferre who truthfully was in a worse state than his sister.

        The commotion in the room resumed. Giving a content sigh, Mathilde peered down at my wound again wincing slightly.

          "Are you going to get off my table now?"

         Mathilde felt a small smile creep onto her lips at the sound of a voice from her left. She turned to Enjolras who mirrored the same a small smirk as he gestured to the table where she still resided despite her rejection of Joly's medical attention.

         "Oh, of course not." The blonde answered with feigned shock, "I'm dying, Enjolras. Don't you see?" She gestured to her leg, her façade breaking as a smile warming her features.

         She could have sworn, he was about to return the smile when a cry echoed around the room and cut the ambience like a hot knife.

          "There's no cloth, Mathilde!"

          The room fell silent, all the men turning to the girl, evidently curious to see how she would further handle the situation.

          "Oh, hell." She uttered, looking down at her wound again, its stinging becoming a little harder to ignore.

         At a loss, Mathilde looked helplessly at the men around the room before turning back to face Enjolras.

        Upon seeing the look on her face, his jaw clenched, and before any protest could be made, he reached up to the top of his sleeve and pulled it  harshly away from its stitching.

         His sleeve tore away from the rest of his shirt, exposing his very muscular arm.

         He held the fabric in his hands momentarily, as the room sat in intense silence.

         "Here." He said in a hushed tone, presenting the girl with the fabric that would suffice for the cloth I needed to tend to her wound.

         Mathilde stared at the marble man for a few seconds, completely marvelled. Part of her wondered if he was fully conscious of what he just did.

         "Uh— thank you." She choked out, taking the fabric from him as a blush rose up her face, redder than his jacket that lay discarded on his chair.

         "Well, I don't want you to die, do I?" He replied, with a quirk of an eyebrow and a half smile. 

         "That's nice to know." She smirked, regaining some of her gumption, as she leant forward and tied the fabric around her wound.

        Still in awe, the rest of the boys were staring at the two of them incredulously, as though they had three heads between them.

         Even Combeferre who now had sickly green hue in his skin, looked gobsmacked at Enjolras' response in his sister's hour of need.

         Doing her best to ignore their burning stares, Mathilde looked back to her wound; the previously pearly white colour of Enjolras' shirt had taken on a particular shade of red that would make his jacket envious.

        "Will you be wanting this back?" She asked him, shooting him a glance with a small smirk in a hushed tone.

        "Oh no, it's yours." He responded, mirroring her smirk, as she tried her best to avoid looking at his exposed arm.

         The room began to uptake some level of noise once more as the boys began shuffling around and mumbling to each other no doubt about the previous events.

        Mathilde found her gaze still wrapt up in Enjolras' until another jovial shout pierced the atmosphere.

          "Well, good evening, Enjolras!"

         Attracting all the attention in the room was a very smug-looking Grantaire stood in the doorway, chuckling to himself at the state of our marble man.

          "Watch your tongue, Grantaire." Enjolras retorted, raising his eyebrows before turning behind him and putting on his jacket, covering himself once more.

        He spared the blonde a faint smile at which all she could do was chuckle at the man in red.

***

WHAT'S IN A NAME?
That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title.
Romeo, doff thy name,
And for that name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.

"Okay, it's not looking bad."

Mathilde peeler her eyes away from her text and looked up to see Joly, inspecting the fabric of Enjolras' shirt from my wound.

"Sorry, I was so frantic earlier, Mathilde." The doctor apologised, with strained smile, "I'm usually more collected."

"It's no matter," She excused him, "I'm partly to blame, of course. I'm not exactly a calming patient."

He stifled a chuckle as the girl set down her book by her side.

"You should rest it. You sprained your ankle alongside the cut. So don't over exert yourself or you'll most likely cause more damage. So, no wagon riding for at least a week."

"You're a burden to my dreams, M'sieur." Mathilde retorted, narrowing her eyes playfully.

"Good night, Mathilde." Joly chuckled as he picked up his bag and made for the doorway.

The blonde sent him a wave; she still resided in the table but she'd swung around my legs so that they dangled off the edge.

The room was bare; that was all except for the meek candlelight, cold breeze of the night, herself and Enjolras.

Joly had told Courfeyrac to take Ferre home after his dizzy spell suggesting he rest, and not wanting to leave Combeferre, Amélie decided to accompany them which in turn led to Gavroche leaving too.

As the hours began to pass, more and more began to leave, Joly being the last before it was just the blonde girl and the marble man.

The hour stood at quarter to eleven.

Mathilde thought her dramatic arrival at the Musain with Feuilly and Joly seemed like an age ago, and yet she was so wrapt in my book and the odd conversation with Jehan or Bahorel, she managed to ignore the passing of at least three hours.

