Anonymous asked: ♫ Enjolras/Grantaire
words-writ-in-starlight:
RIGHT,
so I got Third Eye by Florence + the Machine (also I super love this meme and
more people should do it.) I ain’t even a little sorry. Canon era, motherfuckers, because I can.
Grantaire was arguing
with him again. Most of Enjolras’ mind
was occupied with ripping down the other man’s case, almost enjoying the
familiar pattern, but that quiet part at the base of his skull, the part that
had been getting louder of late, was distracted. It was discomfiting and foreign, as if he no
longer quite knew himself. It did little
to inhibit his argument—they were second nature by now, he could spare that
scrap of attention—but he was bothered by its persistence. Just when Enjolras believed he had shaken off
the strange abstraction, Grantaire would tip his head back and laugh at something
Joly had said, his wild curls falling back from the line of his throat, and it
would return with a vengeance.
He’s
brilliant, the
quiet voice noted now. It was true,
something Enjolras had noticed before.
For all that he dulled its edge with wine and other, stronger spirits,
Grantaire’s mind was as keen as the edge of broken glass, quick and incisive,
and he soaked up information as effortlessly as he did liquor. Grantaire claimed to know nothing—nothing but love and liberty, he had
said—but he could hold his ground against Enjolras, and quote Greek and Roman
writings without so much as a pause to recall.
He spoke rapidly, as if the thoughts piled up behind his tongue and
pressed to be first through his lips, and was prone to winding, tangential
thinking, but his points were good and clear and glittering.
Keep reading
Reblog for the daytime crowd.
Anonymous asked: ♫ Enjolras/Grantaire
RIGHT,
so I got Third Eye by Florence + the Machine (also I super love this meme and
more people should do it.) I ain’t even a little sorry. Canon era, motherfuckers, because I can.
Grantaire was arguing
with him again. Most of Enjolras’ mind
was occupied with ripping down the other man’s case, almost enjoying the
familiar pattern, but that quiet part at the base of his skull, the part that
had been getting louder of late, was distracted. It was discomfiting and foreign, as if he no
longer quite knew himself. It did little
to inhibit his argument—they were second nature by now, he could spare that
scrap of attention—but he was bothered by its persistence. Just when Enjolras believed he had shaken off
the strange abstraction, Grantaire would tip his head back and laugh at something
Joly had said, his wild curls falling back from the line of his throat, and it
would return with a vengeance.
He’s
brilliant, the
quiet voice noted now. It was true,
something Enjolras had noticed before.
For all that he dulled its edge with wine and other, stronger spirits,
Grantaire’s mind was as keen as the edge of broken glass, quick and incisive,
and he soaked up information as effortlessly as he did liquor. Grantaire claimed to know nothing—nothing but love and liberty, he had
said—but he could hold his ground against Enjolras, and quote Greek and Roman
writings without so much as a pause to recall.
He spoke rapidly, as if the thoughts piled up behind his tongue and
pressed to be first through his lips, and was prone to winding, tangential
thinking, but his points were good and clear and glittering.
Keep reading
