a/n: so, this is un beta'd and I'll probably repost/edit it later, but I do want some feedback on this, so please leave a review! :)
Enjolras was indeed very frustrated. He sat alone in the cafe working on an essay for his European History class. He couldn't quite find the right wording he wanted for his thesis, and was chewing on the eraser of his pencil when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
He looked up and into the eyes of a girl he didn't speak to often. It wasn't that they weren't friends, or that he didn't like her, but he had always assumed they had nothing in common, and therefore saw no particular reason to engage in conversation. So, naturally, he was surprised to find Éponine Thénardier behind him, asking him a question.
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that," he said. She bit her lip and sighed impatiently.
"Marius. Have you seen him today?" her hands found the back pockets of her jeans and she chewed on the inside of her cheek.
"I haven't," he told her, "but I assume he's with Cosette. I've heard they're getting pretty serious."
"Yeah," Éponine mumbled, "they are." And before he could even have time to think of a reply, she turned briskly, and her combat boots didn't even clunk when she left. She had that ability, he thought, to come and go as she pleased, often without being seen or heard. He shook his head, and Éponine Thénardier quickly disappeared from his mind. He turned back to his essay, and didn't think of her again.
It was a few weeks later, when he, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre went out for some drinks that he saw her again. She was alone, nursing a beer, clad in her typical leather jacket, dark jeans, and combat boots.
"Éponine!" Courfeyrac exclaimed upon seeing her. She looked up, and her cheeks flushed when she saw the three of them.
"Oh, hey guys," she said, and Enjolras caught her eyes. He nodded, and she bit her lip.
"What're you doing here all by yourself?" Comebeferre asked, sitting beside her. She shrugged.
"I just needed a drink. I gotta go, though," and though Combeferre told her she was welcome to join them, she shook her head and mumbled something about needing to go see a friend. They bid her farewell, and though she smiled at Combeferre and hugged Courfeyrac, she didn't so much as look at Enjolras as she slid past him. He was slightly irritated by this, but shooed away any thoughts of Éponine as Courf handed him a drink.
A month passed before he saw her again. He was working his shift at the local bookstore, and checking out a customer when she walked in, a tall, thin man lanking behind her.
" 'Parnasse, it'll take all of ten minutes for me to find the book and buy it, calm down," she said. Enjolras noted that the man she called 'Parnasse looked rather annoyed, and grumbled a "hurry up, 'Ponine," in response. Neither of them looked like they had much business being in a bookstore. He wore long black jeans, and a scuffed leather jacket. His hair was black and chaotic, and he had dark eyeliner smeared around his eyes. Eponine wore her usual attire, but her hair was messy and matted, and she wore no makeup. As they made their way across the store, her eyes met Enjolras' and she bit her lip and quickly looked away.
It ended up taking her fifteen minutes to find her book, and at the seven minute mark, her friend had called that he would wait in the car. When she finally approached the counter, she placed the book on the counter, and her fingerless gloves fished her wallet out of a pocket in her jacket. As she pulled out bills and coins, he noticed the book she wanted to purchase.
"Emily Dickinson," he commented, nodding at the book when she looked at him when she looked at him, confusion splayed on her expression. "She's a great poet," he added. She went back to counting money.
"Yeah, she's great," she said thickly as she set a mixture of bills and coins on the counter. He didn't bother to count it as he scanned the book and handed it to her, and she didn't question him. Without so much as a glance back at him, the bell on the door jingled and she was gone.
A year had passed, and Enjolras had not seen, heard from, or even thought about Éponine Thénardier since the bookstore. And so, when he saw her name and picture on his television screen, he put down his book and turned the volume up.
"Éponine Thénardier, 22, is officially declared dead after being in critical condition for six hours since this afternoon. Thénardier was taken to the hospital after her neighbor had called 911, reporting gunshots. The police arrived to find her alone and bleeding, shot once in the shoulder. Her boyfriend Montparnasse is suspected of abusing her, and is now being searched for to be questioned about her shooting. More after the break."
Enjolras stared blankly at the television screen, and muted it. He pictured the Éponine he had known before she had donned leather jackets, combat boots, and heavy eyeliner. She had worn a lot of big sweaters, and she laughed a lot. She had been closest to Courfeyrac, though she had spent most of her time with Marius. She had briefly dated Grantaire, and even after their relationship they remained friends, because neither of them were the type of person to dwell on the past.
He might have thought it funny that it was only now that he remembered that he had noticed things about her. That she sang under her breath when things were quiet in the Musain, or that her lips were always chapped. He might have wished that he had said more to her the last few times he had seen her over a year ago. He might have thought about helping her. He might have even thought about loving her.
But, Enjolras was no romantic. He would go to her funeral, and let Grantaire cry into his shoulder. He would chip in for the flowers they would leave at her grave. He would even buy the same collection of Emily Dickinson's poems that she had bought a millenia ago. But he would never read them. He would not think about the nights he would've spent kissing her instead of studying alone. He would not imagine the playful arguments that would've taken place, had either of them chosen that path. He was never a man for what-ifs or could-have-beens. Instead, he would dream about her occasionally, or think about her in passing while drinking coffee.
Generally, however, Éponine did what she did best: she faded. As the weeks turned into months turned into a year, even Courfeyrac stopped talking about her. Things went back to being as they were when she had stopped coming to the Musain. They learned to live without her humming under her breath. Marius learned how to take his own damn letters to the post office, and Grantaire learned to drink alone. Enjolras learned to avoid her memory. He stopped going to the Musain and started ignoring his friends' calls. Where they were, she was also, and though Enjolras did not feel guilty in the slightest, he would always know that he had been the last one to see her, almost exactly a year before her death.
Life went on, and eventually, Enjolras would stop thinking about the girl who bit her lip when she looked at him. He would forget about the words not said in passing, and Éponine Thénardier would do what she did best: she would come and go as she pleased, though usually unseen or unheard.
She would fade.