OVER THE PAST few weeks, Enjolras' frustration had simmered. It gnawed at him, the knowledge that one careless comment from Grantaire had derailed Elizabeth's passion for writing.
That spark of creative fury that she navigated through every keystroke and inked letter had dimmed.
She had been born to give voice to revolutions yet seemed now to falter in the shadow of one's irreverent jest.
He couldn't help but feel anger towards Grantaire, but more than that, he felt an unyielding disappointment in Elizabeth for retreating into silence.
A week had passed since he last saw her scribble furiously on pages of her journal, weaving together tales of hope, fervor, and rebellion.
The meetings had become strained without the vibrant energy she brought. Enjolras glanced at the clock on the wall, anxiety twisting in his gut.
They were supposed to gather again tonight, but his heart wasn't in it. Not without her.
He'd known something had to give. It wasn't just her words he missed; it was Elizabeth herself.
Something clicked into place that night when he had wandered into her room, his curiosity leading him to her bedside table. There, he uncovered an unpretentious leather-bound journal.
With trembling fingers, he cracked it open. The stories poured forth like lifeblood, passionate, brave, and replete with raw emotion.
He had spent far longer than he intended, drinking in the brilliance of her work.
In a moment of reckless determination fueled by the desire to share her voice with the world that needed it, he decided to publish some of her best stories in their paper.
He could only hope that it would stir something within her, a realization of her own worth that had somehow dimmed.
At that precise moment, the door swung open, and Elizabeth burst through, her presence igniting the air around her.
The sharp lines of frustration on her face softened momentarily as she saw him.
In her hands, she clutched the very newspaper he had published her stories in. She approached him, setting it down on the table before him.
"Did you publish this?" she demanded, her voice laced with disbelief.
Enjolras stood, his heart racing. He reached for her shoulders, hands finding their home on the soft fabric of her coat. "I did it because I want the world to hear your stories, Elizabeth," he replied, steadying his voice.
"Did you read my journal?" Her voice had turned sharp, the crack of indignation stark against the warmth of his gaze.
"I apologize," he said quickly, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. "That was an intrusion, and I am sorry. But you need to know-" he paused, grounding himself before continuing gently.
He stroked her hair, tucking back a rebellious strand that had fallen from her loosely tied bun.
"You have an extraordinary talent, one that shouldn't be thrown away. I wish... I wish you could see yourself as I see you."
Elizabeth shook her head slowly, a struggle fighting in her eyes. "You're far too kind to me, Enjolras. I-"
Before she could dismiss him further, he pulled her into an embrace, anger and frustration melting away.
They had developed a pattern. Whenever Elizabeth's anger flared, Enjolras knew what to do to calm her down.
She fit against him as if she were carved from the same stone, a missing piece. He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.
Neither of them noticed the door swinging open again, the familiar sound of raucous laughter spilling into their haven.
The moment crystallized into chaos as the room's occupants froze, eyes going wide.
Elizabeth and Enjolras broke apart, startled by the intrusion. All the revolutionaries stood with their mouths agape.
"Well, would you look at that!" Grantaire began to laugh heartily, swaying slightly as he took a swig from his cup. "The revolution is not only about barricades and gunfire, but apparently passion too!" His voice was laced with sarcasm as he clapped for them, eyebrows arched mockingly.
"Congratulations on finding each other! Who knew Enjolras had such a romantic side? I've never seen him in a relationship before. Consider this fair warning, Elizabeth-"
"Shut it, Grantaire." Courfeyrac mumbled, shoving the drunken man.
"The meeting is cancelled. Everyone disperse." Enjolras snapped, taking Elizabeth's hand tightly.
He led her through the crowded room, past the shocked faces of the other revolutionaries, ignoring their murmurs.
They stepped out onto the street. As soon as they were free from the scrutinizing eyes of their friends, laughter bubbled up between them.
They stopped, facing each other, and the moment fell into an uncanny stillness before Enjolras leaned in, capturing her lips.
"Now everyone knows," she said breathlessly when they finally pulled apart.
"Let them talk," he replied, brushing his thumb along her cheek. "I care not for their opinions. Only yours matter to me."
With that, Elizabeth felt a weight lift from her shoulders. Enjolras, with all his strength, always made sure to reminded her of who she was, a writer, a dreamer, a revolutionary in her own right.
✎ᝰ
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