Don't Stand So Close To Me - a Never Been Kissed Enjolras x Éponine AU
pretty much what it says on the tin.

There are many things I can assure for you: smoking ruins your voice, churros are mana from heaven, and I've never been on a date.

Also, I never, ever, ever, ever wanted anything to do with this asinine assignment.

Éponine Thénardier flopped through the door, flopped her shoes onto the carpet and finally - with a melodramatic sigh - flopped herself onto the couch.

The room was pastel, like a foggy spring morning, and it made her head hurt. Neatly folded quilts bolstered her fall, a ball of yarn becoming entangled around her feet. She moaned into the salmon colored, painfully corduroy couch arm, "Cosette," she whined. "Nothing in this room matches the darkness in my soul right now."

"Oh, your soul isn't dark," her roommate cooed, shuffling into the living room with two steaming mugs of tea. As if it hadn't been evident from the beginning that Éponine was not responsible for the room's decor, it was now. Cosette smiled from the doorway with plump apple cheeks and a crisp Peter Pan collar; complete with a rose gold brooch, of course. She sat down next to Éponine, prompting the other girl to sit upright, but not without another pathetic moan.

"It is definitely that bad," she stated. Éponine accepted the tea with a final whine. One measly sip and she was immediately hissing with scorched regret.

"It can't be that bad. My dad's never that bad," Cosette patted Éponine's knee in her normal, infuriatingly calm way. Being Éponine's sister in every way but law and blood, this was all normal. And infuriating.

Éponine looked up at the ceiling. "He's making me take the high school story."

"Ah," Cosette clicked her tongue and blew on her tea. "That is bad."

"It so bad," Éponine whined (yes, again) and slammed her back into the couch. It enveloped her with scratchy, hot, ancient fabric.

And it all was, in fact, quite bad. It was a lame story that the newspaper's editor - who, you know, happened to be her best friend's father - had offered to investigate and publish as a favor to an acquaintance. Éponine wondered why Mr. Fauchelevent hadn't asked Cosette, whose veins practically ran with gazette ink, to take the primary on this stupid lead. At least she could probably have made it sound worthwhile. Not the syrupy, metaphor saturated mess Éponine was likely to turn in.

"Then he thinks you're the best for the job. That's a good thing, isn't it?"

"He only picked me because of this prepubescent chest God has cursed me with. Said I could easily 'pass.' He also said that he 'believed in me' and that he was 'proud of me.' Whatever that means," Éponine threw in a few sets of air quotes for good measure.

"Those are good things, Ép." A true enough statement, but the only reply it earned was in the form of a limp hand gesture. "Well," Cosette tried again in a reassuring tone, taking a sip from her tea. "At least Marius will be your tech support. He's the best."

Shit. Éponine closed her eyes and silently hoped the freaking couch would just swallow her whole. It wasn't not a print story, it's web content. Dammit. So, it would naturally need a video, which naturally meant tech.

So, naturally, Cosette was right. Marius was the best and that was the problem.

Or it hadn't been a problem until she found Cosette straddling him on the God forsaken couch three nights ago.

Fuck. It. All.

Big gulp of tea, humming as it burned her throat. Steam practically floated out of her mouth when she opened it again. "No one is going to care that a group who used to organize a bunch of protests are working together at the same high school."

To be honest, "a group who used to organize a bunch of protests" was a little tame for what Seine High's young faculty used to get into. The links sitting in her inbox could attest to that. There were plenty of gaps in the story she could exploit. The sit ins, the riots, the mysteriously expunged arrest records. It could be relatively interesting, but all the answers were laying in the one place she hated worse than her parent's house.

"Come on," Cosette sing-songed, "most people would kill for an investigative story. You get to go under cover, have a back story. It could be fun."

"Fun," Éponine said." Yes. A 23 year old pretending to be 18. Very fun. I just don't get it, what are they going to do, brain wash their students?"

Cosette rolled her eyes, realizing that her friend was more interested in being upset than being given a pep-talk. "That is the question, my dear."

It slipped out, quiet and sure. Simply a statement. "I hate high school."

Cosette's smile finally wavered and she squeezed her friend's hand in understanding. "I know."

"Fuck," Éponine rasped before adding two additional ones to fully illustrate her feelings.

"Gonna have to put in an effort to cull that language."

