Imagine Grantaire and Enjolras being hopelessly in love with one another. Lazing about on the green grass by Champ de Mars, all Les Amis scattered about on various picnic blankets.
Imagine faces buried in the crooks of neck– a sanctuary from the rest of the world–, imagine fingers carding through blonde and black curls, imagine sweet nothings whispered in ears.
Secretive smiles given easily and widely, no longer gazing at each other longingly from opposite ends of the Musain, which has Courfeyrac tearing his hair out trying to decipher.
Jeers from their friends, but that only makes them smile harder, noses brushing and gazing into each others eyes like the lovesick fools they are– two trees breathing through each other’s spectacles.
Relaxing as the sonder through the green in the bright Winter light while R mumbles Frank O'Hara into Enjolras’s curls and Enjolras just breathes. Smiles. Allows himself these few minutes of peace.
“I look at you,” He recites. “And I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world.”
Enjolras twisting up to look at him, a knowing smile on his face. “Except the Van Gogh.”
“Except the Van Gogh,” R concedes. “But that’s on the way to The Museum of Fine Art, anyways.”
“I’ve never seen it,” Enjolras will say, reaching his hand up to trace the contours of R’s cheekbones. “So we can go together, when it comes back.”
“It’s a date.”
And the promise- like all of them now- is sealed with a kiss.