Here we go, another prompt for the fic war on tumblr (prompt me on my blog eponnjolras)! This time, the prompt was "modern-verse, snowflakes" from tumblr user tardisandfeathered.

This idea has been bouncing in my head since I was writing the last few chapters of Tides. When I accepted this prompt, I knew exactly where I wanted to use this. Overall, I'm fairly pleased with it.

Thanks for reading/reviewing!

Trigger warning: hospitals (which I always try to spell as "hostipal" oops), illness.

Disclaimer: It all belongs to Hugo.

Enjolras should never have listened to Courfeyrac.

His friend had convinced him that coming to the Musain with everyone would still make for a productive afternoon; Enjolras was working on his term paper, and had allowed himself to be talked into doing it at the café they frequented.

It was not going well.

Grantaire and Courfeyrac were doing their best to distract him and get him to start the weekend with them ("It's 1 PM on a Friday, time to stop homework and start drinking!"), Bahorel was doing his best to explain to Combeferre why Marius was the "Moon Moon" of their friend group (whatever that meant), and Marius himself was busy mooning (maybe that's what they were discussing?) over his girlfriend Cosette. Joly and Bossuet were flirting with the waitress Musichetta, and Jehan and Feuilly were chatting animatedly with that dark-haired girl whose name Enjolras couldn't remember – the one that followed Marius around and even now glanced at him every few seconds, when he spoke or laughed or moved.

He just turned his music up to drown them out, and tried to refocus himself. It sort of worked – suddenly, it was much later and even though he had only gotten two pages written, it was solid work, and most of his friends had left (but they would be regrouping at this bar or that later on in the night, so it was only a brief reprieve). Now, it was only he, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and the dark-haired girl, who was curled in her chair and seemed to be enthralled in a book.

"Are you coming?" asked Combeferre, leaning in the doorway with his jacket slung over his arm.

"As soon as I finish up this thought," Enjolras promised, only glancing up at his friend. He silenced his music, reveling in the silence as it enveloped him and finally, finally gave his mind its golden opportunity to run wild.

But the girl distracted him. She was staring at him with big, dark eyes and skin the color of dark honey and hair that was dark and wavy. She was a shadow, it seemed to him, she was a being that stalked in silence, that kissed the ground of those she followed, that fled from the light. And she was making him increasingly uncomfortable, with those narrowed eyes studying him shamelessly over her book.

Enjolras refocused on his laptop, hurriedly typing a detailed note to himself so he would remember his train of thoughts later, and began packing his things.

The Shadow did nothing – she neither made any effort to leave, nor any effort to at least pretend to pay attention to her book – she just watched him. Then she sighed exaggeratedly, closing the book slowly and sliding it into her bag. Enjolras didn't know what she wanted, but he didn't exactly want to find out either. And it was only the two of them in this room of the café, so if he didn't leave soon, she might corner him and no doubt begin a barrage of questions about Pontmercy.

He glanced at her as he walked to the door, and she had the decency to pretend that she was looking for something in her bag. He noticed one hand gripping the table tightly, the knuckles white, but he gave it little more than a curious passing thought.

That is, until he hurried through the doorway, only to hear the crash of the table and muffled thump moments after he left.

Enjolras turned, utterly confused. Curiously, he turned towards the room, waiting to hear perhaps a stream of curse words or the sound of the table being righted, but there was nothing. So he crept back, not really wanting to speak to her, but suddenly worried that something was wrong.

It was.

The girl was in a heap on the floor, unconscious next to the upturned table, dark hair splayed out over the ground and her face, which was a sickly white-yellow color in the fluorescent light.

Enjolras brushed the hair off her face, checking for a pulse. Yes, she was still breathing.

"Musichetta!" he called. The girl did not even stir. "Musichetta, call 911! We have an emergency in here!"

The mocha-skinned waitress hurried into the room, and looked stricken when she saw the girl lying on the ground. "Eponine!" she cried, dropping to her knees and picking up the girl's – Eponine – hand.

"Call 911," Enjolras ordered again.

Minutes later, the EMT's arrived, loaded Eponine onto a stretcher, and put her in the back of the ambulance.

Enjolras had accompanied the girl down, who had briefly woken and groaned, her hair sticking to her clammy forehead, and was slightly shocked when the EMT held the ambulance door open for him.

"You coming, sir?" she asked.

