He's not exactly sure how they, of all people, manage to find themselves like this.

One minute they're in his living room watching some shitty bordering-on-porn film on television, and next she's tugging at his hair and running her foot up his jean-clad calf, all tangled limbs and tongues as they lay on the floor.

He'd be lying if he thinks this is the worst possible thing to happen to him that night. But what the actual hell is going on? He blames the damn movie playing in the background.

She chuckles as they disentangle themselves from one another moments later. "Well, that hasn't happened in a while."

He clears his throat and tugging his shirt back into place. "And it's not going to happen again," he says in his usual stern tone. "We just got carried away."

She studies his face for a long time, biting her lip before she speaks. "It wasn't a big deal then, and it isn't now. Being overcome with desire doesn't mean you have to commit to anything, Enjolras. Just another way to forget all the shit going on."

He notices her mumbling the tail end of her statement and is almost sure she's talking to herself more than him. His eyes flicker to her hand tugging on her sleeve unconsciously, covering up the newly formed bruises near her wrist that look suspiciously like fingers.

He doesn't respond, not wanting to touch on it any further. "Are you staying over?"

She simply nods; her eyes had since drifted back to the television and he goes to grab blankets and a pillow, parking himself on the couch for the rest of the night.

He doesn't approve of her line of work (if you can call it that). None of the boys at the café do. He accepts that dancing around in skimpy clothing on stage is a living, yes, but they all know she's made for more than that. They're all very protective of Éponine, even though she's capable of looking out for herself. Courfeyrac often jokes that she could probably beat the living shit out of any of them if she really wanted to.

But it's not Courfeyrac that she calls at 3 in the morning when she has a tough night at work, or at her father's house with his gang hanging about. It's Enjolras' phone that goes off and it's his apartment that she takes solace in. It's Enjolras who's seen the results of her taking the brunt end of everything, showing exactly why she needs to be tough.

"I need to crash," she'll say. And he won't question her, even as she shows up smelling like she showered in whiskey, or sports a red welt on her cheek. She'll tell him if she wants to; the last thing Éponine wants is pity, and she'll gladly hold a grudge against anyone who thinks her weak. He personally learned his lesson the first time she showed up at his doorstep looking like someone punched her in the mouth, and asked why she didn't call the cops or one of them to come help her. She ignored him for two entire days just to get her point across, and he couldn't do anything but let her stay at his place and give her breathing room.

Only Éponine could make you feel guilty about invading her personal space even when it's your own room she's sleeping in.

It's exactly a week since the little incident in his living room, but nothing changes between them. They've danced this dance before, and no matter how many time Enjolras tells her it won't happen again, they never shy away when it does. They just don't talk about it after.

It's no surprise to him when she shows up at his door at 2 in the morning asking if she can stay for a few days, but it does surprise him when she says it's because she broke up with Montparnasse.

"You're so nice for letting me stay here whenever I fuck things up."

"Breaking up with your lout of a boyfriend isn't 'fucking up', Éponine," he reassures her. "It's progress. You know my door's always open to you, no matter how much you insist it's because you like hanging around me."

"I actually do like hanging around you, you idiot. You don't always have to let me, though."

"That's what friends do," he says with a smile that he hopes is more comforting than sympathetic, ending the discussion and leaving his room to take refuge on the sofa.

She hogs his bed for the next five days, forcing him to camp out in his living room. On the sixth, he's in the middle of going over his notes for the meeting later when she sidles up next to him, evidently just getting out of bed. She tells him that she's found a new place and will be out of his hair in a few hours.

"Are you sure?" He asks, not taking his eyes off of the pages as he frantically scrawls notes in the margins.

"Yes," she says.

He hums in response, truly happy she's moving on, but this speech isn't going as planned and damn him if he doesn't figure it out by that afternoon. Recent news about rising taxes and what it means for the lower classes has his mind all over the place.

"Marius is helping me move the rest of my things in tomorrow," she quips happily.

