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I.
“You look like an idiot.” It’s a lie, a dirty, filthy lie, but Grantaire says it anyway.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Enjolras asks, folding his arms over his chest.
He’s wearing a black hoody and sinfully tight black jeans, tight coils of blonde hair falling from beneath his hood, and the bright red material of his scarf draws Grantaire’s eyes unwillingly towards his mouth. No Enjolras doesn’t look like an idiot; he looks incredibly attractive with his bright eyes narrowed and slim frame merging with the night. Either that or Grantaire is just so high that everything appears to be beautiful.
“Not my fault you like to graffiti along the routes from my favourite hideouts to my home. It’s also not my fault you’ve been ignoring my texts.”
“Then it’s not my fault you can’t take a hint.”
The laugh that escapes his mouth is a spontaneous, sharp pop that squeezes itself out of his throat. Enjolras’ irritated expression slips into one of concern as Grantaire sits down on the dirty ground, eyes wide as he watches the street lamps. They’ve never shone so brightly before, a swirl of yellow and oranges. And the sky. The sky is a fucking supernova of unseen stars and polluted clouds and for once the world doesn't look like such a dreadful place.
“Are you high?” Enjolras deadpans, reaching out to grab Grantaire by the arm to pull him upright when he threatens to tip backwards. He’s pushed down the scarf and hood, spray paint completely forgotten. His touch is a muffled promise against Grantaire’s arm.
“Higher than a kite my friend.” Enjolras sighs, waits until Grantaire is somewhat steady in his sitting position before returning to his work. The streetlights catch his blonde curls and make them glow softly like a dull halo, and Grantaire isn’t sure if he voiced the observation or not. If he had, it goes ignored.
“You could do something a bit more creative than just spraying shit on a wall.” Grantaire states, waving a hand at the pinned up stencil. “I mean, something that makes more of than impact than just some fish and some letters.”
“Why? So you can just come along a ruin it with slander?” The comment is biting.
“Slander! My opinion is slander now?” Grantaire laughs so hard he’s tipping back again, coughing because his lungs are filed with tar and various other substances. Everything feels light and fuzzy and hot and Grantaire is seriously wondering what Montparnasse had put in that joint. It wasn’t just marijuana that’s for certain.
“Anyway what I mean is you need to do some images. Banksey didn’t get anywhere by just writing stuff did he.” Grantaire speaks over Enjolras, who is saying something about not being able to have a coherent conversation.
“Tell you what.” He continues, taking three attempts to rise to unsteady feet. “I’ll paint you something, and I promise it won’t be a piss take okay?”
Grantaire can’t remember anything else apart from the look in Enjolras’ eyes, a mixture between surprise and suspicion.
*
He wakes up in his own bed and is a little unsure how he got there. Not that he’s complaining, it’s better than some of the places he’s passed out and been left in before. Like that time he passed out in a stairwell and Montparnasse and Eponine just left him there, that wasn’t cool, it was also the moment when Grantaire realized he has terrible friends.
Nevertheless, in the comfort of his darkened attic bedroom with its slopping ceiling is where he rises that Saturday. The clock on the desk says it’s just turned 12:00 and that probably explains why Grantaire’s stomach is trying to eat itself. Rolling off the mattress, he discovers he’s still wearing the same t-shirt from last night as well as his jeans and it feels disgustingly sweaty. Shedding the clothes and replacing them with a fresh pair of boxers and a sweater, he pads out into the main space of the open plan apartment where Eponine is flipping through a magazine.
“Ah so the dead do rise in time.” She remarks, earning a grunt because Grantaire’s mouth is too filled up with cotton wool to make a witty response. Really, he’s been in worse conditions, but whatever additional substance had been in those joints it is really making the downward crash harder than it ought to be.
“So, care to tell me why shits like you are getting escorted home by blonde haired Greek gods in the dead of night?” Grantaire chokes on the water he’s drinking. Eponine is looking up at him over her magazine, and the smirk on her face is positively evil.
“Enjolras made sure I got home?” It would explain why he didn’t end up face down in the street but still, Enjolras of all people took the time to make sure he got home safely. The thought didn’t seem to fit right in his head but at the same time it fit perfectly. Eponine’s smile widens and she nods.
“And he came round about an hour ago asking if your were alright. It was sweet. Had me swooning all over that hot ass.”
