He doesn't love her.

In his perspective, love emits foolishness and a wandering mind, but whatever sensation he is feeling in his stomach is not at all the love that Jean Prouvaire speaks of when he goes on his tangents.

Both he and Combeferre are already dressed in their standard black tie attire, his friend putting on his silver watch around his wrist.

Enjolras hates it all. He hates these unnecessary formalities, the very thought of making small talk with his three hundred of his family's closest friends, the questions that he knows they are sure to ask—"How much is your share in the company after graduation? Have you been watching the energy industry lately? Ridiculous, isn't it?" He could care less about the workings of the stock market, or the outcome of whatever horses their pretentious wallets were put on over the weekend.

He is truly convinced there are better things to do—the university custodial workers have just received a cut in their pay, and attending a peace gala deprives him of any productivity in action towards the injustice. Instead, it provides him a dire need to gouge his eyes out, but he is sure neither Combeferre or Eponine would speak to him if he were to do so.

Combeferre, on the other hand, is much more understanding of the necessity to attend the event. "If you show up to these events more often, 'Jolras, maybe your father would be less insistent on your presence at his corporate board meetings," he suggests. Of course, Combeferre is always right in his opinions of practicality.

One night won't hurt too much, Enjolras reassures himself.

"Oh, you're going to have such an amazing time, you look beautiful!" Cosette squeals happily as she assigned herself once again to dress Eponine up. Her roommate replies with a groan, contorting her face in disgust.

Earlier, Combeferre had dropped off a crimson evening gown, not specifying where exactly he had attained the piece, mumbling that he had a friend of some sort. He left before she tried it on, and Eponine quickly understood why he did not want to be there for the fitting.

"Cosette, I can't wear this," she widens her eyes as she stares at her own reflection. She turns around to face her roommate, who is met by the bare expanse of skin on the top half of Eponine's torso.

The blonde lets out a giggle. "Well, Enjolras certainly won't have trouble taking his eyes off of you."

Eponine's cheeks almost match the hue of her dress. "This is not funny!" she exclaims. "They'll probably already think I'm some sort of street whore, and this is just bringing it upon myself."

Cosette laughs at her roommate's rare dramatics. "Okay, hmm," she thinks, and an idea comes to her mind as she smiles excitedly. "Wear a necklace, that way it distracts from the plunging neckline. Oh, I have the perfect one!" She reaches into her jewelry drawer and fishes out a golden chain with a large pendant, with rays that make the piece resemble the sun. She assists Eponine in the clasp, and smiles satisfied at the finished product. "I'm a genius."

Eponine turns back around to face her own reflection, and she wills herself not to smile like a fool. She does not wish to believe herself to be vain, and she likes to believe a pretty dress alone does not make her feel on top of the world. Still, she can't help but for once feel even the slightest bit of pretty—her tresses pulled away from her face artfully, and the make-up painted on her so subtly. She wonders if this is how a girl is supposed to feel normally, before dismissing her foolish thoughts.

The doorbell rings, and Cosette claps before leaping to attend to the guest. As she awaits the visitor, she paces nervously in her room, wondering if it is too late to hide under the covers and feign sickness. She's sure Enjolras would understand, and she could blame her sore ribs or some sort of bug that she has caught from the locker room air.

"'Ponine, your date's here!" Cosette calls from the entryway, and Eponine makes the slow walk in her's (and by her's, Cosette's) heels, her normally strong legs ready to collapse at the most tender wind. She reaches the hallway to see Enjolras waiting, hands in his pockets, observing some framed picture sitting on the shelf. She almost does not want to disturb him, as if she can just stand there without him noticing and eventually they would miss the gala.

Instead, he turns around when he hears the click of her heels on the kitchen tile and, rather than immediately acknowledging her presence with his usual over-formality, he finds himself unable to do much more multi-tasking than staring and breathing, and even managing to blink. She reminds him of a woman ablaze—not a flashy, loud wildfire, but a controlled smoldering flame of heat. He wills himself to divert his eyes from the smooth, exposed flesh above her neckline, from the collarbones that he had been so drawn to a few nights before. Instead, he brings his gaze to meet her own, and he can sense the nerves and the thoughts running a mile a minute in her mind.

