Grantaire painting, every stroke in time with the soft music filtering in from the radio. Sunlight is streaming in, casting bright stripes across the room. His hair is falling into his face, and he’s smiling gently. The image is unfinished— it has been for a while, but it’s something.
Grantaire playing guitar, each sound somewhat new to him. He’s only picked it up as a hobby recently. His green eyes peer determinedly down at the instrument in front of him. The chords are stubborn, strings unyielding. But he’ll get there.
Grantaire with his friends, face flushed from laughing too hard. They’re at Jehan’s flat, crammed into the tiny living room. It’s cosy— fairy lights are strung across the windows, and everything smells faintly of cinnamon. Courfeyrac is poking at his hair, trying to tie ribbons into the dark mess.
Grantaire writing, head leaning on his hand. He isn’t sure where he’s going with it, but it’s raining outside. The city has been overcast for days. Dark clouds hang in the sky, relentless. He doesn’t mind. It may be wet, but it’s calming. The pen dances across the page. The idle scratching merges with the faint tapping of raindrops against his window.
Grantaire at a protest. He can’t remember the cause, but the atmosphere is exhilarating. He mightn’t know why he’s yelling, but his voice merges into the thunderous chanting. Next to him, Bahorel is waving a flag. Everyone seems dishevelled in some way. Grantaire himself has a busted lip from being elbowed by a policeman. If he closes his eyes, he can feel himself being jostled by the crowd, moving in no particular direction.
Grantaire at a cafe. Everything is in shades of brown. People around him are chatting away, without a care. Somewhere, a customer is laughing hysterically. Grantaire is grinning down at his coffee. A red beanie is crammed onto his unruly ringlets, a leather jacket thrown over his usual attire in an attempt to look decent. It must be working, because the blonde in front of him is staring at him like he’s the most beautiful painting.