Grantaire wants to die, because not only does Enjolras know where he lives and has probably been in his apartment, but because he most probably made a right twat out of himself on the walk back. A part of Grantaire desperately wants to remember what happened, but the other part of him is too mortified to go digging for the memory. No doubt it’ll resurface after when he’s in the supermarket, or giving a tour around the gallery.
“Please say I didn’t do anything stupid.”
“I don’t know, when he dragged you up the stairs you were pretty much draped over his shoulders with you face buried in his hair saying something about spinning gold. It was very poetic, you could win awards with the amount of bullshit you were mumbling.”
His head sinks into his hands and if there is a merciful god (which there is not, he has a tattoo that says so) then the floor will shallow him up.
*
“So Enjolras”
“No”
“He’s the activist guy, Marius complains about him a lot. Didn’t think you were into students.”
“No”
“You should tap that”
“No”
“If you don’t then I will”
The bathroom door slams shut.
*
However, Grantaire does recall saying something about creating artwork for Enjolras and the memory of the statement has him mentally kicking himself. Not a single decent sketch had emerged on paper in over two months, let alone a masterful painting or print work.
And this can’t just be any old painting, it has to prove a point, make an impact, and Grantaire’s pieces have never really strayed far from half naked subject matter.
Tacking thick paper to the wall, Grantaire stares at it, paces up and down the room, smokes two cigarettes and by the time he’s on the third whiskey shot he’s finally able to pick up a pencil.
*
He’s not into Enjolras.
Sure, the blonde extremely attractive, wears clothes that show off his figure and maybe, just maybe, Grantaire sometimes wonders about he might look like underneath those clothes. But he’s not into Enjolras.
Students aren’t his type. Activists aren’t his type. People who shield themselves from reality aren’t his type.
People who have a life worth living aren’t Grantaire’s type.
*
Grantaire: Sorry about the other night, thanks for getting me home
Enjolras: You owe me
Grantaire makes no effort to reply, just throws the phone aside. He sends a message to Montparnasse asking what was in the joints they smoked last night but it meets no response. About an hour later he gets a message saying
Enjolras: Just so you know, Rumpelstiltskin did not spin my hair
*
“I think it’ll be fun.”
“I’m sure it would be, I just don’t see what this has got to do with me.”
They’re stood in the back corner of gallery room 4 where an assortment of landscape paintings are kept, talking in low hushed voices. Really they shouldn’t be taking at all, gallery attendants are the silent guardians of the artistic world, a little bit like Batman, minus the fighting of bad guys. The only confronting of bad guys they get to do is occasionally telling people to be quiet.
“Besides, I didn’t even get invited.”
“I don’t think you need an invitation, it’s not that kind of organization.”
Grantaire rolls his eyes.
“Of course it is, can you just imagine Enjolras’ face if I just strolled in? It’ll be like breaking into a toddlers cardboard fort.”
Jehan is trying to convince Grantaire to attend the Amis meeting being held that night. Apparently the literacy student had tagged along with Courfeyrac a few nights ago, had thoroughly enjoyed himself and was now trying to rope Grantaire into Enjolras’ overly optimistic club for young protestors. Or young fools. It is all a matter of perspective.
“I’m sure they’d like to have you there.”
“No I really don’t think he will.”
“He? Are you really so hung up on Enjolras’ opinion?”
“No”
An elderly man turning to shush them with a glare interrupts their bickering. It’s startling really; normally it’s the other way around. Taking a moment to contain himself, Grantaire chews the inside of his cheek, waiting until the man had walking into the next room before hissing
“I don’t give two shits about Enjolras’ opinion, but there are better things I could be doing on a Wednesday evening then listening to students talk about a better tomorrow.”
Jehan smirks. Grantaire ends up going
*
He’s able to wear proper clothes this time rather than his work uniform. Jehan’s shift finishes an hour later and he writes the address on the inside of Grantaire’s arm, offering the time that the rest of them will be there so Grantaire can turn up ten or so minutes later.
Opting for black jeans, a faded Arctic Monkeys t-shirt and hoody, Grantaire ignores Eponine’s teasing and almost slams the front door behind him. The café isn’t too far away, just a five minute bus journey from his apartment, which is nothing compared to the half an hour tube journey coupled with a change over he makes twice a day for the gallery.
