enjolras. (apotropaeus) wrote in madisonvalley, @ 2013-12-04 00:31:00 |
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Entry tags: | !closed, !log, ~2013 december, ~25 points, ~~enjolras (apotropaeus), ~~grantaire (cynisme) |
Who: Grantaire & Enjolras
What: This is a loaded question. Enjolras has been getting all puffy bird on the internet and hermity, and when he finally realizes that he is alone and things are bothering him in a way his unemotional heart can't explain, he goes to speak with Grantaire. Yeah, no. Bad idea.
When: Tuesday morning.
Where: Grantaire's apartment.
Warnings: None in particular. Just yelling and vague mentions of death.
Status: Log, closed/complete.
Hours turned into days which turned into a week before Enjolras had enough of a mind to pull himself away from the computer, a strange thing initially and a wealth of information now.. It was difficult enough to wrap his head around the fact that there was no Revolution to return to (no one left, everyone was dead, everyone died for—), but that he was not even close to the same era on which he came from. Perhaps the self-induced hermitude was an excuse, in which he used his time wisely enough to research and understand their new environment. However, the time could only pass slowly when he did absorb the insurmountable amount of history he had not been privy too. If he had loved Robespierre and Rousseau, the future political enthusiasts of his future were just as interesting and demanding of his attention. But pulling Enjolras away from learning (someone had informed him he needed to shower, change, eat—that had been Eponine) was difficult. When he didn’t have something in front of him to read, then he would sleep. But when sleep wouldn’t come, then he thought, alone with memories he had started on his own and refused to deal with. Whether it was guilt or stubbornness, Enjolras could not be sure. Enjolras thought of Combeferre and Courfeyrac, his right hand and his centre, irreplaceable and—no, not dead. Eponine was not dead, despite contradicting evidence. But the memories of seeing them, haunted, demanded to be addressed when he closed his eyes. It might have been the reason sleeping was not something he indulged in since being here in this place. He would blink and see someone fall, then another, then another. All of the Les Amis being shot down, dragged out. And finally when he saw every one of them, as he remembered the firing squad—that cold clammy chill running down his body that he couldn’t get rid of despite the every attempt to—he remembered Grantaire. And while Enjolras couldn’t pull his friends from the battle, he had stood proud with Grantaire. He could not say that he felt the same now. A strange tightening in his chest, the confusion that plagued him, might be eased by addressing what had happened. But that meant speaking to Grantaire, and that was never one of Enjolras’ desires to partake. He knew how those conversations went. Angry, confrontational, frustrating. Nevertheless, Enjolras knowing how to get to only two residences, walked cool and collected—something he was unsure he could accomplished the the things on his mind—to Grantaire’s flat. Much to his chagrin, and maybe luck, the front door was unlocked and Enjolras mumbled something along the lines of typical and should really be more concerned about their surroundings as he entered. He considered turning around, but he had gotten this far, hadn’t he? Which was why he questioned watching the other man from the doorway of the place they were holed up in. He hoped he wasn’t drinking—although it might have explained the door—but if any time were apt for such an indulgence, it would be here, in this strange and painful future. Enjolras had vaguely considered it. Ramrod straight and arms crossed, he stepped into the small room that held the couch, breathing deep, and clearing his throat. “Grantaire, I need to speak with you.” Ever since inexplicably arriving in this bizarre, futuristic world which he knew nothing about, Grantaire had done nothing but attempt to numb himself. Utterly unlike Enjolras who naturally spent his every waking hour reading and learning and seeking to understand. Grantaire would never be capable of that level of focus and determination, least of all when he found himself living in a cramped apartment just a short walk down the hall from the very object of his adoration. Not that the man had cast him more than a loathsome glance in the last week. If Grantaire were truly dead then this was most certainly his own personal version of purgatory. Occasionally when they did interact, Enjolras could be baited into an argument. During which times Grantaire would bicker simply for the sake of keeping some manner of conversation going between the two of them. But for the most part Enjolras remained a brooding, intensely obsessive figure in front of an eerily glowing screen in his own flat while Grantaire