A/N: The prompt given by bisexual-eponine was a line: "Is there a reason you're naked in my bed?" Well, I wanted to make it funny, but that isn't my forte, so for some reason we ended up with an angsty-happy fic. Blame it on my newfound love for Greek tragedies, particularly Antigone by Sophocles. This play is basically about star-crossed lovers with really shitty family histories, pompous Olympian gods/goddesses, and whatnot. It's like Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, but so much better. No offence to fans of the work, but I just feel and relate to this more than Big Willy's piece. Hope you enjoyed it. I cried while writing it because I was so frustrated with my writing. Also the answer Éponine makes to Enjolras's question was a line from my own poem. So is the title. It's not inspired by the series made by S. Meyer, so please don't go there.
This is also in AO3. I'm LearaBribage there.
P.S. The lines you see here from Antigone and Haemon are from Sophocles' Antigone (Version: The Oxford World Classics)
if a glance is dawn breaking, then twilight is a whisper of your name
I love not those who love in words alone.
"What's a happy song?" she wondered, her voice lilting in spite of the breakdown she just had a few moments ago.
Her miserable countenance after realising Marius already had Orpheus give him Cosette had gradually turned her visage into one of insipid likeness.
Under the moonlight, Enjolras pondered how there was still a glint of fire in the tresses that were spread around her.
Then he feels it, narratives waiting to be rewritten the moment he touches her — that certain spark of a revolution. The call to victory.
He tries to reach for her when her head is turned to the side, and when she resumes her position, his hand falters limply on the ground.
"What's happy for you?" he then treaded carefully, aware of her unwavering desire for flight.
The susurrus of trees around them began its Autumn overture, and Éponine eyed him simply. Her brows furrowed, her lips weaved tightly, her fingers curled against the skin graced by the light of the sun.
It appeared that the answers they were looking for would yet remain elusive.
Like catching wind, his traitorous heart whispered, as he traced circles on the grass between them. His fingers drift near her arms once more, little waves jostling its way to the shore. He peered at her, lids low as her visage maintained its pensive mask.
The silence made him feel the incarnadine line on his cheeks. But he knew that he had to wait for her. Too soon, and she might just flutter away. Too late, and he would have lost her again.
Don't let the earth be eager to ensconce her, he pleaded.
The utter vexation that thrummed in his veins made him ball his fists on the soft ground. But still — the long night prevailed.
His lids had wanted to fall in sweet, tantalising darkness when the shaking of the stars erupted from her lips.
"A still life of a life in motion," her heart cried the throes from a forgotten poem, it seemed.
Of course, it would always be the zenith that she sings for.
She knows many things, his best friend, and it appeared as if this time, unlike before, she wanted to live.
And feel everything.
He curled his fingers with hers, his eyes welcoming the death of stars.
"I know it," he hummed, as they eventually weaved themselves into this hymn of exalted souls. "Your song, I know it."
Is this not worthy of a crown of gold?
"Is t-there a reason you're naked in my bed?" the awe — she admit she cannot hide, the rippled waves of gold be damned for most of it. And the universe that look upon her with fire?
Her eyes cannot be curtailed, fully captivated by his chiseled form as well.
Bernini would have envied the way he stilled as a statue. Pisarro would have appreciated the blurs of warmth spreading in his blushing visage. All the masters and mistresses of Art espoused in this man — yes, he is faithful, yet close to your heart, do not deny it.
"I wanted to be more than the dawn in your eyes," she heard the radiant mystery that he offered — that could finally be her story.
The vestiges of rain finally halting, Éponine picked up the long lost diadem of lights gifted by Haemon, and pressed her lips upon his.
One to the other — meeting in the rhapsody of tomorrows.
The roles have metamorphosed unto fire, and the threads of history have once again been pigmented with life.
And all of Thebes can breathe again — the sins of their crimson-marred lives forgiven in the language of love.
Who knows? In Death they may be reconciled.
[A/N]: What do you guys think?