Enjolras looked around for Musichetta, who handed him his backpack and Eponine's bad. "She shouldn't be alone. When you get to the hospital, maybe you can call her sister or Marius or someone."

Slightly shell-shocked, Enjolras climbed into the back of the ambulance, settling into one of the seats next to her gurney.

Eponine's eyelids fluttered, but did not open. The EMT began checking her vitals and doing other official-looking things, but all Enjolras could do was stare at this stranger. A purpley bruise was forming beneath a goose egg on her temple, where he was assuming she hit her on a table or chair during her fall. Her skin was pallid, her cheeks devoid of all color, and she groaned in semi-consciousness. He wasn't sure whether to take her hand or leave her, so he brushed her fingers, which twitched against his touch. They were ice cold, and he left them where they were.

The Emergency Room staff admitted her, and Enjolras found himself at her bedside a few hours later. He had tried to reach Marius, and he did not know her sister's number – her phone was locked and he didn't know the passcode. Nor did he know the sister's name, just as he had not known Eponine's.

He didn't particularly want to wait, but he felt guilty leaving her there all alone with no explanation, so he stayed. And now, she was hooked up to all sorts of tubes, dressed in a hospital gown that washed out her already-pale skin, her dark hair contrasting dangerously against the stark white of the hospital sheets.

It was close to nine at night before she finally woke, all groans and fluttering eyelids. The hand that was not impaled with needles flew to her head, gingerly touching the bruise and wincing in response. Eponine rubbed her eyes, smearing her eyeliner a bit, then caught sight of him.

"What the hell is going on?" she rasped. Despite her hard, almost bored tone, Enjolras could detect a hint of fear, and he observed her swallowing several times. A nurse had brought a cup of water for her when she woke about an hour earlier, and he passed it to her unceremoniously. She sipped greedily.

"You passed out back in the Musain when I was still there. Smacked your head pretty hard. You've been out for a while."

"They admitted me?" she sounded unhappy, though he could hardly blame her. Hospitals were the worst, and he couldn't think of a worse way to spend a Friday night.

He shrugged, and didn't know what else to say. Eponine made no effort; she just watched him through those dark eyes – now significantly more tired than they had been this afternoon, despite her several hours of unconsciousness – and waited for him to speak. "I'm Enjolras," he finally said, feeling more and more awkward with each passing moment.

"I know," she replied, but offered nothing else.

Again they sat in silence.

"I, um, brought your bag along. That book you were reading earlier was there," he told her, emphasizing "reading" lightly, hoping to remind her that she had not been reading, but had, in fact, been staring at him as he worked instead.

"Thank you."

"Er – what're you reading?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off by the arrival of a doctor. He was middle aged, his hair beginning to go gray and dark circles and lines beginning to mar a face that must have been handsome in its prime. Eponine looked less than pleased at his arrival.

"Really, Eponine," the doctor began, with such familiarity that Enjolras was shocked into wondering how much time this girl spent in the hospital, "How many times are we going to do this?"

Eponine said nothing, staring into the corner between the doctor and where Enjolras was sitting. Her jaw was set with a stubbornness and unhappiness that was plainly visible as the doctor read over her chart, full of tests that had been done since the ambulance had brought her in.

The doctor sighed, and regarded the young woman seriously. "Eponine, we've talked about this. Ignoring your symptoms will not make them go away. If you did the things I told you, if you monitored this like I advised when we first diagnosed you and the subsequent times you've come in since, your leukemia would be much more manageable. Now, I'm not so sure. It doesn't look good. It's not entirely your fault, but you have to start paying attention to what your body is telling you. I think we should think about finding you a donor, and consider starting you on radiation, especially if your test results continue on in this way. It isn't good, Eponine, but it's not too late. I'll be back in tomorrow, we'll run some more tests and talk more then."

And then he was gone.

Enjolras was left in a state of shock. Leukemia? But suddenly it all made sense, her sickly appearance sometimes in the Musain, the way she mooned over Marius as though her very life depended on it, how she wouldn't be there for long periods of time. Sure, Enjolras hadn't known her until today, but he always noticed her presence in the café. His friends were quite fond of her; he had just never had the time or interest to get to know her.

He looked at her, suddenly feeling so very sorry for the unfortunate soul confined to the bed before him.

She has never been to his apartment before, but for some reason her presence there seems familiar. She walks around his small living room a tad awkwardly, as though unsure of what comes next, losing herself within a matter of moments in his bookshelves. There live the stories of revolution, of philosophers long gone from every age and every corner of the earth, of history, of fiction, of science and mathematics and magic. There are classics, there are textbooks, there are newer fiction books, there are art books, and even some poetry.

