The first time, it is an accident.

He had just finished giving a speech to his friends. They are splayed out about the room, bottles in hand, laughter and smiles about their lips. One is giving a vivid narration of an encounter with some mademoiselle. One is teasing, one is laughing, many are drinking. Some nights, this interlude between bouts of patriotism and duty feels like a relief. A pause for breath. Tonight, though, it feels more like suffocation.

Earlier that evening, he had been walking to the café when he saw a malnourished young boy in the street begging for food from a gentleman who clearly had more than enough to give. When the man refused and walked away, the boy stared after him a moment before collapsing unsteadily on the curb and dropping his head tiredly into his palms. Enjolras' heart broke. The boy could have been Gavroche, the charming street rat who, with his courage and merriment, had quickly won the hearts of all the Amis. Enjolras did not hesitate. He approached the boy, dropped onto his knee and held out a franc. His other fist was clenched. It was all he could give.

Tonight, his passion is at a rolling boil, and his friends—his dear friends, who would walk with him to the ends of the earth, cannot understand. So Enjolras turns to leave. A walk, he decides. To clear his head.

He opens the door into a solid figure that makes some sort of oomph. Startled, he shuts the door behind him and peers into the dark at what appears to be a young girl. As his eyes adjust from the light of the café to the dark of night, he takes in her appearance: slim, ragged, unexpected. Rubbing a spot on her forehead that had come in contact with the door. A gamine.

"Mademoiselle! My sincerest apologies." Suddenly, the girl looks up, and Enjolras is stunned by the dark expressive eyes that squint up at him amidst a face tarnished by weariness and grime. There is a spirited fire in them he did not expect.

"I am no lady, Monsieur. All is well." Her voice is simultaneously rough and melodious. She says the last bit with a dismissive wave and moves towards the door, but he stops her hand.

"Are you all right? I was in haste." She frowns, looking rather disconcerted at his concern. She throws her shoulders back. Pride glints in her eye.

"I can take care of myself, Monsieur." Her tone is short; and she walks swiftly through the door, letting it fall firmly shut behind her. Enjolras blinks and after a moment decides to continue on his walk. It takes ten steps before he remembers to question why she was entering the Amis' sanctuary anyway. It takes another five for him to forget the entire encounter and wallow in the miseries of his beloved, suffering country yet again.

The second time, he is giving a speech about how the revolutionaries must rally the people with hope—all they have left. Marius shifts in his seat, allowing Enjolras a glance at a small, huddled form behind him. That girl. In the warm candlelit glow of the café, he can see she is much worse off than he thought her that night, one week before. The darkness had cloaked the extent of her poverty. Now, he can see her hair hangs in loose, dirty tendrils about her face. Her clothes are threadbare and must offer no protection at all from the bitter cold of the early French spring. Her waist is so small he could wrap one arm around it and still meet his hand to his own body.

He tries to focus, clear his mind of her, but a singular thought nags him. Her face tonight is serene and sweet, but her eyes betray a lingering sense of sorrow. She is staring at Marius, who, Enjolras notes with a twinge of annoyance, is staring dreamily at the ceiling. Not at him and his words and not at this girl and her obvious rapture. Another glance at the girl and he understands. Her hopeless joy fills Enjolras with pity, and his speech ends on an different note than it began.

His friends pick up conversations as he steps off their makeshift stage. His eyes flit back to Marius, who is now engaged in some dialogue on fair maidens with Courfeyrac. The girl remains silent at his side. In less than three strides, Enjolras is at hers.

"How is your head, Mademoiselle?" She starts, clearly having been unaware of his presence. But by the time she turns to him, her face is more amused than surprised.

"I am not a lady," she reminds him, lips quirked in a hint of a smile. "And my head has experienced far worse than the gentle push of a door, Monsieur." She is more welcoming than he remembers. He notices a fading bruise on her cheek and frowns at it. She follows his eye, stiffening, and tries to turn away. The welcome is gone.

