They met on a train, one rainy afternoon when the sun came peering round the clouds at intervals, sending bursts of pale yellow into the darkened sky.
She doesn't quite know how it happened; one minute she was staring out the rain-streaked window, willing inspiration to descend from the heavens and tell her what to cook for dinner, and the next, she was blushing under the gaze of the young man sitting a few seats down the carriage.
She certainly hadn't banked on following him off the train and tumbling as one into his bed, not a word shared between them.
Perhaps it was the change in the weather, it made her irrational.
"Well."
Éponine sits bolt upright, covers tucked around her chest. "Never done that before."
"What?"
"Not that, I've done that."
"Thank God."
"I mean...you know. With a stranger. Spontaneous like."
"Stupid, even?"
"Yeah."
He smiles softly, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.
"I'm Enjolras, by the way."
There is a pause, before she reaches over to take his outstretched hand.
"Éponine."
There had been a rush to pick up their discarded clothes and redress, Éponine cursing all the while that she was going to miss her train and have to pay double for a taxi. Enjolras had desperately tried to keep up with her as she twirled around the apartment, tripping over his trousers and putting his shirt on backwards, in an attempt to ensure that she would not suddenly walk out of his door and out of his life, as suddenly as she had come into it.
"But – no, wait! – will I see you again?"
"Maybe."
She had run wildly for the last train home, leaving him with a vague promise that if their paths crossed again someday, she would accompany him for a coffee, but nothing more.
The cool autumn sunlight is shimmering upon the water, and as the train travels across the bridge into the city, Éponine Thenardier gives a sigh, resting her head against the window and clutching the lukewarm take-out coffee she had purchased at the station. The last two years have gone slowly, each day fading into the next, and the slow monotony of the workplace has painted dark bags under her eyes to match her crisp new suit. Some days it takes all of her willpower not to simply jump on a plane and chase the horizon. But here she is, on a long journey back to the Big Apple, the place she will call home for the next few days; long hours spent bored in meeting after meeting.
"Budge up."
Grunting, she starts out of her thoughts and shuffles further towards the window, moving her bag off the table for the gentleman to sit down opposite her. As he sits down, the sudden flash of curly blonde hair makes her drop the bag under the table, its contents spilling everywhere.
"Are you alright, dear? You look as though you've seen a ghost."
Emerging red faced from the floor, arms full of papers, Éponine glances at the young man before reassuring the elderly woman next to her.
"I'm fine. Just clumsy, that's all."
Giving a shaky laugh to ease the tension, she catches his eye again, and returns his small smile.
They walk side by side, fallen leaves crunching beneath their footsteps, unable to hide the grins spreading across their faces.
"So. I believe I owe you a coffee, ma'am."
"So I have a question."
"Fire away."
They are sitting by the window of a small cafe, lit snugly against the thunderous rain that is pelting upon the pavement outside, where disgruntled shoppers rush to and fro beneath their umbrellas.
"That time...before."
She feels herself blushing, but his gaze remains steadfast and unreadable.
"Yes?"
"Had you ever done that before?"
He shuffles in his seat.
"You mean-"
"With a stranger?" they say together, with a chuckle.
"No, I haven't."
She sighs in relief, then looks back at him once more.
"So, what happened?"
"I don't know. I just...caught your eyes. And for whatever reason, I couldn't look away."
"What are you doing tomorrow night?"
She raises an eyebrow at him.
"I'm just talking about an innocent dinner," he chuckles.
"Can't tomorrow I'm afraid."
"What about the next day?"
"Lots of work to get through."
"The day after that?"
"We'll see."
"And this is a Pissarro landscape from the nineteenth century -"
"Looks more like a Renoir to me."
The art museum is fairly quiet on Friday morning, and the pair wander around the rooms at their leisure, footsteps echoing upon the wooden floors. Delighted to receive the sudden notice that her last meeting was cancelled, Éponine had agreed to spend the morning with Enjolras, letting him give her a guided tour of the local museums.
"I've been round this gallery hundreds of times, I know a Pissarro when I see one."
She squints at him out of the corner of her eye.
"Hmm. My grandmother always told me not to trust a man wearing squeaky shoes."
"Oh, it's not the shoes, they just polish the floors in here real good."
"Well I reckon it's the way you walk."
He opens his mouth to protest, but she grabs him by the arm and pulls him toward the door.
"Come on, I want to find the Monets before I have to get back to the station."
As they climb the stairs to the third floor gallery, Enjolras can't help but feel a sharp pang of hurt that she is leaving him again so soon. The week has flown by, and he can't quite believe that it is time to say goodbye once more. The young girl just seems to drift in and out of his life on the wind, and he can think of no way to hold on to her.
"Do you think you'll be back again soon?" he asks casually, arms swinging in deliberate nonchalance.
"Who knows, it could be anytime really. Why?"
"Just wondering."
She looks across to him, where the rays of pale sunlight are glinting through the window frames and illuminating his golden curls, and wishes that time could stand still for just a little while longer.
"If you turn your head this way and squint, it kind of looks like a pig wearing a hat."
He cocks his head to the side and frowns.
"No it doesn't."
He turns to find she has disappeared, leaving him standing there like an idiot with head tilted to one side, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Flashing a small apologetic smile to the bemused gentleman behind him, he catches up to her with a grin and takes hold of her hand, pressing a small kiss to her wrist.
"Very funny."
They meander around the gallery for another hour.
He arrives back home to a note pinned on his bedroom door.
"Grand Central Station, 7.30pm, Sunday 5th March".