We’re the only ones left.
Tag: oh enjolras
enjolras + text posts
Le 6 juin
♠ for enjolras and feuilly!
♠:One character adjusting the other’s jewelry/neck tie/ etc.
It had been raining for days – no, weeks. Perhaps not quite months, though, as Enjolras liked to think he would have noticed his apartment building floating away, despite the piles and piles of student papers he had been focused on reading and grading.
Enjolras didn’t mind the rain, as a general rule. He liked to listen to the sound it made, tap tap tap against the roof punctuating his thoughts and movements. It made it easier to focus, and easier to fall asleep at night, too, when everyone was home and everything was dark. Still, even he had to admit that after so long, the feeling of the warm rays of sun against his face was quite nice.
He wouldn’t go so far as it call it a caress; he tried to avoid the word if he could. A blanket, though, perhaps. An enveloping, reassuring, soothing blanket of light –
“Here,” Feuilly said, suddenly breaking through Enjolras’ reverie. Enjolras tried blinking his eyes open, but had to close them again, the sun shining directly – and painfully – in his pupils. “Take mine.”
“Uh?” Enjolras turned his head towards his friend, squinting. “What?”
“Forgot your sunglasses, didn’t you?” Feuilly shook his head as he pulled off his own sunglasses from his face. “You’ll get a sunburn, lying down like that.”
“What about you?” Enjolras frowned. He nearly swallowed a blade of grass – thank goodness the ground wasn’t soggy anymore, though now that he thought about it, they could have brought an actual blanket.
Feuilly shrugged. “Come on. Just take them.”
Enjolras thought for a moment. He still felt fuzzy, and warm, and quite sleepy; but he raised his head and extended a arm towards his friend; pushing the offered glasses back towards Feuilly’s face, he adjusted them clumsily before grabbing Feuilly’s hat from his head instead, plopping it over his own face as he lay back down.
“There,” Enjolras said. The hat smelled clean, like shampoo, but also a little like oil paint. He didn’t mind.
“Dangerous move,” he heard Feuilly laugh. “But suit yourself.”
He smiled from under the hat when he felt Feuilly lying down next to him.
Soft, relaxed, happy Enjolras, who’s all quiet but smiling fondly at his friends’s antics and living the moment fully.
I just slept seven hours, which is twice as long as I usually sleep, so I’m a bit disoriented.
Enjolras, Book VIII (via
“And now I’m going to overthrow the National Guard, then hopefully the monarchy” he said and failed and also died. (Sorry)
Combeferre: Did anyone ever tell you your tenacity can be intimidating?
Enjolras: Yes, every month of my life since fourth grade.
Enj is such a party pooper.
A modern AU one: while Enjolras isn’t such a big fan of comics in general, he does have a lovingly preserved collection of Astérix books. I mean, it’s about plucky Frenchmen punching up the armies of an invading empire, and lots of puns (of various painfulness), what’s not to love?
Oh my god.
Enjolras has the entire collection in his parents’ house, though. He didn’t bring them to college because he didn’t have room, but he rereads a couple every time he goes back home.
They’re his guilty pleasure,
He can name every single character and he finds the punny names absolutely hilarious.
He definitely thinks he’s more of an Asterix, and Grantaire teases him by comparing him to Tragicomix.
He hates milk, always have, and to make him drink when he was a kid his mother used to call it ‘potion magique’. Very few people know – that’s dangerous blackmail material, right there.
When everything is about to go down (is it a protest that goes violent? a speech that will be heard around the world? the choice made to trade the grand and world-shaking for the hard, thankless, daily work that will bring about sustainable change?), Enjolras is sometimes overwhelmed by it all and has to stop and close his eyes for a moment, his lips moving soundlessly.
“What was that?” Feuilly asks him.
“Ah–nothing.” He won’t admit that he was whispering to himself, nous n’avons peur qu’une chose–que le ciel nous tombe sur la tête.
Because it’s silly, isn’t it? To take courage from comic books, to buoy himself up with the spirit of a feisty little French man who fictionally defended the last little corner of his country two thousand years ago. It’s silly that thinking about those fantasy stories should make him feel better in the face of real-life challenges … isn’t it?