"Oh yeah?" It's no secret to anyone that she's head over ass in love with Pontmercy; God only knows why she bothered with Montparnasse in the first place. But now that the latter is out of the picture, he's not surprised that she'd be giddy over Marius moving some boxes around for her. "Is he bringing Cosette, too?"

"Dick move, Enj," she scoffs, venom lacing her raspy voice. He feels bad for a second.

'Why does this not sound right?!' He internally fumes as he yet again scratches out a line in his notes.

"God. Relax a little?" She flicks his ear, annoyed and still rattled by his little comment, and he only responds with an irritated 'shit, Ep,' before half-ignoring her again. He can practically hear her eyes roll. "The entire time I've been here, you've been looking like you're about to have some sort of fit. You need a break. Come on, some guy tipped me something huge last night, let's go to lunch; payback for this week."

"Keep it, you earned it," he mumbles, unable to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

He can feel her eyes on him for a while before she lets out an irritated huff. "Fine," she says, her mood officially sour.

She moves from her spot and he momentarily thinks she's going to get ready to leave, but then his pen and papers are torn out of his hands and she's in front of him, practically straddling him. She blindsides him by kissing the corner of his mouth.

"What are you doing?" He hisses as she slinks to the floor, undoing his shirt before trailing kisses down his chest and stomach while fumbling with the zipper on his jeans. "Ep..."

"Friends helping friends, right?" She asks against his hip, blinking up at him from her spot. "Come on, it's not like we haven't done this before."

Suddenly his speech and his notes are forgotten, scattered on the coffee table.

He barely has time to reply before her hands and mouth are otherwise occupied, and the only sound he makes is a strangled grunt as his eyes screw shut and his head falls back against the back of the sofa.

She stays true to her word and leaves shortly after, and the next time he would see her would be at the café in the afternoon. He wordlessly stands next to her as she pours crème and disgusting amounts of sugar into her coffee.

"I shouldn't have brought her up like that earlier, I apologize," he says.

"It's fine," she replies quite bitingly. He probably shouldn't bring her up again now, seeing as Marius had the audacity to bring the blonde to the meeting and Enjolras is most likely only making Éponine feel worse.

"I was just frustrated about my speech and everything, I wasn't quite getting my point across." Why he felt the need to further explain himself, he didn't know.

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "Did you manage to get it done?"

'You mean after you had my cock in your mouth?' He nods curtly and an odd silence passes between them.

"You didn't have to... do that..." He says between gritted teeth, unable to look at her.

She shrugs. "I know."

"You don't owe me anything, okay? Let's just clear that up right now."

"I know. Just," she pauses, turning to look at him and twisting her mouth as if searching for the right words to come out. "Tell me that didn't make you forget about your fucking protest for a bit."

He stared at her. If he was being honest, his speech had been the farthest thing from his mind before stepping foot in the café. He'll just have to write a better one next time.

"What are you saying?" He questions, his voice low so only she can hear. She's practically glaring at Cosette and Marius' cuddling forms by the window through her curtain of hair.

"I want to forget sometimes, too."

It's not the first time they've turned to each other to indulge in certain physical pleasantries. She remembers the first time quite vividly; the drunken kisses in his first year dorm room and going down on him after a failed attempt to watch an old foreign picture for their film class. The second time had her teaching him, in turn, 'how to please a woman', though she herself was barely over 18 then and her only other interests included cigarettes and band shirts. She dropped out the next year and had always wondered if he put her lessons to good use.

Judging by what their friends had told her about his love life (or lack-of), apparently not. But what better time to coax it out of him?

She's out with the guys on a Friday night, very drunk and very uncoordinated. He's way past his self-set limit for alcohol intake, thanks to Grantaire and Courfeyrac thinking it would be hilarious to mess with his little "system" by replacing his near-empty bottles with full ones when he isn't looking. It amazes her how he doesn't realize. He's about six beers in before he does notice that his bottle was never going empty. But by then he's as drunk as she is and she's trying to figure out if his hand brushing against her knee numerous times through the night is an accident or not.

