There was a knock on the door just as Éponine fluffed the towel over her shower-fresh hair. "Hang on," she yelled, doing up the buttons on her shirt. She jumped over a misplaced stack of books and the sleeping cat in the hallway and wrenched the sticky door open with a grunt. Enjolras stepped in, dripping rain and looking exhausted. "Can I come in?"
She smirked. "You did, didn't you? Try not to drip on my paper; it's on the table. Can you look over it for me? I'll make tea and toast." It was a seamless and well-practiced arrangement, like a broken-in pair of favorite shoes. Every time Enjolras came over, there was tea and toast with jam. While Éponine frustratedly punched the starter on the gas range and pulled mugs from art museums and NPR stations off the hooks by the sink, Enjolras scooted the stack of books off the couch. Kerouac and Ginsberg clattered to the threadbare rug.
"It's cold in here," he said, pulling a blanket off the back of the couch.
"Mmm," she answered, yanking the kettle off the burner, "there's something wrong with the heat."
"It's January!"
She laughed. "At least it's not the power," she waved to the Christmas lights tacked along the walls. "Otherwise I'd be in real trouble." She set the tea down in front of him and he drank gratefully, syrupy raspberry warming his insides. "So to what do I owe this pleasure? I mean, unless you came down here just to read about the Romantic influences in van Gogh's watercolors." She gracefully draped her long, legging-clad legs over his lap.
He smiled tiredly, rubbing his nose. "I just needed a place that's quiet."
She frowned, dipping her finger into the jam on her toast. "Grantaire's drinking again." It wasn't a question, and Enjolras' exhausted sigh was all the answer she needed.
"It's not—" he began.
"How bad?"
He groaned, pulling at his damp curls. "Not bad, at least not yet. His brother just got some award for that paper he published, and Old Père Grantaire called to remind Max of his general uselessness. And that gallery declined his submission." Éponine winced, knowing how hard he'd wanted that place in the art show. "It's not his fault," Enjolras continued, "they just ran out of room, and some donor was pulling some strings about a personal favor, you know how it is."
She snorted. She was just an art history graduate student who dabbled in art as a hobby, but she knew that, like everything else, it was all politics. The cat wandered over and butted the hand hanging off the couch, and she scratched his head. "What will you do if Taire doesn't get his shit together?"
Enjolras didn't answer right away. He looked over at her and smiled sadly. "How am I supposed to leave him? Maybe it would be easier if he drank constantly. But he always gets better, eventually."
She nudged his leg with her foot. "Does that mean that if he, you know, ever did go on a constant bender, you'd leave?"
"He knows my feelings. As soon as alcohol becomes more important than his health or our relationship, I'll leave, because that might be the only thing that sobers him up." He took another long drag from the tea while Éponine licked jam off her fingers, whose nails were painted sparkly mint green today, he noticed. He shook his head fondly. "Ép, has anyone ever told you that you're a bit weird?" he asked, pointing to her fingernails.
She grinned broadly. "Every damn day, babe, and I know our friends secretly find me refreshing."
He raised his eyebrows accusingly. "Maybe not so secretly; isn't that Courfeyrac's shirt?"
She winked, smoothing the green stripes down with her hand.
The rain poured over the Village so hard that the apartments across the alley were fuzzy. They spent the evening working on their respective papers, his on French peasant revolts of the 1800s and hers on van Gogh. She made two kettles of raspberry tea and he put Gershwin on the stereo. He braved the rain to get Greek takeout, insisting that he hadn't really dried out from the first time. It also gave him an opportunity to call Grantaire.
Éponine and Enjolras abandoned their papers and flipped on a movie. She watched as his eyes dropped and head dropped against the back of the couch. "Did you call Taire?"
He nodded. "Told him I was staying at the library," he mumbled sleepily.
"Which really means you're asking if you can stay on my couch," she laughed.
One eye opened sleepily. "Please? Just for tonight?" But there had been more than a few 'just for tonights,' and she kept a nest of blankets and squishy pillows behind the couch just for that purpose. Since she was the only one of their group without a roommate, she jokingly called her couch the Transient Couch of Sorrows, given how much use it got after one friend or the other had a fight, got drunk, or just wanted some company. Enjolras always gave it a lot of use when Grantaire was drinking, because at least so far, it worked without fail that Grantaire would sober up if he thought Enjolras might actually leave.
Éponine pulled a few blankets over him as she eased him down. Clicking off the television and unplugging the lights, she waved to him. "Night, Enj."
He yawned hugely. "Thanks, Ép, you're the best."
She smirked in the dark. "Aren't I just. Don't mention it, honey." In her tiny bedroom, she set her alarm for two hours earlier than planned, rolled over, and hoped she could talk some sense into Grantaire in the morning.