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Tattered fingers lingering on the warm and foolish

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!

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.”

“...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. 

He takes his coat off, laying it against his lap. The chill in the late October air outside has long since seeped from his bones, and its clear that this isn’t going to be a short visit to check up on his friend like he thought. He watches Grantaire, head tilted to the side as if that’ll help him decipher the other’s words.

And of course he catches the emotions flicker across his face, the way they dance in the light coming through the window. Looking at Grantaire now, the poet realises that there’s so much to their cynic than previously thought. It makes him want to get to know him more than he already has, to find out all the secrets lying beneath.

“...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 follows his friend, eyes taking in more of Grantaire’s apartment as he walks. His eyes catch the painting, and he’s stopped in his tracks. It’s absolutely beautiful, although clearly unfinished.  “I noticed, I just didn’t want to bring it up.”

It is possible to argue in disbelief-- worry? For him? That is peculiar, the thought leaves a weird taste in the back of his throat. Dangerously close to-- 

He turns his attention back to the painting and tries to push on and yet... His brows furrow. “...do you ever feel as though you can see what’s coming?” A strange question for a strange situation. For repetition. Grantaire finds this is easier-- focusing on his painting as he speaks of a past unknown to Les Amis. 

The absence of all the features of Grantaire he’s used to is what worries Jehan the most. And though boxing is something the poet was aware his friend did, he’s never seen him in the aftermath of it - at least not with a bruise this fresh. He takes on a worried tone to match the expression on his face. “What happened to you?”

“I don’t recall,” he lies easily, at least at first. “But it’s certainly been a strange time.... I haven’t been sober in a while. I forgot what it was like.” He turns away, walking back to the back room once more- expecting Jehan to follow. “I’ve found I recall why I drank- my mind is much too loud for my own good. It’s annoying. Hence the cleanliness-- I’m sure you noticed.” He returned to the newest painting he was attempting-- something that held a distinct sorrow behind it. 

The second week Grantaire missed a meeting had Enjolras faltering, and it was Jehan that was doing the frowning. It was a frown that didn’t go unnoticed, but everyone that noticed knew he’d be the one to do something to get their cynic back. Jehan always brought their cynic home.

Even if he didn’t consider Les Amis home yet.

The third missed meeting is over by the time Grantaire is seen walking back from his dumpster, and Jehan is unlocking Grantaire’s apartment door twenty minutes later, mumbled excuses about a cat he saw on the street his reason for not staying after.

“Grantaire?” He calls out, eyes searching as he removes his scarf.

The first thing he notices is that the apartment is clean, which isn’t what he was expecting - the couple other times he’s been here, dragging Grantaire home when he’s too drunk to walk, it was messier than his own apartment. (Thanks, Enjolras.)

The second thing he notices is the tell-tale smell of lemon-scented cleaner, as if the entire apartment has drowned in it.

Then it’s the first name and Grantaire moves from his perch in the back room to the doorway, canting his head to the side. 

“Prouvaire? What is it?” No slur. Not even a faint lilt. Dark stubble litters his jaw, his right eye is a nasty, deep purple. He cants his head, tilting the mostly-deaf ear to his shoulder. 

He wonders, briefly, if he should worry at the appearance of his friend. Two weeks of sobriety. Two weeks alone with his thoughts and the bandages on his hands mean boxing, the bruising as well. Still shirtless, bare, hairy chest pale from lack of sun, matching his face and arms-- he’s been inside too long. He makes a mental note to busy himself outside for a while to get his color back--