She volunteers to escort him home even though she's in no condition to do so herself. But she's got other things in mind after seeing Marius and Cosette practically draped over each other the entire night.

They never even make it to the bedroom.

"So we're doing this," she drawls, grinning up at him from the all too familiar floor of his living room.

"Looks like it," he slurs, managing to remain upright as he pulls her stockings completely off her legs.

"Promise not to do anything stupid like start falling in love with me," she laughs, lolling her head to the side to rest her cheek on the cool hardwood. His eyes roam over the expanse of her exposed neck. "So don't go and get all attached, got it?"

He unbuckles his belt and musters up his usual condescending smirk. Love. "I don't see that happening."

It's clumsy, teeth are knocking together and they both keep their shirts on. She just pushes his pants and boxers down his thighs, hikes her skirt up and rides him, both of them wanting it too much to even bother with any type of foreplay. He can barely make out her face in his drunken haze, but maybe it's better that way.

After that night, they fall into a pattern.

She's bored; she calls and tells him that she's coming over.

He's ticked off after a heated argument with one of the guys; he shoots her a text message asking her to meet him after work.

It's easy, and the next time they see each other in public, there's no trace of evidence indicating that just hours ago, she was perched on top of him and drawing lazy circles with her nails on his chest, or that his fingers had dug so hard into her hips that her pale skin turned red when he pulled away.

She almost draws attention to their situation one day as she throws her hair up in a ponytail while her eyes are boring over a book on the table in front of her.

He tries not to react when Bossuet, who's seated across from her, notices a mark on her neck. He hears him chuckle and his voice is laced with amusement. "Hot date last night, 'Ponine?"

The girl only pats his friend's bald head and laughs, getting up to order another coffee, not even looking at Enjolras as she passes him in his seat.

He pretends it doesn't bother him when she whimpers Marius' name towards the ceiling one night, because what the fuck did he expect from the girl who was obviously still in love with that idiot?

'Don't get attached,' he reminds himself.

He just bites her shoulder, hoping it jolts her to her senses enough to look at him. It's the least she can do.

She notices that he's being particularly cross with her the next day during a meeting and she tries to think back to the previous night. Did she do something? But then she remembers that it shouldn't matter; she got her kicks and so did he. She drops the thought and resumes listening to his speech, unperturbed at the fact that he doesn't acknowledge her for the rest of the afternoon.

She knows that later when they're together behind closed doors and tangled in his bed sheets, Enjolras will be far from ignorant.

The meeting ends and she slinks into his apartment a few minutes after him. He doesn't say anything as he stands in the middle of his room, letting her remove every article of clothing he has on before pushing him back onto his bed and throwing her leg over his hips. She kisses him hard, her tongue fighting its way into his mouth; a silent apology for whatever it is that she did to tick him off earlier. Or last night. Whatever.

She grins into his mouth when he sighs and finally submits, grabbing her hips and pulling her closer to grind against him.

It's only when she has his full attention that she decides to break their silence. "Enjolras..."

And just like that, he's back, as if his name rolling off her tongue was the trigger all along.

She likes feeling him on top of her while her back presses into the mattress. She likes when he uses his hands to tilt her chin towards him or pull her own hands over her head, holding them in place.

Tonight is all lips and teeth and tongue, and oh god... she's thinks she's going to die on the spot as he nips her earlobe then trails his lips along her jaw to her collar bone. All the while he's buried himself so deep inside her that she couldn't press herself closer to him if she tried. Hot skin slides against hot skin and she all but screams in his ear to tell him to slow down because she doesn't want it to end; not yet. There's no doubt her nails are going to leave harsh red lines along his back, but he doesn't seem to be bothered.

She tries to hold back a cry as his hips buck into hers and he hits her spot for what seems like the hundredth time that night, but he's so on his A-game tonight and she thinks she needs to get him angry more often if this is what it'll get her as a result. The thoughts of searing possibilities coupled with the present has her involuntarily biting down hard on his bottom lip.

"Ah, fuck," he gasps. She jerks her head back and looks at him worriedly.