"Fuck."

She was always quietly thankful that she had the metabolism of a hummingbird, because her impulse control was for shit. Every time she had to go downtown, she found herself sitting on the curb, churro in one hand and a Marlboro red in the other. It really wasn't her fault they were only about .75 cents a pop. Less when she batted her eyelashes at that one food cart dude with the face tattoo.

And today was no exception, her long legs akimbo as she shoved way too much golden delicious fried dough into her face while patiently waiting for her friend. Cosette's voice floated over her shoulder when Éponine finished her last churro, practically on cue. "What's going on, Ép?"

"Stress relief," Éponine tried to brush brown sugar/ash mixture off her pants before giving up, jamming the cigarette between her lips and pushing herself off the ground. Ripped short shorts sprinkled with remnants of her vice, a black crop top and low top Converses. If that wasn't her aesthetic, she didn't know what was. Take that world, Thénardier was prepared.

Standing up and turning around brought her face to face with not only her best friend, but also her crush. It felt like a gut punch to see Marius' arm around Cosette's shoulders. A bit of a stab in the chest to notice her fingers in his back pocket. They traded greetings and pleasantries Éponine didn't really register over the buzzing in her ears.

"Congratulations on landing the story," Marius said. "It's going to be so great to help you out and stuff..."

"Huh," she asked, eyes snapping into focus. Realizing she needed to listen. It was an integral part of basic socializing, after all.

"I said, you know, congratulations," Marius was practically beaming. "I figured they would be in order, I mean, this is your first solo piece so that's pretty cool, right? And investigative, too!"

Éponine smiled graciously as she could, head nodding a little too deeply at his enthusiasm. Her stubby cigarette fell to the ground unchecked. "It is, it is. Thank you, Marius, I just don't, uh..." The sentence trailed off as it always did when ages 15-18 were brought up.

"Éponine's just not exactly prepared to hit the hallways quite yet!" The blonde's small fingers twisted at his jacket's hemline, "That's why we're here to help her."

"Yes," a small sigh of relief for the change in subject as Éponine tossed her bangs aside. "Exactly, I'm - wait help me with what, I thought you wanted to get lunch?"

Cosette and Marius exchanged glances while Éponine considered clubbing them both over the head and disappearing into the barely existent Saturday crowds surrounding them. Not a good plan, admittedly, but better than the alternative. Shopping.

"Look, we love this gutter punk hipster princess thing you've got going on. It looks great. Works for you," Marius nodded at Cosette's words and Éponine's heart fluttered. "But it's not exactly fly-under-the-radar clothes. Nor is it adhering-to-any-sort-of-dress-code-I've-ever-heard-of-type clothes."

"Hey!" Éponine readjusted the exposed straps of her bralet and shoved her hands onto her hips. "Your Dad lets me dress like this at work, so it can't be too bad."

A hefty eye roll and Cosette's hands were out of Marius' pockets, balled onto her own hips in an instant. Tit for tat. "Éponine, my Dad would let you wear a damn paper bag to work if it made you happy, you know that."

"What the shit. I'll just borrow some of your clothes."

"Really?" Cosette's eyebrows practically shot into her hairline.

It was obviously a stupid statement. Cosette stood there, hands on wide hips, thick waist swathed in crisp bold colors. A lovely structured dress, belted under her abundant breasts. A statuesque goddess in modern day finest. Then Éponine looked down at her own at her own toothpick legs and nonexistent bust line.

Then Éponine did the only thing she could do. She pinched the bridge of her nose, gritted her teeth and agreed to go shopping.

Cosette sent Éponine into the fitting room with yet another armful of clothing, despite the latter's insistence on spewing curse words and stomping her feet all the way to the back of the store. When the door slammed shut, Éponine was safe from escaping without trying on more shirts and Cosette turned to Marius with an apologetic smile.

"Sorry," she whispered, joining him as he leaned against a shelf of discount shoes.

"Oh, please, don't be!" He exploded. "It's very nice of you to help her out." They smiled at each other once more before falling into the comfortable silence that their relationship was built upon. A few choice words rumbled from the fitting room in Éponine's customarily low rasp.

Marius, on the other hand, surreptitiously checked the time on his phone. The two movie tickets in his pocket were about to be rendered useless. He opened his mouth and tested out the act of saying them without sound. This garnered Cosette's attention, causing her to give him an inquisitive glance.