One anthology in particular catches Eponine's eye, and she pulls it enthusiastically from its place where it's been squished into the dusty shelf.

"I didn't know you liked e.e. cummings!" she exclaims.

Enjolras shrugs, watching her with a practiced veiled expression, hands casually stuffed in his pockets to hide just how hard they're clenching. He can't help but notice how the moonlight streams in the window, bathing her in its silver rays, glinting off her dark hair and pale skin, hiding her eyes in the shadows that fight its light. He wants to kiss her, has wanted to kiss her for weeks, and the feeling just keeps growing stronger and stronger within him.

"Someone – Jehan, I think – gave me that for my birthday last year. I haven't read much of it; he's not really my style. A little too… unstructured for me, I suppose."

A strangled noise escapes from her throat. "No! No, cummings is for everyone. God, the things he writes – here," she offers, flipping eagerly through the book and coming to stand close to him. Her proximity has his skin sparking and his mind whirring and his stomach churning and suddenly he's sure that her incredible heat is going to have him melting through the floorboards. The way her hair tickles his cheek where she leans into him, pressing the book into his hands, brushing hot fingers against his that leave burns in their wake.

She sighs, and points to the page. He tries to focus. "This is my favorite poem of his, without a doubt. Read it," she orders.

Enjolras clears his throat, trying to beat down the nerves he suddenly feels at the thought of her cohabitating with him for a few days, at the thought of seeing her just before he goes to sleep, and just after he wakes up, as sleep still clings to her delicate form….

"since feeling is first

who pays any attention

to the syntax of things

will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool

while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,

and kisses are a better fate

than wisdom

lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry

—the best gesture of my brain is less than

your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other: then

laugh, leaning back in my arms

for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis."

He feels her hot breath exhale against his hand as Eponine whispers along with him, and he's no sooner finished reading than the book is falling to the floor, forgotten, as he kisses her for the first time, and she kisses him back eagerly, with an urgency that almost makes him forget who he is.

It's a few days after the hospital incident, and Enjolras is in the Musain with his friends, this time without his homework, but instead armed with a worn copy of The Cider House Rules, which he pulled from his shelf earlier in the day.

He was surprised when Eponine entered the room; he saw her over the top of the book, looking around at all his friends, who had immediately silenced upon noticing her presence. She looked healthier, he reflected for a moment, some of the color back in her cheeks and looking steadier on her feet. Her hair was shiny and her eyes were clear, which he noticed as her gaze settled on him. She was glaring at him in such a frightening way that he was frozen in place as she strode purposefully across the room, snatched his book from his hands, and slapped him across the face.

"You had no right to tell everyone about me!"

Enjolras just stared up at her in shock, open-mouthed, his cheek stinging sharply. "Eponine, I–."

"No, this is my business, and if I didn't tell everyone it was because I didn't want anyone to know. I'm allowed to keep personal things to myself for my own reasons, and I can't believe you didn't fucking respect that!"

"Eponine," another voice interjected. "It – it's not his fault."

Enjolras watched her face blanch, and she whirled, finding herself face to face with Marius. A very, very guilty-looking Marius.

"It was me. Eponine, I'm so sorry, I wouldn't have told if I had known–."

"It was you?" was her hoarse reply. She looked stricken, as though someone had hit her rather than she hitting Enjolras. Then her eyes filled with tears, and she opened her mouth as if to speak, but instead clamped it shut and pushed past Marius, running from the room.

Everyone stood there in shock for a long moment. Then, Marius murmured, "Perhaps I should go talk to her."

"No," Courfeyrac said, standing up as well and walking over to Marius. He clapped his friend kindly on the shoulder, but his voice was hard when he continued, "I don't think you should go anywhere near her for a while. You're probably the last person she wants to see." Then he looked to Enjolras. "You should go. You rode with her to the hospital, you were there for all of it, you experienced everything with her, so she'll probably talk to you. And if that doesn't make her want to talk, maybe the guilt of smacking the bejesus out of you will."

Enjolras groaned inwardly, but he did feel bad. In fact, he had felt nothing but pity for her for the last several days. So he went.

Eponine was outside, around the side of the Musain, sitting on a bench in the alley. She twisted away from him as he approached, and he saw her shoulders shudder and her hand rub at her face as though she had been crying.

