get the moonlight out of your hair

she begins showing up in his apartment in late may, just as the city is becoming restless and the riots are beginning. lamarque is ailing (though not yet dead) and paris sits in a stifling heat. but not stagnant, no, never stagnant. the heat is more like the heat of a spark-full of tension, just waiting for the moment when the gasoline is poured and the world is lit in flames.

she, too, is full of tension. she is skinny and young-too skinny-and she has a tendency to blow up. she, too, is a powder-keg. the first time he tries to offer her a piece of bread, and tell her that he understands her plight, that he is fighting for her-she spits in his face. "you understand nothing, bourgeois boy," she tells him, and she leaves.

after a few more visits like these, he realizes that she is right. he may know a lot of things about politics and social class functions and the history of the inner-workings of the french government, but he understands absolutely nothing about her. and he doesn't anticipate ever understanding more, because she is a gamine, and they know all about hiding.

it takes him a mortifyingly long time to realize that she is the same girl who they always call marius's shadow. it's not until then that he truly appreciates just how good she is at hiding.

the next time she shows up in his apartment, he asks her, "what is your name?"

"ghost girl," she answers, with a wry smile.

it's nighttime, a full moon, and for once it seems that paris is quiet. there are no shouts in the streets, no warning shots being fired off by the cognes. no snatches of protesters' songs, but that could just be because enjolras isn't out there on the streets to rile them all up. she stands beside the window, the moonlight outlining her silhouette, and she is all sharp elbows and shoulders, ribs and knees. the streets have hardened her, made her into this.

"no," he replies. "you are not a ghost. you are artemis."

she laughs at him. "bourgeois boy, i don't know any of your fancy latin."

"it's not latin, it's greek. artemis, goddess of the moon."

that night he realizes that he, apollo, is in love with artemis. the only thought he has is thank god we're not actually in greek mythology, because apollo is artemis's twin, and that could be problematic.

he realizes a few days later that falling in love with her, even if she's not artemis, is a bad idea. falling in love with anyone other than patria is not good, because then he stands to lose something in this revolution. if there's anything enjolras has always hated it's losing.

but it's rather too late for that.

june comes, even hotter than may. even tenser. lamarque dies and les amis de l'abc build their barricade. everything is as planned-the dawn of the new republic is at hand. enjolras can see it, and by god it's beautiful.

artemis-he has learned that her name is éponine-shows up at the barricade, just as she used to show up in his apartment. she is dressed in boy's clothes, her hair tucked up into a cap, but occasionally a lock falls and he is graced with a glimpse of moonlight in her hair.

and then he curses himself-and her-because he came to this revolution to die and he can't very well do that if her damn moonlight is tying him down to the earth.

his only wish in these moments is that the moonlight would just get out of her hair.

then he reminds himself that it doesn't even matter, because she is still marius's shadow, and not his. she came to the barricade not for him, but for pontmercy. the prat.

fire consumes the world, and fire is all that enjolras can see. he thinks he is burning; he's not sure.

one gunshot rings out, clearer than the rest, and when the smoke disperses he sees éponine, artemis, his ghost girl, sprawled on the ground in marius's arms. her shirt is soaked with blood, and he thinks maybe i was wrong. maybe she isn't the moon. after all, the moon does not bleed.

she mumbles something about rain, and then she looks up from marius to enjolras. "it's raining, bourgeois boy," she whispers.

yes, he thinks. raining blood. he had always been wrong then. maybe she was never the moon. maybe she was always just smoke, smoke and water. maybe she hadn't been wrong when she called herself ghost girl.

he realizes with a jolt he is thinking about her in past tense even as she still breathes.

then she takes one last breath and the moonlight is at last gone from her hair.

Notes: I hope you enjoyed this little one-shot I wrote, and please review:)