A/N: Hi y'all. Thanks again for all the sweet reviews after my last post. I really enjoy reading them and responding to them. The thingy i'm posting today, well I don't really know what this is. I was supposed to write something for combeferregrantaireweek (dot tumblr dot com if you want to read all the loveliness written for it/the art/things) which lasted from 12-19 august and to which I wanted to contribute something but it didn't came out the way I wanted it and instead I wrote Jehan/Courf the break up with some Jehan/Grantaire friendship on the side. Yep, I know that doesn't make sense. The style in which it's written is a bit different from what I write normally but that was just the way it came out. I hope you like it, if you don't... some E/R is coming your way and I hope it will come pretty soon and i'm just going to keep Combeferre/Grantaire on my to-write list for now. I hope you enjoy reading this, please leave me a message since I always like talking to you guys.
Disclaimer: Still not owning a damn thing.
New. New. Everything needed to be new. To be different. To stop reminding him. Reminding him of open windows, the breeze coming through while his hands were buried in dark curls. Reminding him of watching movies, not minding which kind because they wouldn't see much of it anyway, too absorbed in each other. Reminding him of too much aftershave, the smell lingering on the pillowcases even if the person that left it there was already out of bed, making coffee for the two of them. The pillowcases needed to go. Things needed to change, to stop reminding him.
A garbage bag slowly filled with memories. Tickets to the theatre. Flowers given to him only a few days ago. His notebook filled with loud laughter, sweet kisses, dark curls, glinting eyes. Postcards. The pillowcases. A shirt left behind. Courfeyracs toothbrush in the bathroom. Half of his locks, a braid cut in halve.
The telephone rings. Jehan doesn't pick up. The phone rings again. And again. And again. Jehan picks up, says nothing.
The doorbell rings. Rings again. Rustling close to his front door. The click of a lock. Footsteps in the hallway. Another set of dark curls around the corner. Strong arms envelope him in a tight hug. His eyes squeeze shut. The stale smell of alcohol comes to his nose. He leans against broad shoulders. Grantaire.
Hours pass. More locks falling down. With them memories of feeling lean fingers carding through, getting replaced by the feeling of blunt fingers running through short locks, a soft smile shared through the bathroom mirror.
Days pass. Walls change in color. Old plants go out, new plants come in. New pillowcases come in. The smell of aftershave goes out, getting replaced by the smell of vanilla scented candles. New notebooks come in. Furniture gets shuffled around
New, new. Everything is new. Nothing looks the same, but still... the memories remain.