A/N: It's official, I'm the worst updater ever! I'm so sorry that this chapter took me so long to write, but I promise I have not forgotten about this story. In fact, I'm already hard at work on chapter seventeen. Also, I'm sorry if this chapter does not fulfill what I told you all I would include in this chapter, because I had to add a few more scenes in between last chapter and the introduction of Enjolras' backstory. It is coming soon though, I promise you. I just want to do it in the right way. Anyway, I hope you still like this chapter! :-)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN | IMPOSSIBILITIES

On New Year's Eve, Éponine did not stay with Enjolras at his apartment. The money that jingled in her pocket as they walked back down the Champs-Elysées was a steady reminder that she was the proverbial Cinderella, forced to return home before the night was through or else her father would have her head.

When Enjolras inquired as to why she needed to be driven home, she simply said she was too tired.

Part of him didn't believe that, but part of him didn't believe a lot of what he heard come out of Éponine's mouth. He just didn't have the nerve to ask – despite how strong the urge to be her confidant was, especially lately. But he was still too proud to ask, so far gone in solitude that he felt there was no retreating.

Although it sometimes helped him forget, her company was not staple-gunned, and when it came to this manic, attitude-stricken woman, nothing was ever certain.

Éponine got out of the car, the money in her pocket growing heavier with each passing moment. You really owe him this time Éponine, her mind hissed. This money shouldn't be for you, or your family. Even if he doesn't need it, he has done so much for you to deserve some deeper form of thanks – and if you don't leave it with him, you're just selfish.

But she was selfish, and angry, and crude, and sometimes mean-spirited. That was every bit of who Éponine was, right down to her very core; the world was a cruel place, and because she had experienced so much of its cruelty, she had become knowingly cruel – at least, some of the time. So when she closed the car door and allowed Enjolras a small wave goodbye – even after he gave her a short nod and pulled away – she didn't feel unbearingly guilty.

It was two in the morning. It's not too late, she thought, especially after seeing the cars in the driveway and the lights still on inside the house. This could only mean that everyone was over for New Year's – probably celebrating a night's worth of pick-pocketing with splendored treasures beyond compare, including a fine pocket watch or a heavy wallet with francs to spare.

As usual, Éponine headed in the backdoor and tried to sneak past everyone, though it was in her interest to avoid one man in particular.

Just put the money on the table quickly and head to bed, she instructed herself, going through the motions as she silently tugged the francs from her pocket, giving her best attempt of "silent" as she possibly could.

Of course, she hadn't been so lucky as to have been blessed with tact and grace; four coins slipped between her cupped hands and fell to the floor, alerting Madame Thénardier in the living room.

"Oh! There's my girl!" she cat-called as she saw her daughter emptying her pockets on the kitchen table. She stood with one arm around her husband and the other coddling a tall bottle of vodka, which she then lifted to Éponine and began to toast. "To our girl – 'Ponine – who does what she do to keep our family fed!"

"Here, here!" a chorus came.

Despite how drunk she knew her mother was, Éponine couldn't help but let a ghost of a smile graze her lips. It wasn't out of happiness, the kind she had beamed that night when out with Enjolras in the heart of Paris, but a grateful one. She was grateful for her mother's drunkenness, grateful for the fact that her father was being entertained by his friends, and grateful that no one seemed to realize the time.

As her eyes scanned the room, a pair caught hers – dark ones – and she shivered.

She didn't have to say anything. Instead, she rushed to her room and shut the door tightly, gripping at the collar of her shirt, whizzing through thoughts in her head so fast she grew a headache.

I don't want to do this, her body begged her. She shut her eyes and waited for the door to creak open, to see him standing there with his silhouette dark against the harsh yellow light in the hall. The door creaked as it closed behind him.

"Montparnasse," Éponine said, trying to smile with her voice but failing miserably. "Bonne année."

He didn't reply at first, and instead moved to where she was, near the bed, still standing. His stance seemed frigid, and she couldn't tell if it was only her imagination or if he was as furious as he seemed.

"You were with him again."

At his words, a chill spread throughout the room. Any words she might have spoken were silenced as he took a slow step forward, then another, and another.

"Don't lie to me this time," he said between clenched teeth. "I'm not to be made a fool. You know I'm not an idiot – I can read between the lines well enough."

Éponine took a deep breath. "We're just friends."

"Bullshit!"

