I love Enjolras. Love Enjolras. In every single fucking way. Every one, I tell you. Have you ever loved someone? Not like this, never like this, and I'm not just being all uppity about loved and life and all this "romantic" bullshit. I'm fucking serious.
Yes, I am drunk. Why even bother asking? Yes, damn you, I am making sense! What, you think I—I hated Enjolras? You thought that? Never, buddy, no. I never hated Enjolras. You want to know something? Without him, I'd be dead.
But why that, you ask? He treats you like shit, he ignores you, and with good reason, too—you always show up shitfaced to every single meeting and rant and ramble about how this is all pipe dream bullshit so why should he treat you like anything but what you are, which is shit? Shit, shit, shit, R. That is what you are, R. Shit is what you are. No, I have not had enough, don't tell me what to do.
Damn him. If it weren't for him, I'd be dead. But no, he's got to drag me back kicking and screaming, all that clinging to life and fight to the last bullshit that he's got going for himself…I AM making sense! Just listen, listen.
You see, I'm not one for THINGS. Things, like, ideas and theories and, what, policies, all those things. See, I like them done. I like them real. I like things that I can touch, and feel with my own hands, concrete, you know? Solid. Back there they're talking the metaphysical—give me the physical. Give me the wine, give me the girl, give me the things that go to my head, those things make up the world. Hey, that rhymed.
Enjolras—he's all of it. All those things, in a body. You know what, because really, I really wish I could get it. I want to be like them, all blah blah the human condition and politics and blah. Sure, I know stuff, but talk? Analyze? All that reasoning? No. Dead in the water.
A man. I can understand a man. All those things, in a body. I though his shoulder and suddenly I can wade thought all this and finally get it. Like those waves of comprehension you get when you think you've finally figured out how things line up, and then you lose it. Gone. The shoulder's slipped and I'm dead in the water again.
He doesn't know. And most of the time I'm too shitfaced to tell him, or too sober. I'm a cynic, you know. I can't tell him. I'm too far gone. But you know it now.
Have you ever seen his hands? Watched them? I have. Slender. Pale. Not a blemish on them. Hands are bitch to draw, you know, especially in motion. But it's a challenge. His—his are perfect. Beautiful. No hands like his. I wish I could watch them forever.