justprompts :: I know now why you cry. But it's...
I know now why you cry. But it's something I can never do. -The Terminator to John, Terminator 2: Judgment Day
He was always the one to initiate it. Beautiful, confident, and passionate by day and in public, the private boy was different.
A boy.
Young.
Solemn and quiet, with unspoken rules which he would never tolerate the breaking of, Enjolras was a different sort of person at night.
The first rule: he would always be the one to instigate it.
It would be night, always, often quite late and his candle finally burnt down to leave his room - their room really but never acknowledgedly - in the same sooty darkness that haunted his beloved Paris' streets. From here there were two requirements, perhaps three, sobriety being the foremost. Any lack of it in senses or humor and fearless Enjolras was as likely to flee back to the cafe's back room as he was to simply light another candle. Sleep was never an option in these conditions, and the fight seemed to leave him somehow upon crossing this particular threshold. Here, in these times, he was more willing to hide behind the barricade of his all-important work than to stand defiantly atop it.
But assuming sobriety (which happened more often once the pattern was discovered), the next required hurdle was peace. Sometimes this would be easy, circumstances would intervene. Late nights that kept the impassioned revolutionary working hunched at his desk more often than not found his companion in bed, either asleep or nearly so. Other occasions were not so smooth, with teasing or nagging sending rosy-cheeked Apollo back to his stubborn scribbling.
Luckily, a comfortable bed often tilted the scales favorably, allowing Enjolras his composure without a fight. Then, if he was himself peaceful enough or trouble-wearied enough, he could gently rouse his bedmate from slumber. It was always the same, and only 'gently' from him, not particularly romantic; a slight shake of the shoulder, a name uttered uncharacteristically softly, uncertainly.
It only took a look, tired, vulnerable, and he never had to ask outright. This was rule two; that he never had to say the words and that in this, he never needed to take charge and control. Not overly interested in the deed itself, he let his lover - yes, lover, though he never thought to voice the title - do largely as he fancied. The draw in this for him, the boy general, was not physical; he needed the freedom of it, and ability to lose himself in it. Any other enjoyment he experienced was secondary, incidental.
He was always the one to initiate it. Beautiful, confident, and passionate by day and in public, the private boy was different.
A boy.
Young.
Solemn and quiet, with unspoken rules which he would never tolerate the breaking of, Enjolras was a different sort of person at night.
The first rule: he would always be the one to instigate it.
It would be night, always, often quite late and his candle finally burnt down to leave his room - their room really but never acknowledgedly - in the same sooty darkness that haunted his beloved Paris' streets. From here there were two requirements, perhaps three, sobriety being the foremost. Any lack of it in senses or humor and fearless Enjolras was as likely to flee back to the cafe's back room as he was to simply light another candle. Sleep was never an option in these conditions, and the fight seemed to leave him somehow upon crossing this particular threshold. Here, in these times, he was more willing to hide behind the barricade of his all-important work than to stand defiantly atop it.
But assuming sobriety (which happened more often once the pattern was discovered), the next required hurdle was peace. Sometimes this would be easy, circumstances would intervene. Late nights that kept the impassioned revolutionary working hunched at his desk more often than not found his companion in bed, either asleep or nearly so. Other occasions were not so smooth, with teasing or nagging sending rosy-cheeked Apollo back to his stubborn scribbling.
Luckily, a comfortable bed often tilted the scales favorably, allowing Enjolras his composure without a fight. Then, if he was himself peaceful enough or trouble-wearied enough, he could gently rouse his bedmate from slumber. It was always the same, and only 'gently' from him, not particularly romantic; a slight shake of the shoulder, a name uttered uncharacteristically softly, uncertainly.
It only took a look, tired, vulnerable, and he never had to ask outright. This was rule two; that he never had to say the words and that in this, he never needed to take charge and control. Not overly interested in the deed itself, he let his lover - yes, lover, though he never thought to voice the title - do largely as he fancied. The draw in this for him, the boy general, was not physical; he needed the freedom of it, and ability to lose himself in it. Any other enjoyment he experienced was secondary, incidental.