She doesn't love him.
No, love is too much trouble. She distances herself from him for the rest of the night and leaves him alone to his important thoughts.
She knows as much about him as the next person—it is hard not to know a few things about the great Auguste Enjolras. Her knowledge is not one out of interest, but of unwilling listening. She has walked by him a few times en route to the track with her teammates as they whisper loudly about the senior. It is all that she expects, from first glance—she knows he comes from privilege. Though he dresses simply and professionally, she recognizes the quality leather on his shoes and his bag. How could she not? She had been told to look for those things ever since she could remember. She watches the way he carries himself—he executes all of the formalities, his chin always raised with dignity.
But certain skills of Eponine allow her to sift through the superficial giveaways. She possessed a burdensome talent in her empathy of those around her. Within the five short minutes of introduction with the gentlemen, she could distinguish the cogs of the dynamics. The man they called Bahorel's laugh resonated louder than most of the others—and naturally, she knew his anger would in turn amplify when the opportunity revealed itself. As the youngest one, Jean Prouvaire, slunk back into a comfortable seat, she knew he had much to contemplate about. As for the man who immediately wrapped his arm around her waist from the moment of their acquaintance, the one who introduced himself as Grantaire, she knew no harm would come from him.
She was good at knowing people because it was a means of survival.
She leaves the party early—her morning workouts prevented her from doing much into the late hours of the night. A farewell is not necessary, as the men are too far gone. Grantaire and Bahorel's laughs die down into their fatigue, though Grantaire still jokingly thrusts his shoulders along to the loud music.
The rest of the boys occupy themselves with a card game, though they often interrupt to playfully insult each other with personal jests. She immediately notices the absence of her roommate and her best friend, though she does not need to think hard of where they retreated to.
She picks up her keys and leaves, much to the dismay of the one still following her with his eyes from the balcony.
The sun rises a little after Eponine awakes, and she takes off on the trail alone. The offseason leaves her fully responsible of her own improvements, and it is nothing new for Eponine—she preferred bettering herself on her own.
The rest of her day is spent at the library, going over her notes once more in an attempt to grasp difficult concepts. She quickly gets lost in the complicated arguments, and she hears his voice in her head: persistent and challenging, only asking her questions without ever sharing the answer. It does not help her understand the ontological argument, and she leaves after frustratedly shutting her notebook.
"'Ponine!" the familiar, cheery voice greets her, but a slight tone of discomfort accompanies it. She expects it to be a subject of Cosette—it always is—but she corrects herself upon turning around and seeing Courfeyrac beside Marius, looking more distraught than his friend.
"Hello fellas," she greets them, a hop in her step as she shoves her hands into the pocket of her sweatshirt.
"Hey Eponine," Courfeyrac returns the greeting, his lopsided grin accompanied by his unmistakable charisma. "Have you heard from Gavroche lately?"
She furrows her eyebrows, not expecting the question. She had taken him a bag of cookies from the cafeteria and picked up groceries along the way last week, but she'd otherwise hadn't the luxury of contact with her younger brother. "No, not since last week," she replies. "Haven't you been tutoring him?"
"Well, I mean, I was supposed to," he replies, scratching the back of his neck and looking down. "But he hasn't been showing up the past three times and I was wondering if you knew anything about it."
She assesses his words, concluding the strangeness of such an absence from Gavroche. He adored Courfeyrac—when he started the tutoring program paired up with the then-freshman Courfeyrac, Gavroche had gone on and on about the college kid that he got. The two shared an uncannily similar sense of humor, particularly in practical jokes. It was not until she came to Gavroche's school early to pick him up that she met Dorian Courfeyrac.
"You didn't tell me you had a sister, Gav," Courfeyrac scolded him playfully in a loud, incredibly audible whisper, "and you didn't tell me she was hot either."
Gavroche's face contorted in disgust, "Eww, Eponine?" he exclaimed. "Those running chicken legs and that ugly face?" As his older sister approached, he covered his eyes. "Ahh! Don't let her take me away, Courfey!"
