[ Once a month, Monsieur Phillipe Grantaire would have a rather sizable allowance sent through La Banque de France to his lethargic swill of a son, living in a flat half the size of what he should, in theory, be able to afford. It was expected, by the man who barely kept the boy in his line of sight, that his son would use that money on the basic essentials of life in their crust of society. That is, above the general merchant class and directly below that of the aristocracy. They did well in Toulouse, and to be an artist was a respectable profession for their boy, so they left him in the hands of Paris and the Salon of Monsieur Gros without much of a second thought.
Perhaps that is where the problem began, with a lack of supervision that began when Grantaire was still a boy. Now a man, after the money needed to remain a student is spent he has long since forgone the idea of comfort. All the comfort he needed was a full bottle and a tab at each cafe he frequented. No better living, no fine clothes, and no doctors visits. Alcohol would always be nature's way of cleaning all wounds, internal and external alike.
That was, of course, where Joly came in. To have no Doctor at all would be simply unacceptable to a hypochondriac like Joly, and so as easily as they had become friends, they became unofficial doctor and patient as well. The check-ups were all rather forced on Grantaire's part, but he stood relatively still with a minor amount of complaining, so long as he had a bottle in hand.
This particular bottle is beginning to run low, he notes, as Joly's long fingers prod at the skin of his neck. He sucks his cheek and tilts his head away from Joly's prying hands, bottle resting for the moment between his hands, between his splayed legs. ]
For all the fretting you do, mon ami, that mistress of yours must have strikingly intimate knowledge of those frigid fingers of yours in the oddest of places. I would almost be appalled if I cared much at all about the state of those fingers in every single tiny crevice they could find. Or if I were not insanely jealous.
negl that subject line is half this prompt.
Perhaps that is where the problem began, with a lack of supervision that began when Grantaire was still a boy. Now a man, after the money needed to remain a student is spent he has long since forgone the idea of comfort. All the comfort he needed was a full bottle and a tab at each cafe he frequented. No better living, no fine clothes, and no doctors visits. Alcohol would always be nature's way of cleaning all wounds, internal and external alike.
That was, of course, where Joly came in. To have no Doctor at all would be simply unacceptable to a hypochondriac like Joly, and so as easily as they had become friends, they became unofficial doctor and patient as well. The check-ups were all rather forced on Grantaire's part, but he stood relatively still with a minor amount of complaining, so long as he had a bottle in hand.
This particular bottle is beginning to run low, he notes, as Joly's long fingers prod at the skin of his neck. He sucks his cheek and tilts his head away from Joly's prying hands, bottle resting for the moment between his hands, between his splayed legs. ]
For all the fretting you do, mon ami, that mistress of yours must have strikingly intimate knowledge of those frigid fingers of yours in the oddest of places. I would almost be appalled if I cared much at all about the state of those fingers in every single tiny crevice they could find. Or if I were not insanely jealous.
Assuming I could muster jealousy.