"Did I cause that?" He asks, in a low tone. He cannot decide which answer will be more displeasing. But as she shakes her head no, he knows it is that one. He opens his mouth to speak again, when—

"Enjolras! I see you have met my lovely friend." The new voice is Marius', and its sound causes the girl to flush with pleasure. "I assured Eponine that she would be quite welcome here." Eponine. The name fit.

The third time comes four days later. Enjolras is storming out of the university after listening to a professor's ignorant tangent on Parisian prostitutes that only leaves this particular student with a clenched jaw and an irritable mood. He is walking through the square when an energetic tangle of limbs barrels into him, painfully and without warning. His forced calm is shot and he lets out an indignant growl. He instinctively grabs his assailant by the arms, but catching sight of their face, he freezes.

"You again."

Dark brown eyes glitter up at him in amusement, unapologetic. "Bad day, Monsieur?" He ignores her and frowns.

"What are you running from, Mademoiselle?" She escapes his grasp with a laugh and a brush of her fingers. Some unknown object behind him must catch her attention, because she shifts her gaze from his and turns to leave. As she hurries off, she throws a flippant smile and goodbye over her shoulder.

"Eponine, if you will. It seems we are destined, Monsieur, to collide."

His bad mood evaporates. So it does seem.

The fourth time is sooner than he expects. More unforeseen than the others, even, because Enjolras had come to see this girl as one would a shooting star: suddenly present every so often but never successively in sight. Perhaps in a week, he might have wondered about her, maybe even looked for her. But what startles him more than her appearance at the café that same night is the fact that he finds the surprise a pleasant one.

He sits in the corner, distractedly picking at a piece of bread, and watches as she slips into the room behind Marius. The fool is wearing an expression of pure love struck delight, while Eponine simply looks wretched and resigned. A wave of vexation rolls through Enjolras; but it is one he cannot explain, so he ignores it. Her eyes sweep the space of the café and settle on him. He swears he sees her shoulders straighten, but he does not miss the glance she throws at Marius before she crosses the room.

Marius is ignorant of her departure.

Enjolras, on the other hand, eyes her warily as she approaches him.

"Another speech tonight, Monsieur?" She asks boldly and without preamble. "What is this important that it leaves you so often solemn and alone?"

He arches an eyebrow. "So often? We have met but few times, Eponine." Four. A smile flashes in her eyes like lightning at the name.

"I am not blind," she responds, mimicking his serious expression. "I see more than I am given credit for." One of her hands rests lightly on her hip. As she speaks, he watches her sway slightly, the hand jerking out subtly as she regains balance and then returning to its previous position. It crosses his mind that her last meal may have been days ago and his own hand that is holding the bread shoots out without his even meaning to let it.

Immediately, her demeanor changes. Her arms cross angrily, and beneath a glare, she spits, "What I do not need, Monsieur, is pity." The word comes out like a curse.

"What you need," he says slowly, standing, "is bread. If you'll excuse me, Mademoiselle. Another speech tonight."

Though quiet, his voice is powerful, made to hold ears and move crowds. She takes the bread.

The fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth times are consecutive. The next four nights, she comes to their meetings.

On the first night, they do not converse. She nods at him as she follows Marius through the door and he raises his eyebrows. While he speaks, she glances up only twice.

The second night, the Amis are in a heated debate about the cost of freedom. He stands by silently and listens as opinions on poverty and education and bloodshed fly unrestrained. Once it gets too loud, too drunk, he speaks up. He talks of revolution, of hope, of the raging unfairness in the poor being thrust into the bowels of a beautiful country made horrendous while the rich are smothered in opulence. He feels her eyes on him the entire time. It takes more willpower than he would like to admit to keep his attention on his comrades.

He fails just once.

On the third night, she approaches him. Her small hips sway easily, and Enjolras forces himself to look away. A glance confirms that Marius is scribbling on some worn paper and paying heed to nothing.

"You fight for a broken people," she says, seating herself beside him. "Why do you care?" He is taken aback, but his response is smooth.

"You have been listening." It is a question.

She waves her hand dismissively in response. "You are difficult to ignore. Those you speak of. Those are my people. Not yours. It is easy to see you could have wealth if you wished."