Quaint is a good word to describe it. Quaint with its cozy floor plan, old furniture, warm lights glowing through the windows. It has the evenings recommended drink written on a chalkboard outside the door and there’s a poster for a book reading afternoon in two weeks time. There’s even a small sign for the ABC Society (otherwise known as the Amis) tacked to the window, which Grantaire finds oddly sweet.
Inside it smells of coffee and cinnamon and everything a café should smell like. There are couples sat at small oval tables, students studying with open text books in small groups, but Grantaire cannot see Jehan, or Enjolras, or anyone vaguely familiar. So instead he orders himself an extra shot espresso and internally despairs about not being able to spike his own drink, when the noise of a commotion from upstairs finds its way downstairs. A commotion that sounds a lot like Grantaire imagined a club ran by Enjolras would sound like, so with mug in hand, he makes his way up the narrow staircase to the second floor.
The tables and chairs have been mostly pushed to the fringes of the room, a small cluster of armchairs and a sofa situated in the cleared floor space. There are people Grantaire doesn’t recognize, other students and members of the public who have also found themselves roped into an activist group, sitting to listen at the edge tables. Jehan is sat on the arm of the armchair Courfeyrac is sat in, smiling at something Joly is saying. Marius is there to, a pretty blonde girl sat at his side, their fingers intertwined as they immerse themselves in a world separate from the one the others occupy.
“Grantaire, I knew you would come.” Jehan announces loudly with a mixture of pride, and there’s a small mumble from the others in response, a shuffle as money is exchanged. Well at least Grantaire had earned Jehan, and some other guy he didn’t recognize, a bit of cash.
“Really, because I didn’t.” Grantaire mumbles into his coffee, taking another inventory of the room as the others make space for him on the sofa. Finally Grantaire sees him, stood in front of the window talking animatedly to some guy with glasses. Enjolras, backed by the night sky, glances straight at Grantaire for a moment, before rapidly continuing with his one sided conversation and Grantaire can’t shake the feelings that he is the topic of talk.
The guy stood opposite Enjolras places a hand on his shoulder, speaking in a slow calm manner that has Enjolras slumping slightly in defeat. Still, he does not look pleased, a frown etched on to his forehead and it look positively handsome. Really, if Grantaire is the cause of that pretty little pout then who is he to complain.
“Good to see Jehan was able to convince you, he said you weren’t too eager to be here.” Courfeyrac piped up. Grantaire shoots Jehan a look that is avoided as he looks away.
“Well, Jehan knows I’ll give anything a try once or twice, however a lot of those activities involve much more than listening to students talk about society.” Courfeyrac is laughing, tipping his head back with a gleeful look in his eye. Jehan had been right; they did get on like a house on fire. After a moment of talking, Marius is able to drag himself into the real world, finally noticing the additional presence sitting in the sofa cluster.
“Grantaire!” He calls, beaming, fingers still entangled. “Grantaire let me introduce you to Cosette.”
Cosette is a very pretty, large eyed girl with thick and flowing blonde hair. It pools around her scarf and knitted sweater covering her delicate frame. Painted fingernails match the colour of the mug she’s drinking from, and the lighting makes her skin look luminous. She is beautiful, and if Grantaire were more interested in women he would be utterly enchanted by her. Marius certainly is.
“Nice to meet you Grantaire.” She smiles and shakes his hand, which is strange but oddly admirable.
“The pleasure is mine.” He grins, kissing her knuckles because he likes to see himself as a rustic charmer. She laughs, withdrawing her hand to place it once again in Marius’ grip. Her company is delightful, she is quick to laugh and smile and engage in their conversation, and it’s adorable the way Marius looks upon her with smitten puppy eyes.
Grantaire looks to Enjolras as the conversation continues without him, but Enjolras does not look to him.
*
II.
“What is he doing here?” Enjolras hisses, grabbing hold of Combeferre and dragging him towards the window. To his credit, Combeferre doesn’t look that taken aback, merely straightens himself, follows Enjolras’ line of sight and sighs.
“Really? I thought you liked it when new people came, and Grantaire isn’t too bad.”
“Isn’t too bad? Have you forgotten that he’s the one who defaced everything we’ve ever written?”
“To be fair, it wasn’t one of our best ideas and he has a point, we advertise the freedom of expression and he was expressing himself. There’s no harm in that.” Combeferre is repeating exactly what he had said when Enjolras first came home the night after the poetry reading, enraged and throwing his bag onto the floor with the full intent to rant for an hour.
