Her nerves are on fire.
Éponine had not meant to get into this, any of this, but when it was offered, how could she refuse? Allowing herself to be thrust into the center of attention is the lesser evil compared to drawing suspicions.
She'd asked why she hadn't needed to do anything, that's what caused the trouble. All she'd done was shrink their rations and take up space, and maybe, maybe, saved a bit of time by talking to Cosette, and yet no one had come to give her a task or a job or a post or – anything. Grantaire was the one she'd asked, Grantaire who at least seemed relaxed and answered her with sarcasm and levity, even if he did smell a bit like stale alcohol.
He, arms folded over the chair placed be her door (seems there is to be some effort of guarding her, so perhaps they have a modicum of sense in them after all), lazily flicked a hand and said that it would be inhospitable to make her do anything, according to 'the captain.' He made a show of emphasizing the title, and this, unfortunately, put her at ease enough to ask further probing questions about this 'enigmatic leader,' asked how that could be, how he could possibly think that, until suddenly Éponine found she had asked too much.
He'd tilted his head back against the wall and looked at her through angled eyes and asked if she wouldn't want to see for herself with a faint smile playing on his lips. Enjolras, he called the man, putting a name to the face at last.
She tensed up and gave a jerk of her shoulders – how odd would that seem to decline after so many questions? – but apparently that was good enough for him, and he suggested coming with him to a meeting of some sorts in the morning.
And there, it was set.
Much of that night was spent dreading the day to come.
She needed solid ground beneath her, needed the reassurance of stone, but in its absence, she would not seek solace from cushions that gave way beneath her. Eventually, she pulled off the roughest sheet and twisted it up with her coat, curling up with it in the corner.
Éponine is used to sleepless nights, and woke hours before the knock came.
Quietly, he murmurs that she's in luck, that he is in glorious form today, despite the fact that they seem to be debating some aspect of the map spread out across the table or appear to have been meaning to, anyway.
Digression or no, the man – Enjolras, he'd said – is powerful. She cannot hear what he speaks of, and the planning dissolves as Graintaire strolls closer, and is chided for being late, but the way it is spoken does nothing to calm her thrumming pulse. She could be found out in an instant if he speaks half this well with her.
When the planning turns to chattering and they have broken apart, Grantaire nudges her closer with his elbow, hissing "go on!"
She scowls as she stumbles, just imagining the smirk he bears, but shuffles nearer.
Up close, the sternness of his stance bleeds away to details. The curls provide a contrast, falling softly over sharp features; even when he is not speaking, he is breathtaking.
She swallows a lump of bitter laughter; with the way he only looks up from the maps for a moment, just long enough to acknowledge her with a nod, her worries of being too notice appear to have been useless.
'Just get this over with,' she thinks. 'Get this over with and find something to do and hide yourself away, and you might make it yet.'
She does not know if she is expected to speak, or if he is, or what she would say to excuse herself, or what she would ask, but her curiosity gets the better of her, in the worst of ways – a blurted "You wish to kill the king?" along with a wince.
He spares her more than a passing glance now, eyebrows raised. She clamps her teeth down firmly on her tongue as she curses herself.
And then she matches him in surprise, though hers comes as he not only answers, but shakes his head. "No," he says. "We wish to destroy the entire institution of the monarchy in order to establish a less corrupt system. The king is a man, nothing more. If he can be reasoned with, so much the better."
Her narrowed eyes give him prompting enough to elaborate, setting his hands in front of him as he continues. "On a large scale, we hope to provoke a full-scale reformation. With violence," he says, voice soft and yet carrying, "if necessary, but the people are important here. They will fight for what they believe right; we must show them how they have been used."
"But pretty words have not been enough to bring you your change, or to persuade for a full crew." She regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth.
Enjolras shoots her a sidelong glance, and his answer comes slow. "No." He pushes away from the table and looks at her intently, curiosity and something else burning in his gaze. He folds his arms before he speaks, and the image he makes is all sharp angles and crisp, quiet strength.
He reminds her of a statue she caught a glimpse of through a gate, once, in front of one of those houses too big to take in all at once, in a district stone with fountains never filled with coins because the people who live around are too serious to bother with wishes anymore.
His words are sharp, even if the way he says them is made to seem not. "You know why?"
She's no qualms to upturning a monarchy, a 'corrupt system,' but she's not giving up her life for it; so of course she does. Because they are too prideful, too self-serving; because they will not come to the aid of someone in need, they will act only for their own sakes; because they will not accept charity, will not accept pity; because they are so set against anything that could hurt them that they will not accept the idea that someone like you wishes to 'fix' them; because they will not accept needing fixing.
Because you do not realize what your revolution will do to them.
Because you assume your 'oppressed people' ache for someone to lead them to a better life, but how could someone like you ever understand the struggle to survive, just to see the next day?
Because next to you and your savage eyes and shining ideals, I feel dark and dirty and want to crawl back into the shadows until I forget the brightness of the sun in your voice, and how could anyone born to the streets ever bear it?
She swallows thickly, and draws in a halting breath.
Because you are aflame, and you do not care who you burn.
"…no. Just… observing."
But… Enjolras is watching her still, markedly enough that she must fight not to squirm away. "Anything," he urges softly, and she curses herself once more. Words have not been hers to command since they took her books.
"Not everyone is as… eager for revolution as you, Monsieur," she says carefully, watching for his reaction.
His eyes seem to light up, and the confident air is reclaimed. "Perhaps not everyone is prepared, but once they see we fight for them, we will gain their support; the people of France cannot be kept in chains forever—"
She closes her eyes, and nearly sags in relief.
The speech seems eager to be spoken, bursting as it is from his lips; she just happened to be the one to trigger the outburst, and now she need only wait it out.
As much as she wants to scoff at his words, dismiss them, there is some part of her that listens closely and wonders.
The dreaming child that has slept within her for so many years lifts its head and begins to blink awake.
A/N: I do not know where, exactly, I am going with this. So… basically, if there's anything you'd like to see, tell me, and it might appear in a chapter.
I've made some changes to the first and second chapters, and hopefully that made it flow a little better.
All of you? Are perfect. This is fact.
(Additionally, I apologize for the abruptness of the end, but I was sick of staring at the same parts over and over again and wondering if I'd written them well enough.
I also apologize for all dialogue I write, ever.)