Just a little thing I wrote on the train home.
Don't ask her why. Don't ask her how. But he's the one she chose. Everybody would have bet on his angry friend. They were the typical so-often-arguing-that-there-must-be-some-unresolved-sexual-tension-under-those-arguments couple. Everyone was betting on them shagging before the end of the year.
Everyone else would overlook him. Next to his two loud best mates, he seemed to have a lot in common with wallpaper. One was blond, fierce, more eloquent than Cicero, with eyes that would burn your soul, the other had dark brown hair, was always ready to woo you, and had a smile that would make the Antarctic melt.
But those who would only see the handsome leader of their group would miss the firm hand that would often hold back one too many outbursts, the reasonable words that would be whispered in his ear and helped him avoid another night in prison. Who would care about that quiet voice when the room was filled with speeches that would make Churchill die of envy? Both were of the same height, but one would stand as if the whole world belonged to him, the other would lower himself, maybe because of those hours spent in the library…. Those who would see the endearing fool of a friend that Courfeyrac was would miss the nice smile that would float on the other man's face when he was reading something funny in the newspaper or some dusty book, as he was able to see humour in the driest academic paper. Those who would be mesmerised by his crazy friend's communicative laugh would miss that pun, coming out of nowhere, that had the power to make the whole room die of laughter.
She would. And she did. Until she learned to see the overlooked. Now, she was able to see those dreamy eyes, looking at her with an admiration that had no equal, to admire the sun in that boring brown hair. She was able to hear the meaning of those calm words scribbled in the corner of Enjolras' sheets. And it was with the same strength he would hold her after a bad day. Never ever he would judge her, which was one of Enjolras' biggest weaknesses, as he would often forget that not everybody had his chances, his mind and will, that not everybody had the purest intentions. She hadn't done as well as their friends, all future doctors, lawyers, promised to the brightest future, but he would look at her with the greatest admiration, always supportive. She was so used to be the one people ignored – at best, how could she had missed it for so long? She was the shadow, the one who couldn't live up to Cosette, so blond, so nice, so bright. Perfect for Marius, for whom she would have given her life. That was all she had to offer. Or so she thought.
If tonight she was in front of him, wondering whether she should or shouldn't kiss him, it was because she had realised that slowly, it was his arms that she dreamt of when things were too hard and she was crying in her bed, because it was his quiet words that would sooth her sadness. And she would only admit it under torture, but it was his hands that she imagined on her in her more intimate moments. But would he? Would he want her too? What would she do if he refused her? How would she be able to breathe without him? And worse, would she be able to support him as well as he was supporting her?
She was looking him right in his eyes. And couldn't decide, was it the moonlight that was making them shine? Or could it be the most intense devotion, as strong as the one Marius had for Cosette? How could she know?
But before she had the time to think it all through he took a step in her direction. She stopped breathing as well, when he put his hand on her cheek, brushing her hair, and smiled with one of his secret smiles.
Oh God! It was true, what they said, that when you were kissing someone you loved, everything else would blur. Or maybe it was the beers she had been drinking all night. Anyway it felt good to feel like they were the center of the world.