Work Text:
There’s a crumpled sample essay on the floor next to his bed from that time he only just handed it in on time because he was kind of a bit too busy not killing himself to write the goddamn thing. Surprisingly enough no clothes are scattered; one of his housemates must’ve taken pity and picked them up before laundry, which was alright, he guesses, he just really hoped they’d find their way back into his room at some point. The bed he sat on was a proper bed, a quite nice one that had been left at the curb and well, replace the mattress and get it up the stairs and voila, don’t need to waste money on buying the damn thing. There are a few posters resolutely sticking to the walls. He’d chucked them up on the walls when he’d first moved in and had been- god forbid- enthusiastic about having his own room that (in theory) no one else could enter without his say so. But then that happened and so now everyone in the house had a key which, it was nice they cared enough to worry he supposes.
A metal cat he’s pretty sure is supposed to sit in a garden or potted plant or something with soil is on his windowsill, gazing serenely over his room, or out the window over the pathetic excuse for a front yard if he was feeling particularly annoyed and didn’t want the projected judgemental stare of a happy cat hanging over him. It had been a Christmas present from Jehan, he thinks. A few tea light candles either half burnt or dead are floating around, red and strawberry scented, though you could barely smell the strawberry until it had been burning for 3+ hours. Along one wall runs a few narrow shelves with books, magazines, even a few old newspapers stacked or shoved in it. A pile of pirated DVDs and CDs in jewel cases were down one end. The movies had awful b-grade titles like ‘Invasion of Indiana’ or ‘Sherlock Holmes: Lost in London’ and were exactly as bad as the awfully alliteration suggested. There's a tallboy shoved up against the wall the bed wasn’t; the bottom drawer had the room to fully open, however normally it didn’t, Grantaire just being too tired to shove the shit out of the way so it could. The rest opened okay though, and while he’d personally probably go for something a bit bigger this had come with the house and fuck it if he ever said no to free furniture.
The best thing about his room however was that it had floorboards. That way he could paint all he wanted and all he had to worry about was how he was going to get the stray bits out of the cracks between them (an x-acto knife and paint stripper, apparently) as opposed to cleaning up the big fucking stains that inevitably happened when you dared paint somewhere with carpet flooring.
That’s not to say he painted often- just he was never very cautious, or sober or in a frame of mind good enough to actually be careful about where he put his hands or arms or hell even legs if he’d decided to paint cross legged on the floor. Most of the time he just drew. Drew so much he had fucking writers callouses in all the spots you could get them.
Drawing, he’d decided way back in high school before he really knew anything (and by the time he did it was far too late to change what he thought), was really fucking underappreciated, you know? Like in all the galleries, work was pretty much guaranteed to be a painting or a sculpture. Fuck that shit. He’d draw and make it look like a goddamn painting if he had to- he just wanted to see a drawing--his drawing maybe--hanging up somewhere among all the pretentious paintings and marbles and canvas’s with nothing but white paint on them and what was even the point of modern art anyway so much of it was fucking pointless.
His high school opinions were now mostly part of the dark part of everyone’s past that they choose not to ever dwell on again.
The drawing had not happened yet, however. Really, he didn’t ever expect it to anymore. It had just become the default ‘dream’ when people asked in spite of sounding like fucking wankers or shitty get to know you sheets came around – the ones he even bothered to fill out, anyway.
Today, however, wasn’t a painting or a drawing day. Today wasn’t a day of creation through materials; today was a day of destruction through creation.
Jehan would join him for days like these. Grantaire, he’d open the windows wide, even if it was raining, but never if it was too windy, and roll a joint from a stash he used far too little for his tastes, but pot wasn’t something he liked to have to buy too often. They’d smoke it together, maybe make out a little if the day was for a Good Reason and not a Bad Reason, and then set to work.
“The idea,” Grantaire had explained the first time, “is not one of purging, though it could be interpreted or used that way I guess. The idea is that we create the image in our minds, an image that has probably lingered there deep in its depths, outside of it. And by doing so we destroy it, replace it, create it in the real world so it no longer lurks at the back where my demons can see it and use it against me. Yes, no, or I need another joint for this?”
Jehan had only pondered for a moment before grabbing his notebook from where it lay beside him and nodding. He’d settled down using Grantaire’s legs as an armrest, bookrest, pillow and eventually canvas, as Grantaire used Jehan’s shirtless back to create an image, occasionally telling him to stop fucking fidgeting the flowers are going to smudge and it won’t look right.
But that was the first time, and now this is probably about the fifth or sixth time—neither of them kept count.
Grantaire is splayed out on floor space Jehan had had the sense to clear, shirtless, as Jehan used his torso as a canvas for his sharpie. Grantaire himself is drawing blindly on a sheet of paper, alternating between the actual ink pen and just dipping his fingers in the well and moving them over the page.
Jehan is covering his chest in a black mess of poetry and drawings, some of the words his own and others with authors written below their lines. There’s a pointed careful avoidance of Grantaire’s new tattoo – a shattered clock with gears and hands strewn across his hips – in preference for his upper torso, some even snaking around his neck.
Grantaire’s fingers, the clean ones, tangle in Jehan’s hair where he’d fallen asleep against a poetry covered side. Ink, so much ink this time. At least the plaguing, constant voice in his head is silence for now.
“Infatuation,” he mutters to no one but himself, as a reassurance, an affirmation, almost a prayer; the word repeated over and over again. It could be nothing beyond infatuation; he couldn't let it become more.
It’s raining outside now. He supposes about four things then, right before he falls asleep himself, curled next to his flower prince. The first supposition is that maybe he should close the windows, considering it was getting cold and he had the immune system of a blueberry muffin. The second was that maybe he should wash his hands and close the inkwell, lest it spill. This was especially considering that ink was much harder to scrub away than paint. The third is a consideration of moving to the bed, but that would mean waking Jehan enough to move him as well. He’s going to have a crick in his neck tomorrow, but in the moment with his bare back against the floorboards and a warm weight at his side, it matters exactly none. There was a fourth consideration to be had, which probably had a degree of somewhat importance, but it was lost to the void of sleep before he could assess it.
***
Enjolras found them curled together 3 hours later, the sketchbook beside Grantaire now covered in ink. It was only because it had soaked through several pages that Enjolras didn’t see the image of himself that Grantaire created (destroyed).
Grantaire and Jehan had curled close together, one inky hand fisted in Jehan’s t-shirt. Their legs were tangled together, almost appearing knotted from where Enjolras was standing. Jehan’s head was tucked underneath Grantaire’s chin, against his chest. It was a sweet scene.
He’d meant to ask Jehan about appropriate flowers for Things, but considering Jehan was asleep, it could probably wait until morning. Also the fact it was 4am, and Things is defintely not something he should be doing after being awake for over 20 hours.
Enjolras told himself the hollow feeling that had taken up residence in his chest when he left to go to sleep himself was a good feeling. It made him happy to see his friends like that. His eyes crinkled as he smiled at it. It made him happy.
Except that he’d learnt how to lie to himself expertly well. One had too in order to believe the death of a loved one wasn’t their fault.
(It wasn’t his fault.
It wasn’t his fault.
It wasn’t his fault.
Except that it was.
The heaviest lie on his mind.)
He clutched his pillow as he slept that night, even it was mainly to stop him from reaching out to the cold side of his bed.