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The first painting Grantaire ever created was burned in a house fire when he turned seventeen. As his family’s house was engulfed in flames, his mind flew to the competed painting sitting against a wall in his now charred room and he resisted the urge to yell in frustration.
His mind promptly changed to the topic of his baby sister, who was still inside, and a sudden sense of selfishness overtook him. Their parents couldn’t find Aimée anywhere, and the firemen had forced them to evacuate the burning house. His father flailed, attempting to break free of their grasp, but several men helped keep him in place.
Grantaire’s mother was a bit more calm. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears and a hand covered her mouth so she wouldn’t sob in public, but Grantaire put his arms around her waist from behind and they watched their house burn to the ground.
Later, after paramedics whisked Aimée into the ambulance, and Grantaire’s father and mother drove to the hospital, leaving the young artist with his grandparents, his mind flitted again to the painting, which was undoubtedly nothing but a pile of ash at this point. All he can remember was that it had blue hues and purple messed the entire thing up. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe he wasn't destined to paint, just as his sister wasn't destined to live.
Aimée died that night at 9:47 P.M. from smoke inhalation and third degree burns.
~***~
Grantaire was a painter by nature. He much preferred using paints, chalk, or charcoal to sculpting. He could always put things onto paper, but he always told himself he didn’t have the mental capacity to bring things to life directly. His fingers weren’t adept at twisting things into shapes or using a chisel for hours upon hours to bring something marvelous to life. He liked keeping things to himself; liked having them easily destructible if need be. Which, if one was being honest, was quite often.
When he finished his second independent painting, the only other one being the painting that was destroyed in the fire, he let his inspiration run away with him. His hands moved of their own accord, the brush flying at a furious pace, for an indiscernible amount of time before he looked up and saw the horrible creation on the canvas before him. Everything about it was wrong; angles, colors, curves.
Before Grantaire could even look at it long enough to decide what exactly was wrong with the abomination, he flung the entire easel to the side. The cheap wood landed on the floor with a thud, and Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut, emotions overwhelming him. He took several shaky breaths before he kicked the canvas away from the easel. The stretcher cracked and splintered towards the canvas, poking several holes into the image.
Grantaire shuddered and his knees gave out from under him. He was suddenly glad that he was the only one in the studio. He fell onto all fours and a broken sob made its way through his red lips. The curly-haired man stayed like that for what felt like hours before he leaned back onto his knees and ran his hands through his hair. He felt something wet on his face and pressed a cautious hand to his cheeks, only to find tear trails cascading all the way down them. He wiped the tears away furiously and clenched his eyes shut.
He stayed there for a few moments more before picking up the easel, as gently as possible, almost like an apology, and looked at the ruined canvas. He didn’t have the heart to just leave the ugly thing, so he just tore it off of the stretcher and folded it up, not giving a damn about the still-wet paints smearing together. He shoved the thing unceremoniously into his tattered backpack and stormed out of the studio, leaving the lights on.
That night in the fraternity house fireplace as he downed shot after shot of whiskey, he burnt the wretched thing.
~***~
Every painting he tried to compose just became a sticky pile of ruins that night in the fireplace. His frat brothers were none the wiser to his predicament, so he never mentioned it. If anyone had a clue, it could’ve possibly been Combeferre, who saw him sitting by the fireplace quite often as canvases and papers burned before him, bottle or glass in hand, but the man never brought it up.
Sometimes, Grantaire would lay awake at night and silently mourn his sister. His roommate, Jehan, would sleep soundly across the room from him, blissfully unaware of Grantaire’s tears. He thought about how his sister must’ve been burnt, but his only comfort was that she wasn’t suffering. He felt worse knowing that they found her writhing in his room, body splayed on the floor and unconscious, pained even in her sleep. Sometimes he’d just lay awake and think that maybe she had been hiding in his room when he rushed out at the first sign of smoke, that maybe he could’ve helped her. Maybe he could’ve saved her.
Alcohol helped.
~***~
When Grantaire had to paint a self-portrait for his class, he stared at himself in the mirror for a long time. The man who stared back at him didn’t please Grantaire at all. He pursed his lips, pulled at the flesh, tried to tame his hair somehow, but everything just made him look worse.
Resigned that he was just wasn’t aesthetically pleasing as some - people like Enjolras, another frat brother - Grantaire grudgingly made his way to the studio an hour before it was deemed closing time. Many people stayed after hours anyway. He had a flask with him for moral support, and Grantaire thought he might have a small problem. He waved the notion away and opened the door to the sound-proof studio. Art students get the best studios since the art professors claimed their students needed a relaxed and quiet environment to create.
Sometimes, Grantaire felt like all he did was destroy.