The blonde gave a small yawn, and stretched her arms, catching the attention of Enjolras who has moved his papers to the neighbouring table and was reading through them again.

She shot him a small smile which he returned faintly, before removing her gaze from his and staring down at her leg, part of her still slightly in awe from his selfless act.

"I'm sorry about your shirt, Enjolras." She said abruptly, sparing him a quick glance causing him to look up at her.

"Well, anything for a damsel in distress." He responded, which earned him a roll of her eyes.

"Hardly." The girl scoffed with a small smile, tearing her gaze from his and looking forward.

"Are you sure you can walk?" He asked, after a moment, quirking his eyebrow at her.

It was a good question. A question that she didn't know the answer to.

"Yes." She answered, nevertheless.

"And you don't need walking home?" Enjolras asked, his tone thick with disbelief.

"No, no." Mathilde answered, sticking out her chin with pride, "I can manage by myself."

She hopped off the table, placing the majority of her weight onto her bad leg. The blonde gave a small whimper of discomfort, as it unsurprisingly gave way.

But before she could collapse altogether, Mathilde found Enjolras at her side, pulling her back to her feet.

The blonde looked at the floor, bashfully, slightly embarrassed by her failure of fundamental movement.

"You cannot manage by yourself." Enjolras corrected the girl with an arched brow, causing her to huff irritably.

The man in red passed her the book from the table, and presented her with his right arm.

"Here, take my arm," He instructed, nodding at his outstretched limb. "I'll take you home."

"You needn't, Enjolras." Mathilde protested, with a shake of her head, "I'm perfectly capable of—"

"Shush." He cut her off, with a small smirk, "I'm taking you home, that's final." He concluded, presenting her with his arm once again, "Stop your grumbling and take my arm."

However, the blonde girl took an unsteady step back with a smirk of her own, clutching her book to her chest.

"Only if you promise me that you'll go straight home afterwards and sleep." She reasoned with him, quirking an eyebrow.

He showed no sign acceptance, yet gave out a tired sigh.

"Enjolras." The girl said, fully aware that she sounded like a mother chastising a schoolboy.

A few moments passed, neither of them backing down until finally Enjolras took a few steps towards her.

"You have my word." He said, solemnly, acknowledging defeat, presenting his arm to the blonde for the third time. "Mademoiselle?"

"M'sieur." She replied with a knowing smile, linking her arm through his, as he led her towards the doorway, down the stairs and out of the Musain.

***

MATHILDE HAD BECOME FAR more familiar with the state of the Parisian streets at the later hours of the night due to her continued presence at the boys' meetings.

To put it simply; the streets of Paris could not be more of an antithesis to themselves, never had an environment felt both so threatening and yet so tranquil; a strange feeling.

It was as though you were being watched but nothing more. Which, Mathilde supposed, was what made it so sinister.

She was glad to be in the company of another in such a climate ... more so, a specific other.

"I should have gone with you." Enjolras said all of a sudden, his voice was barely a whisper but against the solitude of the streets was equivalent to a yell. "To the market, that is." He added upon viewing the girl's confused gaze.

"Why ever do you think that?" Mathilde inquired, furrowing her brows slightly, her gaze never leaving the face of her companion.

"I could have prevented you from being hurt." He reasoned, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the street ahead.

The blonde suppressed a small chuckle at his painfully obvious show of masculinity.

"It was an accident." She answered calmly, "We're best off pretending it never happened."

"But it did happen and you're hurt." The marble man snapped, his grip on Mathilde's arm growing ever so slightly tighter. "What did you even do?"

"I told you, I fell off a wagon," The blonde answered him, as a blush ran up her cheek — although it was invisible in the darkness of the night.

"Well, you shouldn't have been on the wagon, should you?" He chastised her, with a tense sigh.

At last, Mathilde was aware of how she must have sounded to all the boys at the Café when she would tell them off for their crude behaviour. But her pride wouldn't falter that easily.

"It's fine." She dismissed his comment, looking him harshly in the eye as they fell back into step with one another. "What's done is done."

"You need to stop acting as though you're invincible," Enjolras told the blonde, clenching his jaw. "Because you're not."

"Enjolras—"

"You need to learn to be more careful!" He snapped, pulling her back to face him.

"And you need to learn how to control your temper!" She retorted, eyes flashing dangerously.

With her final statement, their argument ceased, making the silence of the neighbouring streets seem all the more invasive.

The two of them stood opposite each other, her arm no longer in his. Their eyes were locked, both holding intense fire as they bore into the other.

They were both breathing heavily, having successfully riled up the other.