Cosette watches the awkward exchange from behind the kitchen counter, almost unable to contain a giggle. "You clean up very nicely, Enjolras," she pipes up, before taking a sip of water.

"Yes," Enjolras absently replies, before realizing the terrible response he has given to the compliment. "I mean, thank you." Cosette almost spits her water out when she notices a blush creep into Enjolras' cheeks. He clears her throat. "And Eponine," he begins. Cosette cannot prevent herself from smiling as she anticipates a profession of how breathtaking her friend looks and how he wishes for no other man to lay eyes upon her. "Thank you for accompanying me."

The blonde's smile immediately disappears, and she almost has to reprimand her palm for having such a strong urge to meet her forehead. She looks at Eponine, whose facial expression has still not changed from its subtly frightened state.

"Of course," Eponine replies quietly.

He extends an arm out to her, and she takes it gingerly as she steals a glance at Cosette who mouths an excited "oh my god."

"Don't try to have too much fun, kids," her roommate says happily from the kitchen as Enjolras opens the door for the two of them.

When the door shuts, she immediately lunges for her phone on the kitchen counter and rapidly dials Marius, ready to unload the sudden influx of emotions in her system.

The car ride to the museum is quiet, and Enjolras' habit to drive without music only further impedes any progress of loosening the high tension. Eponine looks out of the passenger seat window, observing the blocks of office buildings they pass through.

Enjolras clears his throat once more, and she turns to him to patiently wait for him to speak. For a moment, he forgets his wording as he feels her gaze on him, but he quickly recovers. "I really appreciate your time," he says.

She lets out a small laugh. "I know, you already told me," she replies. She had almost forgotten how humorously serious and uptight Enjolras seemed to be, but he quickly reminds her with his statements. "Besides, I owe you anyway, so I guess you can consider us even now."

He lets out a chuckle, so quiet that Eponine almost finds the need to convince herself that she hears it. "Then I guess you owe Courfeyrac multiple dates for every day he looks after your brother," he comments, before pausing. "I mean, not that this is a date or anything, in fact this is very, very informal and-,"

"Enjolras," she interrupts him.

"What?" he asks quickly, looking at her.

"Not a date. I get it," she replies, an amused tone to her voice.

"Right," he mutters, returning his focus on the traffic.

They arrive at the museum of the gala, with its large pillars and lights and grandeur. Men and women are scattered around the steps to the premises, all talking and walking up to the large entrance doors. Enjolras pulls up to the valet, and attends to Eponine's side of the car after getting out of his own. She is not used to the various gestures that seem to be second-nature to him, and she tries not to overthink the smallest acts of kindness. Marius did all of that and you thought he was in love with you too, you idiot, she reminded herself.

On the bottom of the steps, both Eponine and Enjolras recognize Combeferre in a suit almost identical to Enjolras', accompanied by a couple with interlocked hands. She recognizes the familiar male face as Nicolas Joly, but the woman—with her voluminous hair and a beautiful violet dress against her porcelain skin, bears an unknown yet friendly face.

"Oh my god," the woman exclaims, clutching Joly. "She looks perfect in it!" She approaches Eponine excitedly, with energy that makes an excited Cosette appear terribly docile. "Honey, you can keep the dress. You are slaying me right now." She nudges Combeferre playfully. "Good taste, Louis." Enjolras' eyes narrow at his right hand man, who averts his gaze to the loor.

Eponine pauses in confusion before connecting the dots. Standing before her is the friend who Combeferre mumbled about. "Thanks for letting me borrow it," she replies politely. "But I don't think these occasions are going to be too frequent."

"That's a shame, you're much more interesting than the rest of the lovely ladies," the woman replies, and her smile returns. "Musichetta." She extends her small hand.

"Eponine," the other girl replies, genuinely pleased at her acquaintance. At least one woman was different from Yvette.

"Walk with me, Eponine," Musichetta grins and extends her arm out, before pulling Eponine along to walk ahead of the gentlemen.

As the women distance themselves, Enjolras comes up to Combeferre's side. "Joly," he nods at the other man who smiles back before Enjolras turns to Combeferre. "Nice of you to pick out my favorite color," he comments wryly, evoking a laugh from the high-spirited Joly.

