ok here’s the thing.
you wanna rp with me you gotta give as well as take. don’t expect me to come up with how they meet, all of it, all of it is not my job. If you can’t think of anything then don’t bother, and if we can’t come up with something together then it’s not going to work.
Basil is out on a walk, hoping to clear his mind. He’s been cooped up in his studio all day, finishing a painting that’s taken him quite some time to finish. He has a cigarette in his hand, and it’s when he’s taking a drag from it that he spots the young poet— the man who seems somewhat d e t a t c h e d from reality— coming towards him. He watches him closely, notices the way he seems to almost float as he’s walking, and he straightens himself out a bit as the younger man stops in front of him, holding the flower out to him.
The painter turns his face and blows the smoke from his lips before allowing his gaze to settle on the French man once more. He’s in Paris to work on this painting, and now that it’s done, he wonders whether he should leave or take a few days to himself. He gently takes the flower between his fingers and thanks the boy softly, thinking it rude not to take his gift. He’s still unsure of why this gift has been bestowed upon him, but the boy quite reminds him of some of the people back home who smoke more than just cigarettes.
”Thank you, Monsieur. It’s a lovely flower,” he responds, thinking how intriguing the boy looks. He has an almost inhuman quality to him that Basil can’t quite place his finger on, but he’s quite drawn in by the boy’s features. “Might I ask why you’ve given me this?”
He finds it amusing that Basil blows the smoke away from him, young a he may be he is no stranger to smoke, as he had no doubt Basil can tell. He bows, he smiles at the use of French and he straightens, looking at Basil, looking him in the eye, looking at his kind and handsome face. His eyes are squinted slightly, slivers of green between thick, blonde-brown lashes, and he laughs a little.
’It is a reminder, M’sieur Hallward, a reminder that all beauty must fade in time, what now seems to be immortal in it’s splendour will gradually die.’
His tone took a turn to the grave, to the serious, his face dropping, the smile gone and a hand on the other man’s forearm, steadying both himself and keeping the painter’s attention on him.
‘But also I thought it a particularly nice flower, I thought you might like it, plant it somewhere else, grow more.’
There is something about Basil that Jehan doesn’t like, and he’s not too sure what it is, perhaps it it the English stiffness—though he had met plenty of Englishmen that have catered to his desires and wants, that have fit him perfectly. He feels, perhaps, that Basil doesn’t like him.
He’s amused, really, at the other man’s actions, though there’s a bit of hesitance as he accepts the flower. Pinned between his index and his thumb, the flower looked like a rather pretty thing ; bright petals extending from a center of yellow and orange, and a long stem that was — well. A lovely shade of green, is Marius was to be honest.
He flashed a smile at Jehan and nodded his gratitude towards him, a pleasant look playing at his features.
" And the special occasion?" He asked innocently, still oblivious to the high that which occupied the other’s body. He barely noticed the change in his demeanor, really, mostly because he hasn’t known the other long and doesn’t know the — difference of a man functioning normally and functioning on a high.
He’s the clueless sort, isn’t he?
A smile and a wave of the hand answer the man’s question. He spat the gum out into the gutter, it being too wet, and he shrugged his shoulders a little. For being something of a junky (what one would politely call a user) he surprisingly still had his wits about him, he was high but still anchored to the earth in his poetry and his heart.
’There is no special occasion, Marius, simply a gift, there needs not be an occasion for a gift, I think.’
His arm slips into the other man’s, linking them together and he looked at him, his sharp cheekbones and his chiselled jaw, it was no wonder that he had joined their group, that he was liked. Not only was he a handsome man but he was kind, caring, a sweet package of goodness wrapped in naivety.
‘Are you well?’
❝ Well, chéri, I meant my face, but if you want me naked—
and little did Grantaire know just how much Jehan enjoyed seeing Grantaire naked. A smile crossed his face and he pouted, ‘Well then, if you haven’t shaved the rest of you that plan is out of the window. You should get your kit off anyway.’
“Now the question is: which drugs would give the best high
and give the best stimulation for the mind all wrapped up
into something absolutely outstanding?”
’Heroin, of course, of course. Take enough and you’re half asleep and half awake and it’s all something very outstanding, very, very outstanding.’
❝ I've just shaved, let's not waste that.
’Grantaire. Grantaire. Fine. Let’s not waste it. Get your kit off, I’ll paint on you.’
He hears the words, but he’s sure Jehan is just too stoned to think properly, to know how silly that question is. Grantaire thinks about pulling away so that he can look at him, but instead, he settles for petting the boys hair and putting his hand on the back of his neck, pushing his face against R’s shoulder so that he would stop saying things like that.
”I do, idiot. Of course I do. Hand me the shampoo, will you? We have to get you cleaned up.” He mumbles, not bothering to step away and get the bottle himself because he knows that–– well, letting Jehan go is only going to make it worse. Which he doesn’t want. He wants him to feel fine, to feel like he’s guarded and steady and put to peace for once.
”You’re not going anywhere. I got you, and it’s totally fine. You just have to rest a little until the drugs are out of your system, okay? Promise me you won’t take anything else until you’re completely clean, and then, we’ll talk.”
