[She’s cleaner than she started out, her hair slightly tamer. There’s traces though of her past life; rough skin, rotten teeth and a look in her eyes that rocks between hunted and sly.]
I know love like you say. Love when they don’t love you back but you give your all anyway. Me? I am in love with the most lovely man, Marius, but he would never see me. He - well, to him, I am the whore that lived close by. That is it. But I - I love him.
[There is something so desperate, so honest in her voice, that she ought to be believed. Eponine has spent nights sobbing about her love, about her yearning, about her invisibility. She loves him.]
[Renoir answers the video but says nothing. He listens to every word. Perhaps she believes him incapable of understanding her situation, dressed as he is in a tailored suit accessorised by a golden pocketwatch. But something about his attire is off. Golden splotches of paint along his sleeves, his jacket, his trousers. Colour filling in the cracks.
But his eyes soften in the corners and there is the unmistakable sign of understanding; of how tiring it can be to love someone so deeply. All while your senses are alive and your mind feels on fire.]
People tell you it only makes things worse. But few understand it's something that keeps you going, do they? Even if it breaks your heart.
[The fact she calls herself a whore is beside the point. Even women of the night can love. Even women of the night can inspire great art.]
[She softens, sagging in on herself. There's relief there that he understands and he isn't mocking her.]
Me, I can be sat on a street, Monsieur. Starving. Dying. And people don't see. He wouldn't see. Only when they need something. Sex... him? Information. He wants to know of the pretty girl, where she lives. Not me. And I am dead inside. I am alive but I am dead. I'm waiting to die. And then he glances at me, and Sir, my heart burns with what could be. It hurts. It fucking hurts. But at least the pain makes me know I am alive.
You know at home, I have a husband? We ain’t married or nothing. People like us ain’t allowed in church. And besides, he is a cut throat. He lures women, for my ‘Parnasse is handsome, and then slits their throat and robs ‘em. Sometimes he lets me try on their dresses, but no. Not to keep. To laugh at me. He likes that, laughing at me. And with his knife to my throat. With me hurting. And sometimes I shout back so he does it, so he hits me. So I feel something.
[She shrugs self consciously.]
Sir? I want someone who wants me and loves me. I want to be loved. But I fear such a life ain’t for me, even here. I want a nice man like Marius. I want to be loved. Someone to stroke my hair. Someone to hold me, and not just hold me still so my Pa can belt my arse. I want love
SPOILERS [Once again, he does nothing but listen, offering his time without passing judgement.]
You haven't been allowed to question what goes into the picture of a real man before, have you?
[He cannot cricitism her for insisting on rushing into love. For he has fallen head over heels in love. But his suggestion is intimate and personal given his experiences and those of his family. It should be possible for her to create that picture, because although she might create her ideal portrait of the man she wants to love, that man will never be real.]
[Eponine firmly believes she’ll die alone and unloved, however much she dreams for something else.]
A real man is like the prince in a fairy story. Kind and patient and good looking. No? And he falls in love with a beautiful girl. That’s what I want. I want to be beautiful so he’ll fall for me.
SPOILERS [The beautiful prince falling in love with a beautiful girl. He remembers reading a similar story to his daughters. One had been stolen by a witch and returned battered and bruised; the other still lives in the darkest pages of such a story. Scarred by living a life he would wish on nobody.]
Have you thought about painting such beauty yourself? To paint the life you want. To paint the man you want. Rather than await his arrival in your life?
[Art is a window. Art is a mirror. Art is a release.]
You insist it is impossible. But what if I were to teach you?
[His head angles gently to one side. His demeanour is open, calm and patient. He is used to the embarrassment of a young woman who struggles to accept her inner beauty.]
[Perhaps if she has a skill like that, she’ll be more ladylike and attract the right kind of man. Like a student - a poet? Someone thoughtful and caring? She brightens.]
I’d like that, Sir. And if I can repay, only with my word, Sir, I’ll do what you ask you know?
[His family are no strangers to selfishness and manipulation.]
Then we shall begin with the basics. Cleaning brushes, stretching canvases, grinding pigments. One must learn how to embody the work before they can create it.
[Every offer and gift has a cost. A favour. A responsibility.]
[He notices that thinning line of displeasure; the angry expression of a child who wanted something now rather than later.]
Paints and brushes require meticulous care, mademoiselle. How are you to paint a canvas if you never learn how to mount it? How are you to paint if your equipment is broken?
[He almost laughs. But not at her; he is not laughing at her.]
My master had me cleaning brushes for nearly two years. One to two hours daily admist other responsibilities. I hardly plan to inflict the same upon yourself.
[ She wrote and re-wrote this message several times, debating on the timing of her request — whether this was too soon after the failed dinner attempt, but agonizing over what would appear too late. Control issues. It seemed Clea couldn't control much here, least of all her family.
I can make myself available. You should only have to ask.
