feelin' 22

cfmusings:

I do not use the word  h o m e  lightly.

So when I sigh it into the crook of your neck,

Believe that your spine is a timber frame,

Your  kiss  a welcome mat,

“…it is why I drink. I desire forgetting and yet I never can,” it’s spoken against the fabric of the younger’s shirt, a quiver to his voice. “We were foolish and I do not– …” He is not sure what more he can say. Any words would not do justice to the sting, the memories he wanted to forget. 

But no amount of brandy could erase what had happened. The blood that had been spilled- and he survived. Grantaire felt this was a great injustice– there were many more bright minds lost that day, why did he get to live, out of all of them?

“Your confidence is inspiring, Jehan, but I fear should I find myself closer I will damn you all.” Somewhere down the road, his mind twisted it– finding himself to be the bearer of the bad. Perhaps he was. Perhaps that thinking turned Grantaire into the man now leaning against his friend’s shoulder. Damnit. He does not mean to think friend but there it is. The damage is done. 

Withdrawing, he moves away from Prouvaire, across the room. His back is to the other male. 

“I had once been bright eyed and bushy tailed, ready to change the world. Unaware the cost would be as it ended up– surely, we could die but never once did I consider I would be the sole survivor.” He speaks and it’s clear he’s trying to push past his pain. Pain should not define him, but it seems to be all he feels in this moment. “I was at the forefront, I wrote essays, speeches, I could convince a nun to part her legs if I wanted it. …. but  it was for naught. I was the one to be sparred. I was the last man standing…. I may as well have massacred my friends with my own two hands.” He isn’t sure when he gets so caught up in his story, but his fist hits the wall and there’s a sickening sound to follow it. 

R recoils, wounded hand to his chest. That was not a reassuring sound. 

His frown etches into the tiniest smile at Grantaire’s joke, a hint at his friend’s regular mood in this heavy air. But then he realises that the reason R was so drawn to Enjolras in the first place is because he saw himself in their golden leader. It’s a thought that nearly makes him gasp, as so many questions he’s asked over the years finally have answers as more and more connections slide into place.

Learning that the cynic was once a golden revolutionary of his own makes his heart hurt more than it probably should. 

He wonders how much it hurt Rene Grantaire to be pulled so easily into the family - the security - created by les amis.

He opens his mouth to speak, thinking on how much he’d do for Enjolras and his friends and the cause. “I’m sure they wouldn’t blame you. They probably decided themselves that they’d walk through fire and back for you on their own.”

Collected from all over the net, other memes, etc. Some are subtle, some are fluffy, some don’t have to be taken sexually, some are so straightforward you could practically jump into a smut scene in a few posts. Enjoy!

“…I’ve done this before,” his voice, when he finds it, feels foreign. Betrayed. He does not turn to Prouvaire, he closes his eyes to prevent giving himself away. There is, much to his dismay, a lump in his throat. Another betrayal of himself, of the carefully concealed beneath the cynical appearance. 

His hands stop– but tremble. One rakes through black curls and he gives the smallest, most bitter little laugh. 

“I had long hair.” It’s neither here nor there. He is a fool. 

Why is he telling this story? 

“….I was not always so cynical.” An utterly ignorant, hopeless man. He stands from his stool, moving to a pile of books. Beautiful, worn, leather bound– he finds one in a faded red. 

There is no accurate way to describe what had happened. The moment, the movement feels days, months, lifetimes away. He brings the faded leather to Jehan, doing all in his power to keep his expression neutral. He fails. The muscles of his face are cold but those impossible blues tell so much more. Grantaire had hopes once. Grantaire had dreams. Grantaire had a fire– a fire still burning, now embers, but burning nonetheless- that had spurred him. Bandaged hands offer the leather to his comrade (he does not let himself think friend, because friend means it will hurt all the more when this falls apart, as it will. He can see what’s coming). 

“This is all I can offer. I– fear that I cannot adequately elaborate on what has plagued me so recently, but here it is. My journal, from that time. Perhaps it will… answer the questions I see you have.” He tries to sound detached– but he fails. There is pain, there is remorse- Grantaire has unwilling exposed tender wounds, wounds he wished healed– 

Drinking had dulled the pain.

He’s handed the journal, but instead of opening it in front of the friend handing it to him, he takes his hands. Hands that are so nimble from signing, so strong from boxing. He takes the other’s hands and hopes that the warmth he feels for his friend in that moment is conveyed in the way he holds them so gently, so cleverly an offer of comfort. 

He stands, jacket and the journal placed to the side, and wordlessly wraps his arms around Grantaire. He feels guilty for accidentally opening wounds that were so clearly still tender, however deeply buried they were below the surface of the cynic.

He pulls back enough to look Grantaire in the eyes. “I’m deeply sorry for your loss, R. I hope- no, I know les amis won’t follow the same path your friends did however long ago.”