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Summary
Enjolras thinks too much, he thinks of red and black and the colours in between. He’s no artist, no poet. His words on paper are poor and worthless and it’s only when he speaks, when he can breathe life into each syllable and people turn to him and listen that he feels like he has something he can share with the world. He wants equality, he wants freedom and he knows that great people achieve great things and one day he could be great. He thinks of these things, of the leader he could be, the leader he will be. He thinks of dark curls and smirks that make him ball his hands into fists and the bruises on his palms from his nails and how his heart maybe does sink a little when he can’t see the grey beanie hat or the green cardigan when he speaks. He thinks too much.
disclaimer I have no beta and awful French and English grammar. Apologies in advance.