"They are my people as well," he says. "And I do not seek wealth. I ask for freedom." She smiles at that and asks him question after question. Battle plans, histories, philosophies. He is surprised by her wisdom; she is surprised by his depth.

Hours later, when Marius announces his departure and asks if Eponine would join him, she says no.

The fourth night, she comes alone. Marius is absent and she is late. She arrives only in time to see the Amis discussing the merits of various pieces of literature and Enjolras walking towards the door.

"Leaving so soon, Monsieur?"

"Enjolras," he corrects her firmly. "We are equals. Where is your—" Eloquence fails him, and he finds himself struggling for a proper word that will not come. He sees in her eyes that his silence has said enough. She understands.

"With his new beloved. Hardly a question, Mon—Enjolras." A shadow passes over the girl's face, and Enjolras feels a moment of remorse. But the look of sadness is gone so quickly, he vaguely wonders if it had ever been there at all. He searches his mind for the appropriate condolence but cannot find one. What comes out instead surprises him.

"Will you join me?"

He notices their encounters are becoming more frequent, less accidental. One day, he is only faintly surprised to see her waiting for him as he exits the university doors. She falls into step beside him and resumes a conversation they never began. After that, he stops counting.

When he eats, he saves bread for her, has it waiting when she enters the Musain in the evenings. She no longer protests and instead just walks through the door and straight to him. She trades her pride for his company. They do not speak of the exchange.

After the Amis' meetings, she starts to leave the café later and later. Some nights, she blows out candles and picks up bottles scattered about the empty room as he scribbles down strategies and battle plans. Some nights, she sits beside him, and much to his initial irritation, tries to read over his shoulder. Some nights, she helps.

"No, not there. Inspectors frequent that area when they are not on patrol."

"I was not aware of that."

"And that is how they capture blockheads like yourself."

One night, he is reading and she is warming herself by the fire. They sit in companionable silence until she breaks it.

"The people will not come," she murmurs. He glances up, eyes narrowed, watching firelight dance gently across her features. Her tone is not harsh, not meant to hurt. "We are cowards, Enjolras."

"You are not," he responds simply. The corners of her mouth tilt up.

"Nonetheless, they will not come."

"Then we will have to fight all the harder." He turns back to his papers, and as he does so, misses the sweet look of adoration that steals its way across her countenance.

She does not let him walk her home. His instincts rally against the very idea, but he allows her dignity and escorts her only halfway. She does not know he always stays, in case she might find need for assistance. One night, he hears shouts of unrest in the street and he staunchly refuses to jeopardize her safety, despite her irritated protests. She will not let him accompany her, so after minutes of failed reassurances from her and exasperated glowering from him, they stay the night in the Musain instead. Both pretend it is an inconvenience.

He finds blankets, she lights candles. She asks him about his past and while he appreciates good discourse on history, he does not enjoy divulging his own. Neither does she. So they talk instead of the revolution that draws rapidly nearer, almost suffocating in its proximity. Their words of barricades and ammunition move him not at all. He is used to hearing such ideas voiced. It is when she mentions death that he is stilled.

"Your friends," she starts and he shakes his head. It is the first time she has ever seen him looked pained. It will not be the last. When he looks up, he sees the pity in her eyes, and he is surprised into a laugh. But it is a laugh with an edge, as if a sob in disguise.

She takes his hand and he does not pull away.

They are all in the café when the news of Lamarque's death reaches their ears. Enjolras feels the tension and excitement zipping through his friends, as everyone starts moving at once, chattering and planning and moving. But Enjolras, like a man struck by lightning, is frozen to the spot. His eyes dart about the room until they find hers. He does not know what he expected, but her expression surprises him: all steely determination and resolve. He feels his fists and jaw clench, anger and passion coursing through his veins. From her eyes, he draws strength and assumes his role. He is a leader, and this is his battle. He will lead it.

On the eve of the revolution, they are alone in the Musain. His brothers, he knows, are with their mistresses and their bottles, getting what they can out of life before it is time to take up arms. After their final stages of planning, they had gone, one by one, out the door. Only Enjolras and Eponine have not stirred. Outside the café, it has turned dark and cold and unwelcoming. They have not noticed.

