See, this is a difficult question not because I think any of them wouldn’t but because I think they all definitely would.
Enjolras shows up in a temper because someone was abusing a baby goat and who does things like that and raging about the injustices of animal abuse while cuddling the baby.
Combeferre is goat-sitting and enthuses about the many and varied uses for goats and has his goat litter-trained and thus figures he may as well bring it out to get socialized.
Courfeyrac confiscated the kid because it was being held as evidence at the police station or something and it was bleating and really, Enjolras, what was he supposed to do, leave it there?
One of Feuilly’s neighbors had the goat but couldn’t take care of it anymore, so he took it in, and it’s still young enough to need frequent feeding, so he brings it to the meeting.
Jehan turns up with the goat following at his heels, announces he’s named it Eurydice because it followed him out of hell, and declines to explain further. When Combeferre points out it is a boy goat he only gets a withering look in response.
Joly and Bossuet turn up with a goat, Bossuet’s arm in a sling, and about six bags full of potential goat foods Joly wants to try. Both of them look very shifty. They all decide it is probably best not to ask.
Bahorel met this dude with a baller goat, and the dude was totally an asshole, so he punched him out and took the goat. The goat’s name is Rex. Like T. Rex, Enjolras, cool it, I’m not indoctrinating my goat into the monarchy.
Some model for one of Grantaire’s art classes came with a goat because they thought it would make for a good ~pastoral painting~ or something, and then left the goat there, so Grantaire shrugged and brought it with him. It’s named Bottle. Shut up, Courfeyrac, that’s a totally legit goat name.
Marius does not know why this goat is following him will someone please help him and stop giggling and taking pictures :(((((
we know how much R teases Enjolras for his chastity and unreachable persona, right? calls him by the names of deities and compares him to marble statues, yes?
so what if one day he accidentally overhears a conversation between Enjolras and Combeferre and he’s only mildly guilty as he listens to Enjolras gush romantically about some mysterious Man who, by the sound of it, is perfection personified, and Enjolras sounds completely gone for this man and looks so terribly heartbroken as he talks about how The Man doesn’t so much as look at him and doesn’t even take him seriously
and Grantaire’s own heart is being torn apart and frankly he feels like passing out, but he’s mostly enraged on behalf of Enjolras, because who the bloody hell is this fool who has been lucky enough to be blessed with his Apollo’s love and is so undeserving of it???
but then Combeferre asks Enjolras in a gentle sympathetic voice why does he think so and why hasn’t he tried speaking to The Man in question before drawing hasty conclusions, and Enjolras just gives this terrible sad smile that tugs painfully at Grantaire’s heart and answers: “How could I? I imagine R thinks love’s a mystery to me.”
1) I love gavroche so much and I’m going to plummet into an abyss when he dies
2) every single interaction between gavroche and enjolras is fucking hilarious…..especially since enjolras clearly has absolutely no idea how to interact with children
3) combeferre is the only sensible one in this while goddamn 1000+ page novel
It’s a pure day – beautiful and linen-white, and as Grantaire tastes the cleanness of it on his lips, it’s difficult to think of anything that is less than sublime, less than crystal-perfect.
Perhaps difficult is the wrong word – everything wrong is still there, after all – but it’s much easier than usual to ignore that, soften his own soul to the world, empty away all dreams of anger and frustration and despair into the November sky.
Strangers glance past in their own chrysalides, one an old man of burnt clay with a black folder – a notebook, perhaps; one a father with his child, moss-eyed with crumbling fingers; one a tall woman smiling into the air, hair richly coiled around her head. People-watching is, after all, a parisian sport, and one Grantaire loves to indulge himself in, to create mythologies of the mundane, to find his own heavens in what he knows of heathenry. Ah, for that is what he used to do with Enjolras, of course: Grantaire, the conjuror, who fell for the stars themselves, the sun, who forged such majesty the real thing could hardly live up to it.
And in many ways, he didn’t. Enjolras is warm, yes, vast and broiling with ardency and cunning in every way, and yet awkward, and yet funny, and yet ridiculous in his own self. Enjolras is the man who speaks of love with more conviction than almost any other, and yet blushes to say it, and yet giggles at Grantaire’s words with more youthfulness than anything else he does.
Oh, Enjolras, that gorgeous man.
Expectation fidgets inside Grantaire, melts him to champagne. Enjolras texted him five minutes ago to say he’s on his way, and he can hardly blame Paris itself for its own traffic catastrophes. He looks at his watch. Enjolras is two minutes late – a feat for a man as painfully punctual as him.
Fuck the traffic.
When Enjolras does arrive, five minutes late, he appears as a smudge of red against the buildings, hair hung in coils around his head a bleached-blond dream. His eyes are dark and charming, and the edges of his cheeks are dusted with ink-smudges.
He takes Grantaire;s hands as soon as he gets close enough – his are cold and needle-sharp – and Grantaire laughs when he pouts: “How long have you been standing there?”
“Aeons. Millenia.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “You’ve been taken by the fae and returned to a different world.”
Enjolras rolls his eyes but tucks himself under Grantaire’s chin all the same. Something like home flutters in his chest at the warmth.
“Cold,” Enjolras mutters from the spot in front of Grantaire’s heartbeat. “Warm me up, R.”
The cold air glints off the bones in his hands, wrapped around Enjolras as they are. “If you want to get warm we need to move, mon ange. And we were supposed to leave ten minutes ago.”
“Cold,” Enjolras insists, lifting his head up so that that shock of blond hair glitters around him and the softness of his cheeks darkens to ochre. A bruise deep inside Grantaire bleeds and heals all at once. “Warm me up, Grantaire.”
And Grantaire does what he knows, and he talks, and he wreaths promises from the air the way Enjolras does at protests, uses that hurt isolation, uses that bleakness of the mind he’s so determined to destroy, uses every time he waxed lyric on his now-boyfriend’s beauty, kindness, passion. “You have every star inside you, Enjolras – Jove would quiver and fear your revolution. You could be Odysseus, the king, cunning Odysseus made immortal, made into the sky himself. There may be nothing in you that is not imperfect and fallible, but there is also nothing in you that is not sublime in every way. I say I love you it is to say I know you and that there is nothing in the world more beautiful than that.” The words render themself a dark watercolour, vibrant and divine.
And then Enjolras is kissing him, and he’s not all that good at it but he’s learning, and everything cold becomes him, becomes Enjolras deified and Enjolras humanised and Enjolras laughing into Grantaire’s mouth. Hot breath, sweetness.
“Why are you laughing?” he asks, silken-voiced in love.
Enjolras grins up at the sky, heart alight, and cries out softly: “It’s snowing, Grantaire!”
Snowing, yes – shadowy silver flakes cutting down from the clouds in a sudden gasping that makes marble of the world around them. Perhaps they won’t get to the museum exhibit today; perhaps they just let themselves be in love in the first snow of the year, perhaps they just defy Jove for such a thing as happiness.
They become art there in the mirror-shard winter, and they kiss and hold each other until the world is a masterpiece, too.
Okay but let’s talk about Jean Valjean for a second, because he’s so often overlooked. I definitely head canon him as Asexual and Aromantic but look how much love he has for the world – like agape altruistic love, familial and platonic love and just… He doesn’t have romantic or sexual relations in the brick and that’s okay, like he doesn’t have to. There are other forms of loving and it just makes me very happy to see a character like him. He loves Cosette and Fantine fiercely, he loves the people he protects, he grows to love Marius, he love everyone he works with, he is kind to strangers and the poor and even frickin Montparnasse and even offers love towards Jarvert in that he bears him no ill will. I just love that ace Valjean. *heart eyes emoji* 😍
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