Some evenings, barricaded in his back corner with a bottle of absinthe, he begins to feel an unreasonable longing for anything sweet. It haunts at him vaguely, whispering in the back of his mind where he pushes it, and every now and then tears forward into an unquenchable need.
Some evenings, he cannot tell if the longing is for various sort of pastry or for the kisses he once received from Enjolras. He cannot distinguish between want of golden piecrust and want of golden hair.
But after all this time, really, he's learned to live with the lack of all.
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