Talk to me about Jehan convincing Grantaire to let them paint his nails ❤
It’s early in the afternoon and Grantaire is playing his guitar while Jehan lies upside down on his sofa. Their long hair is streaming past the faded cushions and pools on the floorboards below. Their eyes are fixed intently on his right hand, plucking the strings.
Grantaire smiles. “You’re going to set me or my guitar on fire if you keep staring like that.”
“Stop accusing me of malignant witchcraft,” Jehan hums, but there are still tracking the movements of Grantaire’s fingers.
“I never accuse you of witchcraft,” Grantaire contradicts. “I accuse you of being a supernatural being that is staring at my fingers hard enough to make them spontaneously combust.”
“Your hands are pretty,” Jehan says matter-of-factly.
Grantaire smirks and says nothing. Arguments with Jehan on the subject of beauty are reserved for moments of high energy, this is a lazy moment.
“Your fingers move so fast…” Jehan muses.
Again, Grantaire doesn’t argue. This is a very gentle melody, not fast at all. But then again, Jehan has a tendency to focus on very different matters than the obvious, so perhaps they do not mean the literal speed at which his fingers pluck the notes from the strings.
“It’s pretty,” they repeat. Suddenly, in a supple, dance-like movement they swing themself into an upright position, hair sweeping through the air. They turn to face Grantaire with glittering eyes. “Let me paint your nails!”
“What?” Grantaire laughs. He has stopped playing in surprise. “No.”
“Yes!” Jehan chimes, bouncing on the sofa on their knees. “Your fingers move so beautifully in the light, it would be even prettier if they glittered!”
“Glitter,” Grantaire says with a grimace. “You’ve been hanging out with Courf too much.”
“Come on,” Jehan begs. “I’ve got silver nail polish in my bag. Silver goes with everything.”
Another Grimace. Arguments with Jehan over use of colour aren’t something Grantaire can control, they just happen. “Silver might,” he says (it doesn’t of course). “But glitter certainly doesn’t.”
Jehan rises from the sofa and grabs Grantaire’s right hand. It looks large and rough in theirs. “Please,” they beg.
Grantaire frowns at their large hazel eyes. “What did I say about using your supernatural abilities,” he scolds. “Stop it with the eyes.”
Jehan pulls their lips into a pout and Grantaire drops his guitar and covers his eyes with both his hands.
“Arg! No! Mercy!” he croaks. “It burns!”
Jehan laughs and they rescue his guitar from falling on the ground. His friends always treat it with much more deference than he does. “Come on,” they try again, pulling on his arm. “Let me paint your nails. Just this once.”
“Fine,” Grantaire sighs.
Jehan makes a delighted sound and darts to the corner of the room where they’ve left their bag. They dig out a small bottle of glittery silver nail polish. “Hand please,” they say happily, sitting down on the floor in front of Grantaire.
Obediently he holds out his hand. “You know,” he says while Jehan gleefully starts on his pinkie. “I feel for the person that ends up marrying you.”
“What makes you think I’d get married,” Jehan grins.
“You’re the sort of person that gets married,” Grantaire says decidedly.
“Yeah I am,” Jehan says happily.
“Plus, your moms will be heartbroken if you don’t,” Grantaire reminds them. It would be too cruel for the child of a florist and a caterer to deprive them of the biggest party they’ll ever be allowed to throw.
“Also true,” they agree. They are making steady progress with his nails and take a moment to grin up at him. “I’ll just have to find someone that likes nail polish then.”
“You’ll have to find someone that doesn’t mind being emotionally manipulated into letting you do random stuff,” Grantaire snarks, but his tone of voice is far too fond for Jehan to take him seriously.
“Other hand please,” Jehan requests smugly.
Grantaire gives them his other hand and moves the fingers of his right experimentally.
“Careful, it’s not dry yet,” Jehan warns.
“I know.” He lets his nails catch the light. They glitter. That is kind of pretty.
By the time Jehan is finished with both his hand Grantaire agrees that it’s a great idea. As soon as his nails are dry he lets Jehan film a close up of his hands playing the fastest piece he knows and snapchat it to all their friends with the caption “ART”, but only on the condition that they wail mournfully in the background. The responses are thoroughly confused (except for Bahorel’s, who just sends back: nice), which prompts them to send three more, with increasingly loud wailing from Jehan.
Grantaire’s phone buzzes and he pulls it out to see a text from Bossuet.
B the Bald Eagle: What the hell is going on?
Grantaire: Hanging out with Jehan 😘
B the Bald Eagle: You two should not be left alone together
“Bossuet is criticizing our friendship,” Grantaire grins.
“How rude,” Jehan grins back. “Tell you what, you paint my nails next and we’ll send him close up pictures of it until he begs us to stop.”
Grantaire lets out a heartfelt sigh. “That really is the only reasonable thing to do at this point,” he nods.
They proceed as planned. Grantaire makes a terrible mess of Jehan’s nails and the fact that Jehan keeps shaking with laughter doesn’t help. After the fifth picture Bossuet begins copy pasting the law article for harassment in the chat and Grantaire has to put the nail polish away before either of them spills it all over the floor. His stomach aches from laughing.
“Jehan,” Grantarie says seriously, once he’s caught enough breath to speak.
“Yeah?” they snort, trying to keep their still drying nails from touching anything.
“I bless the day you and your fuzzy rainbow legwarmers walked into my dance class,” he says with solemn exaggeration. “I really, really do.”