"She doesn't have anyone else to help her out?" He finally said. "A sister? A boyfriend..." His words began to trail when Cosette shook her head.

A sigh as it was Cosette's turn to test out her words. They needed to be careful, she knew. "Éponine doesn't date," she said uncharacteristically deadpan, focusing on the easiest part.

"Really?"

"No, I, uh," Cosette continued, "She just doesn't like dating."

Thank God she decided to wear the red blouse instead of the white one. The rain slicked the fabric to her arms, turned her jeans a deeper blue. Nearly black, likely the wet ropes of hair she had pulled into a simple messy bun at the back of her head. Her Converses squelched with an awful wet streaking sound that echoed off the halls. Éponine would give up a lot of things, but not her Converses. Consider it a life line.

"Testing, testing," she whispered into the discreet spy cam/mic combo Marius had pinned to her button this morning.

"Loud and clear," he crackled back through her earpiece. Éponine could imagine him already, stretched out in his super special tech van across the street. Drinking coffee. Damn, she would kill for some coffee.

It was like magic. The second she walked through double doors at the front, feet moving faster than her brain wanted, she was lost. Lost in these musty, vaguely antiseptic off-white hallways. Funny how the school can be completely different, half way across the country, and yet they all still look relatively the same. Big plexiglass paneled office. That weird blue grey carpet lurking somewhere, but never everywhere. A garishly large mascot glaring from largest expanse of available wall space.

Seine High had a big "patriot" painted in blue and grey above the common area and the carpet resided in a cramped but bustling office. A nice administration lady with too much hairspray and a kind smile gave Éponine a welcome packet, then sent her on her way.

Of course, she had no idea which way was which because the place was built like a goddamn labyrinth. They say casinos are built to keep the customers in? Apparently high schools were built so the students grew old and died before they found a flipping bathroom.

And then the lockers. Typical and numerous. Forlorn and foreboding as they climbed up the wall on either side. Cagelike. She was staring at a row of the metal boxes that she swore had to be in a different than the last hall of lockers she had stumbled across when footsteps rounded the corner.

She turned to meet the owner of the phantom steps and, no, she was not disappointed. A tall man in his late twenties with dreads neatly tied into ponytail, a thick white sweater and a pair of glasses smiled a friendly greeting to her.

Combeferre, she recognized. Second in command, as far as anyone could tell. Was only ever arrested for not having the correct permits. Boring stuff. Current librarian of Seine High.

"Hi there, Miss," his smile was like butter. "You lost?"

"Yes, I'm looking for my class," she very nearly purred, shoving her class schedule into his very capable looking hands. His eyebrow arched as he accepted the papers, a fine blush staining his umber checks.

Interference crashed into her ear drum and Marius' laugh followed. "Don't flirt with the faculty, Ép."

Shit. Good introduction. Nice job. God, she needed a cigarette.

Combeferre's eyes scanned the paper and after the first few lines, nearly bugged out of his head. "Ms. Jondrette. Sorry, I assumed-" He stammered to a halt before collecting himself and pointing down the hall over her shoulder. "Anyway, your Health class is going to be down those stairs and to the left. Next to the gym. Can't miss it. As for your next... Well, that's Courfeyrac's class you can just ask him how to get to Enjolras. He'll get you there. Anything else."

Can I apologize for hitting on you, was the only thought that seemed to form any true traction, so she decided to just mumble and walk away, completely hating herself, towards this Health class.

I'm going to take you back for a moment, just so you can try to understand.

Here's how it goes: I learned to avoid my locker. There were these girls and they were always there, with their hair spray and their sniggers. Their cherry lipglossed lips hidden behind conspiratorial hands. And I can hear them. I know what they say when I walk by. They whisper about who they think I kissed last night, what stupid boy insists they fucked me last weekend.

That's how I learned bruised fists don't buy silence.

Coach Courfeyrac's class was fine, if long and a little boisterous. Nothing crazy to report on, unless she wanted to make any sort of deal about the rumor that he'd give free condoms to anyone brave enough to ask. And she had no intention of checking up on that. Not that she'd care anyway. If there was one thing she knew about high schoolers, its that they were horny and shit with money.

