Grantaire and Gavroche were both of comfort. Sometimes, great comfort. But to neither one could Enjolras bare his soul and know himself understood.
It's some time before the tears cease. A little while longer before Enjolras pulls away -- only a little, only enough to lift his cheek from wet fabric and to be able to look Courfeyrac in the face instead of the shirt-collar.
Enjolras is one of those rare people who can cry tidily. More unfairly yet, one who has put no effort into developing the skill. His eyes are red and his face wet, but his face has not gone splotchy, his nose doesn't run. Against his white shirt and black waistcoat, his face is pale and glittering, his hair a golden tumble of undampened curls. Appearance is the furthest thing from his mind.
He feels wrung dry. Weary, and strangely light, as if a weight long carried has been lifted from his shoulders. Every breath and whisper of clothing seems to settle into the comfortable quiet of this room.
"My dear Courfeyrac."
His voice is quiet too, and only a little roughened. His mouth curls into a very small smile, fond and grateful and rueful, full of all the things unsaid. But all he says aloud is, "I hope I haven't spoiled your new waistcoat."
no subject
It's some time before the tears cease. A little while longer before Enjolras pulls away -- only a little, only enough to lift his cheek from wet fabric and to be able to look Courfeyrac in the face instead of the shirt-collar.
Enjolras is one of those rare people who can cry tidily. More unfairly yet, one who has put no effort into developing the skill. His eyes are red and his face wet, but his face has not gone splotchy, his nose doesn't run. Against his white shirt and black waistcoat, his face is pale and glittering, his hair a golden tumble of undampened curls. Appearance is the furthest thing from his mind.
He feels wrung dry. Weary, and strangely light, as if a weight long carried has been lifted from his shoulders. Every breath and whisper of clothing seems to settle into the comfortable quiet of this room.
"My dear Courfeyrac."
His voice is quiet too, and only a little roughened. His mouth curls into a very small smile, fond and grateful and rueful, full of all the things unsaid. But all he says aloud is, "I hope I haven't spoiled your new waistcoat."