Jehan curled up in his chair and looked at his notebook, hoping he could write of something that isn't about Enjolras, for he had been taking up the majority -if not all- of the poet's thoughts. There was just something about him that captivated Prouvaire. His passion, his brilliance, how he would have fiery debates with Combeferre one moment then have gentle conversations with Jehan the next. Then there was the way he looked. Gorgeous hair and perfect cheekbones. Jehan could only imagine what the rest of Enjolras looked like. Prouvaire knew that the leader in red was surprisingly self-conscious, but didn't understand why. There wasn't a single flaw to him. Enjolras was beautiful, inside and out, but of course, Jehan could never act on his emotions, no of course not. There was also Grantaire to think about. The two best friends were both madly in love with Enjolras, although one kept quiet while the other voiced it aloud. So Jehan would just stay in his corner and write, pining, never letting anyone know how much he truly loved Marcellin Enjolras.