A/N:
Hey guys, I'm still around! I'm sorry I haven't been updating Trapdoor lately. I've been really busy with school and everything and I've hit a little bit of a block with that story. I promise I will finish it.
This story is a set of short drabbles that I wrote about Christine Daae and Enjolras. I know, I know, weird pairing... You guys can thank roleplaying for that one. :P Anyway, I just wanted to inform you that this is based off the novel Phantom of the Opera and the 2012 movie Les Miserables.
-Han
; on loving a revolutionary
When he stands on a table with sweat on his brow and a voice like thunder, she tries not to think about that voice going silent.
He is anger and passion and fire, vive la France, vive la France — and she knows he is what these people need. He is their inspiration, their leader, and like a fool she follows him as well. Try as she might she cannot stay away from him and his voice and his wild, wild eyes.
So she sits there and she watches, and she listens, and she loves with an ache in her heart that she can hardly bear.
When he touches her hand with a smile as light as a breath of fresh air, she tries not to think about his smile disappearing.
Deep blue eyes hint at words yet unspoken and she is sure of the love there, as sure as she is about the matters of her own heart. The brush of his fingers on the back of her hand is warm and sends a tingle straight through her bones.
How she will love when he is gone, she does not know. It is a thought she dares not even touch.
When his hands are in her hair and his lips are against hers, she tries not to think about his revolution.
Fingers tangle in her pale golden curls and she tugs him closer, closer, and a nagging voice at the back of her mind tells her that this cannot last. He burns too bright to burn for very long. He lives for his country, and she knows he may very well die for it. Of all the men she could have chosen, she chose the man whose death may be on the horizon.
She pushes these thoughts away when he kisses her again, more gently this time. He moves his hands to cup her face and she feels breathless from the look on his beautiful face.
They hold each other close and she knows she must love him while she can, before he is pulled away from her together.
When she finds his body with the others, she tries not to think about anything at all.
She hears the whispers first — the revolution is over — are they dead — no, one survived — only one. Hope flares in her chest, a burning, bright thing, and she flies with a desperation to the place where she might find him.
In death he is smaller somehow, without that fire that is so very him inside. His hair is dirty and messy, and she wants to smooth it back from his face but she is afraid to touch him.
This is not how she wants to remember him. She wants to remember him as he was in life, laughing, shouting, breathing, with lips as soft as rain and hands steady as he held her.
Tears sting her eyes and blur her vision, hot trails scorching her cheeks and tightening a knot in her chest. The flame that burns twice as bright burns half as long. She knows that, but the pain is still there.
She leaves with tears still streaking her pale cheeks, her arms wrapped around her waist to keep out the chill.
Of all the men she could have chosen, she chose to love the revolutionary.