resigned himself fully to his own misery, usually on the sofa in either of them. If it weren’t for Eponine, the two of them probably would’ve starved to death or turned into statues or some such by now. It would have been fitting for Enjolras at least, who Grantaire had long since decided looked as if he had been carved from marble. Eponine, as always, was Grantaire’s saving grace. She checked in on him regularly, brought him food, commiserated with him, and most importantly took him out and taught him where and how to purchase much needed alcohol and cigarettes in this foreign place. With the prices in this city being extravagantly high compared to what Grantaire and the others were accustomed to, he’d managed to make short work of much of the money he had been given upon arrival. Coping had never been Grantaire’s strong suit, not even on a good day back home, and so most of his funds and his energy went towards attempting to numb his emotions and dull his mind. Otherwise, like Enjolras, he feared he would lose whatever sanity he was still clinging too. Today was no different. Grantaire had finally sucuumbed to his highly intoxicated state and was sleeping mercifully deep and dreamlessly, a sprawled out, deplorable mess on the sofa when Enjolras sought to barge in and speak with him. He didn’t so much as stir at first, his breathing shallow and slow and reeking of whiskey (since absynthe, as it turned out, was woefully difficult to find in this place.) It wasn’t until Enjolras had moved closer and impatiently shaken him that Grantaire slowly started to come around. “Hnnng...Good morning, Apollo,” he slurred groggily, squinting up at Enjolras and inadvertently staring at the way the light was filtering through his golden hair, reminding him of the nickname. The nickname that sober would have never, ever have left Grantaire’s mouth. Enjolras hated the nickname; it was meant solely to antagonize and instigate some kind of reaction out of him—it unfortunately took Enjolras far too long to realize that most of the things Grantaire said were to do that. Never honest, or serious, in his convictions. Being called Apollo just added to the long list. He rolled his eyes, sighed, and moved a step away from Grantaire, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “Must you always be intoxicated,” Enjolras said, not particularly to Grantaire, but a near thing, under his breath. He knew the answer would be something with sarcasm and that annoying lopsided grin of Grantaire’s. “It is past four in the afternoon, Grantaire. Hardly morning anymore. So if you could do yourself the favor of being somewhat sober before the darkness falls again, you might be able to tell time accurately.” This would normally be the time where Enjolras would leave him to his alcohol, or find him not worth the time to bother when he was like this. Something about the way Grantaire drowned his problems into unconsciousness felt cowardly and weak, and irritated Enjolras more than he could comprehend: maybe it was because the few times when Grantaire was merely getting started into his pints or harder liquor, before inebriation took him over fully, he had an intelligent mouth that Enjolras wondered where it had come from. It never lasted long: Grantaire’s sobriety or Enjolras’s wondering. However, they were not at a meeting or delegating assignments on the barricade. Enjolras needed answers from Grantaire, and he needed him not tripping over his tongue. “Do not make me drag you to the washroom. I have figured out how to use the bath while you waste your time.. not taking one.” There was a pause, Enjolras stepping closer again, crouching down to be eye level with Grantaire who was still on the couch. Enjolras was used to different methods of gaining other’s attention, and Grantaire looking up to him in his half-sleep haze didn’t seem to be working for Enjolras. “I need to speak with you, Grantaire. And I want you to be serious. Is this something you think you are capable of?” Enjolras asked, face stern, voice severe, his gaze piercing. A usual expression for Enjolras, but perhaps this time it was more urgent and insistent than normal. “Yes...If I am already dead then surely I cannot drink myself to death,” Grantaire replied anyway, complete with the predicted lopsided, drunken grin, though remarkably less sarcastic than one might expect. Apparently he had felt it important to share with Enjolras the one benefit he could see in this situation at this particular moment. He blinked when Enjolras informed him exactly how far past morning it actually was, trying and failing to calculate just how long he’d been unconscious for. In the end it hardly mattered because Enjolras was moving closer and talking about dragging him off places and that surpassed most everything else. Grantaire took his time in legitimately considering this option, finding the implications of such to lie stranded somewhere