He placed the small canvas on the easel and licked his lips. His paintbrush drug across the linen, leaving paint in its wake. At some point, Grantaire just went; he didn’t concentrate to shape a curl just so, didn’t worry about the curve of the bridge of his nose. He just painted his face how he interpreted himself.
When he was finished, he stared for a long time. The person staring back at him was the most grotesque creature he had ever seen. He flung his brush into the painting, splattering the blue he was going to use for his eyes all over the face.
It almost came to life right then, taunting him; killing him. This is you, Grantaire. This horrible, disfigured bastard is you. This is what your friends see when they look at your face. Your mother is pretty, your father handsome. You’re like the ugly duckling, and you always have been. If Aimée were alive, she wouldn’t even claim you as her brother.
Grantaire pulled out another brush and, using the handle, tore a slash all the way across it. His vocal chords suddenly wouldn’t work, and a choked off whimper gurgled its way out of hi lips. He ripped the thing completely apart and ran out of the studio, chugging his flask down as quickly as he could. He left the shredded remains of his creation, barely remembering his backpack.
For the first time, Grantaire felt truly ugly.
He failed the assignment.
~***~
His arms were wrapped around his knees and he was sobbing in a corner when Jehan found him at three in the morning. The painting, one that was originally of his sister, which turned into a violent representation of a fire was sitting propped up against the wall, paint getting onto the plastered surface. He rocked himself gently, murmuring over and over again about how it was his fault and that he’s a worthless fuck.
Jehan crouched beside him and, being Jehan, cried with Grantaire until his tear ducts wouldn’t work anymore. Grantaire was cradled into his chest as Jehan rubbed soothing circles into his back.
“Hey, you’re okay. Shh, I promise. You’re fine. Calm down.”
Grantaire didn’t - couldn’t - listen to Jehan. He buried himself deeper into his friend’s neck and tried to breathe. The walls were caving in, why the hell couldn’t he breathe? Jehan needed to help him right now, or else he could-
“Breathe. C’mon, R, you’re having a panic attack. It’s going to be okay. Nothing’s wrong. Come back to the house and you can sleep or get some food. You’ve been gone since this morning. C’mon.” Jehan helped the smaller man stand, and Grantaire buried his face back in Jehan’s neck. “I promise, everything will get better.”
Grantaire managed to gasp out “burn it” to Jehan before he passed out.
~***~
Neither of them mentioned it, but now Jehan was more protective of the crazed artist. Grantaire started skipping his classes, only attending his class about charcoals now and then because he felt like when he shaded the charcoal lines together be was blurring the lines of reality.
His first, second, and third drawings of Enjolras were burned almost immediately. Enjolras saw just across the room from him, at the kitchen island pouring over political textbooks, and Grantaire couldn’t look away. He slammed his faux-leather sketchbook shut and stood. He caught the attention of everyone in the room, minus the one person whose attention he wanted, and walked away without excuses. On the way out, he tossed the damned book into the fireplace.
The next morning, the charred book was sitting outside of his door. He threw it in a dumpster on his way to the bar. He skipped his meal that night, opting to have a shot of tequila instead.
~***~
“R, c’mon. Wake up.”
Grantaire woke to Jehan and Combeferre, standing over him.
He rubbed his head and said, “Why are you above me?”
“You passed out. When have you eaten last?” Combeferre asked, concern marring his usually expressionless voice. Grantaire sat up, ignoring the throbbing of his head, and saw they were alone in the room.
“I dunno. Maybe two days ago. I can’t remember.”
Jehan inhaled sharply, “I’m taking you to IHop and you’re getting endless pancakes. Got it?”
Grantaire nodded. Jehan and Combeferre whisked him away and they promised not to tell anyone.
He purged that night, after adding another scar to his collection.
~***~
When he first painted Enjolras, he didn’t have the heart to destroy is immediately. He took the rolled up canvas (after the paint dried) and sat in front of the fireplace for a long, long time. It was a picture of the one time Enjolras had ever smiled at him.
It had been after a movie night when the entire house was together. Marius, Joly and Bossuet, and Combeferre even invited their girlfriends over.
“The Notebook!” Jehan whined, clinging to Grantaire’s leg like a baby sloth.
Enjolras glared, “No! We are not watching an inaccurate depiction of a cliché romance. No. What about Star Trek? At least it’s slightly better, even though-”
“I think Star Trek sounds good,” Grantaire interrupted. Enjolras graced him with a small smile, and his breath caught in his throat. He ended up sitting only one seat away from Enjolras. The blond had never been so close. He could reach across Courfeyrac’s lap and touch him.
He eventually put the rolled up painting in the corner of his bedroom, deeming it alright. If Jehan knew, he never mentioned it.
Enjolras never knew.