Dust softens the harsh edges of the empty room. It masks the piles of parchment and it flits over the paint stains that mar the creaking floor. An empty mattress sits with blankets strewn about in an unorganized fashion.
A bristle from a paintbrush meanders towards the ground, dancing playfully on the slight currents within the room. The paintbrush is caked with creamy paint, and can never be persuaded to be its previous pliability again. The paintbrush had once been held in the firm grip of a lanky man. The man had been laughing, and scratching at his dark curly hair with the butt of the brush. Before him was a painting perched on a ratty easel.
Another man with blonde hair leaned forward on the mattress, the morning light casting shadows on his strong jawline. He was gazing in admiration at the canvas. "It is beautiful, Grantaire." Restless, the man stretched, and Grantaire shook his head.
"It does not do you justice," Grantaire said, wincing as he looked at the canvas. He dipped the paintbrush in a creamy colored paint and added a few strokes to the already unruly hair depicted on the canvas. Grantaire sighed and set the brush down. He usually took great care with his art supplies. They were really the only thing he took great care with. However, the paintbrush had to resign to its fate of never being useful again, except as a reminder of the golden swathes which had graced both the canvas and the head of the leader of the revolution.
Grantaire leaned forward, taking the other man's hands and pulling him into a standing position. They stood, holding onto each other's hands in silence until Grantaire uttered an apology. "Oh, Enjolras, that picture hardly looks at you at all. I'm sorry." He pulled Enjolras closer. "You must be made of marble, for I have never seen any mortal be so strong and beautiful."
Enjolras bristled, "Never have I seen a man with such grace in his fingertips, but enough wine in the rest of him to cancel it out, be as wonderful as you. You could make stories come to life and women weep with a stroke of your brush, and yet you choose a life of darkness and wine instead of one consumed by light and creation." Enjolras breathed deeply, closing his eyes and letting the anger pass. He softly took Grantaire's hand and guided it to his chest. Enjolras's heart beat a steady rhythm and pounded against his ribs, almost in protest of its cage. "I am as human as you, R."
Grantaire looked down, and softly stroked Enjolras's chest. He leaned his head against Enjolras's shoulder. Enjolras squirmed away a few seconds later, embarrassed by his sentimentality. "I was supposed to meet Courfeyrac and Combeferre at the Musain half an hour ago." Enjolras rushed away, his heart pounding with adrenaline, and his head pounding with guilt at leaving Grantaire alone.
Grantaire rushed after Enjolras, sinking onto the floor as the door slams before Grantaire could make it there. The room seems darker, and the soft smile disappears from Grantaire's face.
The paintbrush sits in the basket, the wooden base of the brush chipped and scratched. The room is muted with time. The sun barely filters through the dust on the windows.
