granxaire:

Grantaire would like to maybe see the
age of thirty, and collaring Gavroche like
a cat? Reallly not in line with that plan.
                       ( Neither was the alcoholism or on
                          and off drug use, but he was all for
                                                   picking his poisons. )

                 He sits back against the arm rest,
                 settling in to watch Enjolras as he
                 turns on the avenging angel mode
                 of his. “So when do we move out
                 to clean up the mess?”

Now it should be cleared up:
              Grantaire didn’t care about the Cause.
He did not do a damn thing for the sake of the Cause.
He did damned things for Enjolras and no other reason.
If Enjolras wanted a man dead, he didn’t need to write a
12-page dissertation about every ounce of wrong doing
the man had ever done on Grantaire’s account.

                  Just a name would be enough.
         ( Grantaire would admit to having worked
                              with less for the leader in red ).

:: { ℑ⋅ℇ } ─ ─ ─ ::

                Living till thirty? That’s a privilege.
           Enjolras never imagined himself to live
           old enough to swing on a back porch 
           and talk of the yesteryears– which is 
           why he is so fervent in his ideals, so
           uncompromising about the change he
           is driving, the people he is killing, the
           information he is leaking. Maybe if he
           is lucky– but he doesn’t have time to
           pray to Tyne, not when Ares comes to
           him amidst flames and Themis bows
           her head to his divine plan of justice.

                                    He swallows an oversweet mouthful,
                                 bright eyed and righteous– his approval
                                 lacing the very edges of his lips, when
                                 instead of doubting him, Grantaire follows
                                 him. A pleasant surprise, he thinks.

             ”We have to tell the rest first.“ And
           by that he means Combeferre and 
           Courfeyrac. ”If Bahorel’s intel is still
           valid then the Senator–“ Enjolras spits
           the title out like its poison on his lips,
           ”–will be  en route to  Paris tonight.
           Fortuitous, don’t you think?“

                  (         As if you didn’t stay up the
                 whole night to engineer this
                    window of opportunity for
                             y  o  u  r  s  e  l  f, Enjolras.        )