Hi Guys, yes I'm still alive. It's almost a year ago I posted something (25 sept. 2013 to be exact was my last post), but i'm still alive. And still in the fandom too. A lot has happened this year and I won't say I haven't written, but very little and nothing I finished. Until today. I wrote this in one go and only read it through afterwards to fix a few mistakes. I hope you like it. It's 398 words of E/R, Grantaire POV.
P.s. You can find me on Tumblr nowadays as jj91s.
Enjolras lived with him now, Grantaire guessed. He guessed because it wasn't actually something they'd talked about. They never talked much.
Grantaire lived in his atelier. Small, damp, in one of the outskirts of Paris. Most of the space was taken up by painting supplies, it was his atelier after all. In one of the corners of the room lay a ratty, stained mattress that he'd come to share with Enjolras.
He didn't even knew how they exactly came to this arrangement. He knew though that he had barely enough money to feed himself on a daily basis and Enjolras didn't pay rent. Then again, he wasn't here for most of the time either and most importantly, he didn't eat Grantaire's food when he had some. He also stayed away from Grantaire's booze.
He'd probably taken Enjolras home once, after drinking too much and apparently the guy had come back. Or he'd never left. Grantaire didn't know exactly.
He didn't really know much about Enjolras. He did know the boy was a strange beauty though, because that was what he really was... a boy. Young, oh so young and beautiful above all. Grantaire didn't really do muses, but if someone asked (and they didn't but, if, just if) he'd tell them Apollo was his muse. This boy, his beautiful Apollo who he'd paint in the morning light and who he'd fuck in the dark hours of the night.
Grantaire had asked the boy once to pose for him naked after they'd fucked. When he'd agreed, he painted the boy in all his youthful beauty, with the bruises the size of Grantaire's fingers on his hips and the bite marks that fit Grantaire's teeth on his clavicle.
Some days the boy would come home with different bruises, ones that didn't find their origin in Grantaire's touch. They weren't the type of bruises you'd get in the throes passion, or maybe you did, but it would be passion of a different kind. Grantaire recognized those as bruises from fights. Brought to a body in a less loving manner. On those days he'd wonder what de boy did in day time, when he wasn't around. He never asked though as it wasn't their way.
They didn't ask each other about their lives and they didn't talk about what they were exactly. They just were, within the four walls of Grantaire's atelier.