[How easily he makes the educated guess this is about helping her regain her sense of control after everything that happened. He remembers the other night and reserves considering how events had made him feel. He simply lives with the decision, and with all said and done, shares that he is willing to drop his work and meet his family.]
[ Anger would be easier to handle than disappointment, or worse, empathy. Clea doesn't know what to do with softness after ages of pain and isolation. Why isn't he furious? How can he be so calm? ]
I'll be there in a moment.
[ And she kept her word, the knock coming sharp and confident even if the woman behind the door felt anything but. ]
[The first thing he did when beginning to work was lock the door. There is no desire to surround himself with people when those whose company he desires want none of his after the other night. But he knows she will come. She will want to make sense of everything.
He lets her choose when and makes himself available to listen. He unlocks the door, staring down at her curiously for a moment. It had been a difficult night for her, but he is here and available to listen as he steps back and ushers her through the door.]
[ She was never a child, but here she was, standing at attention in the middle of Renoir's room, hands folded politely behind her back as though Clea were a young girl owning up to fault. ]
I wanted to apologize for my behavior. [ To the world, she was perfectly still. Calm and controlled. To her father, Clea was a wreck, and she knew he would see that. ] It was appalling. I take full responsibility for what happened.
And while I hardly expect forgiveness, I'd hoped you might — [ A beat. A break in her facade. ] I'd hoped you might — [ She exhaled hard, frustrated with herself, clutching her hands more tightly and blinking through tears. ]
[Once Clea is inside he returns to locking the door. There are to be no interruptions when his eldest child is relinquishing control under his gaze; sharing her thoughts and awaiting judgement. He redirects his attention to where it is needed. That young woman standing before him as though she was a young girl, afraid she had failed her family.
Sometimes one must be a father to a daughter. Other times one must be a papa. The parent who spoils her and lets her have what she wants, rather than what he thinks she needs.
He leans onto his cane with his right hand, extending his left arm. If she chooses, she can take his hand or embrace his arm - and find herself welcomed into his embrace. Comforted by his warm and protective presence.
Were he outraged at her behaviour, would she even have this opportunity?
Opportunity. He understands exactly what she needs.]
[ It was such a wholly unexpected response, such a shocking departure from what she'd prepared and braced herself for, that when Renoir invited her forward, Clea broke down into sobs. They were ugly, and loud, and it startled her, but there was no stopping this once the dam had broken. She went into his arms almost forcefully, clutching at his jacket and burying her face against his chest.
Here, for a brief moment, Clea allowed herself the opportunity to seek shelter from the world. To grieve everything she'd lost, and missed, and failed to protect. It was weakness. But for once, she didn't feel as awful about it as she usually did. She felt safe. And she desperately needed that. ]
[Renoir says nothing to draw attention to her emotion. He listens to every crack breaking within her throat, every tear falling down her face. He endures her fingers curling into his jacket, each clawing with the force she never had the chance to turn against those who had taken everything. His knowledge of his family means he cannot fail to understand the rarity of this moment, the enormity of what his daughter is sharing.
Herself. Imperfect.
His left arm gently crosses her back and holds her close without pressure. His right hand grasps his cane so he can cross his arm across its opposite, willing to bear her weight as long as she needs. His embrace affords her room. She has the freedom to remain while she wants. She has the freedom to escape when she wants.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Video
[She’s cleaner than she started out, her hair slightly tamer. There’s traces though of her past life; rough skin, rotten teeth and a look in her eyes that rocks between hunted and sly.]
I know love like you say. Love when they don’t love you back but you give your all anyway. Me? I am in love with the most lovely man, Marius, but he would never see me. He - well, to him, I am the whore that lived close by. That is it. But I - I love him.
[There is something so desperate, so honest in her voice, that she ought to be believed. Eponine has spent nights sobbing about her love, about her yearning, about her invisibility. She loves him.]
Video
But his eyes soften in the corners and there is the unmistakable sign of understanding; of how tiring it can be to love someone so deeply. All while your senses are alive and your mind feels on fire.]
People tell you it only makes things worse. But few understand it's something that keeps you going, do they? Even if it breaks your heart.
[The fact she calls herself a whore is beside the point. Even women of the night can love. Even women of the night can inspire great art.]
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[She softens, sagging in on herself. There's relief there that he understands and he isn't mocking her.]
Me, I can be sat on a street, Monsieur. Starving. Dying. And people don't see. He wouldn't see. Only when they need something. Sex... him? Information. He wants to know of the pretty girl, where she lives. Not me. And I am dead inside. I am alive but I am dead. I'm waiting to die. And then he glances at me, and Sir, my heart burns with what could be. It hurts. It fucking hurts. But at least the pain makes me know I am alive.
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Then perhaps you should consider what you want. Not what you need. Just what you want.
[You. We. One is more personal.]
Because we all deserve more than glances. We deserve someone to stay.
[A world where we matter.]
