My first foray into Les Miserables fan fiction. I love the whole GrantaireXEnjolras thing. And I've met Enjolras' real-world incarnation, by the way, but I won't get into that now. Just read and PLEASE tell me what you think!
I don't own these characters.
I love him. Oh, god, I love him! I don't care what they think he is; they're wrong.
I hate myself for contributing to their misconceptions of him. I call him a god and a statue. I say he is cold and unfeeling, knowing these things to be lies.
He's a man. He is a gentle, passionate man who cares for everyone and everything. Everything he does for the "greater good" is designed to ease the pain of those around him who suffer.
True, he has a sharp tongue, but his criticism is meant to be helpful. He can't express his inner tenderness in words, and so he comes off as rude to those who do not take the time to know him.
I too was stung by his sharp words. He was, and still is, unbelievably cruel to me. I always have a witty retort and when I lie in bed at night, I can reminisce on our bickering and laugh. Not too long ago, however, I would cry.
And then I figured out the workings of that marble statue. He is harshest on me for two reasons, one of which being that I have more flaws than the average man. The other is that he cares more about my welfare than that of the others in our group.
You may laugh at me and say that I am deluding myself, but I am not. I know what I know about my idol because he tells me.
He talks in his sleep, you see.
I stay late at the café quite often, as does he. I drown myself in wine while he works on his next essay for some unimportant class. Sometimes I pass out from drink before he leaves. Other nights, I watch him as he falls asleep at his table.
When this happens, I put away his ink, drape him coat around him like a blanket, and listen. He tells me of the beggars he brought bread for that day and describes how his heart broke at the sight of a young mother sobbing over the corpse of her starved child.
Two weeks ago, he told me of myself. He called my name and reached out to the air, begging me to listen. Apparently, my dream-self came to him, for he began to describe to me the many evils of excessive drink. Without a trace of sarcasm, he pleaded with me to stop before I made myself seriously ill. "Please, mon ami, you must stop," he murmured, tossing his head in his sleep. "If you won't do it for yourself, at least do it for me. I love you."
I didn't tell him what I heard that night, and I sincerely doubt I ever will. I will continue to love him in silence, my adoration now doubled from knowing that he has found it within himself to see past my bottle of wine.
And still I call him names I know to be untrue, for I cannot muster up the courage to be his friend. I fear if I get too close, I shall be crushed by all the power and emotion stored up in that slight, strong body of his.
Thus I shall continue to hide behind my sarcasm and he behind his disapproval until one of us snaps and confesses our love.
Ah, here he is now! Poor boy looks exhausted. I wish I could do something to ease all those burdens he's heaped upon himself…
"Good afternoon, Apollo! Could you spare a moment of your oh-so-precious time on a useless drunkard like myself? There's something I want to discuss with you."
Please review! I don't even know how I feel about this thing!