'Can people really fall in love so fast?'

It's a question Cosette admitted to wondering back when they knew little of each other, and the lady thought talking about the only subject they knew for sure they had in common – Marius – would strengthen a bond between them. However misguided, the confession did, actually, help in the long run. Éponine was more quick to believe, later on, that Cosette was not, in fact, made up of air and flighty thoughts.

She wishes she could ask her advice, now.

On impulse, taken by this idle thought that quickly morphs into an idea, she stops her pacing about the room and sorts through the messy papers on her bed until she finds a few clean sheets.

Éponine sets her back upon the bed frame so that she cannot see the door, pulls the book onto her lap for use as a solid surface, and sets to writing.

If it happens only in an instant, she cannot be – she remains as of yet untouched by some overwhelming sensation, striking her in its completeness – and yet, what she has fallen into is, then, foreign to her.

If it indeed comes in those slower steps Cosette spoke of without that quickness, without the force of a first, meaningful gaze, then… then that is different.

Love – or, well, the notion of loving, but what's that matter if she once believed it to be true? – was always hopeless, never dangerous. If she had no chance, no chance at all, how could she fear doing something wrong to muck it up? Some part of her wonders if she is even capable of this.

She is sliding into something that is becoming less and less familiar the more it goes on. Of the concept, she is fully aware; of the feeling, only partly; of sheer intensity, nothing at all.

This she writes clumsily and rather inelegantly in the form of a letter. The act of clearing out a potion of her cluttered mind is soothing in its own rights, but it is not enough.

She will not take the time to lament the loss of a better life, but she will admit that she may have an easier time with puzzling it all out if she had something more to go off of than her parents – and she will certainly not be modeling anything about herself after them.

Sudden sound cuts through her thoughts. There is a rapping of knuckles on her door, and before she can rise, a voice softly calls, "Éponine?"

Enjolras.

She stills, ducking her head and hoping not to be seen when the door cracks open, and her name repeated, sounding slightly louder with the barrier removed.

Another moment of silence, and then the door is closed and she is left alone once more. She is not certain whether she hears the faint sigh or if it is imagined.

She sets aside the paper, resolving to rewrite the disorganized lettering later in the day, and curls her arms around her knees. Unless she has slept in overmuch – and she does not think she has – then he was coming by to talk to her. She doesn't know what he would say, or what she would say, or what would be expected of her or what it would lead to or – anything. Éponine runs a hand through her tangled hair in frustration as she slowly stands.

The plan which had before worked so well ended up working much too well. She has replaced that memory of alleyways and almost-contact with another, and she'll not be able to rid herself of this one so easily.

They are not long from shore, and if she pours her time and energy into preparing for that then maybe, maybe, she can rely on the only antidote she knows – disappearance.

Vanish long enough from sight, and they will slip from her mind as easily as she slips from hers.

She tries not to let herself think on that more as she creeps quietly from her room and down the stairs.

Grantaire is already below, and it takes but a moment to convince him to join her in another match.

From the slightly sluggish movements, she suspects that he is still feeling some effects of last night's alcohol, but inebriation is no reason to assume she will do any better against him, especially when she is in this state. (Anger can be a motivator when she is stripped of all else that would giver her hope, but when she is all filled up with uncertainties, all it makes her is unsteady.)

She does fine enough at first, even with her wound; compensation requires her to only rely a little more heavily on defense, and this is not so difficult.

But, unwillingly, her thoughts thread through her consciousness enough to distract her and trip her up with worries.

When one of his swings not only knocks her sword out of her hands, but sends her stumbling after it, unable to recover quickly enough, he sets his own aside.

She is cursing at the pain that burns up her shoulder, at her unsure footing, at her sword, at everything, when he speaks up, having evidently appraised her enough. "All right now, seeing as we'll be making little progress until we resolve whatever's going on… what's troubling you?"

"My business," she responds on instinct, but there is little force behind it, and she does indeed set down her sword to sit. She settles with the air of someone weighed down.

To her surprise, he laughs lightly as he comes to sit beside her. "No, but you're as likely to hurt those around you as you are to hurt yourself right now, and we both know you don't go and ask for help."

Her smile is mirthless and comes out more a grimace, which quickly fades. She… can trust him. And why not? She'll play it by ear, and she can figure out how much to say. "Alright," she says quietly, leaning back. "You want to know? Here's what's going on."

She is avoiding him, that much is clear.

He does not want to force the issue, does not want to force a discussion, as making Éponine feel uneasy or cornered is far from what he wants – in the interest of ensuring all aboard are working well and agreeably, at the very least, even as he knows his rationale is not so distanced as this – but he cannot let this drop, cannot let her pretend as though nothing has happened.

Combeferre knows the lot of it.

Feuilly is aware that there is a problem and that it involves Éponine, but little beyond that. He has given the advice to be wary of her pride, and of his own, but could not – or would not – say any more than that.

Combeferre, however, is the one listening to him now, and with far too much amusement. "Well, my friend," he says with a shake of his head, "it seems I cannot help you in quite the way you want."

Not the answer Enjolras wants, but one he anticipated. He resumes his pacing; Combeferre continues, almost smiling. "The particulars of it is that it is with you, and not me." He spreads his hands in a shrug. "Talk to her, in the way you know how."

Enjolras nods as he runs a hand through his curls. It sounds simple enough, but…

Something will have to be done.

A/N: Okay, so after angsting over this awhile (really, really terrified I haven't developed everything enough, especially as there aren't too many chapters left) I decided to just charge through and write this.
So many apologies for everything about this panic!writing.
(But your feedback has been lovely and wonderful and I appreciate every bit of it, just so you know ;u;)