! ** shout something at my character.
It — ought to hurt more than it does,
which isn’t to say that it doesn’t hurt.
( It does. ) It hurts.
It hurts down to his toes; this bitter ache that Enjolras can’t seem to
shake, a vacant need left unstated for too long, endured in solitude. It
hurts like hell — to be left this unattended to, to be someone that isn’t
familiar to his friends, his family, his people. To want
love. To want to
love and be loved in return, and to want it from one soul and one soul
alone. Oh - to have been ensnared with his heart left vulnerably upon
that of his sleeve; bleeding out as he devotes himself to revolution.. &
tries, Lord he tries, to be an inherently ( good ) man ——— it hurts.
But he manages to stand his ground.. idealistic head held high, chin
proud and upturned. There may be a knot in his throat, a fluttering in
his stomach and ache in that arctic stare, but there will not be another
instance of Enjolras running away.
Burdened blues find Grantaire reluctantly, a form smudged with oils
and charcoal, a composition in chaos - a rhapsody in wreckage that
threatens to simply ( vanish ) one day altogether. He has never quite
liked the apathetic artist; having fallen in - love with R is nothing less
than an inconvenience… and Enjolras welcomes to the extra stress.
He’s been considered a chaste ice prince
for so long.. even he doesn’t know how to
let himself thaw, melt, with Grantaire.
‘ — No. You wish that you had never been born. ’
The response falls heavy and blunt between them and he isn’t sorry
for speaking his mind; the tumultuous two had been bickering all eve.
Enjolras jealous out of his mind that R gets to be the brokenhearted,
that he can speak so freely of his regrets and hurt when — the words
haven’t as much as begun to leave Enjolras’ mouth yet. That he was
in love. That he is in love. And really quite scared of changing who
he is because of it. Jealous that easy lips may fall across the artist’s
throat. Might know the touch of Grantaire without being terrified.
Ah. And there it is Enjolras is terrified of being terrified.
—— terrified of being anything but the leader
he is needed to be.
It’s takes what courage is left in his anarchic heart to power forward
and meet the other —— carefully taking his hand to thread trembling
fingers between Grantaire’s stained. Rebelling against his own fear.
‘ But.. I am thankful enough, for your being here, ’
‘ —— for the both of us. ’