"Go away," she demanded, her voice thick with emotion, but still trying to sound hard and unaffected.

Enjolras cautiously sat next to her, but said nothing. He did not touch her, did not try to entice her to speak or to cry on his shoulder or anything like that. He just waited.

Finally, she murmured, looking helplessly to the overcast sky, "I can't believe he told everyone." Then she glanced at him with swollen, red eyes. "Sorry about hitting you."

"Nah, it's fine," he replied with a shrug. "Are you okay?"

Eponine scoffed. "No, not really. I'm dying, Enjolras. And to top it all off, the man I love announced it to all my friends. I don't want anyone's pity; I don't need anyone thinking I'm weak."

Enjolras thought for a long moment. "The thing about Marius is that he's kind," he said cautiously, wary of her freaking out and slapping him again. "Too kind. So much so that I don't think he always operates with common sense. He probably thought that he was helping, because helping people is all I've ever seen him try to do. He probably thought that he was saving you from having to tell everyone yourself. I'm sure he didn't mean any malice behind it, Eponine."

It was the first time he had ever called her by her name.

She just shrugged. "It was an asshole thing, and he should've talked to me first."

"I quite agree," Enjolras replied. "How did he know, anyway?"

"Not long after you got in touch with Marius, he came with my sister, Azelma, and my brother, Gavroche. Azelma asked me about it in front of him, otherwise you would be the only one who knew," she grumbled, picking at a rip in the knee of her jeans.

"Well, he may be a shit, but you'll probably get him groveling for a good week, anyway. My advice to you is to take advantage."

Eponine flashed him a small smile, and a sense of satisfaction surged through him at the knowledge that he had cheered her up.

"Can I ask you something?" Enjolras asked tentatively, suddenly unsure of himself. She nodded. "The doctor said something about you needing a donor," he started slowly. Her face darkened and she looked away. "Is anyone in your family a match?" he asked.

She glared ahead for a moment, but eventually relented. He wondered if it was because she felt guilty for slapping him, felt as though she owed him a favor or something as an apology. But if this was his free meal ticket, he would use it now – before she forgot, and because he had her in such an emotional state right now.

"No. My siblings have been tested. I don't know where my parents are, I haven't seen them in years. Not since before my diagnosis." Her voice was tight, and her anger and distress were barely under control.

Still, Enjolras pushed. "Let me get tested." If the request surprised her – and he could see on her face that it did – he shocked him even more. He didn't even know her, and the likelihood of him being a bone marrow match was slim to none.

"Don't be an idiot, there's no way."

"Don't argue," he snapped, using what Grantaire often called his "lawyer voice" on her. "If I'm not a match, then no harm done. If I am, then I'm saving your life."

Eponine obeyed his request and refrained from arguing, though something in her face told him that this wasn't the last time they would have this conversation before she agreed. Instead, she asked, "Why?"

Enjolras shrugged. "I like helping people," he informed her dismissively. "Now, let me walk you home."

A few days of intense arguing later, she accepted his offer.

Shockingly, he was a match.

It was snowing outside, and, despite now living in a hospital room – one that Enjolras and her siblings and the Amis had worked hard to turn into a home-away-from-home, complete with pictures and blankets and pillows and flowers – Eponine insisted on going outside.

So he bundled her up, put her in a wheelchair, wrapped her in a blanket, and took her outside of the cancer center.

When they were outside, he pushed her through the snow, laughing as she stood up and slowly walked to a snow bank, glancing at him mischievously before collapsing into it. It crumpled around her.

Enjolras rushed to her side, frightened that this was too much and that she was having another episode, but when he reached her, frantically calling her name, she snapped open her eyes and dropped a handful of snow on his head. He sputtered as the cold substance invaded his neck, and she laughed. Then he lifted her out of the snow and replaced her in her chair.

He leaned in front of her then, brushing a snowflake that clung to her eyelash from her face. She smiled, and leaned closer to him, but just before he kissed her, he dropped a snowball of his own on her head.

The bone marrow transplant was successful, as was the radiation. But only for a short time. Just long enough for the two of them to fall hopelessly into each other, to begin to dream of a life where she wasn't ill and where he didn't have to worry about losing her.

But then Eponine got sick again. Now she was going through chemotherapy, and the difference was marked.

