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Éponine has always been fascinated by trees.
It’s more like she’s always envied them. True, it sounds absurd to be jealous of a tree, but they’re so...grounded. They plunge their roots into the dirt and hold on, staying constant and stable for years upon years. They just exist, and Éponine's never quite been able to do that properly. Even after gods know how many centuries, she still can't manage to slip into her own skin, because she thinks she's not quite found it yet.
So instead, she surrounds herself with trees and tries to trick her mind into believing she can grow roots.
On this particular day, she's tucked herself into the embrace of her favorite tree (a certain weeping willow) and is busy tugging on her lip with her teeth while she twists laurel leaves into a circlet. Once she's satisfied, she perches the completed wreath on top of her wild hair. A swishing sound cracks the willow-induced silence, and Éponine is indignant at her peace being broken as she darts to her feet.
Someone is in her tree.
A lithe figure trails through the long, draping branches, flitting from branch to branch and brushing her fingers along each leaf. As Éponine draws closer, she sees that the figure is tall, as tall as Éponine herself, and that she wears a flowing, white chiton that skims over the forest floor. Éponine leans against the tree trunk and feels the rough bark scrape her bare shoulders as she observes the strange (unwelcome, go away) visitor. Suddenly, the woman is right in front of her, flinching away as Éponine fixes her with a glare.
"What are you doing here?" the woman questions, straightening her shoulders.
"What are you doing here?" Éponine demands, almost hissing the words out. No matter how ethereal she may be, this person is getting in the way of her treasured tree-time, and she's not going to be quiet about it.
"This is kind of my tree."
"What makes it your tree?" Éponine cries.
"I...live here?" the woman stammers, slender fingers worrying a woven bracelet on her right wrist and eyes fleeing from Éponine’s. "I'm a dryad, a willow dryad to be exact, and I've noticed you by my tree and was wondering if you were alright."
Éponine's eyes dart over the dryad, slowing as they reach her face. The dryad's tangled hair is the same color of dusty brown as her tree's branches, and her skin is a light green like her leaves. Her nose flicks up to an elegant point at the end, and her delicate lips are a few shades of green darker than her skin.
Éponine wants to bite them emerald.
“Who are you?” the dryad asks, tilting her head as she sways in the wind like her tree.
“No one of importance,” Éponine hums, with a smile flirting across her lips. She regrets initially startling the dryad; she exudes the same tantalizingly sweet aura that pulled Éponine to her tree in the first place. "What about you?"
"Cosette." the dryad – no, Cosette – states, bobbing a curtsey that makes her chiton pool around her feet.
"A pleasure," Éponine murmurs, stretching her hand out and catching Cosette's to bend down and trace a featherlight kiss on it. Instead of blushing like Éponine expects, Cosette gives a hint of a smirk and trails her fingernails over Éponine's palm.
Éponine has to violently repress a shudder.
"Well, why were you here? You must have some sort of reason; no one hangs out around trees except for me and my sisters," the dryad laughs.
Éponine will not tell this disturbingly enchanting woman that sitting under her tree is the safest she's felt in centuries. No; she'll come up with the perfect excuse right on the spot because of course she can. Why shouldn't she be able to think around a pretty girl?
"I was—dancing."
"Dancing? But you were sitting still!" Cosette giggles.
"Dancing... in my head?"
"Hmm.”
Éponine doesn’t think Cosette’s convinced.
“So, are you really a dancer?"
"Yes." At least Éponine's not started accidentally working herself into a lie yet, no matter how stupid she may sound.
"Where do you dance? No, what do you dance?" Cosette asks eagerly, sinking to the ground and tugging Éponine down with her.
"A little bit of everything," Éponine grins.
"Is it fun?"
"Oh, it's delightful," Éponine sighs, eyes tracing the clouds, "and there's nothing quite like it. I could dance myself into the night and never realize. Just leap right off the earth and spin through the stars."
"That sounds amazing," Cosette breathes.
"Have you never danced?"
"No, I'm not very good at it, so I don’t make a habit of looking stupid," Cosette mumbles.
“But you’re a willow! You’re supposed to be the most graceful of all the trees; surely you’ve danced a bit.”
Cosette flushes, her pale mint skin darkening to pine green. “I don’t...know? Look, I have to go —” she spins round and leaps to her toes, stepping away as abrupt tears seep from her eyes.
Éponine lurches to her feet to catch Cosette's wrist, and Cosette seems rooted to the earth at her touch. “I promise I won’t tease you anymore,” she says solemnly, “and you can go if you want, but I could...teach you to dance if you like?”
Cosette’s thin fingers curl and uncurl, and she won’t look at Éponine. The wind picks up. Éponine hears it whistling through the willow’s branches as they coil and snap, whipping through the air.
"You will?" Cosette whispers, turning and peering at Éponine through the strands of hair whirling around her face and the gusts of wind tangling the two of them together.
"I will."
The wind stops.
***
Willows may be graceful, Éponine thinks, but this willow’s dryad is not. Cosette trips and stumbles, and is clenching Éponine’s hand so hard her own hand is turning a brittle brown. Regardless, she still possesses a delicate air, with the way her eyelashes sweep her cheeks as she glowers down at her bare feet and the way her chiton flares out when Éponine twirls her suddenly. She gives a startled shriek before throwing her head back and laughing, and Éponine swallows hard at the sight of her willow-green (and very much exposed) throat.
Éponine desperately wants to kiss her.
Cosette stops dancing, her hair swirling to her waist and her eyes flicking around Éponine's face, and Éponine struggles to make her expression neutral. It wouldn't do to drive a potential friend away because they can tell you want to make out with them.
Cosette takes a breath, seeming to brace herself, and shifts her arms so they're draped lazily around Éponine's shoulders. She licks her lips and splays her long fingers across Éponine's neck, raising the fine hairs on her nape. "Will you tell me your name?"
"Maybe another time," Éponine murmurs. "Will you dance again?"
"Maybe another time," Cosette returns with a toss of her hair and a tap-touch of her fingers, leaning closer and making Éponine's breath hitch. "But only if it's with you." she breathes warm against Éponine's jaw, giving a soft bite to the curve of her ear before sinking back down onto her heels.
Éponine has no hope of stopping the gasp that pushes its way through her parted lips.
Cosette only smirks.