between mortifying humiliation and unexpected compassion. With Enjolras, it was surely to be the former. Grantaire forced himself to focus, a task made both easier and considerably more difficult when Enjolras knelt down so that their faces were scant inches apart. His Apollo looked nearly as worn as Grantaire himself felt. His eyes were red and shadowed by dark circles, no doubt strained from so many hours spent reading and very few sleeping. Grantaire knew that Eponine had attempted to look after Enjolras as well but Enjolras of course shunned any and all kinds of coddling. Did he ever allow himself to be looked after or cared for? If anyone had managed it it was probably Combeferre... He met Enjolras’s agonizing gaze as best he could, trying not to wither beneath its intensity. The proximity between them was bordering on unbearable and Grantaire suddenly felt like he was suffocating. He was not prepared for whatever this conversation was about to be. Least of all when they’d scarcely spoken in days “...One moment, if you would,” he eventually managed to respond, hauling himself up into a sitting position. The movement left his head spinning and his stomach churning but he dutifully made it all the way up to his feet and staggered his way past Enjolras and across the small apartment to the aforementioned washroom. Closing the door and locking it behind him, Grantaire leaned back against it and raked his hands across his face. He stayed there for several long moments, trying to determine whether or not he was going to be sick and whether or not he was going to be able to compose himself. When he felt a little steadier, he moved to the sink, chancing a glimpse at his ghastly pale reflection as he did so. He squinted through the haze of inebriation that was beginning to veer into a tremendous headache, cringing at his tangled hair and bloodshot eyes. He drew in a deep breath and fought with the unfamiliar faucet until he got the water running as cold as he could. He quickly scrubbed his face and attempted to sober himself as much as was actually possible in his current state before he braved the sitting room again. Once more he stumbled through the apartment, past Enjolras, and sank back down in his previous place on the sofa. “Alright. Speak,” he said, gesturing exaggeratedly towards Enjolras. Enjolras barely had time to protest as Grantaire moved to leave the couch, which was surprising because Enjolras had only seen him move with agonizing slow motion when he was this drunk; usually out the door or to the floor or into unconsciousness on the table. Enjolras stepped out of his way, giving him an exasperated look as he disappeared down the hallway. “I do not have time for this, Grantaire..” Enjolras called after him, not really sure what this actually was. Wasting time? Waiting? Enjolras spent too many sleepless nights here waiting. The door closed, and Enjolras would have to deal with it. He was on borrowed times, as it was. The small space left no sound to the imagination; he heard the tap run, the rustling of Grantaire, possibly trying to sober himself. Enjolras might have been somewhat taken by the attempt if when Grantaire returned he didn’t still look so some completely out of it. Enjolras continued to look displeased, not even bothering with sitting on the couch. That was Grantaire’s space. Enjolras watched Grantaire’s hand flourish with acute awareness, almost lost in the gesture, and almost for a moment lost his nerve. But he was Enjolras and if anyone was going to keep this conversation on track, it was going to be him. “We haven’t spoken much since we arrived,” Enjolras started with the known quantity; like all of his speeches, he built them up layer by layer, laying out the plan of his words, making sure they all started on the same page. It seemed even more important when he spoke to Grantaire, making sure his words cut through the haze of alcohol. “As we cannot return to what we were both once accustomed to,” Enjolras continued, eying the bottle of whiskey nearby. Well, they couldn’t return to everything. “I have been recounting the events of our last encounter and many things are not making any sense,” Enjolras said, feeling the words bottlenecking in his brain. They were not coming out as smoothly as he would have liked, or lacking in some of the emotional depth that he wanted. “Your convictions seemed to have found new meaning in the last minutes of your life, and yet now that you have been given a second chance, you are back the similar routine, as if nothing has changed.” Enjolras was not asking what he wanted to ask, and usually straight the point, he couldn’t figure out to say these things eloquently. He kept speaking; he knew the verboseness that consumed Grantaire when he was drunk, the nonsensical monologues that would occur if he allowed the other man to speak. “You renounced your cynicism, you stood by me for the cause. Then you fight