Not only had she lost all her hair (he had offered to shave his as well, and so had many of their friends. She had scoffed at him, and told him that she needed someone's hair to run her hands through, and she was particularly fond of his), but she had lost all her energy.

She was often too tired to even get out of bed and walk down the hall.

Some days, Eponine felt well enough to be wheeled around outside, still bundled despite the warm spring air.

On the days that she isn't, he shares her hospital bed, and they watch movies on her laptop or read their books or play games.

"Kill one, fuck one, marry one," she offers, playing with his fingers where their hands are entwined. "Ready? Voldemort, Sauron, or the Wicked Witch of the West?"

Enjolras thought for a minute. "Marry the Wicked Witch, definitely… and I guess kill Voldy, fuck Sauron."

"Really? You'd marry the witch? I mean, I guess she's the least bad of the bunch in a way, but she's a huge bitch."

"Hey – remember Wicked? We only get one side from the movie. Maybe she really was good. Maybe Fiyero was waiting for her. Maybe I'm Fiyero."

Eponine giggles. "Shut up, weirdo."

"Ok, my turn. Ryan Reynolds, Chris Pine, or Mila Kunis?"

Eponine turns to him, glaring at him teasingly. "How dare you bring my girl crush into this?"

"Just answer the question."

"Alright, alright. Um… Fuck Mila, obviously," she grins when Enjolras groans a little bit, "Marry Chris Pine, kill Ryan Reynolds."

"Really?" Enjolras asks. Eponine just shrugs. "Ok, whatever, your turn," he says.

"Promise me something," she says suddenly, turning onto her side to stare at him imploringly.

He recognizes the change of pace immediately, because she does this a lot. She starts thinking about death, her death, and makes him promise all sorts of ridiculous things. Last time, she made him promise that he'd find another girl when she died. He had countered that before her, he was never interested in women, and whether they lived forever together or broke up next week, he had very little interest in other women. Still she made him promise that he would try. She insisted that he shouldn't be alone.

"Eponine–," he starts, but she cuts him off.

"Promise me," she insists.

He sighs. "I promise."

Eponine squeezes his hand gratefully, and when he looks up into her eyes, he's surprised to find her crying. He hasn't seen her cry about any of this in a long time. She hates crying, she hates having people see her cry, even him. Still, he knows she does cry, he knows she's incredibly sad, that she doesn't want to die and that it's been hard for her to come to terms with her illness, even and especially before he came into her life. But she's crying now, and his heart drops. Somehow, he knows that whatever her request is will break his heart – how can it not, if it's already breaking hers?

"Take care of Azelma and Gavroche, Enjolras. Promise me you'll look after them."

"Ep–." He can hear the break in his voice, rendering him unable to speak. He cups the side of her face, gently running his thumb over the apple of her cheek. His fingers rest where her beautiful hair should have been; instead, they graze smooth skin.

Eponine comes apart then, grasping his wrists and breaking down into the pillow. He gathers her to his chest, feeling his own throat beginning to sting and tears pricking his eyes.

"Promise me," she whispers against him, clinging to him just as he clings to her, her voice thick with tears and sorrow.

"I promise," he murmurs back, his voice an octave higher, kissing her bare head as he feels tears of his own begin to fall. "I promise," he repeats, tilting her chin up to kiss her, needing to both comfort her and reassure himself that she's still there.

He holds her in her final moments. She can barely open her eyes anymore, and when she does, they're cloudy and watery and she seems as though she's looking at something very far away.

She whispers to him about the short time they had together between the radiation and chemo, between the chemo and now, when his gift of marrow had mattered more to her body than did his physical presence or his ability to make her writhe and moan and scream and laugh and experience things that she never believed she'd be graced enough to feel.

He cries, but she does not. She has made peace with it, she insists, but makes him promise once again to look after her siblings, who are by now old enough to take care of themselves, more or less, but who still need a guiding hand in their lives. He promises.

She laughs weakly as her body further succumbs, kisses him tenderly. Asks him to read to her one last time the poem she introduced him to the first time they kissed, the first night they spent together.

She mouths along with her favorite parts:

"my blood approves

and kisses are a better fate

than wisdom…

we are for each other: then

laugh, leaning back in my arms

for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis."

She whispers along with him the last part, and looks at him with eyes that are darkening far too quickly.

Her cold hand grips his, and a single tear drops from her eye, and repeats the words back to him.

"He was right, Enjolras. Life isn't a paragraph, and death really is no parenthesis."