justprompts :: Lazy
At the very end of the day, when he finally goes 'home' to his apartment, Enjolras is exhausted. He's been up since dawn or perhaps before - an odd habit for a student but a regular one for him - and the sun's long since disappeared over the next horizon.
It has not been an unusual day, no more busy than any other, but the struggle is never far from Enjolras' mind, and what time he can spare from revolution is spent on studies. Long days and short nights are more than routine, but then he's also been forced into caring for M. Grantaire, the soon-to-be permanently ex-drunkard. This newest addition to his workload forced him to slack slightly on his studies, delegate a few responsibilities to the other Amis, all in order to keep a keener eye to make sure that the man does not sneak out to ruin himself all over again.
Slowly, it has been wearing on Enjolras. He's needed to use all of his patience during the convalescing stages, and his temper has made good its escape once or twice anyway. Today, the first day when he feels it safe enough to risk leaving Grantaire on his own, the young leader perhaps ought have taken a break. Instead, he did the rounds, double-checking everyone's reports and then slaving well into the night, writing, reading, debating.
It was a wonderful feeling to be himself in his place again but now, as he crosses his threshold and shrugs out of his waistcoat - the coat no doubt will be waiting tomorrow at the cafe as per usual after particularly long nights - he can literally feel the energy drain off, as if caught in all the gold braid. His posture unstraightens itself and he yawns, hanging his one truly cherished article of clothing on the door and blissfully, for once, not caring that Grantaire is still there, occupying his space and rare privacy. The man's precise location, current actions, and even health are currently of absolutely no concern to Enjolras, except as far as Grantaire is not right there, in the middle of Enjolras' rather wonderful looking bed, hogging all of the little comfort in the sparse room.
This is good, because in a matter of seconds, that is precisely where Enjolras himself is, simply collapsed, eyes closed, and utterly peaceful. A small part of him wonders if he would still do this, as he's done nearly every day for so long now, if Grantaire had been there. The rest of him decides it doesn't care at all, as long as there are pillows and blankets in the world.
For the moment, dealing with earthly matters such as the no doubt staring (and possibly drooling) Grantaire, locking doors, writing essays, and refining revolutions don't matter. He'll deal with them in a minute or five. For now, it is the brief time when the day is ended for Enjolras, and he can be simply Boniface; the ridiculously exhausted twenty-two year-old student dissenter who would very much like a nap, but will settle for a brief stint as boneless goo before responsibilities take hold.
It has not been an unusual day, no more busy than any other, but the struggle is never far from Enjolras' mind, and what time he can spare from revolution is spent on studies. Long days and short nights are more than routine, but then he's also been forced into caring for M. Grantaire, the soon-to-be permanently ex-drunkard. This newest addition to his workload forced him to slack slightly on his studies, delegate a few responsibilities to the other Amis, all in order to keep a keener eye to make sure that the man does not sneak out to ruin himself all over again.
Slowly, it has been wearing on Enjolras. He's needed to use all of his patience during the convalescing stages, and his temper has made good its escape once or twice anyway. Today, the first day when he feels it safe enough to risk leaving Grantaire on his own, the young leader perhaps ought have taken a break. Instead, he did the rounds, double-checking everyone's reports and then slaving well into the night, writing, reading, debating.
It was a wonderful feeling to be himself in his place again but now, as he crosses his threshold and shrugs out of his waistcoat - the coat no doubt will be waiting tomorrow at the cafe as per usual after particularly long nights - he can literally feel the energy drain off, as if caught in all the gold braid. His posture unstraightens itself and he yawns, hanging his one truly cherished article of clothing on the door and blissfully, for once, not caring that Grantaire is still there, occupying his space and rare privacy. The man's precise location, current actions, and even health are currently of absolutely no concern to Enjolras, except as far as Grantaire is not right there, in the middle of Enjolras' rather wonderful looking bed, hogging all of the little comfort in the sparse room.
This is good, because in a matter of seconds, that is precisely where Enjolras himself is, simply collapsed, eyes closed, and utterly peaceful. A small part of him wonders if he would still do this, as he's done nearly every day for so long now, if Grantaire had been there. The rest of him decides it doesn't care at all, as long as there are pillows and blankets in the world.
For the moment, dealing with earthly matters such as the no doubt staring (and possibly drooling) Grantaire, locking doors, writing essays, and refining revolutions don't matter. He'll deal with them in a minute or five. For now, it is the brief time when the day is ended for Enjolras, and he can be simply Boniface; the ridiculously exhausted twenty-two year-old student dissenter who would very much like a nap, but will settle for a brief stint as boneless goo before responsibilities take hold.