"Oh, please." She rolled her eyes now, her silence replaced with annoyance. She stood and circled around him to the other side of the room. "You're reading too far into it. We are friends and nothing more."

Montparnasse shook his head, yet could not keep quiet this time. "New Year's with 'just friends.' Rides home with 'just friends.' Thought you were in love with that other one. Marlin."

"Marius," she hissed through clenched teeth. Her chest ached to speak his name, but for some reason, she thought back to Enjolras instead, and how offended he would be to know that Montparnasse spoke of their friendship in such a crude manner as this.

"Well forget about them," the man warned. "They're just boys."

"No older than you."

"I might as well be older than them!" he snapped. "I've seen more than they'll ever see, done more than they've done, proved myself to everyone – including your father!"

Éponine was quiet a moment before whispering something to herself.

"What was that, girl?"

She turned her eyes to meet his again with a renewed sharpness that had not been there before. "I said," she spoke, "you must be very proud."

He rolled his eyes, then took a seat on her bed. "I might have blood on my hands, but at least there's money in my pockets. Don't you see that? I do what I do to keep us together, to keep us alive."

Éponine stopped, nearly biting her tongue – which she should have done. "You paid me to suck your cock. You think your money will keep us together?"

"If it's the only thing that does," he said, standing again and starting toward her, "then it must be so."

His breath was warm on her face, and as she stood against the wall, her shoulderblades taught, chin raised, and eyebrows cinched together, she felt his hand on her waist.

"No."

Montparnasse moved it downward, hooking his thumb in the loop of her pants. His mouth went for her neck and he sucked – hard. His saliva was still on her numb skin as she pressed both hands to her chest and shoved him just as hard.

"Don't touch me."

He stood in complete disbelief. "What the hell has happened to you? A pretty boy shows you affection and suddenly you're too good for me, is it?"

"It isn't like that, I told you." Her mouth felt dry and a sinking feeling hogged her stomach.

"Then what is it like, Éponine? You've changed. I'm not an idiot." He paused, fury hot in his throat. His lips turned downward and in one sudden motion, he punched the wall.

Éponine's heart stopped.

"What do they have that I don't?" he snarled. "What keeps you running from me when I can give you everything?"

The room was silent. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end and she could feel a familiar sensation rising in her throat. You need fresh air, she thought desparately.

"You're just like my father," she breathed, eyelashes lacing shut. Words that had haunted her for a long time came spewing out and she couldn't stop them. If this was the night it would be said, she needed to spill it. "I'll be damned to live a life, afraid of what you'll do. That blood on your hands might buy you a life so frivalous you can afford not to be on the streets, where you can afford to cover your tracks, where you can buy my body and these nights I give you."

Her eyes opened again, and for a moment, Montparnasse thought he saw tears in them.

Her jaw tightened. "But I will not live a life like my mother's. I won't turn out like her. I won't be part of this any more."

"You are weak," he spat, and at these words – as they sunk in and scarred her already darkened soul – those tears filled her eyes and glazed them in a bright white sheen.

But he didn't stop there – he had to keep digging. She deserved to feel like this.

His words crashed down on her with a haunting severity.

"Your sister was weak too, and someday, you'll wind up just like her. You're going to be living out there, on your own, because no one will ever love you – because you're filthy. You said it yourself: you sold your love to me, so you deserve to live like she did. You'll be a streetwalker. You'll die alone. You will never be like one of those rich boys you fancy so well; you'll never have rich clothes, you'll never live in an apartment in the city.

"You'll be a rat that cowers in the shadows, taking up space and poisoning the earth with your infections and diseases... Good for nothing, not an ounce of specialness about you. You're just another fleck of wasted space."

Montparnasse spat on the floor near her feet.

"I'm done with this," he decided. "You aren't worth a single franc to me." And with those final words, the man who could look so composed and proper and beautiful pulled his mask off and revealed that darkness Éponine had always known was there, but had never truly seen. Not until that moment, anyway, and even after he had left the room and her breathing returned to normal, she still stood in utter shock.

Good riddance, she thought bitterly, wiping at her eyes. I don't need you to be my savior. I don't need you to buy me, keep me fed with your empty love, then write me off as just another girl. There is nothing I need less.

Éponine took one deep breath and sighed.

Out her bedroom window, she shimmied herself out before shutting it tightly behind her. She would not stand to be in the same house as that man – if she could call him that – and would rather freeze on the streets.

