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Summary
Enjolras doesn’t understand Grantaire. Out of all of them, she is the most incongruous. There are times when she seems almost resigned to playing the part she has been assigned, petticoats and girdles and pin curls, pretending at the ideal of a perfect little wife. How disappointed any man would be if he took those moments at face value.
She paints and quotes poetry that is too abstract and modern for Enjolras to get her head around, yet she fastidiously rejects the label bohemian and spurns the black turtleneck crowd that likes to gather in smoky bars. She instead chooses to slum it with their radical group of misfits, fiercely loyal even as she derides their efforts.
It all adds up to a confusing mess. The more Enjolras tries to understand it – her – the less sense it makes.A mid-century lesbians AU.
