“Courfeyrac,” Suara Jean Prouvaire yang lembut memasuki gendang telinga si pemuda berambut cokelat gelap, yang kontan langsung menoleh kearahnya—dengan seraut muka yang lelah dan bulir keringat yang membuat wajahnya mengilap. “Ya, Jehan?” Jean Prouvaire membersihkan tempat di sebelah Courfeyrac dan duduk dengan hati-hati, diikuti oleh pandangan lemah yang lain. Courfeyrac lamat-lamat memandangi kolega dekatnya ini yang begitu suka puisi. Ah, 'kan jadi teringat—Courfeyrac jadi mendadak rindu puisi-puisi cantik Jean Prouvaire. “Apa kita akan bahagia suatu saat nanti?” Pertanyaan yang tak disangkanya, Courfeyrac menautkan alis—kemudian menghela napas pelan. Ia mengalihkan pandangannya dan memeluk lututnya sendiri yang terasa dingin tiba-tiba. “Bahagia apa yang ada dalam definisimu?” Jean Prouvaire terdiam—definisi yang mana? Dia—entahlah, lupa.
— Enjolras asked once, in the back of Musain, after his fierce debate with Grantaire. Both of his orbs were tinted with the colour of anger and vigor; yet a spark of confusion was visible.
Grantaire doubted if Enjolras is really a man; no man can be that beautiful.
“Why not ‘Ferre, Courf, or others?”
Grantaire placed his fingers on his own chin, staring quietly at the fine marble as he managed to curve a thin smile. The Blond was waiting, presumably, rather patiently.
With those kind of gaze, Enjolras, are you trying to murder me slowly? Grantaire wondered. His gaze has always been deadly for the sceptic, anyway, perhaps Grantaire has grown stronger to overcome his powers. But that—
—that gaze—
—there’s no way Grantaire’d be able to hold himself from drowning in Enjolras’ deep optics, so he rolled his eyes away and lowered his head. Pretending to memorize the motive of the table he has been sitting on for this several minutes, despite he already did. Grantaire could spill all of his paints to draw the motive as a prove he was serious.
(But he’d rather dump all his colours to paint Enjolras all day, though)
“Because,” Grantaire chuckled lightly, adding a silly pause. “You are Julien Enjolras—not Henri Combeferre or Aimè de Courfeyrac. I’ve promised to myself that I only, and will always, venerate Julien Enjolras and every single inches of him.”
That wasn’t even a proper answer.
Enjolras left with an unsatisfied snort—joining the rest of Les Amis, Grantaire didn’t raised his chin even a bit. His fingers traced the table’s pattern; he was telling the truth.
—kata Combeferre, seraya merengut, ketika Courfeyrac memujinya, “Sempurna sekali, ‘Ferre!”.
Courfeyrac tertawa, Grantaire tidak.
Benar juga, sih—well, kalau dilihat dari persepsi Combeferre, yang notabenenya seorang pemeluk agama taat. Ini dunia milik Tuhan dan kita semua hanya menumpang hidup. Tentu Tuhan selalu yang nomor satu—itu Combeferre.
Tetapi ini Grantaire.
Jelas, kan, Grantaire adalah orang yang—you know, tidak percaya (atau lebih ke tahap tidak peduli, sepertinya) akan apapun kecuali pemuda bermata biru samudera yang sedang mengerjakan tugas kuliahnya di meja nomor empat, sembari menikmati waktu petang dengan teman-teman sekampusnya. Apalah Tuhan kalau kau bisa menikmati yang ada di hadapan mata.
Dan semua orang memiliki hak untuk memilih mana yang lebih mengena di hati.
Sungguh, ketika Courfeyrac menyenggol bahunya dan bertanya, “Ada apa, R? Memikirkan sesuatu?”, Grantaire tahu ini hanya masalah perbedaan pendapat.
Ekor matanya menangkap sang pemuda berambut pirang yang ikalnya tertata begitu rapi—sedang menekuri buku catatan dan laptopnya, sesekali mencatat, sesekali beralih ke laptopnya, dengan secangkir kopi hitam yang masih mengepul di dekat tangan. Refleksi irisnya menampakkan percikan amarah, tapi justru itulah yang membuatnya—indah.
Grantaire menoleh ke arah Courfeyrac, tersenyum santai.
Boleh Combeferre menganggap kesempurnaan hanya milik Tuhan, tapi bagi Grantaire tidak.
He loves it when he’s able to see a wide, joyful smile is plastered against their visage; he loves it when their beautiful voice forms a decent melody on the poems they read; he loves it when he can hear how peaceful their low breaths are when they fell asleep.
And, honestly, getting the chance of feeling their soft locks between his rough fingers like this is absolutely the best thing God has granted him. Because it’s rare for him to feel their lovely skin brushed against his tip of fingers, really.
It’s not like Prouvaire prevented him from making physical contacts with them; instead, it’s them who started everything first. It’s always Prouvaire who intertwine their fingers first, it’s always Prouvaire who twine their arms against his neck softly—never the other way.
Montparnasse’d be lying if he says that he hates physical contacts. He’s always fond of grabbing Eponine’s hip and circling his arms around her; he likes it when Claquesous jokingly punches his shoulder; he adores it when Gueulemer ruffles his hair, even if it’ll mess his neatly-styled hair; he fancies the way Babet hugs him warmly. And he appreciate it all; for someone whose life is always rough, those little touches are actually meaningful to him.
But this delicate kid from Les Amis de l’ABC is the exact different.Not that they’re not beautiful or not his type—no. They’re perfectly perfect. Excellent in any way Montparnasse can explain. He’s just… really different from what Montparnasse has been through. He’s exquisite and precise. As if he can break them just by grasping their little, thin fingers.
As if he can break them so easily—
Yes, it may not be literal—but Montparnasse always got his nerves when their hands are nearly touching. He quickly pulls it and gives him and Prouvaire a wider distance, growing a little raise on their eyebrows. He hates to lie on how he didn’t want to hold those lithe fingers; he did. He always did. Sure it won’t happen with just a simple touch, but what if?
But what if?
Because Montparnasse is rough, and Prouvaire is nothing but an extremely fragile beautiful masterpiece; and Montparnasse hates to see them broken. He’d be having no one to look after if they’re gone; he’d be having nothing to fight for if they vanished.
He sighs deeply as his fingers carefully caressed their forehead. The light’s completely off, yet he was still able to find the glimmering beauty of his sleeping angel’s mien. An omen of despair is hinted in a glint of his eyes. Fear, stress and confusion are joining his heavy breaths.
Montparnasse isn’t afraid of anything, but Jean Prouvaire is not one of his anything.
