Hello, lovelies! I wanted to get one more chapter out to you before my school starts on Monday, so here it is! And for those of you thinking that Enjolras and Eponine might turn into Enjonine soon, not yet. Not yet. But they are growing closer.

And as I guessed, most of you would rather be Enjolras.

Eponine was awoken by a small, very quiet squeak. She listened again. Footsteps. She figured somebody must have opened the apartment door and was now in the living room. She peeked out. She didn't see anyone but Enjolras on the couch, and he hadn't stirred. She checked the clock. 3:24 A:M.

Suddenly, music started blaring, and she heard a familiar voice sing: "COURFEYRAC IS IN THE HOUSE TONIGHT! EVERYBODY JUST HAVE A GOOD TIME!"

She stormed into the kitchen. Courfeyrac was standing in the middle of the kitchen, with a plate of cookies in his hand, rocking out to Party Rock Anthem. "What the bloody hell are you doing?" she asked, angry but also amused. He pushed the plate of cookies into her hand. "FORGIVNESS!"

Then, he opened the kitchen window and jumped onto the ground, running off.

She grinned, shaking her head. Suddenly, she heard more footsteps and a very, very groggy Enjoras joined her in the kitchen, curls sticking up every which way and blue eyes drowsy. "The hell was Courf doing in our house?"

"I have no idea," she replied.

"The couch is so uncomfortable!" he complained. She almost laughed. When he was tired, he acted like a small child. "Then sleep in the bed with me, I don't care. It's plenty big."

She knew that he would complain to her when he was fully awake for school the next day, but she didn't care. He nodded slowly and disappeared towards the bedroom.

Eponine followed a moment later, and laughed to see Enjolras sprawled all across the bed, on top of the covers, snoring. On impulse, she gently rolled him over and tucked him under the covers, laying down beside him. It was nothing romantic. They were just friends, and that's all they would ever be. She was happy with that. After all, no man would ever like her. She was just little, dirty, Eponine who hung out with boys. She would never become one of the popular girls, who had the right to fall in love with the Amis. Or to date them.

She knew it, and convinced herself of it, and yet she wondered why it hurt. Knowing that Enjolras would never love her hurt a lot more then knowing that Marius would never love her, and she didn't know why.

She slowly climbed out of bed, and, grabbing her treasured diary and a pen, retreated to the windowsill to write.

August 22

Dear Diary,

Tomorrow is the start of my junior year. I have my Amis, I'm not lacking there. I have Enjolras, no matter what he says about it. But there is one thing I will never have.

I'm just Eponine. That's all I am. Nobody would ever want to date me, much less Enjolras. Why do I bother with love? Why? Nobody will ever want to love me back, because I can't give them anything. I'm just a small, dirty girl who loves but will never be loved. That is the truth of me. That is who I am. And it hurts, it does. But it's the truth.

Tears began to fall from her eyes, splattering on the paper. And there she sat, Eponine, with a group of friends and yet more alone then she'd ever felt before.

…..

A few hours later, it was almost time to leave for school in Enjolras's car. He hadn't said anything about waking up in his own bedroom, so she didn't really bring it up.

…..

Enjolras slipped into the bedroom for a moment, to grab their bags, when he noticed a small notebook resting on the windowsill. He noticed that it was full of writing, and he read it. His mouth opened in shock, and his heart filled with sadness, pity, and love.

He grabbed a pen and wrote some lines on a blank page beside it, then ripped it out. He meant to throw it away, but when he closed the notebook and stuck it into Eponine's bag, he didn't realize that he had neglected to do so.

They drove to the school. Enjolras seemed especially quiet that morning, and she didn't know why. Whenever she looked at him, he had an odd expression on his face. Not thought, she'd seen that on him so often. It was something bordering on sadness. But she didn't ask.

When they departed for their different classes, Enjolras did something strange, something he did not mean to do and yet did anyway. He opened his arms and embraced her, still not saying a word. "Feel better, 'Ponine," he murmured, and then he walked off toward his class, worried about his friend.

…

Eponine was left wondering what he had meant. She felt fine, what was he talking about? Shaking her head, she continued on to her art class. When she got there, the teacher talked for a bit about supplies, and expectation, none of which Eponine was listening too. She was still lost in thought.

Suddenly, the teacher announced their assignment. "Draw an emotion. That's all I will tell you. Any emotion you please, just an emotion." Paper was passed around, students murmured as they thought.

Eponine put pencil to paper, and before she even knew what she was drawing, a clear pencil image appeared, of her, sitting on the windowsill, writing in her diary, tears coursing down her cheeks. She bit her pencil, tears came to her eyes, but she kept drawing, and suddenly, a reflection of Enjolras appeared in the window, smiling. She was beside him, and she was happy also. But that was not to be. Tears slipping down her cheeks, she handed the paper in and the small, thin teacher congratulated her. "Art is to feel. And you, dear, are feeling. You may step outside if you need to."

Eponine nodded in thanks, and, taking her bag, stepped outside the classroom to sit in a small alcove in the hallway. She unzipped her bag forcefully and began sifting through the contents to find her diary. She found the small, leather-bound notebook instantly, and she opened it to a blank page, but a small page fell out, crumpled up. It appeared that the page had been ripped out, but not thrown away. She opened it curiously.

Dear Eponine,

You think you don't count for anything? You do count, and I've always trusted you. I'm sorry for that, I'm sorry. I really am. But you do count, and you can always date us Amis. You know how we love you. All of us do.

She smiled a faint smile. The paper did bring her some comfort, but only because Enjolras had neglected to say that he was not part of the "we." But how could she know?

And little known to her, a golden haired boy in another classroom wondered the same thing about himself.

Would you rather be Grantaire or Combeferre?