They all knew that Enjolras disdained poetry. He had spoken against it many a time, the worthlessness of art for art's sake in a world ridden with strife. Thus, when Prouvaire read his latest work aloud, no one asked Enjolras' opinion or noted his blush.
Except Prouvaire.
Hours later he asked, "Did you like it, then?"
"Jehan, they must have known --"
"It is the fashion: the pure, nationalistic hero. They would never guess. Kiss me, dearest."
Enjolras complied, embracing him with a sigh. "You taste of violets."
Prouvaire smiled. "I could say the same to you, sweet muse, beloved inspiration."
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