As the last installment was shorter than usual, here is another chapter for you guys!
Note: As I do not do slash, Grantaire's consideration of the Friends, and especially of Enjolras, are purely from a friendship/admiring perspective.
Much love,
Unicadia
A strange little sketch of Mathieu Grantaire. The large back room of the Musain takes up most of the picture, though it is quite empty and devoid of clear details – mostly half-formed lines. The clearest part of the picture is Grantaire sprawled on a chair on left side of the page, almost an after-thought, his dark curls standing out clearest of all.
Mathieu Grantaire watched to them all, every night, from his corner where he downed bottle after bottle of absinthe. He would often talk, rambling on and on about nothing, the others groaning and ordering him to silence. While his words filled his ears, he watched them and thought about them and wondered at them. Appearances meant more to him than he cared to admit, as the good Lord had failed him in that regard. He knew he judged too readily by the flash of eyes, the color lamplight bestowed on hair, and movements of arms, legs, and necks, but he almost felt it offered another look at his supposedly righteous companions.
Combeferre. Etienne Combeferre always looked half-asleep. Perhaps his half-closed, slow-blinking eyes gave this illusion. He moved with precision and care, never hurrying, reflecting his gentle, studious nature. On the other hand, he was often too slow for Enjolras (ah, Apollo!), who would turn to Courfeyrac if not satisfied by Combeferre's lengthy, measured answers. Combeferre also cared too much for that girl, his wife. Grantaire often saw him gazing at his ring or leave a meeting early so as not to worry poor Posie.
André Courfeyrac's hair embodied his spirit – rich, deep brown, glossy, and perfect. A graceful toss of his curls, shining brown eyes, and a sunny smile with a coy undertone, all made girls giggle and hide behind their fans. His bright appearance reflected his bright personality, which drew them all together. Grantaire was horribly jealous of Courfeyrac. The only thing wrong with him was his flirtatious habits.
Alexandre Bahorel laughed like a thunderstorm and looked like one, too. Gold-like eyes, stained waistcoats, torn shirts revealing scars, long brown bangs, a wild toothy grin, huge hands. Since his wife died (Grantaire could not understand why men married at all), he had taken to drinking more than he used to. Grantaire felt strangely sorry for the huge, slightly crazy man, knowing, at least in some small way, what demons possessed him.
Sacha-Josef Feuilly. Tall and lean. Or perhaps skinny was a better word. Silent, except when incited. Stoic, except when angered. Secret – always. He hunched when he sat, tracing designs on scraps of paper. A tiny, offered smile when complimented. Too proud. A defiant fire burning behind his reserved brown eyes. A confident tip of his battered hat. Shaggy sideburns Courfeyrac was fond of pulling, inducing the tiny smile again. An odd swagger, which Grantaire called "The Feuilly Stride."
Jean Prouvaire, called Jehan, dressed the way his mind worked – chaotic. Grantaire liked listing the ways Jehan pulled off complete chaos every night: from his feathered hat, to his shoes with bows on the buckles, to his hip-long strawberry-blonde hair, to the ink stains dotting his garish coats. Jehan blushed often – Grantaire also liked counting the number of times the rather rough-looking man blushed for apparently no reason during the course of the meetings. Jehan often looked melancholy, which made Grantaire wonder, but he never questioned the love-sick poet.
Hyacinthe-Félicien Joly. Jolllly. Bizarre. Joly might have been handsome if not for his deeply pox-scarred face and his enormous hazel eyes. When he smiled, though, you forgot the pockmarks and the bewildered-looking eyes; you forgot the gray day and the disgust shot at you from Enjolras, the bills and the bitter absinthe you poured down your throat to ease the pain. Sweet Jolllly could not sit still, though. He fidgeted with everything, always nervous, always pale, always sick, always strange.
Fernand Laigle, AKA Bossuet, went nowhere without Joly. Though shorter than the hypochondriac, he was his constant guardian, often at his own expense. The world existed at Bossuet's expense, Grantaire laughed to himself. His shabby clothing and bald head proved this. Something always happened to their "bald eagle," which he took with a cheerful stride and Joly at his side. Shining, green eyes and a confident, I-don't-care-if-the-world-is-against-me smile.
Enjolras. Louis-Philippe Enjolras. Apollo. Angelic. Perfect. Golden hair, like sunlight caught in tangible form. Eyes like the sky, a perfect, cloudless sky. And a burning, disdainful gaze which wounded Grantaire, but which also kept him alive. So much better than him, his ideal. If such beauty and light existed in the broken, black world – well, then there was hope for the broken, black world, and perhaps, perhaps, Enjolras' bright eternity existed as well.
Perhaps.