cynicxsms:

              There’s the slightest flicker of raw pain, before his mask
         settles once more; this is what he wanted, what he asked for
         when he opened his mouth; he should be used to the sharp,
         steady ache that Enjolras words brought to him, and yet it 
         takes a moment for him to settle his expression into something
         resembling a sardonic smirk, a smile that never quite reaches 
         his eyes, an invitation for Enjolras to continue, to rip him apart 
         just to prove that he’s alive once more.

                    ( Later, much later, he’ll mend his wounds with the burn
                      of alcohol, wrap his cracking heart with reminders that
                      Enjolras spent time on him, found him worthy to argue
                      with, small reassurances that certainly, he must be worth
                      something, to not be brushed aside with a sneer. )

                                        —he’s p a t h e t i c.

                “Implying that you have some use of me now.
                    Even you can not be that optimistic, that idealistic,
                    to believe me more than a wayward cynic lost in a
                    group of revolutionaries. I’m here simply to remind
                    you of realism once and a while, and nothing more
                                    —Although, I admit that the company certainly makes it worth it.”

:: { ℑ⋅ℇ } ─ ─ ─ ::

             There is something so frustrating
          about Grantaire’s self-deprecation,
          so infuriating about the way he talks
          of himself that it makes Enjolras even
          more angry– and he shouldn’t, he
          knows this, he shouldn’t pressure him
          into things that are bad for him but
          Enjolras always hurts most when he’s
          trying to fix what isn’t broken.

                     "I would’ve if you could turn up sober
                   once in a while. You are a self-fulfilling
                   prophecy come to life and you do not
                   make it easy, Grantaire.“ The words are
                   not spit out but they land heavy all the
                   same, a crack of electricity to cauterize
                   where it cuts to the bone. ”I am well
                   reminded of the realities– come back the
                   next time you think I need one.“

            (    d  i  s  m  i  s  s  e  d.   )