Chapter Text
The paint splattered across the canvas, the colours fading at the edges as the substance crept onto the seemingly ancient easel. Grantaire, face strewn with tears and eyes raging in some sort of anger, stepped back to examine his mediocre work of art. He always painted when he was angry, it was the best way of channelling his emotion. And, to the great surprise of his peers, it was always his best work.
It'd been six hours now, since Grantaire had last seen Enjolras, since the final insult had escaped his drunken lips and the concluding glare had peeped though the latter’s eyes. Enjolras, as everyone knew, was the man Grantaire admired; that he cherished every golden blonde curl that caressed his face and that he adored the way his piercing blue eyes contrasted against the pale excellence that was his complexion. It brought our protagonist pleasure to see a flash of his startling red coat as he flitted around the room in a fluster of hurry. But now he thought he'd blown it all, that he'd never have the same delight in those small features again.
His eyes gazed into those that were on the canvas, those that belonged to Enjolras. Or, at least, Grantaire's interpretation of him.
He hated himself, he really did. In times of anger, sadness or euphoria, Grantaire always drew Enjolras. But this time, he'd wrecked the portrait after completion, only to see those features he adored the most. The crisp white shirt, the pressed black trousers, his firm pink lips- they were all just a blur under the wreckage of slashes from the brush.
Running a hand through his hair, the student heaved a sigh of mixed emotions. His anger -now channelled in a way he would most likely regret- had turned back to his usual state. Just there if needed, yet not enough to embarrass him.
Grantaire hated himself; he hated everything about his seemingly average form. He detested his own cynical, pessimistic attitude, the way he always saw a glass as half empty, as opposed to half full. But Grantaire's glasses were always one hundred percent of either, never a shade of grey between. He was a drunkard, a complete and utter addict. One bottle of wine always turned to two, two forever turning to three, and before he knew it, he was unconscious on the floor, remnants of the fourth litre rippling in the bottom of the bottle.