Enjolras glances over to where Grantaire is sat within the inner circle, only to find him looking straight back. He looks a little like a deer caught in headlights, hair a big black mess of curls, the lights making his skin look warm, blue eyes slightly wide without any kind of spark and the t-shirt he’s wearing hugs his frame in all the right places. Enjolras most definitely wants to punch him.
“You just have to man up and get on with it, I doubt he is here with the intention of causing trouble and he’s a nice guy, Give him a chance.” Enjolras deflates under the hand on his shoulder and the look Combeferre is giving him over his glasses. There are reasons why Combeferre is Enjolras’ best friend, and this is one of them.
The Amis has formal meetings twice a week, but they tend to end up hanging out at the Musain almost every night. They are regulars, known by face and name and cherished as the main source of income for the café. It’s a hub where they can play at both politics and studies. Luckily there are no serious matters to be discussed tonight, merely brainstorming ideas for a fundraiser to raise money for a community centre on the verge of collapse. It’s not what Enjolras would rather be doing, but it is helping in any small way he can.
Yet he stills feels like it is not enough, nothing is ever enough.
Surprisingly, Grantaire says very little, just sat and listened, taking stock of his surroundings. His gaze was glued to Enjolras as he spoke, but Enjolras made a point out of not facing him lest he loose the train of thought or spark some kind of argument between them.
He notices the shaking fingers.
*
The quiet doesn’t last. When Grantaire turns up to their meeting two weeks later, his fingers are no longer shaking and he’s holding himself different. There’s a sour expression on his face and by the way Jehan is edging around him, Enjolras guesses that it’s been a very bad day for their dark haired friend.
“It’s all well and good for us to say this” Grantaire interrupts as the meeting is drawing to a close. Enjolras stops, eyes snapping and meeting with dull, worn looking blue irises. “It’s all well and good saying the things you say, doing your little campaigns, but what good is it going to do? History has only proved this’ people will always be walked over by someone richer and more powerful, it’s in our nature and there’s no changing that.”
Enjolras stood dumbfound for a moment, righting his stance to straighten his back. The room was completely silent, all eyes looking between the two of them and for a rare moment, Enjolras is left speechless. He wants to be furious, but the look on Grantaire’s face only makes his throat swell and the only emotion that emerges is pity.
“Then is it not up to society to learn from the mistakes made throughout history in order to progress and better itself? Surely it is worse to just sit back and believe we are unable to change.”
Grantaire sighs, shaking his head.
“Oh of course, I’m speaking to an idealist, how could I forget. Have fun living in your world of make believe Enjolras.” With that Grantaire goes, jogging down the stairs with Jehan following a matter of seconds later, leaving a deafening silence in his wake.
Enjolras just stands, waiting until Jehan comes back up the stairs running a hand through his hair in exasperation. They’re looking to him, as they always do, to say something, anything. But Enjolras can’t, just steps away to take his space by the window and the conversation starts without him.
*
Grantaire number stays illuminated on the screen of Enjolras’ phone for most of the night until the energy saving mode turns the screen blank. There’s a strange urge to call, to text, to do something. If only he could remember the way to Grantaire’s apartment, he would…. he would what? In reality, Enjolras knows nothing about Grantaire, only seemed to aggravate the other with talk of a better future. The idea of doing more harm than good to another person didn’t fit right in Enjolras’ head.
He fell asleep with the phone still open on Grantaire’s number.
III.
Montparnasse is good for many things, but for Grantaire, their relationship revolves around drinks, drugs, the occasional casual fuck and tattoos. They’re not friends, Montparnasse doesn’t have friends, but Grantaire still feels like he’s part of the inner circle of something he knows nothing about.
“Eponine says you’re acting like a bitch.” Montparnasse says, blowing smoke over Grantaire. They’re sat in the living room, Grantaire seated on the floor with Montparnasse lounging across the sofa. Eponine is still in the shower, getting ready for the nights drinking they’ve planned.
“Eponine says a lot of things.” Grantaire grunts, pouring whiskey into the bottom of a shot glass. He’s filled with self-pity and the only way to indulge that was filling up with alcohol.
“No, Eponine speaks the truth. I don’t care what’s happened, but you’re not worth the time when you’re sulking, so whatever it is, get over it.”
“I’ll do whatever the hell I want, so both of you can got fuck yourselves.”