"You act like it was my idea," he replies. Of course, their third roommate was the mastermind behind the plan.

Eponine turns around for one moment to show the back to the owner of the dress, and the men catch a glimpse of Eponine's bare chest. Joly pays special attention to the necklace, a smile forming on his lips. "Well, it looks like Apollo's finally met his sun."

"So tell me, Eponine," Musichetta begins. "How did you conquer that fine piece of stone? He looks like he'd be great in bed but the boys told me he's basically neutered." She pumps her fist to herself victoriously. "I knew they were wrong."

Eponine blushes furiously. "No! It's not like that. He's my TA, actually."

"Oh," Musichetta gasps quietly. "That's scandalous."

"No, no, no, I mean there's nothing else," Eponine clarifies. "I'm just his student and I guess I owe him so Combeferre thought this would be my repayment."

Musichetta nods in understanding. "Must be a huge thing he did for you," she surmises. "Like I said, these things are wretched. One minute you're just a date and the next, some angry old women are out to get your ass for desecrating the eligble bachelors in their high society."

The comment leaves Eponine thoroughly amused. "You're not one of them?"

"Hell no," Musichetta laughs. "I'm a waitressing actress with a few pennies to my name."

"So where'd these dresses come from?" Eponine asked curiously.

"My roommate studies fashion design, we go to the art school," Musichetta replies happily, running her hand along the airy fabric of her own dress. "I may or may not take advantage of her talents." She moves on to another subject, a serious tone coming over her voice. "So how much do you know about the Enjolras family?"

Eponine shakes her head. "Nothing."

"Hmm," her new friend purses her lips and thinks. "Well, there are a few things you need to know. I'm sure you figured out that he's terribly rich, total old money stuff, the usual. But he's an only child which is why literally everyone's daughters, mothers, and sisters chase him around all the time. And last of all, if you think Enjolras is emotionless, you should meet his father." She pauses, before adding quickly, "Actually. Don't do that. Try not to do that."

"What about Joly? Why's he here?" she asks curiously.

"Oh, you sound just like them with all the last names," Musichetta comments, humored. "Nicky's the only one who attends these things willingly. His parents are actually really nice people—they're these top officers in the health department. Like I said, it's the other ones you need to watch for." She moves onto the last unmentioned man, figuring she might as well finish it off. "And Louis is here because his parents are usually in attendance too."

They reach the hall and find the table with ease, Eponine seating herself next to Enjolras, Combeferre on her other side. They are joined by a young entrepreneur named Thomas Feuilly, who is as well without female company. A small orchestra plays while waiters float around with food, and Eponine can almost feel herself choking at the extravagance of it all. She's fairly certain that the centerpiece is made of real topaz embellishments, and she almost weighs the pros and cons of swiping a few of them and pawning them off. Clearly, these people had a surplus of precious stones.

Light chatter fills the room, interwoven with the sound of the strings, and some sort of three course meal is served. While Eponine does not often get such expensive food, she hardly touches anything in fear of scarfing everything down like an emaciated child. The conversation between them is effortless, mainly centered around Musichetta's humorous observations and her playful banter with Joly. She wills him not to take out his thermometer to measure the conditions in which the food comes in, and she succeeds, much to everyone else's relief. The only man not speaking at the table, to no one's surprise, is Enjolras.

Eponine fears, however, that she has spoken much too soon—as a gray-haired man approaches the table, putting a hand on her companion's shoulder. He has the same strong jaw and piercing gaze, and she knows it can only mean one thing. She looks at Musichetta worriedly, but the other girl returns her look with one of reassurance and comfort. Combeferre, too, stiffens up, and the entire dynamic of the table changes.

"Apollinaire," the man greets his son, and Eponine questions the use of his middle name. "No silly protests tonight? At least that's a guarantee my money won't go towards bail." Eponine watches his jaw clench, and she finds herself experiencing sympathy for the insult at Enjolras. It seems that hurting his beliefs and actions are the quickest way to wound the seemingly impenetrable exterior of the warrior.

"No, I decided I might try some worthless pretentiousness tonight," Enjolras answers back. "Hope I'm doing you proud."

The man lets out a venomous laugh. "Of course you are. And who's this young lady?" he asks, condescension dripping through his voice ready to wash Eponine away like a powerful flood.

