Sweet Eyes

They went to Café Musain every night, sparkling with dreams of a France free from oppression and darkness. They filled the building with whispers and plots of revolution. They were young and egotistical enough to believe that they could bring change. Only Grantaire could see just how mislead they were.

He watched each night as Enjolras shared his dream with their friends. He was a golden angel on a pedestal, a work of art that Grantaire would never match. Sometimes their gazes would meet and Grantaire would stare unflinchingly into Enjolras' naïve eyes, their faces mutually unreadable. Grantaire would look away first and drink until he fell to the dusty floor. His attraction to Enjolras was shameful and wrong, and surely his bright Apollo would be embarrassed- or worse- if he knew.

The morning before the revolution Grantaire awoke with shaking hands. Only twenty-three and the alcohol was beginning to wreak its havoc on his youthful body. He wept as he dressed and stumbled towards the café to join his friends in the fight for a cause that carried no hope or purpose.

It was not until he clasped Enjolras' long fingers between his own that he knew he wanted to die. The soldiers took aim but he ignored their guns and looked into those sweet eyes one last time. He saw his own eyes reflected and was content that Enjolras did not love him, as long as he could forever stay be his side. And so he would.