"Did I hurt you?" Leave it up to her to ruin the moment.

But his eyes seem a little darker now and he only gives a slight shake of his head before bending down to reclaim her lips. "Do that again," he says lowly with a growl.

Oh.

A shiver shoots right down her spine and she grazes her tongue soothingly, teasingly along his lip before offending it again with her teeth. She keeps her eyes open this time to gauge his reaction, pleased at the sound of him groaning as he knits his eyebrows and grits his teeth together.

Yes, she likes him like this.

It's part of their arrangement that they never spend the entire night in each other's bed. They never shared a bed when they were friends who weren't fucking, why does it have to change just because now they're friends who are?

As soon as they're done, they've worn each other out to the point where it's not unusual for them to fall asleep straight away. She has some kind of internal clock, though, because she's always up before dawn and taking a shower while he continues to sleep. She's out the door before he can wake.

He's a heavy sleeper; a fact which she discovers that night when she's in his shower and accidentally lets out a loud cry, inadvertently slamming her hand against the foggy glass and rattling the frame as she reaches out for something to grab onto. She wonders what he would do if he actually woke up and found her touching herself, unable to stop from reliving the last few hours in her mind in his bathroom. It's not the last time it happens, and if he notices some mornings just a few hours after she leaves that his hot water is practically gone and there's a ghost of her handprint on the glass, he never mentions anything.

On the night Marius and Cosette announce their engagement, she stays. She's upset and frantic, and he's trying to soothe her by kissing and licking every inch of her that he can reach until she's crying out his name instead of crying tears for the man who unknowingly shattered her.

He can't help but feel angry towards the newly engaged couple for hurting her like this. But he's also angry at her... what else can he do for her? What does she want from him? He's seen how broken she is over everything... he's angry at her for choosing him of all people to witness her vulnerability. He wants to scoot his body closer to hers, wrap his arms around her and never let her go. No one would be able to hurt her anymore. Not Marius, Cosette, the lowlifes at that poor excuse for a club that she works at... no one.

But mostly he's angry at himself for letting his feelings come to this. She clearly hasn't shown any signs of wanting anything more than what they have right now. What was this girl doing to him? He's never felt like this about anyone before, and just his luck; she's basically using him to get over someone else.

But, really, fuck it all. Without a second thought, he inches towards her sleeping form and tentatively wraps his arm around her middle. He tries not to smile when he feels her relax and lean back into him.

She's still asleep past her usual wake-up time and when he stirs, he's greeted by a ticklish sensation on his cheeks, as well as a comfortable weight on his chest. He breathes in the scent of her hair and opens his eyes. He looks down at her sleeping form curled up against him and he doesn't have the heart to wake her and remind her that she's not supposed to be there.

Then he remembers last night that it was him who took her into his arms, keeping her there.

He's not exactly sure what the protocol is for this; they'd never talked about what to do or how to go about the morning after if one of them did spend the night at the other's place.

Breakfast? More sex?

He settles for the former, just in case she decides to wake up and the situation becomes even more awkward. This is what they've been trying to avoid; emotions, attachments, any semblance of romantic comfort... he slowly rolls her body to the other side of the bed and grabs fresh clothes from his dresser, clothing himself hastily and slipping out of his apartment. He reminds himself over and over not to show face around her.

After all, that's not what he signed up for. He needs to accept the reality.

Then again, it's hard for Enjolras to not want to go after something when he sets his sights on it.

He returns twenty minutes later and opens the door to his apartment, balancing a tray of coffee cups and a bag of several baked pastries in one hand. For a second he's worried that she had woken up and left, but he pushes the thought aside and enters his room. He's immediately greeted by her making a beeline towards him and grabbing the tray out of his hands without so much as a 'good morning'.

"God, thank you," she says, leaning back on the wall next to his bedroom door, cup in hand. She looks content enough to just hold the coffee. Then he notices something. He gives her a once over and can't help but quirk an eyebrow.

"Are you wearing my shirt?" He asks amusedly, recognizing the red material from the night before.

