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You want to say he’s dragged you to the museum, but secretly you were rather pleased to go. He has to go for school — there’s an exhibit of European Romanticism that one of his professors wants him to “feel his way through,” whatever that means — and he coerced you into coming with him. You were busy and working, but he got you out here with various bribes and promises and you pretended you were reluctant because you should have been reluctant, but to be honest, the idea of wandering through quiet hallways full of art and no one asking anything of you with his hand in yours was actually rather appealing to you.
About halfway through the exhibit, he wanders away from you to gaze at some paintings that look quite a lot like all the other paintings to you. You watch him tilt his head so far he’s practically falling over, and smile a little fondly before turning and heading into the next room.
There’s something here that catches your attention. A painting of a woman hoisting a red flag and leading a group of people in what looks like a revolution. You smile.
A chuckle sounds next to your ear as arms snake around your waist. “I thought you’d like this one,” Grantaire mutters to you.
You roll your eyes, but lean back into him. “Liberty Leading the People,” you say. “I’ve seen it in textbooks. It’s different in person.”
He doesn’t respond, just presses a little kiss into your neck.
You walk through the rest of the exhibit together, and besides the painting of Liberty, you find it rather boring. But calm, and relaxed. So, nice. After, he drags you into the Abstract Expressionism exhibit and you get in a heated argument because you make some comment on how it looks like kids could have done this one and he snaps at you that art doesn’t have to be about skill, and you don’t really get art, maybe, but you will almost always rise to an argument because you don’t like it when people correct you, so somehow you get into an almost-fight in the middle of the goddamn museum and he sighs sharply and just walks away.
Of course, you follow him into the sculpture garden. And he spins around and looks at you. How the helldid you get here, you wonder? And why is it that you can’t seem to spend any length of time without arguing with him?
This is stupid, you think. And pointless. And, you suddenly realize, probably entirely your fault.
So you sigh. He’s still looking at you with a kind of challenge in his eyes. “I know nothing about art,” you admit.
And for some reason, that’s totally enough for him. He almost smiles, and then he’s crossing the path to you and taking your face in his hands and kissing you and he’s enough, too. The fighting and the arguments and the apologies are all just a part of this whole, but he drives you crazy and calms you down. He makes you want to scream and he makes you want to live. And that’s good.
That’s enough.