Eponine rolled her eyes, "You little—quit being so dramatic, we have to get home before dark," she replies, hoisting his backpack on the shoulder that hers was not around.
Courfeyrac eyed the typical athlete backpack. "You're a runner at the university?"
Eponine nodded, giving the man a friendly smile. "I'm guessing you're one of those social justice guys."
Courfeyrac chuckled. "No, I was just looking for a friend for the year and got this good one," he lightly punched Gavroche on the shoulder, and the third grader mimicked the action at him. "Dorian Courfeyrac," he stuck out his hand. He pointed at another college student, trying to console a crying third grader. The college boy was hunched over a child-sized table, looking a little more than frustrated. "That's Marius Pontmercy."
She let out a soft laugh at the sight, as she approached the man. "Uhh, sir?" she asked. "You alright there?"
"Yes, yes of course," Marius replied, flustered over the chaos of his current situation. "I promise, I'm not really this terrible with kids," he laughs, and looks up at Eponine. She met the innocent, kind stare of his green eyes and she too laughed.
She leaned down at the child, recognizing him to be Theodore Babet. Naturally, she was familiar with all of the children that inhabited their small, rundown apartment complexes. They were a nightmare to handle altogether, but each small child had unique quirks that she always found enjoyable to learn. "Oy, Teddy," she called to the crying boy. He sniffled, looking up. "What do you think you're doing crying?" she asked him, a stern yet endearing tone to her messages. "If someone did something wrong to you, honey, you let them know it's not acceptable." He nodded gently, and she smiled at him. "How do you think you're going to be a police officer like that?"
The boy straightened up and ceased crying, and tugged on Marius' pant leg. "I want to play catch," the third grader announced, and Marius laughed heartily, nodding.
As Theodore skipped to the equipment bin, he looked at Eponine. "Thank you," he said simply, and she nodded. "You're really good at that."
"Anytime," she replied, before retreating back to fetch Gavroche. So while, on the walk home, all Gavroche could talk about was the new things he learned from Courfeyrac, she repeated the memory of Marius Pontmercy and his grateful smile and bright eyes.
"Courf, Gavroche loves spending afterschool with you," Eponine replied. "That's the only reason he goes to school. Why would he not be there?" She wracked her brain for possible reasons; worry immediately coursing through her veins. She fished for her phone in her backpack, digging out the primitive device and scrolling through her contacts.
Tapping her foot impatiently, she hoped that somehow, the low and even tone of her childhood friend's voice would interrupt the dial tone. "Hello, you have reached—" the words elicit an irritated groan as she hangs up the phone and shoves it in her back pocket. She should have thought better than to rely on someone else to be present—she most certainly knew better than that.
"Eponine," Marius quickly spoke up. "I know what you want to do and I don't think it's a good idea."
Eponine manages to throw her most serious glare. "Don't be stupid, Marius," she replies, dismissing any arguments he might care to put forth.
Marius puts his hands on both of her forearms. "'Ponine. If something did happen to your brother," he says sternly, looking her directly in the eyes. "Then you're not safe to go there on your own." He eyes his friend, standing beside him. "Courfeyrac will go with you." She can barely stifle rolling her eyes.
She lets out a humorless laugh. "Marius, really, it's fine. I grew up there," she dismisses his worries with her indignant reassurances. "Nothing says I'm looking for a death wish like bringing a bourgeois boy around."
Courfeyrac looks down at his attire, and realizes she has a point—he doubts his pastels would scare away any mugger. "I can go home and change, Ep," he offers, and she shakes her head adamantly, refusing any form of aid.
The two are about to resign to Eponine's will, when Marius catches sight of a familiar politics student holding a coffee, strangely at a leisurely pace. He paid no heed to anyone around and him and though it appeared he was in no rush, his visage still contorts to its naturally focused state. "Enjolras!" Marius calls, and Eponine huffs. She'd never believe his company to be so ill-timed.
