Sun and Moon

Author:   Pairing: Enjolras/Prouvaire  Rating: G

He called me his Sun. The warmth that sometimes filled his soul, he said, came from me. I doubt but that he was trying in his way to pay a compliment, as he sometimes did. I liked him better when he did not, when he was the cold Moon that I could gaze upon through the starlight and worship. But he would grow remorseful, saddened by what he called his frozen love, and would attempt the pleasantries that normal lovers would share between themselves. I would call him, then, my own heart's moonlight and would kiss the air he breathed.

He was not like any other man. He shone out from the rest of the world, his eyes like stars. I could not see how any could keep from loving him, or how those who did could do so as if he was like any other human. To love him was to reverence him. His love touched deeper, engulfing every part of what made up my person. I could give my body to anyone if I sought only pleasure. But only to him could I give my soul.

He loved me. I never doubted that. His eyes gave caresses of more feeling than any other man's hands. One look, a moment's gaze, could fill my heart better than a whole night's pleasure. Yet he could not believe I was satisfied with looks, with words, alone. He could not allow himself to understand my heart, to see that my soul fed on words and that his words held more passion than the words of any man I had ever heard or read.

He told me of such wonder that my heart sometimes felt as though it would burst with the terrible greatness of him. His was a heart at once both sure of the finality of his dreams and unaware of how high, how splendidly unreal, those dreams were. And in the midst of his dreams he loved me. He allowed his heart, so full of the fantastic, to dwell on earth in the shape of tenderness for me. When he had come, his voice thrilling my mind, my heart, the innermost points of my soul, I could not help but marvel at the fact of his choosing me, of all those who followed him. His heart, so pure and apart in his world of truth, had reached out and found mine.

He clung, when the shimmering of his ideals seemed to dim in the darkness, to my hopes, my faith in him, my warmth. A snowstorm cannot keep endlessly storming: it must rest, allowing the heat of spring and summer to melt the ice. Only then may the chill of fall revive the force of winter. His dreams would sink, weakened, and he would reach as they fell, reach for what little strength I could give him. Then, renewed, he could soar to those heights where he lived and thrived. He was not a god, but one who saw through eyes touched with divinity.

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