Grantaire had known what love was like for a long time. He knew all of its senses initmately.

Sight.

Grantaire knew what love looked like. Love was carved out of marble and shone like the sun. Love had golden curls, a strong jaw, and broad shoulders. Love was the color red.

Sound.

He knew what love sounded like. It was loud and fierce, almost a roar. It shouted "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity!" Sometimes loved sounded harsh, of teeth grinding together and accusations like, "You don't believe in anything."

Smell.

Love smelled of parchment and ink and coffee. It smelled of old library books, of the Café Musain.

Touch.

Love felt like arms accidentally brushing up against one another. Love felt like the rough fabric of his red jacket.

Taste.

Without having experienced it, Grantaire knew in his heart that loved tasted of soft lips, warm skin, and foreheads gently resting together.

Grantaire knew all these things better than he knew himself. He'd known it for ages. He had learned it over time. Enjolras learned love's five senses in an instant.

Sight.

Love looked wild, with untidy inky black hair and wide blue eyes. Love looked terrified, then relieved, determined, hopeful, and finally, accepted and grateful.

Sound.

Love sounded of footsteps running, of heavy breathing. Love said beautiful things, like "Two at one shot." and "Do you permit it?"

Smell.

Love smelled of sweat and gunpowder, and the potent scent of absinthe and wine that forever lingered on Grantaire's lips.

Touch.

Love felt like sweaty, callused hands and a strong grip.

Taste.

Love tasted like blood, spilled from them both, flowing from their bodies around silver bullets.

Love looked, sounded, smelled, felt, and tasted different for both men. But it was equal in its beauty, its intensity, its tragedy.

In the end, all that mattered was the fact that it was shared.