If anyone had walked in just then, they would have been treated to a sight of Grantaire staring down at Jehan like either a fond guardian angel or an obsessed serial killer. As it is, Grantaire just happens to be looking at Jehan, but he’s thinking of other things.
Grantaire stumbles back to his canvas, picking up stubs of pencil and sharpening them expertly with a retractable utility knife, leaving shreds of pencil sharpening over the carpet. He wraps his duvet around himself and wedges himself and the duvet into his chair.
“You can’t possibly be cold,” says Enjolras, the side of his lips curling. “I’m naked and I’m not cold.” Grantaire wishes that he could take that smile and put it in a box and keep it, except he’s aware that will sound infinitely more creepy if he tries to voice that thought aloud.
Cap comentari:
Publica un comentari a l'entrada