Prelude

Skinny legs shimmy into torn stockings and haphazard clothing. She washes the blood from her split lip and expertly covers the bruises. She leaves a pot of porridge on the stove for her sister and brothers, wakes them up for school, and picks the glass off the floor before she steps into the crisp winter air.

He steps into expensive jeans and a well-fitting sweater. He fixes his own breakfast, and had he not been so used to it, he might have asked himself when he last saw a human being he was related to. He sees her waiting on the ledge by the stairs to his house, a cigarette dangling between her lips. Ice blue eyes meet hazel gold. He gives her a mug of coffee, a smile, and the dignity of not mentioning the bruise on her cheekbone.

Just Another Day

"You know it's a Tuesday, right?"

"Shut up and drink the tequila."

"I don't even like tequila."

"Neither do I."

"But—"

"Don't question it. It's our thing. So. My dad's disappointed because I don't want to sell drugs for him and his cronies."

"My dad's disappointed because I'm an embarrassment, a failure, and a disgrace to the good name of Enjolras."

"Ah. Just another day, then."

"We all joke that we'll be dead before we meet our parents' approval. For you and me, I think it's literally true."

"Just another reason why this works. Pass the tequila."

Everything Else

Éponine looked at the score on the top of her calculus test and laughed without humor. Great. "I'll let you retake it if you can come in at seven tomorrow morning," the professor said, and he was doing her a favor, she knew. How was she supposed to explain to him that she hadn't been able to study for the real test because she had been busy bailing her father out of jail and that her younger siblings had been seized by Child Protective Services? Right. She couldn't. Because professors' collective job is to grade their students hard enough that they drop out in sheer frustration, not care about their personal lives.

She found Enjolras on that same bench he always used. At this point she'd be surprised if there weren't permanent Enjolras-shaped indentions worked into the wood. Her legs find their way thrown across his lap. "Do you ever ask yourself why we stay in this city?"

He gives her a wry smile. "Because at least for right now, we can't think of anywhere else to go."

Who's Crazy?

Her knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel. His are white from balling his fists in frustration and a little bit of terror from her driving. "I don't understand why you're so upset—Jesus Christ will you please pay attention?!"

Even more terrifying than her driving is that she's now looking away from the road to side-eye him Christ why didn't they just take a cab, and if looks could kill, he would be a well-dead man. "Enjolras. Were we at the same protest? Or, did you like, daydream your way through the whole thing?"

He most certainly did not daydream through the whole thing, it was his protest, for fucks sake, and he's genuinely not sure how she's managed to avoid sideswiping someone. He suppresses a shudder. The BQE gave him nightmares on a good day. Driving that wasn't his gave him nightmares on a good day. The two combined were catastrophic. He dimly realizes Éponine is still talking, shouting, really, with her rough, husky voice.

She slams one hand on top of the steering wheel in tandem with pounding the horn at someone who cuts her off. "Are you even listening to me?" He opens his mouth, but words don't come out of it fast enough. "A felony, Enjolras. You could have been charged with a felony. Do you have any idea what this country does to convicted felons? No driving, no job, no voting, you'd get kicked out of college, you'd never go to grad school." She slams on the brakes and lets out a steady stream of inventive curse words—he catches 'fucktrumpet' and 'asswagon'—as an especially large and slow-moving car veers in front of her.

"You know that officer could have been charged with assault against me, and it could have been self-defense, Éponine," he says annoyedly, swallowing hard to keep himself from puking on the floor.

She's digging her nails into the wheel so hard that he's surprised the leather hasn't torn. "Enjolras," she grinds out through clenched teeth, "I hate cops as much as you do and probably more, but if you think anyone would have believed you were defending yourself, you are an idiot, and you're way too smart for that."

He can't stop himself. "Isn't a little rich for you to be telling me how to conduct myself around figures of authority?"

Her jaw snaps shut. Later, he will want to take it back. Right now, he seethes and tries to block out her horrific driving and the sound of Wilco blaring through the crackling speakers.

Perfect for You

He is stoic, marble, and passionately dedicated to the betterment of humanity. She is contradictory, erratic, caustic, and dedicated to survival. She's fiercely loyal and protective of the people she's close to, but people are very seldom allowed to get that close. It's not callousness, she explains, it's self-preservation, or whatever she has left that passes for it. But for some reason, she lets him, of all people, get close. It's because he doesn't pry, doesn't try to baby her, generally trusts her to take care of herself, but has a sixth sense for knowing when she can't.

He forgets to eat and stays up for fifty-six hours straight during finals. She wordlessly makes egg sandwiches and pots upon pots of strong coffee and covers him up when he collapses on the couch after his last final. She sleeps through her alarm and is reduced to incoherent frustration at the set of physics problems in front of her. He buys a coffee pot with an automatic timer to entice her out of bed with the scent and strokes the knots out of her shoulders with a tenderness that still scares her. She isn't used to it, but part of her hopes she never is, lest she take it for granted.

I Miss the Mountains

Éponine doesn't know who else to talk to. She wants it to be Cosette, but she knows that given what she wants to talk about, it would be awkward. Likewise with Grantaire. So she goes to Musichetta, who has an incredible knack for making the world feel right.

"He's not perfect."

"Oh, honey, who ever told you he would be?" Musichetta's green eyes are full of compassion.

"No, I mean…" Éponine picks at the fraying edge of her skirt. "I don't want him to be perfect. I need someone who reminds me of me and how fucked up I can be. But it's just…"

"Stable," Chetta says for her. "It's functional."

"Yeah."

"And…?"

She sighs heavily. "Sometimes it's so easy. I don't know what to do with easy. I miss things being a struggle. I know how to fight and struggle."

"Like with Marius not loving you back. Or Montparnasse..."

"Exactly. Exactly like that."

It's Gonna Be Good

They've been reluctant to put a label on whatever they have—he because he doesn't want to acknowledge anything that might detract from his double-major, his student organizations, and his petitions and protests; she because she doesn't want to acknowledge anything that would draw her away from her siblings or make them think they're less important, and she wonders if she's ready to let go of Marius. Loving Marius is easy. He is a straightforward and simple person. Loving Enjolras is like loving electric light, or perhaps the sun: he can't be contained, he has incredible power blooming just beneath the surface, and he is blazing, brilliant, burning.

Loving Éponine is like loving the moon: cliché as it sounds, she has a mystery about her that is hard to unravel. She holds herself at a distance and only reveals what she wants you to know; she's adept at spinning out of reach when people overreach themselves. She is vivacious and capable of being frighteningly cold.

Neither of them have the slightest concept of how it happened, but they're relatively positive that they're together, sun and moon.

They don't know if it'll work. But they will try, because it's too good to let go.

He's Not Here

"I'm not Marius."

"I know."

"I'm in love with you."

"I know."

"But you're not in love with me."

"I didn't say that."

"Are you?"

"I don't know."

"That's okay."