"Well, somebody ripped the buttons on mine clean off last night, so I'm afraid this was the only alternative," she muses, blowing into her cup of coffee and crossing her bare legs at the ankles.

He looks down, sees one of the said buttons next to his night stand and grins in spite of himself; he wills himself to stop the blush the creeps onto his cheeks. Usually he knows how to control himself.

"So there's really nothing else for you to wear in that dresser over there?" He teases. He knows she hates when he insinuates that she's more comfortable with the whole arrangement than she lets on.

"It's not like we're getting fucking married," she said once after he exasperatedly suggested just leaving some of her clothes in his apartment. She's had a penchant for stealing his shirts in the last few months and he was running low. She gradually left enough clothes to fill half a drawer.

But they'd never brought that up until now.

She narrows her eyes and tilts her head, scrutinizing him. She places her cup on the small table beside her and crosses her arms. Bothering her has always been one of his favourite unspoken forms of entertainment since he can remember. His face may not convey it, but he gets a real kick out of the way her eyebrows draw together and her lips purse. The little habit brings out her dimples and makes her less of a threat than she thinks she is.

"Why, do you want it back?" She asks after a moment. He's about to respond with something witty, glad that the earlier awkwardness he felt was dissipating. But his reply dies on his lips immediately, feeling his jaw slacken a little as she throws the shirt off over her head and hangs it in her hand. She has a questioning frown on her face, mocking him as she stands before him in nothing but her undergarments.

Well. He didn't see that coming.

He isn't aware of his eyes traveling over her person until she lets out a chuckle. His gaze immediately snaps back up to her face, where she now wears a relentless smirk. He has half a mind to kiss it right off.

Two can play at that game, he concludes, remembering just how exasperating she could be. He rips his own white shirt off, dropping it to the floor as he walks right up to her. She holds his gaze challengingly but he can't help the urge to laugh as her eyes unwillingly flicker over his bare torso. He takes the end of the outstretched shirt with one hand and pries her practically limp fingers off of it with the other. Her hand falls to her side immediately. The contact with her skin brings back images from the previous night and it takes almost everything inside of him not to toss the damn shirt aside, grab her and have an encore performance. Apparently she has the same train of thought because she inches herself closer to him, arching her back slightly. His eyes drift down her long, delicate neck to her collar bone, then her chest; he feels his lips part and his head involuntarily move towards her. She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth and raises her eyebrows as he spares a quick glance into her eyes. He almost lets out a groan, remembering the first time she bit his lip and god, how much he loved it. He's pretty sure he voiced how much he enjoyed the little kink and now she's just doing it to get to him. She needs to stop that. His free hand reaches up and he lets his fingers graze over her lip; she obediently releases it from her teeth. His fingers linger there, barely resisting the need to tangle in her hair and pull her to him.

They're less than an inch apart before he steps back and throws the red v-neck shirt on, covering himself back up and swiftly walking past her towards the door with a satisfied sigh.

"It's my favourite shirt, so, yes. Thank you."

He remembers to take his coffee and hears her gasp behind him. He laughs as she lets out a frustrated noise and stomps her bare foot on the ground, whirling around to glare at him. He immediately ducks and pulls the door shut from the outside of the room before the pillow she's flinging in his direction hits him.

He hears her shout "Screw you!", and all he can do is laugh. Because of course she will.

Turns out waking up next to her isn't all that bad.

But then he's suddenly reminded that they're friends. Friends who jump into bed with each other whenever it's most convenient, but nothing more than that.

So it shouldn't surprise him (it doesn't, he thinks) when she teases him good-naturedly about the new barista at the café writing her number on his paper cup before handing it to him.

It also shouldn't surprise him when she accepts to go out on a date on a night when he's feeling rather... needy (it shouldn't, but it does).

"Can't tonight," she says into her phone. "I have a date."

He lets out a noncommittal grunt and doesn't even bother asking who with. "Have fun."

"I always do," she replies.

And that's that.