They hadn't exchanged words since their encounter at his apartment, and his shoulders tensed at the sight of the slender girl. He breaks out of his thoughts and approaches them. "Gentlemen," he greets them, and engages in eye contact with Eponine. "Ms. Thenardier. What are we gathered here for?"
"Well, Eponine-," Courfeyrac begins.
"I was just about to leave," Eponine interjects, shooting a glare unappreciative of the direction the conversation was going.
"Are you going off-campus?" the older man asked, and she raised an eyebrow. She had not entirely expected Enjolras to be too concerned with her non-academic activities. "I'm on my way to a meeting with a nonprofit across the river, so if your destination happens to be in that direction, I have access to a vehicle."
"Perfect!" Marius explained with more enthusiasm than he had intended. "That's exactly where Eponine's going, actually." He dared not look at the brunette's subtle hints of infuriation.
"Alright then," he nods. "It's settled." Eponine opens her mouth to dispute the decision, but in a moment of practicality, she realizes beating the rush hour crowd is much more likely in a private vehicle than the public bus. If Gavroche were in trouble, her rage would be unleashed on the entire metropolitan commuter system. He does not hesitate to walk off as Eponine mutters complaints under her breath, crossing the front gates of the institution to see Enjolras' car parked in a small lot with the rest of what could pass off as a luxury dealership.
She assumes it wise not to expect an ostentatious sports car, and she confirms her beliefs in the black sedan. It is only when the blue and white logo of a luxury English automobile company is paid attention to that the perceived value of the car strikes Eponine. He unlocks the car and she gingerly tugs on the handle, as if the pricey piece of metal would break at rough contact. She slides into the leather passenger seats, immediately noticing the spotlessness of the vehicle. It surely did not appear that Enjolras had passengers often.
Once he gets into his own seat and the engine hums into life, she comments, "You take this across the river?" She wonders if he's had a few stolen parts here or there—she knows of many people who would gladly disassemble the machine if given the opportunity.
He replies, "My friend has a garage." A silence falls between them, before he continues. "I'd change the car if I could, but it's a little rude to get rid of a gift, I suppose."
She raises an eyebrow, almost smiling at the strangeness of his thoughts. "Why are you so ashamed of being rich?" she asks. "I personally don't think there's a problem with it, if that's any consolation."
"I'm not ashamed," he corrects her, though the matter-of-factly undertones she'd come to know are absent in his statement. "I just don't find it necessary to have a car that could very well pay for a year of someone's food and utility." She rolls her eyes, knowing she should have expected such an answer from the emperor of the student social justice center.
You could totally pay for mine, she thinks to herself, amused as a small grin appears on her face.
"Did I say something funny?" he questions, after glancing at her for less than a second.
"What? No. I was just—nevermind," she replies, defeatedly, desperate to change the subject. She looks at his console, to find probably the only thing giving away that the car had been ridden in before. "100 Love Sonnets by Pablo Neruda," she reads out loud.
His head turns quickly at the mention of the book's title. "What? Oh, that's Prouvaire's," he replies quickly.
She laughs to herself. "You sure?"
He scoffs. "I don't have the time to mull over the importance of companionship," he replies sardonically.
"Wow," Eponine replies in an exaggeratingly feigned intrigue. "That is the most romantic thing I've ever heard."
It takes Enjolras much more effort than he anticipated in order to stifle a laugh at her joke. Her delivery, he admitted, had been dead on. "Funny," he shoots back evenly. "Excuse me for preferring to spend my hours making people's lives better instead of buying a week's worth of presents for my significant other." She raises her eyebrow at the jab at her best friend. "What? You have to think that's slightly over the top."
She laughs, shaking her head. "Maybe a little bit." It takes her a moment to grasp the fact that she enjoyed interacting with the same borderline unapproachable man she had come to know. He exhibits traces of laugh lines running down his cheek, and she cannot decide if he looks better with intensity or warmth—instead, she decides that the two different auras belong to two entirely different people. "Marius is a great guy," she finds herself with the inclination to defend him, even though her driver's comments don't inflict much offense.
