A/N: I know I've been writing Rouge et Noir, another E/E fanfic, but I've gotten mad writer's block and - another plot bunny...! I'll try to balance the two out but I definately like this story more. I literally cannot stop writing! As always, I hope you all like it too and thanks again for all the support.
Memory
Éponine Thénardier gripped the faded crimson envelope in her trembling hands dismally.
It smelled of the eau de toilette only some bourgeois could afford to wear. It wasn't surprising to her, considering how deeply Marius wanted to impress that bourgeois of his - but none the less, a bit over the top.
She turned onto the next set of cobblestone streets, Rue Plumet, turning her nose up proudly and blinking away a few bitter tears.
The dewy pavements shined like silver in the beaming moonlight, casting ominous shadows around the buildings that sandwiched each rue. She walked in the streets at night often, hoping to escape from her heartbreaking reality as often as she could – but this night differed quite greatly from the others.
Éponine held a sense of anguish and heartache that seemed indescribable. Her stomach fluttered uncontrollably and a shudder would run up her spine every so often, especially when she remembered the gaze she had locked with him early that morning.
His hard, determined eyes.
Although her attempts at forgetting his actions the previous evening proved effective throughout the day, she found the afflictive memories flooding back to her as she was left alone with her thoughts.
She recalled his helpless cries being heard in the darkness, just as she had set out from the Corinth wine shop, shaking thoughts of Marius' lover and Gavroche's near drinking incident loose.
Anxiously pondering why a man as aggressive as Enjolras would be screaming dejectedly in the dead of night, she ran to him, not thinking that he may lash out at her sudden presence.
It was the night before the barricades arose, the day preceding Lamarque's funeral. It was the young revolutionary's most significant day, that being said only if his months of hard work and dedication went according to plan.
She had wondered why he was acting so rash...
...
"Monsieur," she called under her quivering breath.
He seemed caught off guard as her face appeared from the shadows, as if he was biting his tongue to prevent an outburst.
"Mademoiselle," his eyes were full of angry tears, likely an act nobody had ever witnessed from such a man, "please –" but he stopped himself upon viewing Éponine's visage as well. Her eyes were masked with tears and anguish.
She moved towards him blindly, hoping for him to recognize the sorrow they shared.
Enjolras had never held himself in such a state; it weakened him and his image to the public.
He looked up at Éponine, his frustration pouring out in more tears as Éponine stifled hers crossly.
The weight of months of preparation had fallen mercilessly on his overburdened shoulders, breaking his focus - and his heart. How could he manage to save all of France in a few months? How could he gather the strength to do it? He was an intelligent man of status, he couldn't let the people he was representing fall deeper into poverty. He wouldn't. But he had to let out his grievance somehow – so did the Thénardier girl.
And so they did.
Tempestuously pressing his lips upon hers, Enjolras heatedly moved Éponine against the tilted walls of Corinth, feeling her arms entwine with his.
...
Éponine felt the heat of the moment on her shivering arms once more, wrapping them around one another absent mindedly.
The act was so out of character, so rash – that it could and would never, ever be repeated.
He had acted unintelligibly on the spur of the moment, and Éponine had let him. She had thought of Marius throughout the experience, wishing he had acted in such a way in the heat of things instead of the society's leader.
She shut her eyes once more, remembering the morning in Corinth after their ambiguous affair.
...
Enjolras' golden tufts of hair fell on her arm gracefully, his marble flesh seeming to radiate in the morning light. He was angelically handsome, something Éponine had never noticed before, but yet, wished she hadn't.
They could never have a future together, she knew that so well that it seemed to make her heart ache feverishly.
Before he could wake, she had slipped her dress on and ran her fingers through her matted hair, then, watched as he stirred slightly, opening his tired eyes.
"Mademoiselle," he sighed, covering his bare chest with the pastel sheets in his reach, "I-"
"I'm so sorry." She answered, bowing her head, defeated.
"No," he stopped, yawning and stretching his arms out tiredly, then focusing his gaze, "we must never speak of this again. Do you understand?" A look of shame fell over his face.
Éponine nodded quickly, and without another word or gesture, left his home.
...
Had he wondered where she had gone?
Had he cared?
Éponine shook her head and let out a snort of derision.
He would never mention the night again, and quite frankly, Éponine didn't desire anything more from him.
She loved Marius, and although he was too clueless to reciprocate, she would wait for him however long it took.
Tightening her grip on the letter, Éponine tightened her oversized cap and coat and made her way out through the darkening night sky, dancing hopelessly underneath the gleaming starlight.