granxaire:

“Don’t get used to it, Apollo,” he warns,
but there’s the a distinct lack of venom in
his warning and a smile on his face when
he meets Enjolras’s eyes. Grantaire has
to ignore the burst of warmth in his chest
and shake his head.

            It becomes a lot easier to ignore said
          feeling when he’s rolling his eyes at him.

      "Somehow I’ll manage.”
                                                The ground is 
mostly flat and grassy and so long as one 
of them doesn’t find a rabbit hole to trip on 
or something, they’ll be just fine. Lord knows
getting around Moscow had been trickier. 

:: { ℑ⋅ℇ } ─ ─ ─ ::

          Empty words; Grantaire should know
        Enjolras better than that. But there’s a
        settling in his stomach knowing they are
        back on familiar ground, no more tense
        silences, no more emotional outbursts.

                                                                      (   Y e t.   )

                           He tries not to step too hard, to keep
                         their presence to a minimum. In the
                         ensuing silence, Enjolras intermittently
                         looks northwest, narrowed eyes squinting
                         between the trees and his phone and it’s
                         a  m o m e n t before he pulls to a stop.

          ”Here. The runway is about thirty-
         five degrees to our left, not quite 
         one and a half kilometers away.“

                                     ( It’s not quite a smirk but—- )

               ”That’s at least a hundred more
                   than Bossuet’s last mark.“