#duskjolras

—

Enjolras sighs against Grantaire’s spine as he sleeps in his arms. There had been words there, before—Enjolras had scribbled them, drawn loops and whorls around the pillar that holds Grantaire up, from which all of him branches out. The spine. The center.

He breaths once more against the vertebrae at the base of his neck, rubbing the tip of his nose against the curls that brush against the base of Grantaire’s neck. (Ribbons of words had pushed up and out of him, onto Grantaire’s skin—were I his spine—)

Grantaire’s breathing stops for a moment, and Enjolras palms are pressed against his solar plexus, just around his diaphragm. And then he inhales, curling closer to his fists, were spit is starting to pool and slope toward his wrist.

(—were I his spine that I could hold him—)

Enjolras rests his head back against the pillow as Grantaire sleeps, exhaling softly against the knot of bone beneath his lips. Grantaire’s spine is a gentle curve against his chest, bent only in comfort and not in displeasure, protected by Enjolras’ own spine, and everything that branches out from it.

(“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”)