WOW LOSING FOLLOWERS so harsh
Bahorel “had nosed about the law”, no doubt he’d given up the thought of practising as a lawyer once he realised just how unjust the justice system is.
The cold wind whips against her pale skin, flushing red the freckle-spattered
crests of her cheeks, the small point of her nose, her lips — it stirs up the
dark curls that twist and tangle their way to her shoulders in a ragged
cascade. Crimson rims her eyes, clear remnants that she’s been crying,
though it’s a weakness and a sin she’ll never confess. Eyes downcast,
she shifts, knobbly knees knocking together through fishnet stockings,
aggravating blossoming bruises she refuses to speak of.
’Can we —’ and her voice breaks, a silent testament
to her current state, ‘can we go to your place? I can’t
go home. Not tonight, not — while he’s …
Fuck, I hate him.’
She shivers — but it has nothing to do with the chilled air.
’I could use a shower.'
Jehan had often refrained from saying anything rude about the girl’s family, after all they all know that her mother and father are bastards of the most impossible kind. Her brother, though, he is a darling—a little shit but good nonetheless. He refrains from saying anything now because in his heart he knows that Eponine holds at least some love, or appreciation, for her parents, as all children do. As he does for his own. He presses his lips together again and stand himself up, offering his hand to the girl.
’Come on then, let’s go. I’m fucking freexing. I have some wine back at the house, we can drink a bottle or two, you can shower, do as you please.’
He only glances at the café for a moment, he reckons that one of them will call or text him later in the day to find out where he’s gone, where she is, though it’s not the first time he’s left them high and dry.
’You don’t really ever have to go home if you don’t want to, you can stay with me for as long as you like, really. I’m sure my parents would be pleased to see a girl in my bed for once.’
bahorel once playfully punched jehan in the arm
jehan punched bahorel back and bahorel had to fight to not cry
I don’t want to go inside. I want to be alone, Jehan.’
They’ll be in there — Enjorlas and his merry men, with wine and
song and talk of better days, and she can’t bear the idea of facing them,
mascara-streaked eyes and crumbled resolve clear as day for the
world to see.
(She’ll sleep on the street, if she has to. She can’t sleep
in that fucking apartment tonight — not with her father’s
toxicity in full swing. Charity makes her sick — but he
makes her sicker.)
’Go in without me. You’re wasting your time — and you’ll catch cold.
Just … go.'
It’s supposed to fucking be April, he thinks to himself, scowling at the sky, the air, the weather, God. There are some times in his life that he wonders why he bothers having the friends that he does they’re all more pains in his arse than they really need to be, it’s irritating. Irritating but what can he do but sit here and be cold with her? Because if there’s anybody in the world that needs a friend, somebody to sit with her in the cold, it’s Eponine. And he likes her. At one point he had a bit of a crush on her, but Eponine was somewhat oblivious, blind to it all (and frankly, Jehan had thought she’d be more offended by his attentions than appreciative).
’Or at least in somewhere? Why don’t you want to come in? I mean—well, you don’t have to tell me, but— I don’t know. Do you want to go somewhere else? My place? Grantaire’s?’
The press of ‘Ponine’s lips is resolute — but the look in her eye is both sharp
and defeated. Exhaustion grips her, as does the cold of the Parisian air, but
she will not be moved; rather, she pulls her jacket around her tighter, and
Jehan is much the same, only he doesn’t have a jacket, so he wraps his arms around himself and brings his knees together, he’s turned towards her, eyes narrowed and lips pressed together in a tight line.
’I don’t see why you have to be so stubborn, Eponine. I’m only trying to help. I’m not giving you charity! I’m cold, too.’
He sighs, puts his hands between his legs, rubbing them together.
‘Please, can we just go into the cafe?’
combeferre. café in an hour. you busy? need your help.
[ text ; Prouvaire ] I’m always busy.
[ text ; Prouvaire ] Nevertheless, I can arrange to make an appearance if you are desperate.
[ text ; Prouvaire ] What is it — that you are going to the lengths to enlist my help?
[text] la-di-da. It’s just a small thing.
[text] Just a small matter of legal advice.
