InsaneJournal

Who: Grantaire and Princess Addie
Where: The inn
When: Some time late afternoon?
What: Because two more polar opposites could not meet?


For once, there was not a drink by his elbow. He sat, hunched over the sketchbook that sat on the table in front of him almost protectively, pencil moving over the page as he brought an image to life. Every now and then he would pause, almost unconsciously shaking the hand that held the pencil, as though to remove the faint tremor there. He hadn't been up long, it was rarely before noon that he roused. And usually, he would have sought a drink by now. Today, though, he was playing a little game. Something he did every now and then. Just to see if he could, he told himself. Not for any other reason. Occasionally, he made it til nightfall. Regardless of the circumstance, he had managed to feel a small measure of pride at that. Before he'd dismissed the thought with a self deprecating laugh. It was no achievement to go less than half a day without a drink. That was normal. Or should have been. But his life had not been normal in a long time.

Foolish perhaps, but he still attempted it. He never told anyone, of course. He couldn't stand the pity. He'd seen it in his friends eyes the last time he had decided on a whim to give up drinking. He'd lasted less than two days, before he'd been a complete mess. He particularly didn't like to see it from Enjolras. Pity from the man whose opinion mattered most was unbearable. And now, he was in a place where his hobby (he laughed at himself for thinking of it that way), was even less acceptable. He hadn't been lying when he'd told Enjolras he could not reconcile himself to this place. Though he had hardly been content in Paris, either. Not really.

Drawing, painting, was the only other thing that came close to helping him cling to sanity. And so he fell in to the rhythm of the familiar task. He didn't pay much attention to what he drew, simply moved on to a new page once one was filled. He'd found the sketchbook and an assortment of pencils waiting in his room the other day. Neither of them had mentioned it. They both knew Enjolras had done it and that Grantaire was grateful, without the words passing between them.

The picture taking shape at the moment was one he could have created with his eyes closed. A man standing tall before a faceless crowd, face defiant and strong as he willed them to believe the words he spoke. Words Grantaire would never himself believe, but said with such conviction and belief that it had drawn him in from the very beginning, like a moth to a flame. Knowing he could never feel any of it himself.