Work Text:
Éponine is soft in the mornings. She stands, five-feet-nothing in socks that roll down to her ankles and a shirt stolen from Montparnasse’s wardrobe brushing her mid thigh and flopping over her knuckles as she nurses a mug of coffee. Her bitten fingernails are brightly painted while the rest of her is pale, pastel.
Montparnasse is hard in the mornings. His brow is creased with a scowl and he sits rigidly in bed with the sheets wrapped around him to stave off the cold. He gripes and grumbles over his Earl Grey, and Éponine lays soft kisses to his cheeks to try and cheer him up. It doesn’t work if the muttered curses from the bathroom as he steps into the cold shower are any indication.
Éponine is hard at night. Her (silver, stolen) rings catch on the cuffs of her leather jacket as she shrugs it off. There’s determination in the set of her jaw and the positioning of her hips as she raises her fists as she raises her fists and grins coldly at the harasser. The delicacy and fragility of her actions fall away and turn to dust. She brawls.
Montparnasse is soft at night. He dabs at Éponine’s grazed knuckles, tenderly brushes his fingers over the bruises on her knees, shins, elbows, tucks her hair behind her ear. He places morsels of cake on her tongue as they lounge together, an old movie from Parnasse’s childhood playing. He noses at her neck, ignoring the way her hair tickles, simply wanting to be close.