"This is Eponine," he says before she even thinks about opening her mouth—not that she would even wish to, of course. He puts forth the most hostile civility in his tone, and she dares to meet his father's gaze for the smallest second.

"Pleasure to meet you, Ms…" he trails off, leaving her to fill in the blanks.

Her heart stops for a second, before she forces an answer. "Thenardier. Eponine Thenardier." She does not know why both his voice and his stare is so haunting, so strikingly familiar to her, but she fights off the shivers that are waiting to race down her spine.

Her feelings correspond with a flash of interest in his eyes, but he quickly extinguishes it and faces his son once more. "We're meeting tomorrow morning over drinks. I expect you to be there."

Enjolras meets his father eye-to-eye, before replying with such simple force. "I'm busy."

"I'm sure it's not important," his father responds, before turning around to walk off.

As soon as he is at a far enough distance, Eponine turns to him and he looks at her apologetically. She has a strong urge to slip her hand over his in sympathy, but the way he immediately resumes his rigid stature ultimately tells her not to follow through with her instincts. She questions the existence of his vulnerability.

After the dinner, the rest of the group has gotten up to socialize with the rest of the guests. Eponine and Enjolras are left with their champagne, the male still wordless as he loses himself to his own thoughts. Eponine breaks the silence. "You know," she begins, as Enjolras snaps out of his daze. "I don't think I envisioned this in my little girl dreams of being invited to a ball." He doesn't know if he is part of the conversation, or if she's merely thinking aloud, until she looks at him with an unmistakable honesty.

"It's like they fill a room with everything pretty in an attempt to cover up the intrinsic ugliness," Enjolras replies to her, toying with the centerpiece absentmindedly. She can't help but smile at his wisdom, even in the smallest talks.

"Why do you hate it so much?" she asks him, though she almost expects him to shut himself off again.

He spends a few half-moments in contemplation before replying, "Do you ever realize how potentially insignificant your life could be?" he asks her. "How there's so much to be done and yet, here you are, existing and contenting yourself in trivial pleasures and disposable joys. How nothing you amount to will stay after you're gone." She is tugged by his mention of death, and it takes her a moment to adjust her own perspectives to his—one of passion and an unquenchable thirst for significance. He does not understand why he cannot stop the words from falling out of his mouth, but the way her bright eyes look at him so curiously connects every thought he thinks into words said aloud. He doesn't know if it's the champagne he's downed in the past hour or his emotions making their rare appearance, but he feels so incredibly earthly and vulnerable.

"So you're saying," she begins. "That you're scared of being unproductive."

"I'm not scared," he corrects her. "Scared implies I think it might happen. I don't because I've made sure to cut all these things that might make it possible, yet here I am at a pitiful evening of an attempt at noble charity telling you all of this."

She smiles, amused. She herself doesn't understand why the conversation is so easy at this point, but she dares not question it. "I don't know the specifics, but I think the world can weather a night, maybe even ten, without you saving it," she replies. "For what it's worth, you're saving a poor soul from third-wheeling on Marius and Cosette's weekly movie night."

"Why do you like him?" he asks so directly, Eponine almost asks him to repeat himself.

"Marius?" she questions him, though she knows the answer. "He's a nice guy."

"You look at him like he arranged all of the constellations in the night sky," Enjolras replies nonchalantly, and Eponine blushes at the barely hyperbolic statement.

She wants to know how he's even picked up on that bold accusation. She wants to lie to him, tell him that she's much more than her stupid infatuation with Marius. Instead, she sighs honestly, "I don't know." She spends a few seconds in her own thoughts, before adding, "You talked about feeling insignificant. I guess he's the only reason I don't." She laughs to herself. "I just turned your deep existential crisis into the woes of a preteen."

Her comment forces an amused smile on his lips, but he catches it and ceases before it lingers too long. "Would you like to dance?"

"What?" This time, she definitely feels the need for his repetition.

"Your childhood dream ball. It had dancing, didn't it?" he surmises, and she looks at him with bewilderment over what he is suggesting they partake in.

"Maybe," she replies, and he stands up and extends his hand. She does not understand why she takes it—normally, it takes her a pint of beer to even consider standing on a sweaty dance floor. Clearly, the environment slightly differs, yet the portion of her sane mind urges her to sit back down.