Turns out, though, after three weeks of monogamous dating with the guy she ditched Enjolras for, Éponine finds out he's married. He can't help but feel a sick sense of satisfaction rush through him.

"I'm the other woman, Enj!" She tells him over the phone, horrified.

"You're still? Or...?"

She pauses. "No. No. I refuse to be second to anyone anymore."

He wants to tell her that she's not, but instead there's a comfortable silence between them before Éponine speaks again.

"Are you busy tonight?"

And then they're back at it.

He's sweating, panting, and halfway inside her when she moans into his ear. "You have no idea how much I needed this..."

And because he's an idiot when it comes to her lately, he pulls out and glares at her. He would laugh at the expression on her face if he wasn't currently so affronted at her comment. Because she's the one that has no idea.

"Are you fucking joking?" She complains as he pushes himself off of her, even as she tries to pull him back to her with the legs wrapped around his waist. He simply pats her ass, unamused, and she drops her legs. He can feel her glaring at his back as he scoots to the opposite end of the sofa in his room.

"You're allowed to call me whenever you want, but when I want you, you're suddenly busy?"

"Oh my god. We're just messing around, you know that," she laughs, still a bit breathless from their activities. "No emotions, no attachments, remember?"

He rolls his eyes at how flippant she is. He scrubs a hand over his face. "I know. I know."

"Then mademoiselle, stop being such a killjoy and come back here, please," she huffs, thoroughly disappointed and unsatisfied.

"I think I'm going to go cool off for a while, I have a lot of work to do for tomorrow's meeting." He chooses to ignore her little shot at his masculinity and is standing with his back turned to her, pulling his jeans on. He sighs as her arms snake around his waist from behind and she's pressing her chest against his back, teeth and lips nipping at his shoulder.

"I thought we were doing this to forget about things like that, Enj," she murmured into the back of his neck.

He removes her hands and turns to face her. "It's not a 'thing', Éponine. I've been working my ass off for five years. This isn't some game. Unlike this," he motions between them. "I don't know what the hell this is anymore."

She looks at a loss for words for the first time in months. "Good lord, I've actually cracked the marble."

"For fuck's sake," he mutters disbelievingly.

"Is that the proper way to speak to a lady?" She smirks.

He rolls his eyes again. Such an infuriating girl. "Look, you may have everyone fooled when you're in front of our friends, but when it's just us, I can see right through you."

"Oh, really?" She's standing now, all modesty forgotten.

Now or never.

"Who was the one taking you in every time Montparnasse hurt you? Every time one of your customers went a little too far, who was there telling you that it's not worth it? Listening to your incessant ramblings about Pontmercy for god knows how long? You put on a mask whenever you're around him and Cosette, around everyone, acting like you're fine and being a clever little smartass, but who do you come crying to after?"

"Stop it," she hisses, looking at the curtains, the walls, anywhere but him.

Something in his chest wrenches as he sees her face falter. He can't help the way his voice comes out, all soft and almost desperate. He hates himself. "Why do you always come back? Why me?"

Her eyes finally lock on his, but they're quiet, daring each other to say anything; do something. But then as soon as her eyes soften, the moment is broken and her walls are back up.

"Are you looking to boost your ego?" She scoffs. "Because you're a good lay, Enjolras. Why the fuck else?"

'Say it, say something to let me know I'm not alone in this,' he wants to say.

"I think it's because you know I won't treat you the way Marius did-"

"I said don't bring him up," she warns, voice trembling, but he's not done.

"Or have you be the 'other woman' when you should be the only woman-"

Before either of them know it, she's flinging herself at him and shoving at his chest, he grabs her wrist and manoeuvres them to fall back onto his bed.

"Shut up," she murmurs against his mouth, clinging onto his arms. "Please."

He just nips her lips and chin with his teeth and does what she says. Because at the end of the day, he always does what she says. And he's so far gone into her fucked up game and her to know that he always will.

"I said no falling in love with me," she whispers, lips pressed against his ear. He can feel her eyes shut against his cheek. "You promised."

Maybe in time, he'll be able to crack through her armour completely, just as she did his.