The mumble earned a small kick to the temple, firm as to remind Grantaire to watch his mouth. Montparnasse is particular about the way people speak to him, something Grantaire would normally push. A hand pats his shoulder and Montparnasse is leaning over him to refill the shot glass, taking it in his hand and pressing it against Grantaire’s bottom lip.
“When we are sad Grantaire, what do we do?”
Grantaire grins, parting his lips to knock the shot back.
“We drink.”
*
The problem is, Grantaire doesn’t get over things easily. Everything builds him inside of him, building until it breaks and there’s no other way out apart from screaming, or crying or getting high. The self-destruction has been slow accelerating since his teenage years, when he realized the world was not the amazing place it had been during childhood.
And now there’s Enjolras. Enjolras the idealist, the bright minded student with the world’s oyster open for the taking. They didn’t even know each other, and yet Grantaire couldn’t help but feel like he had already become a disappointment, and it was a feeling he couldn’t stand.
“ I can’t hate her, as much as I want to, she is just such a nice person.” Eponine says and Grantaire had to remember that it isn’t his heart that is broken.
“It’s true, she is adorable.”
“You traitor.”
“Not traitorous if you think she’s adorable as well.”
They order a new line of shots and watch as Montparnasse slinks off towards one of the back room. The shots are a mixed array of blue, green and red liquids and utterly inviting.
“I guess it’s a good thing women don’t really do anything for you otherwise you’d be trailing after her as well.” Eponine sighs, tracing the rim of one red drink before downing it. Grantaire scowls, swallowing the third mouthful.
“She not really my type even if I was interested.”
“But you do have a thing for blondes.” It’s a cooed statement, one that becomes lost in sipped alcohol.
“And who, prey tell are you referring to?” He knows who, they all know who. Eponine shoots him a look.
Grantaire’s scowl deepens, and as he reaches for the last shot, Eponine pulls it out of reach. He whines waving a hand to the bar tender to order a beer. There’s a hope that Eponine will let it drop, but she doesn’t. She just sits there and waits for him to cave. A caving, which takes place after one sip.
“I don’t have a thing for him.”
“Oh please Grantaire, you’ve been going to all these meetings, you’ve been complaining about him all the time, and ever since you met him you’ve been painting.”
“I’m an artist, I paint.”
“No, you haven’t painted in months, until now that is.”
Grantaire grumbles to himself, drinking half the pint glass in one go. He licks the foam off his top lip and thinks back to Enjolras; his halo of hair, his lean lithe body so nicely clad it hinted at the mild vanity that lurked beneath his saintly composure. His passionate discourse, eyes sparkling bright with light colouring staining his cheekbones, and this was all well and good, but it wasn’t enough. A soft, keening part of Grantaire longed to see the other silent, lounging with little grace in bed, a book between long fingers. It’s strange; longing for small intimate moments was something Grantaire had never really experienced.
“I need a cigarette.” Grantaire sighs, slipping off the bar stool. He’s drunk, that he can’t deny, but he’s been in worse states. Outside the air is cold again and Grantaire is left shivering in his t-shirt and jeans, wishing there was a hat upon his head. Comfort is taken in the small flame catching the end of the rolled up tobacco, in the slick smoke that clogs his lungs.
Small comforts, comforts that do not last, but comforts nonetheless.
*
IV.
Jehan deserves a thanking for this, Enjolras decides as he navigates through the high ceiling building of the gallery. Jehan had met him on the steps outside after finishing his shift, passing him a map with a kiss on the cheek and a promise to see him later.
Truth was, it really shouldn’t bother Enjolras as much as it does, but Grantaire hasn’t turned up to a single meeting in almost two weeks, and after several aborted attempts to make a phone call, Enjolras has reverted to what he does best. Face to face intrusion.
So he goes to the gallery, knowing that Grantaire’s shift finishes in an hour.
It isn’t a large gallery compared to the many others settled in London, but the rooms are spacious, white and clinical if it wasn’t for the bursts of colour the pieces provided. Modern art and photography shooed away the ghosts of the past, opening its doors to the creative contemporary of the 21st centaury.
And lurking silently amongst its pieces is Grantaire, looking bored but well dressed in his all black uniform, looking at a mess of paint splatters with a far away expression. Thick black curls fall over his eyes and his hands are pocketed. The other must have looked upon all these pieces a thousand times over to pass the hours. Enjolras goes to stand besides him, silently observing the painting.
“I didn’t peg you as the type to enjoy abstract art.”
