If you haven't figured out the method behind my madness by now, I'll tell you: I post a new chapter every time I get a new follower or review, so if you want more chapters, reviews and critiques are the way to get there. I am very open to criticism; I welcome it.
I'm also accepting prompts, ideas, requests, etc., because my muse is ill and fading fast. They don't have to be within the pairings that I've created for the sake of the story, but I'd like them to be as close as possible.
Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine.
This is my favorite thing I've written so far, and I hope you like it as much as I do.
When finals roll around, there's a noticeable shift in Grantaire. He spends less time at meetings, consumes less alcohol, and makes a very specialized shopping trip: he buys several boxes of instant mashed potatoes, several 5-Hour Energies, and several packages of instant coffee. He will drink the energy drinks, and the instant coffee will be eaten with a spoon.
Grantaire disappears for a few days, listening to nothing but Iron & Wine and Florence + the Machine nonstop at earsplitting volumes (everyone is surprised that no neighbors complain), accompanied by the odd sound of glass breaking or shouting; such is the symphony of the artist.
Courfeyrac, Joly, Enjolras, and Eponine take turns checking on him, and it's Enjolras's turn when he finally emerges from his room, covered in paint and looking like he hasn't showered in a few days. He definitely smells like he hasn't showered in a few days.
"So how is it coming along?" Enjolras asks, gesturing to the closed door leading to Grantaire's room that serves a double function as his studio.
"Finished," Grantaire mumbles through a mouthful of potatoes with instant coffee crystals sprinkled on top. Enjolras tries not to gag.
"May I see?" Grantaire freezes before shaking his head. "Why not? I already know the subject matter." He had mentioned the day before he disappeared into his studio that he would be painting the Independents.
"'S'weird," he finally says, rubbing a hand against his unshaven jaw.
"I wanna see," Enjolras whines a bit. Something about Grantaire's paintings captivates him on a level that rivals that of even activism. It's an incredibly important part of his life and his friendship with the other man ("Are you drawing me?" the blonde man asks the barista indignantly. "Does it bother you?" he fires back.), and several of Grantaire's paintings hang in Enjolras's room.
"I'm telling you, it's really weird."
"I like weird."
He sighs and slides back his chair. "Don't say I didn't warn you." He moves to his room, opens the door, and steps aside to allow Enjolras first entrance.
Enjolras's first thought is that it's a photograph; he has to remind himself that it's a painting. He is the central figure, wearing a red jacket and shredded black pants, perched on top of what he immediately recognizes as Eponine's beaten-up black Impala with a snarl on his face. The look in his eyes frightens him; the blaze in them, combined with the wildness of his hair, makes him look like an ancient revolutionary.
To his right is Combeferre, holding an American flag aloft in his right hand, glasses cracked and usually well-groomed hair an ebony tangle, his expression dangerous.
On his other side is Courfeyrac, a wicked smirk on his face that seems to suggest at and invite mischief, clad in a black velvet coat over his bare chest and pants with the design of the American flag on them; he holds a red flag in his left hand, his brown hair in its usual perfect disarray.
On the ground is Feuilly, his red hair vibrant and blazing, holding two cans of spray paint in the air; the painting captures him in mid-spray, the two colors (red and black) frozen; his mouth is held in defiant determination.
To his left is Joly, wearing a surgical mask, holding the right corner of a large canvas sign that reads "Vive la revolution!"
On the other side of Joly is Bossuet, bald head gleaming insolently, mouth open in a rebel yell, holding the center of the sign.
Bahorel, hair tied back in a ponytail, glaring at the viewer, holds the other corner of the sign, shirtless and painted the recurring colors of red and black; his expression makes Enjolras want to crawl back until he can no longer see those features screwed up in disgust and anger.
To his left, Eponine stands, wearing her black greatcoat and combat boots, fist thrust in the air, eyes stormy and dangerous, hair in an untamed tangle; everything about her looks like a feral wolf.
Pontmercy is turned away.
All around, in the background, there are faceless people, holding signs with words that Enjolras cannot read, rioting.
Enjolras doesn't speak, just moves closer to the enormous canvas, easily his height and twice his width. The painting is the most beautiful and terrifying thing he has ever seen.
When he finally speaks, instead of saying what he should say, like, "This is amazing," or "Grantaire, this painting makes me question my asexuality. I want to fornicate with this painting," he says, "You're not there?"
Grantaire ducks his head and mumbles something about not liking to paint himself.
There's no need for Enjolras to know that Grantaire has never seen himself as truly belonging to the Independents and their revolution.