And, just as Combeferre had suggested, Courfeyrac showed her where her next class was located. In fact, he decided to "do her one better" and walk her down to the Language Arts wing because he was always "looking for chances to annoy the Chief."

Whatever that meant.

At the risk of getting lost in the maze of hallways once more, she acquiesced. Besides, he had smiling eyes and adorably curly hair that looked much more well-behaved than it had in his mug shot. Probably because he didn't have to go through an ill-conceived riot to get to work every morning. Not that, you know, she could put any of that particular information to work.

Why was this school's faculty full of incredibly attractive men in their late twenties? That's what her article should have been about about.

"You'll like the Chief's class," he promised, slowing his steps as they arrived. "He's not the smartest guy I know, but he'll rile your blood. Never a dull moment, not with him."

"Good," she grumbled. "I'd hate to be bored in a high school English class." It came out faster than she could really think.

Courfeyrac's laugh was just as surprised, almond eyes wideneding in amusement. "Yeah," he chuckled. "That would be ah... That would be terrible wouldn't it?"

"A total travesty."

He poked his head into the open classroom and gave a satisfied click of the tongue. "Okay." With what she was beginning to assume was an ever present smile, Courfeyrac pointed a decidedly gnarled index finger at her. "You didn't see this, right?" Then he quickly ran to the desk at the front, picked up a cup of pencils and moved it about an inch to the left. Not a second to waste, he shot out of the classroom and power walked down the hallway with an over the shoulder wave.

Éponine wasn't quite sure what she expected, but it certainly wasn't that. Shaking her head, she finally stepped into the class room and sighed, leaning up against the door jamb. Seating chart or not, she had no idea where to sit. Awesome. She looked over the room for any familiar face from her last class and came up short. Well, it was a flimsy excuse to sit next to someone anyhow.

Smiles and stories. She could see people staring at her, no matter how benign, making her skin feel itchy and far too small. Don't belong, you don't belong. That's all she could think. Someone behind the teacher's desk, at the chalkboard writing, writing, the chalk screeching down the surface. The volume of the room growing louder and louder with its own unchecked presence.

Then he breezed into the room. A rush of golden blonde curls and flared nostrils. Alabaster cheeks stained cherry from exertion. A time-worn leather briefcase he slammed onto his desk with a breathless sigh. Hands created to play piano lay splayed on either side of the pristine surface. Dangerous blue eyes set in regal profile, surveying the choas of the class.

Cue the tardy bell.

A hush fell over the classroom quicker than she thought possible. Everyone slid into their seats and silently waited for further instructions. Cellphones away. All ears. Everyone except for Éponine, of course, and the kid pretending like he hadn't just written the lyrics to that "Fancy" song all over the board.

Which, she had to admit, was a little funny considering Enjolras' three piece suit.

"Thank you, Gav," he said, not even bothering to turn around. He shrugged out of his blazer and dropped in onto the back of his chair. "That is just as comical as it was at the beginning of the semester when you began this gratingly repetitive joke. You can sit down, now." An undercurrent of easy giggling followed this Gav when he walked to his seat. Front of the classroom. Easily watched. Not surprising.

He reached out for a pencil, only to miss, before rolling his eyes and moving his pencil holder back to the right. "Coufeyrac," he growled, taking another second to scan over his desk for anything else amiss. "And you," he turned his full gaze to her and she instantly felt small. He was going to see right through her, she knew it.

Yet, there was a warmth in his eyes she didn't expect, a sincerity. You must be Miss Jondrette?" All Éponine could do was nod while a smile graced his obscenely full lips. "I'm going to spend the next couple of seconds fighting with the SmartBoard. In the meantime, why don't you go ahead and tell us a little about yourself."

It shouldn't have taken her by surprise. It was pretty basic, really. New kids introduce themselves. She was a new kid. Kid. Keeping putting that emphasis on kid.

"Okay, you got this," Marius' tinny voice assured her. "Just remember what we talked about." She jumped at the sound of the near forgotten earpiece coming to life. The whole class was staring at her, which did absolutely nothing for her nerves. God, how do teenagers make you feel so self-conscious by just existing?

Cosette and Marius had helped her with the boring backstory, all she had to do was remember. Recite. She walked to the front of the classroom while Enjolras set to banging a remote against the heel of his palm.

