scienceandmoths

:: { ℑ⋅ℇ } ─ ─ ─ ::

        He’s not expecting it. Not even
      a little bit– not at all. It’s almost
      funny because everyone knows
      how important Combeferre is but
      his presence is so inevitable, so
      anchoring that him not being there
      takes a moment to sink in. So
      much so that Enjolras exists in a
      state of denial.

                            (      Until he doesn’t and it rains,
                              the wrath of his fury burning all
                                      that stands between them.    )

         It’s a door this time– he knows
      what’s behind it, who’s behind it,
      and Enjolras is sweating, the slick
      of blood that’s not his coloring his
      sleeves but he has a reloaded gun
      and he’s throwing himself in, finger
      already pressing down on the trigger.

          Enjolras has a second to yell out,
      “Combeferre!” to make sure he–
      what? Gets out of the way, to make
      sure he’s conscious– even Enjolras
      doesn’t quite know as he takes out
      the last of the assailants, a hail of
      bullets and blood spatters in his wake.