“I don’t get it, it’s a bunch of lines and shapes and colours,” mumbled a haughty woman as she breezed by a couple of Marianne’s paintings. Her highfalutin voice was absolutely ignorant and her disgusting lack of creativity and understanding of self-expression grossed out Marianne. Scowling, she sat in her chair. Her hands tense as she scratched at the velour. “I need a martini,” she whined as she pulled her drink tray towards her. She poured liquor into the shaker, as she started on a small rant. “Who do these people think they are? They do not understand,” she hissed, her voice cutting and curt. It chopped into the air like a knife, as she couldn’t help but be spiteful. “They are all ignorant. Even with social graces, coming to my house and talking about my paintings like that, what do you think?” she asked as she looked up at random guest. His blonde hair calming her down a little bit. The woman who’d said it was a brunette. She’d always thought they was something off about them, and knowing it was a pretty silly thing to discriminate. “You know, I feel like this is me. It’s like I’m naked and baring everything I have to offer on these pantings,” she hissed, not taking criticism well, before pouring her drinks. “Would you like one? And one olive or two?” she asked, pricking three on her own. “What do you think? I feel like people lack culture.”
If Jehan is going to be honest, he hadn’t even noticed that the woman was talking to him though, upon closer inspection, he’s the only one left of the party. He always likes to stick around until the end, all the good things happen near the end. The pretty boy with the muscles hosting is more than willing to take another pretty boy to his bed when there’s nobody around to see it, the upstanding lady to break out the sultry dance moves. His nose wrinkles slightly and he sits himself down, looking at the woman for a moment.
‘Yes, alright. No olives, no need to tarr the alcohol with that filth. I hate them. No—wait, you know, just give me the bottle.’
He holds his hand out for it beofre actually, and for the first time that night he thinks, turns his attention to the paintings. He is not a great connoisuier of paintings, Grantaire paints, he wishes he knew more about it so that he might woo him but—no. This. This may well be his chance.
'Tell me about them, I don't know much about paintings, but I like them, they look nice, I suppose. There is meant to be meaning behind them, no? Behind the colours and brushstrokes and all of that? I don't really know. I'm a poet, you see, I work with words, words are easier than colours and all.'
— A boyish laugh left Dorian’s lips, “Dull it may be to certain eyes, but I have managed through much worse. Though the senseless ramblings of lords and ladies can only be tolerated for so long, still I find that every event has the potential to entertain, it all depends on how you look upon it. If one looks upon it as nothing but a gathering of peacocks, then it will hardly be anything else, but if one decides to dig a little deeper, it can be a most enjoyable gathering.”
True he was growing tired of endless small talk pouring from the mouths those around him, he held the potential to change that within his very lips. Of course it all depended on the right person. He had a passion for words, for their elegance and influence, with just the right combination a world could fall to its knees, or an innocent boy could fall victim to a new philosophy of sin. This Jehan interested him, but not beyond a moderate curiosity. He seemed typical of other high class gentlemen, what Dorian was looking for was something that captured his attention, something that would show the blonde that he was not just simply wasting his time, and words gave him the power to do so.
His shy little game of gazes had caught the immortal’s eye earlier, now could he keep it?
It’s not as if it’s Jehan’s fault because, let’s all be honest, Dorian is known for rendering men and women alike speechless. But there he stands, making beautiful words, them just falling from his mouth like some kind of tropical waterfall, the warmth, the temptation to lose himself in them. His eyes are trained on the man, moving over the slight curls in his hair—somekind of angelic halo around his head—over cupid’s bow lips and all of a sudden he has the glass to his mouth, draining it. He turns his eyes away only for a moment, to flick the ash from his cigarette into whatever is nearest (which just so happens to be a vase), and then he is back, eyes on him, free hand now on his sleeve.
‘In that case, Mr. Gray, I would suggest we break away from this place, it is all my father’s new acquaintances and gaggling ladies. I know a much better place to be, no doubt you know it.’
He hates to look away from Dorian Gray but he has to, he steps past him, only looking back to make sure he is following, and swipes a decanter of scotch on his way out of the front door. Carriages litter the street, waiting for custom, knowing that there is a party.
’There is a place in Hampstead, not too far from here, I believe. There’s a man, a poet, a fantastic man, Walter, his name is, Walter de la Mare, do you know him? And William Morris, too. I don’t know,’—he is talking more than he usually does to strangers, and only now does he realise it, his face flushes pink—but can he keep Dorian’s attention if he is timid, embarrassed?—‘well, poets, painters, you know, all of the artists. They.. you ought to know, their pastimes are footloose to say the least.’
Opiates, breasts, soft arms, cock and endless balls, delicious rumps and the heady swill of scotch; they had it all and more. He stops to look at Dorian again, still taken aback by the almost impossible beauty—he wants to ask how he happened to be so, because he had always thought himself somewhat handsome but now compared to this man he was run of the mill. His chest is rising and falling with laboured breaths, all his talking and now worry, weighing on him.
’That is, if you’re interested.’