Only Jehan can’t be blamed for not believing him because he doesn’t kiss him and he doesn’t hold his hand and only now does he hold him and tell him everything is going to be okay, and now Jehan knows that it isn’t. He knows what’s coming, he can see the days of the shakes, the sickness, the aches and the crying and he doesn’t want to do it but he knows that it’s coming. Grantaire will make him do it and he can’t say no to Grantaire.
He reaches for the shampoo and hands it to Grantaire as best as he can before he leans back, unwraps his arms and slides to sit himself down. His knees are weak and his chest hurts from the shallow breaths. He’s coming down and he’s coming down hard and he can already feel the itch, the gnawing inside of himself that makes him scratch at his skin—though for now he refrains—and tear through skin and muscle because it’s his soul that aches.
His skin is clean at least, the water running clear again. His knees are against his chest and he’s curled himself up, wrapped himself up in himself because he can’t bring himself to hold onto Grantaire again, if he holds to him he won’t let go and he’ll dig his claws into the other’s clean skin and he’ll draw blood.
’I don’t want to talk. You don’t. You lie. Everybody lies to me. I just want to sleep. To sleep and stay asleep. It hurts.’
That’s nearly nine more than she has. Not that she entirely notices, you see, she’s fairly used to craning her back slightly. Height rarely becomes an issue with her. Her body language usually had demand and assertiveness. Her stance was this radiating warning that most people picked up on, if she liked it or not; people usually didn’t like her instantly.
Tempted to stick her fingers in his mouth and yank out the overzealous amount of chewing bubble he loudly passed around between his teeth. But she doesn’t. Not because she cared if it wasn’t socially acceptable because she was stunned.
And even more stunned when he places the flower in her hair.
“Uh—- Um…” And that’s when her rosy petals start to bend, and a delicate smiles appears on her lips. For a moment, she felt like a normal girl, and it was kind of refreshing. “I don’t have a face for anything— living or dead. Dead wouldn’t suit you, so—- Maybe you’re the same. Too sweet, though…”
'Maybe you and I are to hover on the precipice of suiting life and death, ready to fall to either side at any time and land with a THUD down. Sure you'd brush yourself off on the living side, not so much on the dead. Some people suit dead. You know? You know what I mean, don't you? How some just sit talk make things all day do things never quite doing things enough to really matter, or some people that just, I don't know, look it. Like Michael Jackson, and Jimmy Saville. Much more famous in death—regardless of good or bad.'
He puts his fingers in his mouth, pulls at the gum, stretches it out for a moment before taking it out completely and dumping it in a bin. His jaw aches from chewing and it’s hardly surprising considering how large the lump was.
His arm drapes over her shoulders and he grins, giving her arm a squeeze.
’And what is the pretty lady’s name?’
Joly, I know that we are all living in a time where it seems like the age of "God" has passed, and truly I do appreciate your science but your lack of open-mindedness is troubling.
“Is my concept of reality less valid than yours?” Joly asked, turning to smile at Prouvaire. It was true that he did not believe in God, and he had little interest for the subject, but he hardly thought that made him narrow-minded. After all, he did not reject Prouvaire’s perspective, nor did he claim his own view to be the only truth.
"Are you sulking?" Joly asked, surprised. It hadn’t occurred to him that Prouvaire might somehow be offended by his lack of interest in the subject of religion. He preferred to stick to the theories that could be tested and falsified. A religious debate was uninteresting to him because there was mere speculation.
"I believe we are the product of our biological design and circumstance. I don’t believe there is a soul independent on the body, and I don’t believe in a greater purpose or a life after death - or indeed a God. But I hardly think this makes for a cold reality.”
Joly would rather argue that there is no greater motivation to live and learn than ‘this is it’. There is no need for a life after death as long as you choose to live now. And no greater purpose than one’s own experience of life made for wonderful encouragement to do just that. Experience.
"Create your own purpose. You are capable of it, after all. What other reason could you need? To make it worthwhile, since it’s all you got. Right? If there is no plan, no meaning, and no answers, you’ll have to find them yourself. That’s a beautiful way to live, is it not?"
And each person that knew Jehan Prouvaire would know that Joly’s argument of “living” would not cut it. The young man spent more time thinking about the next rhyme than preserving his own life. He would be the first to admit that the idea of an all-powerful-knowing-sentient-everything being was absurd but was it wrong of him to want a little faith? Was it wrong of him to want to believe that the complex human body, human emotion, human thought, the earth, the sand, wind, stone, animals, everything, was it wrong of him to want to believe that it was all more than some complex coincidence or happen of circumstance?
He did not think so.
’If there is “no plan, no meaning, and no answers”, as you so put it, then in the words themselves you have argued, there is no anything. What is there to learn and live for if it equates to nothing? Why not live with the hope that we can move on to something bigger and better? Why, Joly,’ his voice rose here, cheeks flushed a little in anger (and in embarrassment of his anger), ‘Why should I be forced to live with this shoddy life and this one alone? Why must, at every corner, the very mention and idea of anything non-scientific be shot down and ridiculed?’