a/n: done as a prompt fill for decaffienator over on Tumblr. the prompt being 'fist fights'. section titles from Fall Out Boy - Young Volcanoes.

fist fights - les misérables - modern au - enjolras x éponine
clarity comes hard when its wrapped in a fist

part i. we are wild.

Teeth. Spit. Knuckles.

Elbows.

The terrible copper taste of blood.

Her face cracks against the pavement.

"I have a couch."

"Oh, what a rich, rich boy you are."

With a quiet grunt she drives her shoulder deep into her assailant's stomach. The thin soles of her shoes slip as she pushes the bony person backwards towards the alley wall.

Him, her? She doesn't know. But she can feel their ribs just as well as they should be feeling her own.

Before empathy can blossom into a full thought a sharp knee busts against her chin.

"If you think I'm going to fuck you, Enjolras, you've got another thing coming."

"Who said anything about that? I've got extra room and you need a place to sleep."

"The fuck do you know about what I need?"

Crawling forward on her belly she grabs the person's ankle and yanks them towards the ground. They fall like kindling. Tugging threadbare fabrics in her fingers she straddles them, pinning the attacker with her slight weight.

Its all so slow. So tired.

Her fists make a faint thumping sound against the gaunt face before her. Soft. Eerie. How can the blood against her knuckles be so silent?

"If you are waiting for Pontmercy to realize how dire your predicament is, you'll be waiting until the end of time."

Knotty hands wrap around her neck and her head snaps as her body is thrown sideways. She skids against the concrete pathetically, a rag doll tossed aside.

She tries to look up but she doesn't really know what way that is. A foot lands hard against the thin skin of her mouth. The next swing brings the foot into her belly. Her body involuntarily doubles into a tight ball as her stomach tries to empty itself

Not that there's anything there anyway.

"I can help you, Éponine. I can help you right now and I will never ask you for a single thing. Just need to say the word and I'm there."

Now those thin, strong fingers are going through her pockets. Looking for some cash, some change, a credit card. She doesn't try to stop it.

Not that they'll find anything there anyway.

He walked away and she told herself that his face was impossible to read so she didn't have to think about it.

She wished so desperately for his hair to be the color of cinnamon sticks, for those eyes to be hazel. For his alabaster skin to be tanned with freckles. But wishes never came true for her. Why would they start now.

She can't do this anymore. She can't pretend like this is someone else. That it is not Éponine who sleeps on these streets when she is scared to go home.

The disappointed smile of a kind man flickers in her mind. His eyes are blue and his gaze is warm, the blanket she so desperately needs to make it through the night.

With a final retch, bile stains her mouth and what must be a bottom tooth tumbles from her lips like broken porcelain.

"I need help."

part ii. we are like young volcanoes.

Shin splints. Sweat. Burning lungs.

Tunnel vision.

Footsteps louder than God descend upon him.

His head bounces off a tree.

"It calls you 'militant'. What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means 'aggressively active'."

"I know what the word means, Enjolras. I want to know why they are saying that about you."

His camera shatters to the concrete pathway with a fragile sound. Despite his head swimming, his legs manage to stay under him. He whips around to face the security guard who was holding the sleeve of his now ruined hoodie.

Without a second thought, Enjolras lunges toward the guard. A fist the size of a brick slams against his brow. The world explodes.

"What are you capable of?"

"Only love, Éponine, as far as you should be concerned."

"But what about when it doesn't concern me?"

"It shouldn't concern you."

Fumbling in the dark, he continues to advance, sending out a jab that luckily finds purchase against the sharp mass that must be the guard's face.

The reply comes by way of a hand yanking his hood and forcing him to double over. A second fist crashes against the bridge of Enjolras' nose with a snap and gush of blood .

"Everything you do concerns me, Enjolras."

He throws his elbow into the arm that has him hunched over and trapped. A loud cry bursts forth as the fingers slip from the fabric and Enjolras unfolds to his full height. He lets an undercut fly and it lands meaty against the other man's jawbone.

The guard's boots slip in the dewy grass surrounding the pathway and he backpedals onto the ground.

"What if you're sent to jail? To prison. What if you die? You'd leave me alone forever for your cause."

The leather of his gloves give a satisfying squelch against the blood as he pummels his fists into the guard's face.

Somewhere fuzzy in the back of his head, he is trying to stop, but somewhere that message is getting lost. Somewhere between 'I took nothing but photos' and 'he's seen my face'.

Her hair brushed his arm as she turned away, light and incidental. She didn't stomp with her tiny feet, she didn't use her strong lips to yell. Her amber eyes didn't flash dark. She left no inclination that she was pissed off as she removed herself.

Because she wasn't pissed off. She was crushed.

The man gurgles when Enjolras hesitates, fist poised and fingers flexing. He's made a mess of this man's face, but the only thing running through his mind is how Éponine's hair always smells like coffee and how desolate her eyes looked that night when she came to him with questions, looking for an answer he couldn't give her.

"Never. I'd never do that to you."

With an unceremonious thump, he drops the guard to the wet ground and dissolves into the night. A shadow.