"I'm sure he has his heart in the right place," Enjolras mutters.
"Oh, we're talking about hearts now?" she jokes, and he shoots her a defensive glance. They do not pick up the conversation after that, spending the rest of the car ride in silence after Eponine fishes out a small paperback book from her backpack. She does not even dare to attempt to complete her philosophy reading beside him, in fear that he'll probe her with endless questions of the text. No, instead she sticks to her science class, a safe field that Enjolras dares not touch.
They soon cross the bridge into the poorer district's territory, apparent from the potholes that Enjolras skillfully maneuvers over and the familiar rundown buildings that Eponine has too many memories centered around. "Where is it that you want to go?" he asks her, and she finds herself searching for a safe answer. She can't have him going near, moreover knowing, where Eponine frequents visits when she leaves campus.
"The elementary school," she replies, knowing the walk won't be too far from there. He nods in understanding, having gone through the tutoring program that Courfeyrac and Marius currently partook in. He weaves the streets in a moderate pace to get to the beige, concrete building with the broken swings and the weed-infested basketball court. His car comes to a halt, and Eponine looks at him. "Thanks, I really appreciate it," she finds herself expressing genuinely, and he nods in return before she exits and shuts the door behind her.
She walks off in the direction of the building, and he checks his phone for emails before pressing on the gas. One text message appears on the interface.
Marius Pontmercy: Hey, make sure Eponine gets back to campus safely, okay? It gets really dangerous where she lives.
He frowns at the message and looks up to find her, but the girl has already disappeared past the corner and it comes to his attention that she most likely was not headed into the school.
Eponine walks up the creaky steps lightly, unwilling to draw attention to her own presence in the building. She gets to the top floor and taps on the door three times before turning the unlocked doorknob. She refused to recognize any rules of privacy with the apartment, and she peers through the entryway.
"Glad to see you're still taking advantage of your welcome," a low voice drawls out from the kitchen. Xavier Montparnasse is putting out a cigarette as he sits on a wooden chair, his back turned from the window that provided the only light in the room.
"Where's Gavroche?" she quickly demands. "Why haven't you told me he wasn't going to school? What happened, where is he?" The urgency and hostility are both present in her tone, and she looks at Montparnasse with unfailing determination to extract any useful knowledge.
He looks down, almost sheepishly, to his feet. "He's not here."
"What do you mean he's not here?" She approaches him, and slams her fists down the table. "Montparnasse, I swear to god, if you don't tell me where he is I will have this place busted faster than—"
"I don't know where he is," he interrupts, meeting her gaze with his same even tone. "He didn't come back from his afterschool shit the other day and I figured maybe you took him."
"'Parnasse, you know you're not a dumbass, you know I could never have him stay over," she replies, demanding more from him. "I know you know where he is."
"Your father took him," he replies, almost inaudibly, and she looks at him with a burning fury. He sighs, supposing that he might as well continue with what he had left. "I had no choice, Ep. You know that if there's one thing I told you I would do, I would stop the same shit that happened to you from happening to Gav." She remains silent, turning her back to him. "They needed him for some deliveries after their last guy disappeared."
She felt her knees grow the slightest bit weaker, but kept her hand on the table from support. Montparnasse did not need to see her in a state of vulnerability. Of course, they would take Gavroche—no one would suspect a child and his backpack to be toting cocaine around. She walked out of the apartment quickly and wordlessly, and the boy knew better than to stop her or try to apologize.
She looked at the menacing, grey building her parents resided in, and she could feel her stomach churn. Fearing would not ease the situation by any means, but she could not erase the thoughts elicited from the plain sight of her childhood home. Before she reaches the building, a voice intercepts her from the alley. "Nice to see my favorite child visit," the malicious tone of her father unmistakable to her at any day.