So she did – another night, another alleyway. As she hid herself between a chainlink fence and a filthy, old dumpster, she thought of the man in the alleyway near her house, the homeless one who had always asked for money. He had frozen and starved and somehow stayed alive through the biting winter chill.

If he can do it, so can I.

She then thought of Enjolras' flat, and the warmth of his fireplace on Christmas Eve. Wine glasses, movies, laughter, comfort. It felt so easy there with him, not worrying about whether or not she would be fed, not worrying if the money she made at the factory – the one which worked her fingers to the bone – would be enough to get her through the week. With Enjolras, she didn't have to worry about anything.

But it wasn't the thought of the comforts of his home that put her to sleep that night, as oftentimes it did when she thought of Marius. It wasn't the pleasantries he could give her, the stability he could offer her, or any of the material things he represented to her.

It was instead the way he looked at her that very night, with that smile she hardly ever saw on him, the one he tried to hide away in the recesses of his spirit.

And the feeling of his cheek as she missed his lips.

My dear friend, wherever you are, Éponine thought softly as she drifted off into a lonely, shivering sleep, I am grateful you are there – and not here.

xxxxxxxxxx

Enjolras flicked on the light as he entered his apartment, closing the door behind him gently as he slid off his shoes and made his way across the floor. He fell onto the couch with a loud poomf and closed his eyes.

It had been a strange night, indeed.

Tomorrow he would head back to work and continue that story about the joggers who treked across Europe twice, and start gathering interviews about those people who had made a deer their pet and were reunited with it after they released it years ago. He would go to the grocery store and get more fruit, some more whole wheat bread, and cat food.

And perhaps some more wine, too.

His eyes opened a fraction as the sound of meowing could be heard from his bedroom. At first he thought to simply ignore the cat, because the sound was probably nothing, but after the intermittent meowing continued on for five minutes, he decided to get up and see what all the commotion was about.

When he opened the already-cracked door to his bedroom, he found Petit on the ground playing with something. Whatever it was, it was small and black, and somehow elastic; it caught on the cat's foot and it tugged, meowing once again as it fell onto its back in a dramatic leap.

"What..." Enjolras thought aloud, picking the cat up with one hand (realizing then how large the cat was getting and making a mental note to get the leaner cat food when at the store the next day). He struggled with Petit to grab whatever it was he was playing with out of his hands when it suddenly flopped to the floor.

His eyes landed on it, in all its circular glory.

A hairtie.

In a slight huff, the blonde tossed his cat out of the bedroom – much to Petit's anguish – and walked back toward the item slowly. Then, he took a seat.

It was a strange occurrence to find such a thing in his home, something that did not belong to him and was very foreign in nature. It was feminine, and appeared upon further inspection to be more of a makeshift hairtie than something one might find at a store. It was a rubber band covered in cloth, though it seemed to have been broken once and tied into a tight knot again, which was then melted and sealed with heat to keep from coming undone.

Here in his solitude, he smiled to himself. This girl, who seemed at first a firey factory girl (and was still that same girl), was so different than any other he had ever known. Not that he had known many women, or perhaps any that he considered close enough to know, but he felt confidently that there were none quite as crafty and stubborn and impossible as she was.

Impossible to dislike, it would seem, for as he held this poor excuse for a hairtie in his hands, she glowed in his mind like an undying flame. This was how he saw her.

This was how she oftentimes did not see herself.

He tucked the hairtie in his nightstand, neatly on top of a dozen old journals from years ago. Something new amongst something old.

Enjolras closed the drawer and took a deep breath.

Something old. He lowered himself flatly to the floor, his arms stretching under the bed as he searched for it blindly. Something I haven't looked at in such a long time. Something that I couldn't get rid of if I wanted to.

His fingertips grazed its wooden surface and soon found the metal handle. He dragged and dragged and dragged, until the heavy object resurfaced from its place in shadow.

Enjolras blew on the lid and ran a single finger along the inlaid carving on its front.

The box.

Looking twice in either direction out of instinct, he paused before opening it. Then, as his eyes landed upon its polished varnish, and as the dust settled in the room once again, he found the hard, metal clasp and twisted it roughly to the right.

I never forgot, he thought as his chest began to ache. For as long as I live, I will never allow myself to forget what happened that night.