me here. Was it just some drunken stupor or did you have a change of heart, Grantaire?” The last question lingered there, his jaw clenching in his marble-like facade. He sounded desperate for the answer, but it was a sound he would vehemently deny. “An adept observation...” Grantaire mumbled, sarcastically this time, as he sunk back against the cushions behind him. He was of course very well acquainted with Enjolras’s lectures and his speeches and the manner in which they were constructed. Speaking was what the man was known for after all. Enjolras had made it rather clear since the moment they had arrived here however that he was in no mood to discuss much of anything at length with Grantaire and so Grantaire had stuck to what the two of them did best. Arguing and debating for the sake of arguing and debating. It became clear very quickly (well, as quickly as Grantaire’s sluggish thoughts could decipher) that this was not going to be one of Enjolras’s usual speeches. Enjolras was making a legitimate attempt to discuss something with Grantaire. He was sincerely asking, no practically pleading, for Grantaire’s input about... Oh God. No. Grantaire was in no way, shape, or form prepared for this conversation no matter how many times the anticipation of it had played out a dozen different ways in his mind at night. He had actually started to doubt that Enjolras would ever dredge it up at all judging by how things had been going so far. Perhaps the revolutionary had finally had his fill of whatever information that machine had to offer and now he was finally getting around to other, lesser matters. For surely what had taken place between the two of them did not feature nearly so heavily in Enjolras’s thoughts as it did Grantaire’s. “I...another moment, please,” Grantaire stammered, feeling incredibly ill-equipped to handle this and especially the unfamiliar tone in Enjolras’s voice. He straightened up once more and fumbled for one of the bottles on the small table before him, trying to find one that actually still contained enough alcohol to carry him through this conversation. Much to his displeasure however, it seemed that he was on his own. The bottles in his nearby vicinity were all very much empty and Enjolras seemed to have strategically placed himself so that he was obstructing Grantaire’s path to acquire any more. Defeated, Grantaire slumped back against the cushions once more, stilling the trembling in his hands by twisting them together in his lap. “I did not have a change of heart,” he said, finally, unable to meet Enjolras’s gaze as he spoke. He was no less drunk but his tone was soft and serious, far more so than he ever was at meetings or when he usually was drinking around Enjolras and their friends. “I have always been loyal to you. I would always stand by you.” Unfortunately for Grantaire, in addition to monologues and dramatics, the more intoxicated he was the more forthcoming he was apt to be about his true feelings on matters. “Second chances...” he mumbled, shaking his head. “I never wanted nor deserved one...What else am I to do? I cannot bear the indifference... How else can I quell this...this ache. I cannot...” he seemed to regain some small bit of sensibility then and trailed off before he could clarify or divulge anything else he would regret later. “No, Grantaire. You have had your moment, we are in this conversation now,” Enjolras said, his voice dropping to something intense and flaring on anger. He didn’t miss the reach for the bottle, and Enjolras made sure to kick the other ones not in Grantaire’s immediate vicinity away. Whether it was for selfish reasons (Enjolras wanted him sober, sobering) or deeper reasons (must Grantaire throw away his liver so quickly, so suddenly, did he drive him to.. drink?) were left unsaid; either way he wanted none of Grantaire’s vices wedging in between what needed to be answered. “Then why stand with me? Why grab my hand and ask if I would permit such a thing as you and your solidarity? That is all I have ever wanted from you—any person—to commit to something wholly or live in their quiet peace, hoping that someone else will do what they never had the courage to do. Do you mock me, even in death?”And that stung to say. Grantaire attended every meeting, and while he would never consider him a confidant, he thought that maybe, just maybe... “You are of no sense, Grantaire, always with your half-hearted pledges. You claim you are loyal to me, loyal to me—” Enjolras stuttered as the words became real as he spoke them. But as the conflict of what he was saying reared its ugly head, Enjolras just kept talking, unable to parse what he was feeling at the statement. “Your loyalty means nothing if it is not serious, if you are not honest and true in your actions. You do nothing but make a fool of me, as if it is your mission, as if you only find solace is ripping apart the idealism you cannot hold onto yourself. But