#➤ 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 ┊ kass & enjolras ➷ (𝟎𝟎𝟏.)

[flownintothesun]

⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐡:     𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫.

                  ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── "𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲" 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬. ( @thatfirehairedshifter )

          𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 — returned to its romance from the wide jaws of the city of revolution that simmers just below the surface at any given time. Paris is a lover who cleans up well.  Medium-length blond waves hang over the back of the claw-foot tub that looks majestically out of place on the mismatched tile floor of his humble flat. Outside this room — there is a messy desk full of homework, and petitions from civilians, and outlines for another grève should M. président decide he won’t adhere to their orders. Outside this room, their lover sleeps sprawled out naked on the bed — covered in paint and smelling like wine. Funny, Enjolras never thought the lingering scent would endear itself to him, and yet, he misses it when it’s gone.

     His shoulders ache as though he’s really borne the weight of the world upon them in the weeks that have passed in protest. His professors are a part of the bigger problem, and aren’t excusing him from doing twice the work they’ve ever thought to from behind their desks to free the people from their oppression. He has a lot to do. But it is joyous work, nevertheless.

     The faucet drips as it always does, creates a little ‘plink’ against the water as he shifts forward, bending to place a kiss to her bare shoulder. They barely fit in the bath together comfortably. That might be different, had he maintained his life in the 16th arrondissement — but he had not, and he is better for it. This flat may be drafty, and the smell of trash fires still waft up through the rickety old windows — but this place is his bit of history, a testament to how things change. It’s not big enough for three people — but they haven’t talked about that yet. He doesn’t know if he’s ready for that yet. Doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready for that. He always thought that for the most part, he would end up on his own — save for his ragtag band of misfits: Les Amis de l'ABC. He was wrong.

       Cars make their way through the streets, running over the remnants of their makeshift barricades. He is tired, but he is proud of the country that holds his love. Battle-worn hands are beginning to prune as one reaches up out of the water, strokes along her arm intentionally, but lazily — as though he’s still not quite certain whether he wants to instigate something that will keep them up for hours still, or just enjoy the warmth of the bath and her soft body pressed against him. They’re both battered from the chaos, and his own eyes burn from picking up a canister of teargas and throwing it back in the direction of the government. It’s been a long few weeks. It’s almost strange for things to seep gradually into normalcy. He runs a finger gently over a bruise blossoming on her back, “You’re hurt,” he murmurs, his voice a little deeper than usual, worn out from screaming through a megaphone. “You didn’t tell me you were hurt.”