Those Who Fall in Love. |Enjolras|

6. Mystery Man

Paris, France
March, 1831

The cold months of winter had melted away into spring, granting the small and fragile flower buds to peak out of the earth. The meadows of France had become green again, the recent rainfall revitalizing the vegetation. In the city, the bourgeois families planted flowers in their yards and in boxes outside their windows. Sometimes on her walks, Lorraine would see young children peeking in through the iron gates, admiring the lush yards. If they were able to, a young boy might snatch a flower, and present it to his mother, sister, or to a girl whom he liked. Men carried large and small bouquets home after their work, surprising their families with beautiful arrangements of yellow, red, pink, and white. Sandrine had asked Lorraine to buy flowers to decorate the café, and now each table had roses, lilies, or daisies in little jars.

Lorraine watched the street from her bedroom window, the sea of people below moving rapidly. She looked for any familiar faces, her eyes flickering back and forth across the faces below. She spotted Éponine's father, scrounging around for any innocent soul from which he could profit off of. She found Éponine standing beside him, looking up at Lorraine with a small smile. Lorraine waved, returning her smile as well. The two had grown closer, with Éponine and Lorraine frequently walking the city together. Éponine taught Lorraine how to navigate the streets, where things were, and how to get back to the café as fast as possible from multiple places.

She spotted a familiar head of curly hair walking towards the café, a bag slung over his shoulder lazily. He stumbled around in the crowd, before entering the doors below. Lorraine closed her shutters, running down the stairs.

"Miss me?" Someone laughed as Lorraine slammed into a body coming up the stairs.

"You wish." She grinned, slinging an arm over his shoulder. She took the book bag from him, throwing it open. She handed him the flask he had stashed at the bottom of the bag. He graciously accepted it, opening it and pouring the contents into his mouth. He sighed as the last few drops of alcohol left the flask, closing it, and stuffed it in his pocket. Lorraine shuffled through his bag, looking for one thing in particular.

"Did you forget it again?" She frowned, not being able to find what she was looking for.

Grantaire made a sound that was supposed to sound like, "I don't know," but came out as more of a gargling sound.

Lorraine gave him a disapproving glance, but continued to search through the bag. "Aha!" She exclaimed happily, pulling the small sketchbook form the depths of the bag. She dropped his bag, making him groan as he bet over to pick it up, moving past him and down the stairs. She settled down at her table, opening the fragile book, her hands tracing over the strokes from the pencils, coal, and ink. Anything that could be used to draw had been used a hundred times. Grantaire sat across from her, one of the waitresses having already brought him a bottle of wine. He avoided her gaze as she flipped through the drawings she had already seem, hoping to find a new one. She grimaced as her eyes landed upon a rough drawing of her face.

"I still don't see why you haven't burned this one." She held up the sketchbook to her face, copying the pose she had made.

"It's one of my favorites." He hummed.

Lorraine looked back at it. "I don't see what you see in it." The coal was smeared, distorting her facial features. Her eyes, however, remained untouched. They mirrored the ones on her face perfectly. Deep down, Lorraine thought her hatred of the picture stemmed from her hatred of her face, especially in drawings. She knew the sketch was terrific, by any standards, but it could be hung in the biggest museum in all of France, and she would still detest the sight of it.