read-a-holic98

One more day before the storm He is trying to eat when she comes in. The fight begins tomorrow, and he's going to need all the strength he can get. But with the rest of his men asleep, anxiety is closing in on him in the quiet, tightening his chest, closing his throat. Making it near impossible to eat. And then she bursts through the door, clearly upset. Enjolras drops his spoon onto the table with a clatter. Éponine stops at the sight of him. "I didn't think anyone would be awake," she says. Enjolras doesn't answer and Éponine takes a seat at a table in the corner, facing away from him. He wonders if she crying. He doesn't thin

ENJOLRAS: "Enjolras!" He groaned at the sound of his name. Was it Grantaire yelling at him, or someone else? He glanced around for Marius, or rather the girl with the dirt-streaked blonde hair who was always hovering behind him. "We're ready at Notre Dame," Combeferre said. "And at rue de Bac, they're straining at the leash!" Feuilly added. "Everyone in the city! It's amazing, like the tide flowing!" Courfeyrac added. "They're all coming to our side!" "Yes… the time is near…" Enjolras murmured quietly. A hush fell over the ABC Café as he spoke. It was nothing he wasn't used to. He'd always had that sort of charisma. "N

Marius awoke slowly, a recognizable doctor over him. He was bandaged all over, blood seeping through.       "Monsieur, you were wounded fighting at the barricade. A gentlemen brought you in before you lost too much blood. You are very lucky, Monsieur," The man grinned at him, before exiting the room. Candlelight poorly lit Marius' face, flickering all about. His shirt was gone, revealing a bruised stomach and a bit of blood. He breathed heavily, trying to recall what happened. He had almost been killed at the barricade but who was the man who saved him? He saw all his friends die and yet a savior was there for him. At the

Little he knows, little he sees The little he does is as dust in a breeze The smallest amount of the things that I feel A worthless account of that which is real He knows not the warmth of the touch of his hand He knows not the hurt of his every demand That I stay in my place and forget what's inside This burning sensation I'm trying to hide The things I imagine when I'm on my own He opens my eyes and I see I'm alone Because little he knows, and little he'd care If I hurt, if I cried, he'd remain unaware He thinks that he knows so much more than I He thinks he can tell between truth and white lie They say there is pride before a