He doesn't love her.
He doesn't have to love her to notice her absence, he claims, as he finds his eyes landing on the empty seat among the sea of faces.
Perhaps, he admits, he is thinking too much of it. Many students have missed his discussion section, and he only crosses off their names with a fleeting moment of disapproval. He does the same with her, but he cannot bring himself to believe that she, of all people, would be truant with dishonorable intentions.
Claire, of the first row, is the one to point out the change in his air. "Enjolras?" she asks, bringing him out of his daze.
"Hm?"
"Are you going to start class?" the curious underclassman asks him, and he nods his head in an attempt to shake off the plaguing worries that begin to fester in the folds of his mind. He wills himself not to believe in his most irrational convictions—that she is, for some unknown reason, unconscious in an alley left alone to a tragic end.
No. He is rational, he tells himself. He has lived years of mundane monotony, in which the most dramatic experiences include dragging Bahorel to the hospital in fear of alcohol poisoning.
He realizes, though, that she is not of his world—a world of safety nets, of comfort, of people paid to constantly make sure her mistakes go unpunished. The realization is enough to water the seed of worry and by the time the final minute has ticked away through his lecture, the roots of worst case scenarios wrap around his fingertips, enough for him to noticeably turn the door knob with much more force and urgency than needed.
His feet fall into a brisk walk, and he glides down the stairs before being forced to an abrupt halt as a body interferes with his last step onto the entrance pavement. "What's the rush, Auguste?" the auburn-haired girl asks playfully, a devious smile creeping onto her pale lips.
"Yvette," he greets her unenthusiastically. "I'd love to talk, but-,"
"But what?" she asks, feigning innocence to a mockery. "Your cute little councils have a super important topic today?"
He clenches his jaw before his own mouth contorts to the most civil venomous smile he can create. "I'm on my way to see a friend."
"The charity case?" she sneers. "Do me a favor and tell her she owes money for my brother's suit. Or since she's gold-digging, I suppose I can just ask you."
He feels the sudden warmth in his cheeks, and the challenge dancing on her sculpted eyebrows tells him of her amusement over his anger. He only needs one word. "Don't."
She rolls her eyes and laughs humorlessly, before walking to his side and leaning into him. She radiates with a comfortable arrogance, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Don't be stupid, Auguste," she tells him condescendingly. "The whole empathy for the poor thing is really adorable, but you're foolish if you get emotionally invested in her."
She leaves him angered, and he stands with the deafening noise of his thoughts. He agrees with her: becoming emotionally invested in a sole person is far from his wisest choice. It infuriates him that she accuses him of being on such a path, yet he realizes that her greatest victory is that it makes him feel anything at all. He cannot counter her convictions of his attachment as he hears the pulse beating through his ears. He comes to the realization that he feels something.
It does him no good as he continues on his walk, shoulders tense and hands shoved in his pockets. The path is too familiar for his liking, and he ascends the stairwell to her building with the uneasy feeling in his stomach almost forcing him to turn around and mind his own business. His stubbornness, however, triumphs as his knuckles meet the wood of the off-white door to Cosette's apartment.
Only her roommate would open the door so gently. "Enjolras?" she asks, her curious eyes travelling up and down as if she were examining the magical nature of his presence.
"Good evening, Cosette," he greets her politely, as one does automatically around Cosette. "Is Eponine around?"
She looks over her shoulder, long enough for him to know that she's exchanging a questioning look with the woman in question behind the door. "Umm," she begins, hesitant to lie to the clearly knowing visitor.
"You skipped class, Eponine," he calls over Cosette.
She replies with an eloquent "Screw you, Enjolras," and he immediately picks up on the unmistakable raspy quality of her tone. His initial suspicions are soon confirmed by the cough she tries to fight, as Cosette opens the door fully in a state of surrender.
"Sorry Ep, I tried," she says sincerely, before retreating to the sounds of loud folk music from her bedroom.
He steps in and it almost takes him a moment to find Eponine, wrapped around the cocoon of a fleece blanket on the couch. When he finally manages to meet her familiar, yet strangely fatigued eyes, she sits up in an attempt to downplay her obvious state of sickness. "Do you make house visits to all your truants?" she all but growls at him.
"Only the ones who need it," he replies stiffly.
She raises an eyebrow. "What's with your pissy mood?" He did not know it was possible to achieve a feat like combining curiosity and disinterest, but Eponine does so. She cares, he deduces, but perhaps only for selfish reasons of mocking him for his troubles.
He does not answer, only to prove the point of his distance not only to her, but more importantly, to himself.
Cosette flounces out from the hallway in yet another light, lace dress and twirls. "What do you think?" her eyes dart from her roommate to the guest, placing more of her expectancy on the male opinion.
