speciate:

In the dream he reached down with clumsy hands, opening the marble and finding a nursery of stars locked within Enjolras’ ribcage. And there, at the centre, not a beating heart but a spinning white-hot sun. It was not blood or love but pure life that pumped through his veins. He wasn’t surprised, he’d always know that suns and solar systems had been in Enjolras’ eyes and hair and words. His leader, who’d bleed nothing but light. [x]

CONGRATULATIONS to thecitysmith for finishing Paris Burning!! o/ it was excellent(ly painful). [fullview]

(edited bc i forgot the scars, how?? orz)