Wish You Were The One (That Got Away) - an Enjolras x Éponine fic

modern au

nsfw-angsty bullshit

based off loosely off this stupid thought i had

It's nothing she should be doing. Éponine knows that much. She should not be out back taking smoke breaks with Montparnasse. She should not be sharing a cigarette with him.

She should not be bent over a dirty outdoor table with his fingers up her skirt. Tracing her thighs. Ripping her leggings. Drawing out moans.

But she's tired of feeling like a ghost.

Enjolras may be harsh (when he even bothers to touch her), but Montparnasse was sharp, his finger nails scraping into her hips. His teeth raking the nape of her neck. Every touch threatening blood. Always demanding more more more.

You know how the cliche goes: at least it made her feel alive.

He thought it would be a nice surprise. Head over to the cafe, order some coffee, and wait for Éponine to close up (while he continues to work). It wasn't exactly a secret to Enjolras that he had been a little unavailable in the past few weeks. Éponine certainly hadn't been quiet about it.

He was busy. Tired. Overworked. Deadlines can do that to a person.

The cafe is empty. It is always empty after about 9:30pm. And then Montparnasse would start to make his innuendos. To joke. Pull at her hair like he used to when they were younger. The way he knows has always driven her wild. She usually laughs it off. Usually tells him to find something else to hump or she'll sterilize him with the milk steamer.

Usually.

Usually, she sees Enjolras at least once a day. Now she's going on 48 hours of no contact.

Well, 48.5 since this rendezvous has gotten started.

The cafe is empty. Deserted booths and no sign of Éponine. Nothing out of the ordinary. He knows she takes extra long smoke breaks right before closing. She's got a good idea of the traffic (she's there often enough).

Montparnasse has her laid on her back now, his head and a dexterous hand buried between her thighs. She opens her eyes for a second and thinks she's looking at blonde curls before she squeezes them shut again.

Enjolras is not a dim man. He is smart. He is a doctoral candidate at an ivy league university. He has been published in Time. His face has become synonymous with millennials taking charge.

Then why is it, for God's sake, that he cannot understand what he is seeing?

The images are as follows:
Éponine's leg hooked around Montparnasse's neck
his lips kissing her knee
her thighs jerking for his fingers

And none of it has to do with Enjolras.

"Éponine?"

He sounds like him. Like, her him. She clamps her eyes even tighter. "Don't talk," she grimaces, her words punctuated with a sharp cry as Montparnasse removes his tongue and chilled night air hits her warmth.

"Um, Éponine?"

There's an unmistakable smirk in it that time. He sounds like himself again. Even if he's pissing her off. Rubbing her eyes open, she sits up, muttering, "'Parnasse are you going to—"

Enjolras (her him), stands there at the backdoor, burned in sodium light silhouette. His eyebrows are furrowed, mouth hanging open. Awkward. For the first time in his life. Awkward.

She does nothing but stare back at him. Is she flush from embarrassment? Guilt? Or whatever that bastard is doing under her skirt. He stays between her legs until she pushes him off. Éponine's every movement hurts under Enjolras' pointed stare.

Then Montparnasse fucking laughs.

"Do you have something you intend to say, Montparnasse." It's not a question. It's an invitation to leave, one Montparnasse needs no time to mull over. He'd very nearly gotten what he came for anyhow.

"Nah, I'm good," he stands, flashing a wolf's smile at Enjolras. "Gotta get back to work, see ya 'round, rich boy." He pats Enjolras on the cheek (fingers still slick with her). Everything around Enjolras goes static, fuzzy. Distant. His mouth is a fine line, nostrils flared, gaze still blistering into Éponine's face. He doesn't even notice he's seized the other man's collar until the buttons dig into his palm.

Just as stoically, the blonde releases Montparnasse with a push. His shoes scrabble in the loose gravel, but he keeps his feet well enough to saunter back into the cafe with a chuckle.

The door clicks shut. With their isolation, Enjolras finally turns his burning glare from her face to the ground. More cliches come to mind: the silence is palpable; the tension could be cut with a knife; silent as the grave they stand upon. Him standing in front of the door, her sitting on the table. Either way you work it out, it still involves Enjolras and Éponine unable to speak to one another. Still.

"How many—"

"This was the first."

"How could I possibly be—"

"I have never lied to you, Enjolras. Never once. Not once." Her voice is anticipating and sharp and it stabs him right in the heart. It thickens as she continues, ignored tears spilling down her cheeks. "I told you. How many times did I tell you that I missed you? That I needed you? That I was lonely? That I couldn't go on living like I didn't matter to you?"

"I didn't mean to neglect you!" He shouts, eyes closed and hands fisted. Teetering on a loss of control that Éponine had never witnessed from him on her own. "I-I told you. Goddamit, I told you when we…" Collect yourself. Get it together. Shoving his hands onto his hips, he kicks the dirt at his feet, calculation returning to his words. "I was busy."

"That is not enough," she says. Each word is a bomb. Lofted with every ounce of weight they could carry, hitting him in the chest. "I needed you to look at me. Really look at me. I needed you to show me…"

He accepts her request and this is what he sees:
a lion heart crying in the dark
skinny fingers chewed to ribbons
a girl with lonely dark circles underlining unhappy eyes
the lover
he failed

There is no chance to analyze the overwhelming need to touch her, so he does, striding towards her and pulling her forward with all the conviction he can possess. She reaches for his neck and pulls him down on top of her, ripping at his jeans and cursing into his mouth.

He enters her swiftly, choking down the knowledge of the cool wetness that greets him. Her arms stay locked around his neck, the closeness providing a pressure that demands she cry out into the night.

"We can fix this," she whimpers
("We can fix this," she begs).

His name is a plea on her lips and hers is a promise upon his, they grasp each other, tearing at clothes and skin in equal measure. Give me your bones, for it's everything I deserve. And he pounds into her with every inch of himself and its messy and its ugly and here's one last cliche for you:
when he comes he feels nothing at all.