She turns to see him, her little brother standing in between the man and his friend Claquesous with a heartbreakingly frightened look on his face. She can only assume the Spider-Man backpack he carries contains his father's deliveries, and her jaw clenches in anger. "Let him go, you filthy piece of shit," she spits, and Gregoire Thenardier lets out a loud laugh.
"We're almost getting as much out of him as we did outta you, 'Ponnie," her father replies, gripping his youngest son by the shoulder.
"Don't touch him," she replies. "I'll pay for however much worth the shit in that bag is, leave Gavroche alone." She eyes Gavroche, and sees a glint of metal behind him attached to Claquesous' hand. "I will fucking go to the police and make sure you rot in hell if you touch him."
She knows her father is most likely inebriated at this time of the day, but the mention of the authorities is a serious one to him. "You know I can get out with my hands cuffed behind my back, dearest," he replies, though his tone is now even.
She hears the click of a gun from behind her, and her heart almost stops until she hears who it belongs to. "Let him go, Greg," the steely voice of Montparnasse coming from behind her. He does not look at Eponine, but she understands it to be his form of an apology. He had never possessed a skill with words, anyway. "I'm in a fuckin' perfect mood to kill someone tonight and it looks like you're in the right place at the right time."
Gavroche looks at Montparnasse in a combination of fear and awe—he knew the man he considered his brother was speaking true words, but he never knew heroes to be so villainous.
"Remember what I've done for you, son," Thenardier's voice is thick with warning. He, too, knows that Montparnasse does not joke around. He was heavily involved in the breeding of Montparnasse's murderous nature, but he had lost control of the man when a drug operation of theirs caused the death of his mother in his middle teenage years.
"It doesn't matter to me," Montparnasse looks at him defiantly, pointing the handgun at him. Realizing that he cannot win this conflict, Thenardier executes his exit the only way he knows how: by inflicting as much damage as possible. Claquesous runs at the armed man, crowbar in hand, while Thenardier grabs his daughter and slams her against the wall, pulling Gavroche away in an attempt to flee from the scene.
"'Ponine!" he cries, sticking out his other arm to grab his sister. She tries to recover from the collision and yanks her brother away from the man. A strong boot meets her stomach, and the impact forces her to let go for a moment.
A gunshot rings through the alleyway, and Thenardier curses in pain. Claquesous is lying unconscious on the ground, and Montparnasse points the handgun straight at his former mentor. The look alone forces Thenardier to let go of Gavroche in exchange for his life, still yelping in pain at the bullet lodged in his arm.
Police sirens ring in the distance, and Montparnasse curses as he kneels down at Eponine. "I have to go." He takes out a switchblade, handing it to Gavroche. "Use it when you need to." He pats the boy on the head to run off, knowing wanted criminals do not fare well.
Eponine feels a strong pain in her chest that almost keeps her from moving, and calls for Gavroche to bring her backpack. He obeys, and she takes out her phone to dial Marius' number. She knows well enough who they are going to send to come fetch her, and she cringes at the thought of him seeing her in this state.
She does not know why she has an inclination to protect his current impression of her—Marius has witnessed her in a similar state, and the only reason she felt ashamed was because of her interest in him.
Was she interested in Enjolras?
She is interested in protecting Gavroche, and making a better life for herself—she, perhaps, is the best person to understand Enjolras' repulsion towards love. Perhaps, because she is denied of even the simplest form of familial love.
She knows better than to expect love.
She doesn't love him.
A/N: Whew, this was a long one, I'm so sorry for that. I was going to divide it in two but I couldn't stop, really. Please, please let me know what you think. Is it better at this length? Or do you absolutely hate it and want to chop it up into pieces and throw it in the grinder?
Also, find me on tumblr under "enjolrastic." Is there an incentive? Why yes, of course! Every one of my chapters is accompanied by a compilation of pictures to help you envision what I'm trying to convey, so you'll get that.
Plus, if you ever want me to reply to anything, tumblr is the best way to go. If not, consider reviewing!
Much love, Rina.