Drink With Me

Don't Let The Wine Go To Your Brain

The glass windows were covered with dirt and grime that stopped most of the sunlight from entering the loft, save for one small spot in the middle that had been wiped with a rag or shirt sleeve. The bright beam of sunlight let in from that open spot of window happened to land directly upon a very tired and hungover Grantaire, who groaned in protest at the inconsiderate rays. His entire body ached and cracked as he rolled onto his side and struggled to open his eyes. He found it difficult to focus his gaze as the room appeared to be spinning. He gingerly lifted himself off the dirty floor and rubbed his eyes, which felt like they had been covered in thick glue, and headed towards the kitchen. When he finally reached the kitchen he decided on having a glass of water only to find all of his cups and plates shattered around him. He angrily kicked at the shards on the floor and settled for a beer instead. 

With his last beer in hand he made his way across the loft to the dusty brown couch in the center of the room and let himself fall back onto it. He glared around at the mess. The easel that normally rested in the corner was now broken in front of him and a large canvas lay shredded in a pile of broken glass. He also took note of empty tubes of paint scattered across the floor, with their contents smeared over nearly every surface. He sighed deeply and took a sip of the beer and winced at his busted lip.
He didn't usually get this wasted. He knew his limit. Last night was different. He had let himself slip up. He let himself think. He always tried to stay busy, to keep his mind busy, but he let his mind run and it always ends up in the darkest places. He tried to take back control by painting, but he couldn't stop shaking which only made him angry and caused him to destroy everything in reach and to scream until his lungs ran out of air and he passed out cold.

After quite some time of trying to clean his disaster of a loft he finally gave up and decided that he needed to go out. He hated the idea, but it became clear that he would need to buy new paint, and maybe some alcohol. He threw on some trainers and grabbed his keys and a pack of cigarettes as he made his way out.

It had been weeks since he stepped outside so he had failed to remember that the air had already turned quite brisk and the strong breeze clawed at his arms. He shivered and cursed himself for not grabbing his jacket on the way out. It was probably covered in paint like the rest of his clothes. When he ran his fingers through his long tangled hair he realized that he probably looked terrible and needed a shower. He simply sighed and continued on his path towards the little family owned craft store about 10 blocks down. The family who owned it apparently came here from France 50 years ago and set up this little shop they called "Pour L'amour De L'art" and somehow it's stayed in business ever since. 

When he rounded the corner he could see there was some sort of rally going on in the streets like some sort of protest. People were shouting and held up signs that had writing on them that he couldn't quite make out through his hangover and some of the people wore bright colours and others had these flags wrapped around them with every colour of the rainbow. oh. It was a pride rally of some sort. R quickly shuffled through the rainbow of shouting people and winced at his growing migraine. Did they really have to shout? He finally made his way around the other side of the rally and quickly entered the little shop. 

He was instantly greeted by the thick odor of oil paints and clay. He admired the rows of charcoal and graphite that lined the walls and the canvases of every size and texture that hung on the shelves in the back. He headed to the right of the shop towards the shelves of a thousand paintbrushes and tools and behind it were several rows of every colour of paint you can imagine. He cracked a little half smile and made his way into the oils and ran his fingers over the tubes, grabbing one here and there that stood out. When he was finished he set the armful of blues, purples, dark greens, and browns onto the front counter. He tapped the small bell on the table and managed a weak grin as Combeferre made his way to the old register. "Ah, Grantaire, it's been too long! What happened to you, you look terrible." the man stated with a bright smile and a light french accent. R gave a sarcastic smile and rolled his eyes. Combeferre, with his short dirty blonde almost brown hair and dark blue eyes, was the closest thing to a friend Grantaire had ever known in his lifetime. "It's just a hangover." he stated in a horribly scratchy voice. "Honestly, R, you should really stop smoking, it's starting to effect your voice."