"Do you own every color in lace?" Eponine comments first, hardly any awe reflecting on her monotone.
Her roommate rolls her eyes at the discrete jab, then looks once more at Enjolras, crossing her arms and waiting for an answer. His eyebrows knit together in confusion. "You look…" he begins. "Good."
"Good?" Cosette repeats, intensifying her stare at the tense Enjolras. He, however, averts his gaze, ceasing to acknowledge the pressure.
"Wonderful," he replies stoically, and a satisfied smirk appears on the girl's face as she picks up her violin case beside the couch before marching out of the door. He looks back at Eponine questioningly.
"Performance," Eponine shrugs, returning to burrow herself under the blanket to defend her body from the overwhelming chills.
"Do you need anything?" Enjolras asks nonchalantly, at a subtlety almost inaudible to the bundled up Eponine.
She looks at him in confusion, only to meet the same unfazed line of his mouth and unattached nature of his eyes. "Huh?"
"Cough syrup? Soup?" he begins to form a list of suggested home remedies from the back of his mind. He, as healthy as a prize horse, only can think of the two before he looks at her expectantly. She blinks at him. "Today would be nice," he remarks.
His sarcasm flips the switch in her mind. "Oranges," she finally replies, and he responds with the arch of his brow. "My mom would buy fruits when I was sick so I wouldn't have to go to the doctor. I liked oranges."
He crosses his arms, placing a thumb beneath his lips. "I don't think those are the best for a sore throat," he remarks, with as much confidence as he can place on his knowledge of the human body and immunology.
She shrugs. "You asked me what I wanted."
"I asked you what you needed," he corrects her, only to meet her familiar rolling eyes. Her lips part to counter his argument, but he stands up before she can utter a word. Soon, she hears the familiar creak of the pantry cabinet doors, and no longer intends on furthering conversation as she tilts her head in a state of curiosity. He shuffles around boxes before retrieving a packet of something only Cosette would think of owning. "Orange tea," he says flatly, digging into another cabinet of pots and pans to fish out a chrome kettle.
He waits for the water to boil, and only then does she find it fitting to end the silence. "Why?" she asks him.
"You're sick," he replies, picking up a copy of the university newspaper publication.
"No shit," she scoffs. "I mean why are you bothering?"
"You're my friend," he shrugs, and her lips almost part in surprise at the simple statement. When she does not respond, he looks up. "What?"
She shakes her head. "Nothing," she waves off.
He knows it—he knows the words that she does not bother to say; he knows she doubts his ability to form personal connections, like so many have before her. He knows she suspects some ulterior motive behind their acquaintance, and perhaps he convinces himself that a motive does exist.
His plans, though, surely did not include pouring the boiling water into a large mug and steeping the tea, bringing it to the coffee table and placing it in front of her. He doubts they included sitting on the arm chair and watching her lower her head into the mug, her slender body curling inwardly with the blanket sliding off of her bare shoulders.
She chuckles to herself, and only then does he realize he'd been staring at her collarbones for an excessive amount of time as he darts his eyes back to her face. "Is this a trap?" she jokes. "Are you going to read Swinburne to me?"
He almost laughs, but instead he shrugs once more. "I suppose I can."
She thinks for a moment, and nods. "Okay."
He looks at her in disbelief, and she returns with her own glance of expectance, her gaze unceasing as she takes another long sip. He takes out a leather bound book from his messenger bag, flipping the page to an annotated passage and clearing his throat.
As her eyelids get heavy, she decides she likes the timbre of his reading voice—perhaps less vigorous than his speaking voice, but with the same confidence dancing through every syllable.
He decides he likes the smell of oranges, and he's not completely insulted when he realizes much of the cup is left unfinished as he turns the page and looks at his slumbering audience. He shuts his book softly, picking up the mug from the coffee table as he hears Eponine shift and readjust on the couch. Still, she does not wake, and he figures he'll drill the Problem of Evil into her mind tomorrow, perhaps. Yes, he wouldn't mind seeing her tomorrow.
He used to hate the smell of oranges, but he doesn't mind it.
He doesn't mind her.
But he doesn't love her.
Ahh there are so many things wrong with this-it's totally filler, and it's so long overdue. I am SO sorry. I stayed in tonight though to study some chemistry, but I ended up working on this and hopefully I'll get another one up soon! I barely remember all my six classes, so I definitely don't have my shit together right now but I'm getting it figured out!
I'd love to know how y'all have been doing and what you think of the story (feel free to yell at me for how long you've been waiting) so please review!
And talk to me on enjolrastic tumblr! Cool? Cool!
Much love, Rina.