The thing with the scruff had started with a neglect to shave. He'd been staying over at Éponine's - the plumbing at his apartment was getting fixed - and had forgotten to take his razor with him. By that point in his junior year of college, most of his friends had embraced, at one point or another, the disarray that was their facial hair, letting it grow to varying lengths and levels of success. For a month near the end of freshman year, Jehan had tried to grow a beard and had instead managed to grow a thin moustache and some wispy hairs on his jaw. Enjolras had never gone through the phase. So, when the three days were up and he returned home, he decided to leave it for a day or two. What was the harm?
Éponine hated the scruff her boyfriend had accumulated on his jaw. It was horrible and scratchy and horrible… and really really sexy. It was unsettling. Every time he tried to kiss her, it scratched her cheek, which should not have elicited the pleasure she felt. When they were sitting on the sofa, partially entangled and watching tv, he would rub the stubble against the side of her face until the tickling feeling got too much and she just started kissing him. Enjolras' scruff would be the death of her.
He truly enjoyed annoying her with it. It was the main reason he kept it for so long. Days had turned into weeks and he shaved just enough that by the end of the day he would still be able to make his girlfriend jump him. That was the only reason he kept it. Yes, the only reason. Sure, he felt a little manly and cool, at least more so than when he was cleanshaven, but that was not the reason - not the only reason - he kept it. He kept it for Éponine.
Her feelings - both antagonistic and pleasurable - toward the stubble came to a head one night at the Musain, the bar where she'd met Enjolras and the gang several years before. They'd arrived late, having both had to turn in papers that morning and her having an eight-hour waitressing shift that ended at 9. The booth where the boys sat was crowded, with Enjolras managing to squeeze into the last space. Éponine, accustomed to the issue, perched on his lap without a thought.
Two hours later, after Grantaire and Courfeyrac had tricked her boyfriend into drinking a beer or five, despire the fact that he was notorious for his sobriety, Enjolras was slightly tipsy. His arms were wrapped around the girl on his lap - his girlfriend, he realised happily - and his head was nuzzled between her neck and her right shoulder.
"Enjolras…" He pulled away, just enough to look at Eponine's face. Her eyes were dark and there was a tightness to her voice that he couldn't place. He really hated drinking, he was never able to think properly.
"'ponine?"
"Stop it."
"Stop what?"
"Rubbing your scruff against me. It's irritating."
He chuckled, "You love it."
"I do not!"
Enjolras smiled lazily, ducking his head back to where it had been. He moved slowly, pressing his cheek against her neck, her jaw, as he nuzzled into her once again.
One moan from Éponine and she was off his lap, standing next to the table, two hands clasping one of his. She pulled him up, dragging him away - to the amused glances of their friends - and into the bathroom. She shoved him against the door, locking it with one hand, and kissed him hard.
"I told you to stop it."
Enjolras smirked, "Maybe I didn't want to stop it."
The next morning, looking back, he was really glad he didn't stop it.