The anonymous prompt: "Eponine rushes into a burning building to save Azelma and is horrifically injured. It is unsure whether she will wake up. But Enjolras must sit by her bedside, and he begins reading a series of letters that seems to be written to him and begins to fall in love."

This was a challenging one, anon. And I tried to make it easier to follow but the background circumstances were pretty complex.

Warnings: Mentions of drug use, language.

Thirteen hours of the tranquility of a plane ride could very well calm down the average person; even the roughest landing feels only like a plane's sloppy kiss onto the ground. Instead, a storm brews in his mind, and Enjolras only grips the edge of his arm rest tighter until his knuckles turn white. His usual spearmint gum does nothing to aid his clenched jaw, and the passenger beside him, a concerned aged lady, smiles in comfort at what she thinks is a fear of flying.

He could care less about the flight. For a man who hardly wastes a moment of free time, the frequent flights on planes had always put him to a deep slumber. Today, he stays wide awake, his stare fixated on the plastic cup. Alcohol, perhaps, would have been a better choice than sugar, but the petty details stay no longer than a few seconds in the highway of his thoughts.

Instead, the sounds of a haunting phone call replay cruelly in the rhythm of his thoughts.

He assumes another one of his friends had forgotten the time difference—it is 5 in the morning in Doha, a stark contrast from the mildly late 10 pm where his companions are. It cannot be a drunken salutation—no, it is too early for that; regardless of the reason, he picks up the phone ready to scold whichever brother is on the other end.

He does not expect it to be a girl—a girl whose voice sounds incredibly familiar, but he cannot quite place the acquaintance. Surely, he has never spoken to her on the phone or in that tone. He has never spoken to anyone in the tone, because it is painful and frantic and almost heartbreaking. "Enjolras? It's Azelma—look I don't have anyone else's number and I won't bother you I promise I just, I need," she hiccups, and he can barely understand the rest of her wails as he quickly sits up and hunches over the side of the bed.

After she has calmed down, per his advice of slow, deep breathing, he finally understands her message, and in a few short minutes, he purchases the first direct flight he finds back home, sparing time to write a rushed, urgent e-mail to his boss.

He skips the stop to his apartment, omits the phone call to his mother alerting her of his return, and catches the first cab he finds to his desired destination.

He takes the trembling teenager into his arms as her muffled voice speaks into his sleeve. "She'd kill me if she knew I called you," she manages to say, a pained laugh forced out of her throat as he rubs her back soothingly. Her sharp, jutting shoulder bones dig into his torso, and when he pulls away, he only sees her red-rimmed, exhausted eyes.

"What happened?" he asks, softly piercing through her wall of bravery. He knows Azelma Thenardier, and she is not her sister. While Eponine's surroundings set of her sparks, Azelma is a dimly lit flame ready to be blown out by mildly violent gusts.

She crumples onto the floor, her back leaned against the smooth walls. She fixates her eyes upon a line between the bone-white tile, the color hardly tranquilizing her tragically reactive state, as she breathes in to begin speaking. "We were across the street," she starts, and she does not need to look up to find evidence of Enjolras' tension. "It—it exploded suddenly, and she got me out," she continues vaguely, unwillingly wandering in the dark of her tale and retracting from Enjolras' light. "She fell down and she told me to get out of there and," she breathes once more before looking up at his concerned expression."I'm sorry, I shouldn't have left her, I got scared." Her voice trails off, unable to admit to the moment she perceives as cowardice; now, they sit in the ruins of her actions.

He shakes his head. "You're okay," he replies. "You're okay and that's good." The corners of his lips form into a tight frown, and his tensed forehead, a question threatening to spill out of the tip of his tongue.

But he does not need to say it, because she knows what he is thinking. "She wasn't there to use, if that's what you're wondering," she says almost inaudibly, finally directing her gaze towards the distraught man. When he does not respond, she continues pleadingly. "Tell me you believe me. I promise I'm not lying, she quit."

He believes in the sincerity of her voice, but he hates the unknown, and his aversion to the clouds of mystery finally push him to ask. "Then why were you there?" He tries his hardest to keep the anger out of his throat.

"She wouldn't tell me," Azelma sighed frustratedly, and she knows it is the last answer that he would like to hear—because he wants to believe, he wants to believe her so desperately that he would accept a blatant lie over the exasperation in his confusion.

"Go to rehab, Eponine," he begs her as she turns her back to him, looking out of the dilapidated window of her rundown studio apartment. "At least then I'll know you're doing fine."

She turns back to him, the anger and brokenness battling for dominance in her eyes. "You don't think I can do this on my own," the hurt cracks through her attempt at strength and defiance. When he doesn't respond, she lets out a humorless laugh. "You believe the world can change but you can't even believe in me."

"That's not what this is about," he replies defensively.

