Work Text:
“Either sit still or let me choose another subject, you dick,” Feuilly hisses around the cigarette in his mouth. The canvas in front of him has the rapidly forming outline of Bahorel’s hulking frame in all its golden, almost-naked glory. The paint really doesn’t do his gleaming skin any justice, but Feuilly supposes he’s biased.
“’S’not my fault you take so fucking long to paint,” Bahorel hums. His eyes are trained on the TV in the corner of the room, where Mr. Brown is saying, “let me tell you what ‘Like a Virgin’ is about.”
“It’s about a girl who likes a guy with a big dick,” continues Bahorel.
Feuilly glares at him, “you’re the dick,” and drops his brush to flick the ash off the end of his cigarette. “Stop moving, or so help me god, I will castrate you.”
“Who the fuck is Toby?” yells Grantaire from the kitchen, where he’s building a stack of Irish PB&J sandwiches, as he calls them, never mind the fact that Feuilly has told him over and over again that just because he mixes bourbon with the peanut butter before slathering it all over the toast, sans actual jelly, it’s not and will not qualify as ‘Irish’.
Sometimes Feuilly takes a moment to go over his life and wonder how the fuck it ever came to be like this, but most of those short-lived introspections end with either a) Bahorel pouncing on him like an overgrown puppy (or possibly, a wolf. Bears are a suitable comparison, too) or b) Bahorel shooting him with a Nerf gun/flicking his ear/smacking him upside the head/some variation thereof. Really, living with Bahorel doesn’t allow much time or space of mind for soul-searching and such bullshit.
Then again, it all simmers down to Sundays such as this one, where he’s working on some painting or another for his night-school art course, Bahorel being a general pain of the ass and Grantaire not being an ass by not complaining about (read: worshipping) Enjolras, where there is a rare sense of peace (read: as peaceful as any combination of himself, Bahorel and Grantaire can get, anyway, which is not very much) and the underlying current of contentment.
Grantaire walks back into the living room, plate of towering sandwich stack in hand. “Boyfriend being a dick?” he shoots at Feuilly.
He takes it back, Grantaire is always an ass.
“Not my boyfriend,” both he and Bahorel say at the same time.
“Hm. Fuck buddy, being a dick?”
The blob of paint lands squarely on Grantaire’s cheek, and the curly-haired fucker swipes at it so it blends in with the pre-existing myriad of colour tainting his skin. “Quit being a douche. And don’t give him any sandwiches until I at least get the base layer done,” he adds when Grantaire detours around the back of the couch towards Bahorel.
“Remind me why I decided to be your model, again?” groans Bahorel as he eyes the decreasing amount of sandwiches on the plate. His pecs flex as he rolls his shoulder, and Feuilly has to look away to ward off the traitorous blush rising high on his cheeks. Watching Bahorel intently is needed for him to actually start, process and finish the damn painting, but he really wishes Bahorel didn’t look so much like a cave-man, all muscled and boner-inducing. They’d fucked a few times, yes, but that’s no excuse for ogling the shit out of his roommate every time he decides to stroll around their apartment shirtless, or as is the case in this instant, decides to pose for a painting as a scantily-clad mammoth of a man.
“Because I threatened you with telling everyone you still watch I Love Lucy,” Feuilly deadpans. Grantaire guffaws at Bahorel, only shutting up when the man in question cracks his knuckles menacingly. “Besides, you owe me for forgetting to get the groceries the last three times it was your turn.”
“Fuck,” groans Bahorel again. Then he perks up, “well, at least you’re painting me as Khal Drogo.”