Grantaire starts, snapping out of his daydream to look at Enjolras with a surprised expression. An expression that clamps down into something melancholy in a matter of moments.
“That’s because I’m not.” Disgust is prominent in his tone, gaze turning away from the offending piece to regard Enjolras skeptically. “Why are you here?”
“Why haven’t you come to any of the meetings?”
Grantaire snorts, shaking his head slightly.
“Look, I finish in an hour. Take a look around and we’ll talk later. I don’t need anymore black marks on my record for arguing with the visitors.”
Enjolras nods and watches as Grantaire retreats to a stool in the corner of the room.
Enjolras does as he’s told, meandering around the gallery, taking particular interest in a set of painting of London’s cityscape at nighttime, alive with light despite the absence of the sun. It ignites a love for the city that has always burned in his veins, be it the Paris streets of his childhood, or the London streets of his liberation.
Grantaire finds him looking at a sculpture of twisted glass reeds, parka wrapped around his body, looking on with tired eyes.
“Are you okay taking the tube?” Grantaire asks before Enjolras could speak. Enjolras nods, following after the other with a loss of words. Speaking to Grantaire is unpredictable as any question could be met with punishing cynicalism or biting sarcasm, so they walk in silence.
“I stopped coming because I didn’t see the point anymore.” Grantaire eventually says as they’re cramped on the tube together. Grantaire hangs onto the railing as Enjolras stands in front of him, hand grasped around a pole near the sliding doors. There’s barely an inch of space between them and Enjolras can smell his deodorant and the cigarette smoke that clings to that parka coat like an old friend.
“That’s hardly an answer.”
“Well it’s the only one I have.”
It appears Grantaire is in a stubborn mood today, probably due to the lack of drink in his system. There’s a swelling of disappointment growing in the pit of Enjolras’ stomach, a part of him that refuses to loose the sight of Grantaire’s face looking upon him as he delivers speeches and mourns at the absence of it.
“Are you going to come back?”
It meets no reply.
But still Enjolras follows, finding it within himself to be patient as they progress along a street of boarded up shops that Enjolras recognizes from that night almost a month ago, guiding the other home, high and gibbering in the dead of night. The warm weight draped against his side, fingers twirling the lock of blonde curls, large eyed but never bright eyed.
Grantaire’s apartment is tiny, with its open plan living room/ kitchen with one door branching off to a bedroom and bathroom with a small staircase leading up into the attic. It’s cramped and cluttered, the furniture old, battered and passed through generations of owners. But it’s clean despite the mess.
Grantaire hangs up his coat, and goes to grab a can of beer from the fridge, before hesitating, and opting for a shot of whiskey instead.
“Tell me you want me to come back.” Grantaire says after two shots, pushing the glass across the kitchen counter and turning to look at Enjolras. Enjolras blinks, leaning back against the fridge.
“It’s your choice, I’m not going to force you.”
“No, forget your freedom of choice shit for now, tell me you want me there.”
The demanding, more forceful side of Grantaire being emboldened by alcohol sends Enjolras’ heart racing. He bites his bottom lip, eyes narrowing.
“I can’t”
Grantaire lets out an amused huff, pushing away from the counter to walk up the narrow stairs until he’s out of sight. Closing his eyes, Enjolras sags for a moment, running fingers through his hair in frustration. Some how, even though Enjolras is unwilling to admit it, Grantaire has wormed his way beneath his skin, lodged like an irritating rose thorn still visible from the surface. Enjolras just wants him to shut up and agree for once instead of making everything purposely difficult.
Sighing in defeat, Enjolras strides towards the stairs, jogging up them to find there is no door in the doorframe, and the thick curtain that presumably occupied the space was pushed aside. Grantaire stood across the threshold, pulling a t-shirt over his bare back.
“Fine, you want me to indulge in power play, fine. Grantaire, I want you to attend the meetings, even if you shun everything we believe in, your presence is still one I value.”
There was a truth behind the words, even if it didn’t make itself know in the tone of voice. Games of power play are ones Enjolras always wins in time.
Grantaire sighs, bowing his head briefly before turning around.
“ I did that painting I promised you.” Grantaire rubs the back of his neck, choking out a laugh “It’s stupid really.”
Enjolras smiled despite himself, knowing for the time being that a truce is set between them.
“Show me.”
He steps across the threshold and into the bedroom beyond.