Who: Grantaire and Open or works as a narrative When: Early evening, after he and Enjy discussed feeeeels Where: Outside. Out of the inn. Because dnw What: Idek he does this to me with the feels right now and demands it be written. Carry on
Grieve properly, he'd said. Remember her because she deserved it. Grantaire wondered sometimes for all of Enjolras' intelligence if he really thought about the things he said. Didn't he understand that grieving and remembering her was exactly what he'd been avoiding for years, now? He didn't give a damn what Enjolras thought was fair to her. She was dead. She had left him to face this alone and all he cared about was what was fair to him.
The problem with that, of course, was that he knew just how much of a lie it was. He cared. He still loved her and missed her, and every day he was sober he felt that. How angry he was that she'd gotten sick. How unfair life had been to take his parents and the woman he'd loved from him. How much he couldn't breathe with the thought of her being gone. And he couldn't help but feel bitter when Enjolras talked about fairness, when he had Eponine. She was the first person Enjolras had loved like that, and he didn't understand because he hadn't lost her. God willing he never would. But not wanting Enjolras to experience that didn't stop the comparison when he was feeling this way.
He surprised himself when he didn't walk with purpose to the first place outside of the inn that he could get a drink. Not that he had much chance of that in the inn anyway, with Enjolras locking cupboards and watching him like a hawk whenever he was in the same room. He liked it, he wouldn't pretend he didn't like the caring his friend was showing him. He'd be fooling no one if he tried to pretend he didn't like any kind of attention from Enjolras. But after their last conversation, it had felt suffocating. So he'd taken his chance as soon as he'd left the room for a moment, and slipped outside.
Purpose or not, he'd ended up in the middle of Lawrence without his phone, surrounded by far too much temptation and no way to distract himself. He'd tried drawing once since he'd gotten back. And he'd sworn there and then to never attempt that again sober. The pictures he found in the book were bad enough without trying to draw with a shaking hand. It had only started when he'd picked up the pencil, too. He wasn't particularly interested in trying to figure out what that meant.
Finding himself back near the park where he'd first ended up here, he nearly laughed. Arriving and tripping over his own feet was probably the perfect argument that could be used against drinking. Even without all the other arguments Enjolras had used. That he was a better person when he didn't (he remained unconvinced), that it was better for his health (it had been hard to argue against that one, admittedly).
When he'd done nothing but walked in a circle and found himself almost back at the inn he stopped, sinking down to sit none too gracefully on the curb. He crossed his arms over his chest, fingers curled in the sleeves of the shirt he was wearing. He wasn't going back inside, and he wasn't going to drink. He could do this. He could sit here in the quiet with his completely sober thoughts, with nothing to distract him. He could absolutely be alone and function like any normal person could. Even if normal people didn't freak out and walk out and not tell their friends where they were going and end up sitting in the gutter. No, he was fine. He absolutely wasn't trying to pretend it wasn't all he wanted to find the nearest bar and get himself completely blind drunk and forget everything that had made him start drinking in the first place.