Who: Lagertha and Grantaire Where: Bed of roses What: Granting Lagertha's request to share drinks (I almost made a pun) When: In the evening time
It was unsettling, not knowing a place at all. Paris, he had known like the back of his hand. Every street, every back alley. The best places to eat, to drink and shop. Even the best places for Enjolras to hold his rallies and protests. Information he likely wouldn't have been as forthcoming with if someone else had requested it. But he'd likely eat his shoe before denying Enjolras anything when his friend truly wanted it.
Of Lawrence, by comparison, he knew very little. He knew where the inn was, and the park. And now that he had been there a few times, he knew this place, where Rebekah worked. The supposedly scary vampire who had seemed surprised he hadn't been afraid, but had spent the night giving him free drinks. And his friends thought he was contradictory. Regardless of all that, he liked it. There was music he didn't recognise, but it was not unpleasant, and most of all, there were enough dark corners for sitting in solitude with a glass beside him and his sketchbook in front of him.
He'd have been just as happy to be at the inn, except that things between he and Enjolras were more than a little tense since the night he had found out about the fictional nature of their lives. He didn't know precisely what he'd said to his friend that had done it, but he was far from his usual orating self whenever they were in a room together. And seemed to make efforts to avoid that from happening.
Still, if he didn't know what was broken he could not fix it. And so it went to the same place all other miserable thoughts he would rather not entertain went. Somewhere dark and quiet and dulled by the contents of his glass.