it is mine, Grantaire, and if you swear such fealty you would be more apt to understand, you would believe in something,” Enjolras said, his chest rising and falling heavily. This was a long time frustration: never giving Grantaire much of a thought to their cause, to the group, and only when his expectations for Grantaire were low, would the man prove he was worth something. More than the connotations of a man wrapped around a bottle of alcohol would draw. It were those surprises that made Enjolras not believe his ruse of neighborhood cynic. At least, some of the time. He realized too late that Grantaire was trying to explain something else to him, muddled by his drunken stupor. And Grantaire’s inability to articulate because of his intoxication seemed only to anger Enjolras more. “Quell what? Bear whose indifference? You are speaking in tongues. How can we even have a conversation if you cannot complete a sentence?” “I have already told you!” Grantaire responded, nearing the edge of desperation. It was no surprise that Enjolras judged him harshly, perhaps more so than others because he did not consider Grantaire’s viewpoints to be valid. They had argued enough times over the last few years for this to be a known fact and one that Grantaire had come to accept, a role that he had filled purposefully. But they had never before tread so closely to Grantaire’s truest feelings on the manner and now.... He physically recoiled as if Enjolras’s words were wounding him as they so often did. How could he possibly sit there and dismiss the only thing Grantaire had ever truly been sure of as some form of mockery? Claiming his sacrifice to have been meaningless? Once more Grantaire felt as though he stood, swaying on the edge of a vast abyss. The last time he had thrown himself willingly over the edge after Enjolras so that he might finally redeem himself and be free from all of this. But now? What would he find at the bottom this time? And then there it was. The question spoken plainly and aloud and hovering almost tangibly between the two of them. It was followed very closely by a confession and for a moment all Grantaire could do was stare, even when it had been amended into a generalization. This was what Grantaire had known all along, however. This should not come to him as some form of news. It was the hint of emotion coloring Enjolras’s voice that was new. Grantaire had never wanted to hurt him. “I am not worthy, I know. It was not enough,” he said, averting his eyes from Enjolras’s blazing ones, feeling utterly wretched as he did so. “Why ask for words when mine are so meaningless to you?” he continued miserably, turning the question back around on Enjolras. ”I do not know solace but in your presence I have known loyalty and solidarity and belief. I cannot find it within myself but I did find it in you and if you believe there to be no validity or weight in what I do or say, and you would not be wrong to feel such, then at least give me this. I do not regret what I did. I do not regret taking your hand.” “Not worthy? It is not about worthiness, Grantaire!” Enjolras said, almost indignant. It was such a strange choice of words for the cynic. The amalgamation of frustration and confusion were settling somewhere deep in Enjolras’ chest, and unable to do anything he ran his hand down his face, stepping away, only to spin back around to Grantaire, annoyed as if he had to explain the simplicity of it. Enjolras was not one to realize everyone was not on the same page as him. “It is about believing in something, about standing up for what you believe in. You do not need to be worthy of your own actions. There is no judge to decide if you are worthy or not.” And as if he was realizing something else entirely, Enjolras—who was a step away from taking hold of Grantaire’s shoulders and shaking him—breathed out long and low, stepping back. His gaze flicked away from Grantaire and down, only for a moment. If they had been with a group of people, it might have gone unnoticed, but under the singular entrancement of Grantaire, Enjolras could not begin to hide the gesture. He seemed offput, affronted, with the new knowledge of what he was parsing out. “You give your words no meaning. You only speak as a devil’s advocate, you drink to antagonize, and you belittle those who use their words as their foundation. You have made yourself not one to be taken seriously, to have your actions questioned because you have never been one to do anything,” Enjolras said, and although his own speech was still cruel and harsh, intense like the way he said many things, the frown he held for Grantaire—and Grantaire alone—was deep and concerned. He had never wanted anyone to feel meaningless or unworthy on account of him. He begged for equality of people, just voiced what others may have been afraid to do. He didn’t want to put himself above others, not even people like Grantaire. Not even