"It will be a new world tomorrow," Enjolras muses, toying with a bottle he found empty on the table. It goes unsaid that he will not be around to see it. "Eponine, when it is over, take care of—"

Then she glares at him so fiercely, he stops. "What?"

"You are telling me," she bites, "that you do not expect me to be with you tomorrow? If you die, Enjolras, I will die. This fight that will claim you will claim me. I will not stand by idly while you fight for my own freedom—one you already have. It is cowardly and useless. Do not give me instructions on how to live on afterwards for I will not."

The crash of the bottle startles them both, and suddenly Enjolras is on his feet, breathing heavily, before her.

"No." It is the only word that escapes. The fear that swept through his entire being at her words hits him like a revelation. No. This is his burden. She would not dare. No. This battle was to give her the world. He will not sentence her to death. No. Through his stormy brooding, he watches her. Her anger is gone, replaced by the forlorn look beneath the mask of bravado she wore in the early days he knew her, and he finds himself despising it. No, no, no. "Eponine, no."

Something softens in her eyes at his plea. "Let us not speak of it, Enjolras," she whispers. But he responds with an icy glare.

"You will not approach the barricade tomorrow. You will stay safe." It is his first command to her and, behind its severity, it is a desperate one.

"Yes," Eponine murmurs comfortingly, reaching for his hands. "Yes." It is her first false promise to him.

He is building a barricade, wiping away sweat with grimy and splintered hands, when he backs up into a small boy. Hasty apologies are on his lips as he turns, but as soon as he sees those defiant eyes, they turn into a stream of furious curses.

"Get out of here," he snarls. Her arms shield her body as though she expects a blow, and he feels something inside him break. "Eponine, please do not make me beg you."

But despite his words, he drinks in her appearance as a man lost in a desert would gulp down water. Her hair is tucked securely under a cap, and she is dressed in a young man's dirty garb—whose he does not know, does not care. A small, selfish part of him is glad to see her, but the rest of him is angry, so angry that she would come. Her eyes flash and she raises her chin stubbornly.

"Do not ask me to leave." A warning.

"Do not ask me to watch you stay." A plea.

He glares at her and she glares at him and once again, they are colliding.

He growls, grabs her hand and, ignoring her indignant yelps, all but drags her into some nearby, abandoned shop. "If you must be here, you will be here. But you will not see battle and you will not die."

In the end, she wins. The battle is almost over. Blood is everywhere and cries rise up in all directions. In his haste to reload his gun in their makeshift ammunition room and return to the barricade, Enjolras trips over a fallen comrade. Bile rises in his throat; he does not know who. He aims his gun at the soldier who fired a shot into Courfeyrac's side just moments before when he is distracted by a cough and a warm body that sidles up to his knees.

"Oh, for God's sake, Eponine!" She is crouched down below a bullet-riddled wardrobe, pushing a gun through the cracks of their faltering barricade. He fires his shot just as he hears her do the same. It makes no difference. Wearily, he watches the soldiers advance. They will be over the barricade in minutes. He feels Eponine tug at his coat, so he lowers himself beside her.

Bullets whiz past his head and he knows the end is near. He hears the approaching soldiers, feels the crushing weight of responsibility for all his brothers' deaths, but in this moment, all he can do is stare at the girl before him in wonder. A stranger to him mere months before, lost in the haze of his yearning for revolution; now some infuriatingly stubborn embodiment of heart that makes something in him beg for more time. Please. Just more time. He reaches out to touch her hair, and her eyes, strong and unafraid, lock on to his.

"You promised me." He means it as an accusation, but it comes out a strangled groan.

Her reply is husky and warm. "And you promised me a better world. If you are not in it, then you, too, have broken your promise." He lets his eyes fall shut and reaches out blindly for her, but what finds his hand is not flesh. Startled, he looks down. Eponine has pushed the flag, vibrant and bloody, into his waiting palm. It is a promise, a blessing, and a farewell, all in one. He presses a fervent kiss to her hand and she releases a sigh.

When he raises the flag, she does not let go.