"Go to hell, Enjolras," she snaps at him, and the image of her is so familiar that a fear rises in his veins. She is not the joyous, wild-haired ball of energy with faded track marks. She is instead the nullification of a year of battle. She is angry and reckless and extremely vulnerable.

And he, he is scared. He flies out of town, but he hits a pillow of worry with his head every night and only the worst of his imaginations seep into his dreams.

He is relieved when he sees her sleeping figure, examining the lack of tell-tale flaws in her arms. He knows there are other ways, but he clings onto his hopes despite his penchant for realism.

The doctor joins him and Azelma, the only two parties to keep her company so far. He delivers the news: she is alive, but the internal damage is severe. The teenager grips his hand painfully, and she bites her lip in preparation for the worst.

"We don't know that she's going to wake up, but we're doing everything we can," the man informs him.

He wonders if he could say the same for himself.

He stays for the nights, and attempts to ground himself to reality in the form of emails and conference calls on his laptop—but his place at her bedside is hardly the best for productivity.

One day, Azelma walks into the room, finished with her classes for the day to hand him a package of letters, all enveloped yet not addressed, with only his full name on the blank face. "I know you don't believe me," the younger girl says softly. "But at least believe her."

He pulls out the first letter at the top and begins to read, shutting his laptop and hunching into the letter.

Enjolras,

You've left to help solve the world's problems, so it's probably a little too late for an apology for being a terrible person.

I'm proud of you for leaving, and I thought you'd be proud of me too for being okay with it. And I want to quit. You know I do. But I can't go to rehab. Azelma's got a lot ahead of her she needs to pay for, and if I told you that's the reason why then you'd pay.

Just because you're a good person and a good friend.

When you come back, maybe we'll be okay.

Eponine.

He hates that he was wrong about her refusal. He thought it was weakness, but instead it was strength.

He wishes she would wake up so he could at least apologize, but instead the regrets sit at the bottom of his stomach. The beeping of the machines is the only thing keeping his hopes constant.

He wakes up one morning to two familiar voices in dialogue.

"Is that…"

"Did he tell you he was in town?"

"No, did he tell you?"

"No, but I can obviously see why he's here."

His vision focuses to Joly and Combeferre in matching lab coats, both leaning into the room in discretion. They hear the sounds of his movements and both heads turn to Enjolras, in a disheveled state as he uncurls himself on the armchair.

"Good morning," Joly greets him warmly.

"Long time no see," Combeferre adds, and Enjolras only returns their looks with an unamused one of his own. "Sorry to intrude," he continues. "We just wanted to check on Eponine, we heard her name come up and we thought maybe she…" For a man with excellent bedside manner, one of the most approachable doctors on the staff, Combeferre finds himself struggling to ease into the sensitive topic.

"She didn't," Enjolras replies quickly, the force in his voice filling the hospital room.

"She was there when the meth lab exploded, Enjolras," Joly argues, in the most gentle way he can fathom. "We can't keep ignoring the warning sides, it's only going to fuel her addiction

"She. Didn't," he protests fiercely, and Joly and Combeferre exchange looks of pity.

He finally understands the frustration of disbelief.

Enjolras,

I don't catch up on the news much, because I always used to rely on you rattling off about it when you order your morning coffee.

Combeferre came by and told me about the riots.

I hope you're okay. Hurry back and tell me the news again, it's a lot more interesting when you do. No offense to Ferre.

Eponine.

There is a peculiar comfort in her worry, perhaps because it allows him to believe it simply was not a one-way street. He folds the letter, once more alone in the room as he watches her in her deep slumber.

He hardly engages in conversation with baristas, but it was her fault when she asked him "What's going on in your world?" one day when business is slow. Geography is not her strongest suit, but she at least tries to understand his exasperations with current affairs. It was her fault that they became friends, he decides; but it isn't so bad when he realizes she worried about him too.

Enjolras,

It just occurred to me that I never really thank you, so there it is. Thanks.

I know you walk me home so I don't make an unnecessary stop across the street. You would call me making sure I paid my rent not only because I'm shit at remembering, but also because it's just real great that my landlord happens to be my drug dealer.

At times, I used to think it was because you didn't believe in me, but maybe it's also because you don't believe in yourself. I don't think you understand how much better I am because of you.

I know, I tell you your idealistic talks are stupid, but damn you for making me feel like I'm capable of something.

Well, not damn you. Thank you.

To be honest, these letters are keeping me clean.

When you get home and I'm still sober, I'll thank you properly.

Eponine.

He smiles at the sign of gratitude. She had a habit for forgetting thank you's—she'd never been the poster child for manners. It surprises him how well he can still hear her voice reading every word of the letter clearly in his head. The inflections, the short interruptions of laughter, he does not know how he remembers them so vividly. It brings him happiness because it is the closest thing to a reunion he can have.

The void of the long six months of her absence from his life start to fill up with every sentence, so he keeps unfolding the letters.

