xcynique:

Grantaire smokes too much; his laughter always sounds like something is clawing its way out of his chest; when he’s restraining it to talk it’s only more yellow against the walls of his throat, but the smile on his face is purely bronze, a crooked spiral staircase up the side of his face.  (Ah, the dangers of not being a handsome man.)  His voice still has a wheeze of grey smoke to it.

      ❝ Enjolras, I would believe you almost anything—if you told me there were hookers falling from the sky I would run outside to check.  But—christ—yes, it is.

:: { ℑ⋅ℇ } ─ ─ ─ ::

                  “Yes, because of gravity.”

        This is not the argument he wants to have.
      He has to tell himself, repeat the statement
      until he believes it, until Enjolras doesn’t feel
      the familiar thrum of derision because he is
      asking for a favor. What was it they said? 
      You can attract more flies with honey?

                                      (  You can cure a sore throat too
                                                      but that’s not what ails him.  )

                  “If you’re not amenable, a simple 
                    ’no’ would have been enough.”