But he leads her so effortlessly and it almost doesn't feel like dancing. She blames it on the champagne for loosening her feet enough to dance. Her ballerina dreams were never fulfilled by a single lesson, but he looks much too experienced to have never danced with a girl before. She thinks of what Enjolras might have been before he'd turned to stone, and she smiles at the thought. Her smile doesn't leave when her eyes meet his as he twirls her around, then pulls her body in close proximity to his.

He doesn't understand if it's his favorite color that she's wearing that makes him feel so at ease, or the fact that it is one of those rare moments where he wants someone to even comprehend, just a little bit, how it's not so easy to harden one's heart. He doesn't know why she admires the lights and the music as if she weren't in a room full of the wealthiest scum in the state, and he doesn't know why he wants to feel that way too. She belongs in that state, he decides. Not forlorn and battered in an alley.

Musichetta tugs excitedly on Joly's arm from their place afar, "Look!" Not even the worst of astigmatism can deny Joly of the fact that he can see his good friend so enticed with a girl. And here they thought Enjolras had some sort of hormonal impairment towards women.

He exchanges a look with Combeferre, who out of mannerism cleans his glasses before putting them back on and taking another look at the two.

They conclude that neither of them understands.

They finally come around to resting after the third song, and Musichetta leads Eponine away to stand by her by the bar.

"What. Was that?" she asks, almost unable to contain her volume.

Eponine bites her lip, shrugging. She looks across the hall back to where he and Combeferre are standing, and sees the familiar girl from the library approach the two. Her walk is practically a dainty float, and her white dress reminds Eponine of some sort of divine being in a painting. She does not understand why she's jealous—Enjolras dances with her once and she realizes this is what she suddenly amounts to. This is why she didn't get involved with emotions. "Nothing," she replies. "It wasn't anything at all."

He belongs with all of the other cherubs in the hall, she concludes, as she has another glass of champagne.

"Auguste," the girl coos as she places a hand on his arm, and Enjolras almost flinches at the contact. "Care to dance?"

Even his slightly drunken haze does not encourage him to find the activity appealing. He feels nothing. Not attraction, not lust, not even the smallest appreciation over the attention. "Not particularly," he replies, looking away from Yvette.

Combeferre watches as the statue reverts back into its marble state.

She takes his hand, and he prevents his instinct from rapidly drawing it back. "You seemed perfectly fine with dancing five minutes ago," she pouted, and his intense stare meets her flirtatious eyes.

The exchange looks incredibly different viewed by the girl in red from afar.

His right-hand man looks at him curiously to see his response.

"You must've been watching a different man," Enjolras assures her of his refusal.

Combeferre smiles to himself as he looks down.

If he knew his friend properly, he knew Enjolras hated these formal gatherings—he spent sufficient time speaking of their lack of worth.

But he agrees—because a different Auguste Enjolras was enjoying himself a few minutes ago.

He has a hunch that the gala is not responsible for his friend's uncharacteristically high spirits.

But if he knew his friend properly, he would know Enjolras' answer to his burning question:

No.

He doesn't love her.

A/N: First and foremost—thank you for all the reviews. Seriously. You restored my faith in my own writing, which led me to immediately come up with this chapter which I feel a lot better about. (But secretly I think you guys might hate it so we'll see how that goes).

But in all honesty, if you don't think it's that great, please tell me. I listened to a few requests (of course Eponine would be in a red dress, I couldn't resist) but I decided not to make this that action-packed of a chapter. Sorry if that turned a few of you off, but I promise we'll get the ball rolling soon.

So please please please please review this chapter. If you've never reviewed before, please do. In fact, I encourage you to review all the writers you read! You never know how much work the person put into a piece, and to feel like it's going so unnoticed is one of the saddest feelings ever. I've gotten a bit better about reviewing since I know how that feels (:

Also, thank you to craic-cocaine for talking to me on Tumblr. Really appreciated the message! If you ever want me to respond to anything you say, inbox me at enjolrastic on tumblr.

One more question—how would you guys feel about it if things got upped to an M-rating in the future? I've been considering it and I don't entirely know how I feel.

Much love, Rina.