It’s nearing midnight, probably, and Feuilly has been dozing on Enjolras’ shoulder, book long abandoned in his lap, for a good hour when Enjolras looks up from his own studies, blue eyes twinkling.
“You should go to bed,” he wraps an arm around Feuilly, trying to gently shake him awake. “You’ll hurt your neck and you’ll be exhausted tomorrow.”
Feuilly sighs deeply but doesn’t open his eyes.
“But y’hair smells good,” he mumbles, moving a little so he can settle more comfortably against Enjolras’ side. “’n it’s soft.”
Alright then, Enjolras smiles, and turns back to his book.
A revolutionary’s life is full of the unknown
will I live to see our triumph
are we acting in the proper way at the proper time
what exactly is up with my friend’s hair, is that even a thing hair can do
(I don’t draw anything ever and then this, why does anyone follow me
also Tumblr what are you even doing with my colors)
I’ll let Enjolras answer that question for me, directly from the book:
Listen, my friend, Feuilly, valiant workingman, man of the people, man of all peoples. I venerate you. Yes, you clearly see future ages; you are right. You knew neither a father nor a mother, Feuilly; you have adopted humanity for your mother, and right for your father. You are going to die here, that is, to triumph.