"Yeah, so um," she started. "I'm Éponine Jondrette. Transferred here from a school across the state. Wrote for the school newspaper. Secretary of the Current Events club. Uh... yeah. That's me."

Éponine smiled and the class clapped. Whether that was for her, or the SmartBoard that finally snapped to life, she couldn't tell. "Great, that's wonderful. We're happy to see you bring some of that to experience to Seine," Enjolras said, voice so clear it resonated in her chest. He took a second to check the empty seats and gestured to the seat next to Fancy Boy. "Now, why don't you take that seat next to Mr. Thénardier and we'll get started."

She didn't think her heart could stop so many times in one day. Her feet were on autopilot. They took her safely to the seat next to Gav. Fancy Boy. Thénardier. It wasn't necessary for her to glance at the binder spread across his desk to find that his first name was actually Gavroche. She already knew.

Éponine Thénardier was well aware that she was sitting next to her brother. A brother she hadn't seen since her parents divorced years and years ago. Since she he was just a baby and she was just knobby kneed preteen and her life turned into an even bigger blackhole than it had been before.

Breathe, she reminded herself. Breathe. Take stock. What is actually happening and what needs to happen next. Focus waned as Enjolras asked the class to pull out their copies of The Great Gatsby, his voice becoming a distant murmur. His silhouette blurred against digital white.

She snuck another glance at Gav, who clearly hadn't recognized her. What she needed to do was keep it that way. Likely, he didn't even remember her. Their parents had done nothing short of forbidding contact after the split. Clean. That's what they said. It had left a hole in her heart, but it also meant she could be in the clear here.

Next: make sure no one else would notice their relation. Her gaze flicked over his contemplating eyes, his cocked eyebrow. He was light complected like their father, she noticed, nothing like olive skin and inky eyes she'd inherited from their mother. Enough to dissuade most people from seeing any resemblance. She nearly began to breathe normally again, until her gaze fell upon then same crisp jawline, the same cleft chin she saw every morning.

The had the same exact jawline. Fuck. She tore at her ponytail. Who cares if Cosette said that pulling her hair back made her look younger? They clearly hadn't planned for this. Frantically, Éponine ran her fingers through her hair, shaking it out. Pulling it around her face as messily as possible. She sagged in her chair, silently hoping that bad posture would render her invisible.

"Hey!" A sharp inhale as Marius chimed in her ear. "I can't see the only thing we've got a visual on is this guy's... Uh, his posterior."

Inadvertently, she looked straight at her new teacher's objectively nice ass and sighed. "Shut up, Marius."

"Pardon?" Enjolras snapped around, sharp ears honing in on Éponine's distinctive voice. He advanced forward, head tilted, slim figured and Jesus Christ, she needed to go home and take a cold shower. Too many things were happening here. "Éponine, did you have something you needed to add?"

"Oh, Ép, I'm sorry," Marius squeaked. They were definitely going to have a conversation about earpiece etiquette later.

"Miss Jondrette," he said in a stern voice. "We're talking about Gatsby and the American Dream over here, would you like to join us?"

The English degree she slaved so hard over sparked into motion in the back of her head. "Well, it's all bull..." Nervous glance at the dozens of faces turned to her. "It's bullcrap. Gatsby is sad because he goes through all this junk, changes his whole life to get this girl, right? Daisy. But he doesn't really care about her, not really. Daisy is this intangible dream lady person and Gatsby can never really truly pin her down. He would have just moved on to something else after her. Because you can't ever 'achieve' the American Dream. If you do, you stop. You stagnate. So it's not that Gatsby proves that it doesn't exist, he simply proves that it isn't what we like to believe. It's attainable so long as you think you're still working for it. Capitalism doesn't want you to just stop. And Gatsby wouldn't have ever stopped trying to be better, you know, if he hadn't died." Half the class gasped at the final revelation of her word vomit. "Oh, uh, spoilers."

At her side, Gav gives her a thumbs up. "Nice save."

Enjolras, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes at her, scrutinizing her in a way she had never been before. Finally, a small smirk tugged at his lips, accompanied by a minuscule but appraising nod. Relief flooded through her.

"Astute," he said, warm, dangerous eyes lingering on her as he put his hands in his pockets. "Are you sure you're eighteen?"

Fuck.

Welcome back to high school, right?