Who: Grantaire and NPC!Father What: Unplanned and unwanted reunions When: 7 May 2014, afternoon Where: Streets of LA, back to the apartment in Irvine Warnings: Dysfunction Junction. Parental disregard/hatred, cursing Status: Narrative | Complete
When Grantaire had decided to go into the city, he hadn't really had any plans on how the day would go. It was just a day to get out, see if he couldn't get some inspiration. Not that his inspiration ever panned out the way he wanted. He'd spent all weekend in his room, painting, and in the end, it had been crap. Again. He hadn't bothered showing it to Enjolras, not that he ever showed his paintings to Enjolras. Sometimes he saw them, usually from before he dropped out, the projects, and he always said he had talent but Grantaire didn't buy it. Not that his roommate was the type to say things just to make someone feel better, but Grantaire didn't see the talent in his paintings. Or he saw too much, it was too ugly, too truthful to him, and that made the paintings not worth showing to anyone.
The fact that he ran into his father wasn't exactly unheard of. Corporate man, visiting the city, being disowned so they didn't talk and all of that. So it was in fact a possibility. But it didn't make the situation any less jarring. The two had never gotten along, shouting matches had been common when Grantaire had still been in his father's home. It had gotten worse with the death of his mother, Margot always tried to keep the peace, but it never lasted. The fact that Mother's Day was coming up wasn't a fact lost on him, either.
"By sweet happenstance, look who it is."
Reflex. Taunt. Make a spectacle. Even so, his eyes were guarded, the smirk on his lips more bitter than sarcastic.
"Michael."
The cold indifference and look was met with a scoff. Always with that name. There was a reason Grantaire went by his mother's maiden name. Because his father wasn't his father, so whatever name he decided to call him? Irrelevant.
"Grantaire."
Like hell would he bow to the whims of a heartless bastard. He didn't respond to Michael for a reason. It wasn't who he was.
"You look like a disgrace."
He was too sober for this. That was all there was to it. Grantaire was far too sober for this conversation to be taking place. Okay, so any dealings with his 'father' warranted a drink, but really.
"No 'How are you? It's been so long'? You wound me, father. It's like you don't even care. But right. You don't." Why couldn't he just walk away? Was it really so impossible a thing to do? Yes. Yes it was. Grantaire didn't back down from a fight. Or he was a masochist in more matters than he had already admitted to being when it came to living with Enjolras and his own indifference. At least it wasn't so cold.
"Still the same insufferable fuck up you always were. Still squandering your life away on the hopeless?"
"Well it's not business if that's what you mean."
"You should be dead by now."
"Aren't we all dead?"
"I don't have time for this, Michael."
"Of course not. You're too busy stepping on the backs of people and keeping them in the ground while you get richer. You're the disgrace."
Grantaire was not a believer in change. He was sickened by his father's actions, and those of his ilk. But he also knew that it was the way it was. People were disgusting, they only cared about themselves and wouldn't change. All the lofty claims and desires of people like Enjolras? Just words. Just rhetoric. Fight against it, give in. None of it mattered. So Grantaire did as he did. He painted. He drank. He fought and gambled. He went against everything his father stood for. It was so much easier if he didn't believe. Belief led to crushed hopes, to seeing the flame of change and hope flicker and then be turned out by the cold reality of life.
Not believing was protection.
Either way, calling his father a disgrace seemed to have an interesting effect. In that the bastard bothered to show some kind of emotion beyond indifference. Anger.
"You're a waste of space, I would have thought that you would see that now and bother to make yourself useful in the world. Instead you're covered in paint and don't care. Well fine. Don't expect any help from your sister, don't expect a door open to you when you realize that you've squandered your life away."
"You've already disowned me, is there really a point to repeating that fact?" Annoyed and disgusted, Grantaire shook his head and crossed his arms, eyes narrowed, the smirk long since gone.
"With the hope you'd come to your senses. You haven't. So go about your life. Whatever. But leave your sister out of it."
Without another word, Grantaire's father started walking off and as with everything when Grantaire was riled up, he shouted after the man, not caring about the looks.
"Yeah well fuck you, too!"
This wasn't the normal kind of Los Angeles afternoon and there were indeed some looks in his direction but Grantaire didn't care. All he did was shove his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and stalk towards Union Station. This outing suddenly was not worth the energy. There was a stash of brandy with his name on it. That was definitely worth the energy as opposed to wandering the city in search of inspiration for a painting he would only end up hating once he finished it.
The metrolink ride was uneventful and once back in Irvine, Grantaire just walked into the apartment, door slamming behind him as he grabbed the brandy and a glass and entered his room in a similar manner.