Grantaire. “Because of this, is it wrong of me to question what you do? What other evidence of your commitment to anything, your beliefs, does anyone have if you contest them with apathy? There is no one to blame but yourself, Grantaire.” And maybe that was harsh, but Enjolras had never been known to coddle the cynic. He had never given him the same courtesy. “You say you have found loyalty and belief in me—” Enjolras felt his own disgust in knowing that information, because it meant that what he was doing was wrong. He had wanted to be an example for people to find it in themselves, not bestow it on his shoulders alone. He hated being seen as a god, above others, just because he spoke the loudest, the most passionate, the ever vigilant. He lifted his chin to Grantaire, going cold again. “I cannot give you anything, Grantaire. It is not for me to give.” “No? Then what is it exactly that you have come here to do if not to judge, Enjolras? For surely you were not simply seeking the pleasure of my company,” Grantaire observed caustically. It was easier for him to recede back behind this guise that he had created for himself. The very one which Enjolras was so harshly criticizing currently. He would do his best to mask his pain behind this devil may care attitude until he was alone again and then he would seek to drown it. In front of Enjolras however he could not bring himself to confess any further. “Do not continue to question if you do not wish to hear the answer,” was all that Grantaire said on the matter. He did not know how else to explain himself and all of his attempts had been denied. How else could he further prove his actions? Prove that his words had in fact been genuine? Enjolras already had a definition of who Grantaire was in his mind and as with all of Enjolras’s beliefs it would be nearly impossible to change or to weaken his resolve on the matter. Or at least so it seemed in Grantaire’s opinion. The forging of this mindset however could in fact mostly be blamed on Grantaire. In this alone, Enjolras was accurate. Grantaire had so long portrayed himself a certain way that he had become stuck in it himself. He did not know how else to behave in Enjolras’s presence. “Well then. Since you claim to know me and inner workings so well and since you do not have anything to offer me than perhaps it is time that you go,” Grantaire said, doing his best to act as though this entire endeavor of Enjolras’s was of little matter to him. As if this utter rejection was not seeping into his bones so that it would keep him awake at night. It could not have been further from the truth but perhaps it truly was better for the both of them if he were to go on playing his part. “Go on. Leave me to my spirits and my uselessness so that I do not risk poisoning you and your ideals any further.” "If you presumed that I was judging you, then perhaps you have had too much to drink to make sound decisions," Enjolras snapped. He hadn't been.. judging. Everyone knew that Enjolras' impression of Grantaire was made within the first minutes of meeting, and he was merely discussing—Enjolras didn't even know anymore, as he flamed at the indignation of the cynic. It was cyclical, how they gravitated toward arguments, unable to ever get any further. "You have answered nothing. You have babbled incoherently about this or that, claiming for me to believe in you, but yet you tell me you believe in nothing. That is not a choice, there is nothing there. What compromise is in that?" Enjolras asked, frustrated again. He was certainly not done with the conversation, he was resolved to nothing. Enjolras questioned Grantaire's gesture at the firing squad, wanting a definition, and answer, but whatever Grantaire had meant was veiled by his cynicism or roundabout manner of speech. If Grantaire was being serious about anything, Enjolras was obtusely unaware. And of course, Grantaire would dismiss him; trying to gain some sort of leg up in the their conversation by laying down his self-deprecation like a blanket and being above whatever trivial manner Grantaire believed this was. Enjolras was all the more eager to go at this point. He started toward the hallway then stopped when Grantaire spoke the last time. "My ideals are stead-fast, Grantaire. They cannot be poisoned by you, or anyone. Maybe it is yours that have been poisoned. To already resign yourself to uselessness is even too cynical for you." His brows arched, as he lagged in the doorway. "But you said you do not believe in anything—" Except you, a hideous voice in his head reminded him. It hadn't been the first time Grantaire had spoken such words, but now things were different. There had been concrete actions, and Enjolras was human, he could hope. His gaze dropped to his hand, the one that Grantaire had held, and he looked at it as if in mourning. "So surely, you cannot believe that you are useless," Enjolras said. And with that, he left. |