Grantaire works in a tiny apartment overlooking the Seine. His eyes are red. They are purple, turquoise, magenta too, because his eyes only see his work, and he can't see the world but through saccharine colors.
It's quiet, and white, in that tiny apartment. He slouches on the couch. Enjolras is sitting in the chair by the large window, but not looking at Grantaire. He's focused on something outside the window, and his lips are pursed— forehead, furrowed to a point. Grantaire loves the way the light kisses on his profile.
This is the story of when the world stopped turning, when the magnetic heat wiggled its way into Grantaire again, splashed on the wall, ruined the whiteness.