She writes to him about the small things: she stopped at the pet shop and found a fairly calm, hypoallergenic dog she thought he would like. She named him Rousseau, and she joked about stealing him as a welcome back present.

She writes to him about the big things: she got promoted to a managerial position, and it makes it easier for her to pay for the bills; she can even afford weekly movie rentals so she at least can force Azelma to spending time with her.

He can tell when she's tired—her letters transform into disfigured sloppy replicas of her usual scratchy, hard-pressed handwriting. He finds a coffee stain on the corner of one, smudging the words to an incomprehensible state, and realizes she must have written it at work.

Her most resounding letter leaves him gripping the paper in anxiety. She tells him of her fears, of the pressures of finally knowing what personal success feels like. She tells him she does not think she can do it—that people like her are meant to fail. She writes the letter in such a hurry, he can tell; the lightness of her marks bleed with urgency. "I almost crossed the street today; I needed a hit and I just need you to know I didn't," she tells him through the shakiness of her pen. "You would hate me if I did, but you would hate yourself even more."

After two days of sitting in the room in her physical and written presence, he finally gets to the last unopened letter; he feels a drop in his chest, and realizes the possible finality of the piece of paper.

If she does not wake up, they will be her last words to him. She will be done with her thoughts, while he remains with the unspoken residue of his sentiments. He knows her preference for the last word, but he has much more to say.

For starters, he'd like to tell her that he has no time to care for a dog; he supposes Rousseau maybe the most dog-appropriate name of all the philosophers, but if she would truly like the puppy, then she would have to come and walk him everyday.

He'd also want her to know that he's proud of her promotion, but he'll willingly look through a list of culinary schools because he sees her eyeing the restaurant across the street with the most obvious envy.

And he'd tell her that she's right; he would hate himself, but god, he could never hate her. He cares about her so much; it is not in his nature, but the tugging sensation in his chest does not care about his nature. He cares about her to the point that it hurts; he loves her.

He loves her and it is the most frustrating feeling in the world knowing she isn't listening. He always relied on her to listen.

The machines begin to go off with various alarms, and staff rush into the room as Enjolras looks on in a state of panic and a strong demand of information. They administer medication, and he wishes he weren't so hostile to his doctor friends—they would at least explain the jargon to him. Instead, he sits with the unknown and he detests it. He sits out in the hall for what feels like an eternity.

Finally, the familiar doctor pulls him aside when the staff begin to slow down. "Her breathing was disrupted—we think she suffered from pneumonia," he explains. "We thought she was progressing into consciousness well, but this put her body back quite a bit." He sighs, "Many comatose patients die from pneumonia."

"But she didn't," Enjolras points out, hoping his bold assumption is not corrected.

"Mr. Enjolras," the doctor replies. Enjolras doesn't remember the last time he felt the stinging of tears in his eyes, but he is quickly reminded of the sensation. "I'm sorry. She's not going to make it through the night."

He feels the anger force his heart into its uncontrollable rapid beating. He had never felt a bigger injustice in the world than having her ripped away so suddenly—no despair has felt more personal, no tragedy more real.

He sits in the hallway, unable to bring himself to lay eyes upon her peaceful, sleeping form. His jaw is clenched in frustration, his bottom lip bitten in heartbreak. He looks at his hand remembering the envelope he clutched on his way out of the room and through the blurry vision of his eyes, he opens it.

Enjolras,

I'm moving out tomorrow. I finally saved up enough money, and I think this is really it. My last payment's tomorrow after work, and no drug in that damn building can stop me from finally leaving.

There's so much you and I won't have to worry about when I finally cross that street for the last time. I'll walk out clean, and I already picked a place where they won't tempt me anymore.

I couldn't have done it without you.

Eponine.

P.s. Azelma has no clue; I'm taking her with me tomorrow and she'll find out when I shove that last month's rent down his drugged up throat.

"No," he releases a choked sob through his words, as he crumples the paper in his balled up fists.

He returns to the once-again empty room, and takes her hand as he fights back the tears and presses his head against the shoulder of her unconscious body. After breathing out tears, he begins to speak to her. He apologizes for the moments he refused to believe in her; he thanks her, because she had unknowingly given him more than he had provided for her. He pleads for her to awaken, but there is an unquestionable defeat in his broken bargains. Before he closes his eyes, he grips her hand tightly. "I love you," he whispers. He knows she is listening, wherever she may be.

He wakes up the next morning to the feeling of fingertips twitching against his loosened grip. In a state of frenzy, he calls out the nearest doctors; Combeferre is one of them, and he wouldn't have it any other way as he pulls his best friend into a relieved embrace. "She's awake," Combeferre confirms, and Enjolras can barely see through his rare tears. Even his usually calm friend's eyes glisten at the sight, as Enjolras returns to her side despite the nurses filing in for follow-up procedures.

She looks at him and he returns the gaze, and she recognizes the familiar sight of his facial expression, the kind where she knows he has something to say.

He has a lot to say, actually.