Prompt: "Who wears the pants in your relationship?"
Fandom: Les Miserables
Characters: Eponine and Courfeyrac
Word Count: 675
It was almost midnight when the pair rolled leisurely into the club, their arms intertwined and words falling easily past their lips. Her loose fitting shirt was swaying in the breeze, shoulders bare to the wind, occasionally being leaned upon by her male friend who was dangerously close to being drunker than Grantaire (a feat to beat, they had been told). Their bodies rolled eagerly to the music despite having yet to enter the dark abode, and hands were already clinging to every patch of fabric that they possibly could, despite the fact that she had little on, and he was getting told off for doing so.
"You're lucky I love you," she was announcing when they were less-than romantically thrown into the cramped room, neon lights bouncing off their features, bodies morphing into the crowd. She said it so casually that he almost forgot it was the first time either of them had even talked of it.
She said it so calmly that he almost forgot to answer.
His hands were tangled in her rough strands of chocolate, and similarly dark orbs were lost in each other. In a sweet, delicate voice, he responded, "Luck has nothing to do with it."
They didn't talk for a few moments. It was just them, bodies bouncing with a strange beat, fingers hooked onto flesh as lips pressed kisses to the most unorthodox places. When he escaped to the light, a few hours later, he found that there were little bows of red on his fingers, his shirt, his elbow. She was ruffled, her lips parted and plump, and hands were tugging through those locks, finally coming to a stop at his waist. As they disentangled themselves from the floor, he led her towards a secluded corner.
Peace, finally.
Peace for the tornadoes, peace for the whirlwinds and terrors with thoughts only to living the world with as much of a mark as they could manage. Her, invisible, attempting to shine in the world. He with his twisted little ways, spending too much time invested in things different from his life.
The center and the shadow, warming up to life.
"Go get us a drink, Fey."
Her little pout finally dragged him off, and the female stood without an aim, filching a cigarette from her tiny shoulder bag. It was lit without a word, and she leaned halfway onto the wall, eyes closing halfway to match the seductive mood of the room. The music dipped, and deepened, bass dragging upwards and floor swaying to meet her. As she leaned her head backwards lightly, he returned, Courfeyrac did, with a man in tow.
He passed her the drink, which she graciously traded for a kiss to the cheek. "Mmm... Who's this?"
"I made a friend," the curly locked male announced, grinning. "Strange, isn't it? Calls himself Mark. Whatcha think? Can we keep him?"
She frowned, elbows connecting with her hips. "Nah, he isn't as cute as I had hoped."
In truth, the man wasn't attractive to her. Too geeky. He was wearing a striped scarf despite the heat, holding a camera (for no reason she could spot), and had a round face that forced his appearance to be that of a fifteen-year-old boy. Where in the world had Courfeyrac picked him up? Daycare?
"I was babysitting two of my friends," the man managed to say, rather pompously. He was American, the female noted, and she tilted her head, blowing a light puff of smoke in his face.
There was a brief moment of silence.
"Bring him back, Courf. You can't keep him!"
This 'Mark' mirrored Eponine's head motion, a brow arching. "Well... You can surely see who wears the pants in your relationship."
It was said in such a dainty way that she almost forgot how it could be taken, and without a further statement, the girl snuffed out her flames, digging them beneath her heel.
"Actually, we prefer it when neither of us is wearing pants."