CW: domestic violence, murder, bullying
[She shrugs self consciously.]
Sir? I want someone who wants me and loves me. I want to be loved. But I fear such a life ain’t for me, even here. I want a nice man like Marius. I want to be loved. Someone to stroke my hair. Someone to hold me, and not just hold me still so my Pa can belt my arse. I want love
no subject
SPOILERS
[Once again, he does nothing but listen, offering his time without passing judgement.]
You haven't been allowed to question what goes into the picture of a real man before, have you?
[He cannot cricitism her for insisting on rushing into love. For he has fallen head over heels in love. But his suggestion is intimate and personal given his experiences and those of his family. It should be possible for her to create that picture, because although she might create her ideal portrait of the man she wants to love, that man will never be real.]
no subject
[Eponine firmly believes she’ll die alone and unloved, however much she dreams for something else.]
A real man is like the prince in a fairy story. Kind and patient and good looking. No? And he falls in love with a beautiful girl. That’s what I want. I want to be beautiful so he’ll fall for me.
no subject
SPOILERS
[The beautiful prince falling in love with a beautiful girl. He remembers reading a similar story to his daughters. One had been stolen by a witch and returned battered and bruised; the other still lives in the darkest pages of such a story. Scarred by living a life he would wish on nobody.]
Have you thought about painting such beauty yourself? To paint the life you want. To paint the man you want. Rather than await his arrival in your life?
[Art is a window. Art is a mirror. Art is a release.]
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[She looks down, suddenly embarrassed.]
Sir, does anything I have told you of my life make you believe I can paint? That I have enough to buy such things? I can’t paint
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[His head angles gently to one side. His demeanour is open, calm and patient. He is used to the embarrassment of a young woman who struggles to accept her inner beauty.]
The only cost would be your time.
no subject
[Perhaps if she has a skill like that, she’ll be more ladylike and attract the right kind of man. Like a student - a poet? Someone thoughtful and caring? She brightens.]
I’d like that, Sir. And if I can repay, only with my word, Sir, I’ll do what you ask you know?
no subject
[His family are no strangers to selfishness and manipulation.]
Then we shall begin with the basics. Cleaning brushes, stretching canvases, grinding pigments. One must learn how to embody the work before they can create it.
[Every offer and gift has a cost. A favour. A responsibility.]
no subject
But this man is being nice. He's listened to her, and despite knowing what she is, he's giving her an honest job. Clearly he cares a little bit.
So Eponine smiles.]
Thank you, Sir. I shan't let you down.
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Paints and brushes require meticulous care, mademoiselle. How are you to paint a canvas if you never learn how to mount it? How are you to paint if your equipment is broken?
[He almost laughs. But not at her; he is not laughing at her.]
My master had me cleaning brushes for nearly two years. One to two hours daily admist other responsibilities. I hardly plan to inflict the same upon yourself.
—text, @nevron
Finally, she settled on: ]
Are you available?
no subject
[How easily he makes the educated guess this is about helping her regain her sense of control after everything that happened. He remembers the other night and reserves considering how events had made him feel. He simply lives with the decision, and with all said and done, shares that he is willing to drop his work and meet his family.]
no subject
I'll be there in a moment.
[ And she kept her word, the knock coming sharp and confident even if the woman behind the door felt anything but. ]
no subject
He lets her choose when and makes himself available to listen. He unlocks the door, staring down at her curiously for a moment. It had been a difficult night for her, but he is here and available to listen as he steps back and ushers her through the door.]
no subject
I wanted to apologize for my behavior. [ To the world, she was perfectly still. Calm and controlled. To her father, Clea was a wreck, and she knew he would see that. ] It was appalling. I take full responsibility for what happened.
And while I hardly expect forgiveness, I'd hoped you might — [ A beat. A break in her facade. ] I'd hoped you might — [ She exhaled hard, frustrated with herself, clutching her hands more tightly and blinking through tears. ]
no subject
Sometimes one must be a father to a daughter. Other times one must be a papa. The parent who spoils her and lets her have what she wants, rather than what he thinks she needs.
He leans onto his cane with his right hand, extending his left arm. If she chooses, she can take his hand or embrace his arm - and find herself welcomed into his embrace. Comforted by his warm and protective presence.
Were he outraged at her behaviour, would she even have this opportunity?
Opportunity. He understands exactly what she needs.]
no subject
Here, for a brief moment, Clea allowed herself the opportunity to seek shelter from the world. To grieve everything she'd lost, and missed, and failed to protect. It was weakness. But for once, she didn't feel as awful about it as she usually did. She felt safe. And she desperately needed that. ]
no subject
Herself. Imperfect.
His left arm gently crosses her back and holds her close without pressure. His right hand grasps his cane so he can cross his arm across its opposite, willing to bear her weight as long as she needs. His embrace affords her room. She has the freedom to remain while she wants. She has the freedom to escape when she wants.]