Mathilde looked over the face of the man stood not far from her and she found herself feeling nothing but adoration.

She was utterly beguiled. The girl had known him for little under two weeks and, in this instance, he'd successfully managed to identify all her buttons and push them tirelessly, suffering the consequences.

How could she possibly be attracted to such an impertinent, stubborn and infuriating man?

But she knew that question was futile when the man was Enjolras.

Everything he did only made her want him more. It made no sense, but in this world nothing wholly good ever makes complete sense.

A few moments passed as the fire cooled down between them, Mathilde broke their gaze momentarily inhaling strongly and calming her heart rate.

She made the decision to back down as she looked back at him and saw his normally cold eyes soften, almost apologetically.

Drawing in a deep breath, the blonde took a step forward tentatively so as not to reawaken the inferno.

"I'm fine," She repeated in a barely a whisper.

His response was different this time; he had actually heard her.

He gave me an affirmative nod, and presented her with his arm once more, at which she smiled and took it, gladly.

"What are we doing tomorrow?" Mathilde asked him, with a small sigh, as they continued on their way, changing the subject.

"You'll be at home, recovering—" Enjolras began, but he barely made it three seconds into his sentence before the blonde had cut him off once more.

"I will be doing no such thing!"

"Joly said if you overexert your leg you'll cause more damage." Enjolras answered her excuse sensibly. "You need rest."

"It's just a sprain." Mathilde shrugged, glancing down at her ankle which had started to twinge a little, "I can rest at the Musain—"

"You're so infuriating." The marble man cut her off, in a slightly calmer tone than she would have expected.

The blonde felt a small blush rise up her cheeks once more, as she looked up at him, slightly bashfully.

"I know you love it." She retorted rather boldly, causing him to quirk his eyebrow at her as a small smirk played at his lips.

It only occurred to her then that the duo had stopped walking and by looking to her right, Mathilde was faced with the reason why; they had arrived home.

The girl felt her heart sink. She was deeply disappointed that her journey with Enjolras had reached its end.

"Goodnight Mathilde." Enjolras whispered, with a small smile, as she let go of his arm, rather reluctantly.

"Goodnight Enjolras." She bid him goodbye, and with a small smile of her own snuck through the open gate and into her front garden.

Hobbling slightly with the pain of her injury, she disappeared behind the ivy that masked the gate and the front of the door, leaving Enjolras alone on Rue Plumet.

In a brief moment, the blonde found herself not approaching her door but moving along the hedgerow, affront of her house, to a small clearing where she could see the marble man walking away the street in the feeble moonlight.

Letting out a shark breath at the pain of her ankle, she lazily brushed it off as she clutched Shakespeare's tragedy to my chest, gazing after the man whom she'd grown so unspeakably fond of.

"I've met so many men," The blonde muttered to herself in a light melody, "So easy to forget."

All to be heard were the rhythmic footsteps of Enjolras as he progressed down the cobblestone street with certainty.

"I thought I'd grown immune to them," Mathilde smiled to herself, as she turned away from the hedgerow and limped slowly towards her door before hesitating slightly, her head turning just to see Enjolras round the corner of Rue Plumet, "And yet ..."

She steadily climbed up the steps to the house, and opened the door quietly, to find the house in an unsurprising state of silence.

"He's such a love," She hummed as she shut the door behind her and leant against it, struggling to fight the grin creeping onto her face. "He's such a lovely lonely man."

She dawdled a little, trying to ease the pain in her ankle as she thought to herself, wandering the dark corridors of the house.

Since her Papa had passed, the house had never felt like home. Mathilde mused for a moment, they say home is where the heart is and yet her heart has never felt more removed from such a place.

Her heart was at the Musain; with the boys; with him.

If only he could see it as she did.

"My life now has a plan;" Mathilde sighed, happily, feeling a sudden burst of hope, and walking briskly to her father's library, ignoring the pain in her foot. "To someday make him see that I need him as much as he needs me."

She paused in the doorway; the library window gave a much clearer view of the moonlit Rue Plumet where Enjolras once walked.

"Oh what a love," The blonde chuckled at her naïve behaviour as she entered the library, treading quietly as she went. "Oh what a lovely lonely man."

She placed the book that had once resided in her hands — the one that she felt so hopelessly related to — on the side table next to her father's old chair.

Ever since that dream, the absence of her Papa seemed much less; the heartache seemed to fade.

It wasn't necessarily the revolution that caused it to do so, Mathilde knew truthfully that it was him.

The very thought of him freed her from the chains that she had bound herself to.

He might've believed that he would have to strive for the freedom of Patria, but little did he know that he freed her effortlessly. He gave her something to believe in; him.

"Oh he's a love; that lovely, lonely man."

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