R (vagueambition) wrote in wariscomingcom, @ 2014-09-04 22:18:00 |
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Entry tags: | enjolras, grantaire |
Who: Grantaire and Enjolras
What: Dude idek. Neither does he. Grantaire is a mess. Feels?
When: Forward dated to 24 hours post everyone else's return cause I have to sleep then work
Where: The inn
There hadn't been any thought involved in ending up back at the inn. He was just there. Outside, but there. Whilst yeah, during a drunken tantrum he'd gone and stayed in one of those other apartments, this place already felt more like home. As much as Lawrence could feel like home, anyway. And right now he was too sick and too tired to think very hard about what he was doing, as though he could even walk very far at all anyway.
He made it to the entrance, nearly tripping over his own feet as he did. Faint tremors still shook his fingers, but whether that was lingering affects from the lack of alcohol or a simple psychological need for a drink, was anyone's guess. Wearily, unable to take another step he just sank to the ground where he was, leaning against the wall beside the door. Any guests who showed up would get a nice surprise. His clothes were a mess, covered in blood and dirt and god knows what else. He was pale and sweaty, hair a mess. The shadows under his eyes spoke of his exhaustion, and it was obvious he'd lost weight. God he needed a drink. He wasn't being unreasonable, he refused to believe that. He needed a drink. After everything he'd been through the past few weeks...
He scoffed aloud at his own pitiful thoughts, head dropping back to thud dully against the wall behind him. He was a wreck, and he knew it as well as anyone who had seen him over the past few weeks.
He felt his stomach twist with building anxiety at the thought. How many more people would come to that realisation, and how quickly? One look at him was enough to see it.
He hardly held the appearance of someone with any remaining self respect. Then again, nothing about the past few weeks had been particularly dignified. He'd been a shaking, feverish mess for days, completely unable to defend himself. He could still feel those teeth sinking in to his neck, if he paused long enough. Smell the sickening breath of those animals...
But it was okay. It was fine. Lydia had lived, hadn't she? It had been worth it to save her from the same fate. And wasn't that the whole point? He'd done it to save her. Her life was worth so much more. The other times hadn't been so intentional. No, they were just more emphasis on his failings. How many times had he died, anyway? He'd lost count after six.
And what would Enjolras think of him now? What would any of them think? Pathetic. Pathetic, that dark voice in his head repeated, reminded him. Always pathetic. Ward hadn't been far wrong in his questions. What was the point of him? There was nothing Grantaire could offer anyone, any more. A useless waste of space drunk, weak and miserable sober. Still, he knew which he would choose. He'd known it for years. It was an easy decision in the end. The easiest decision. The weakest, sure. But who would expect any different at this point?
He wanted to stand, to do something to fix this for himself, but he couldn't find the energy to even lift his head. It had been too long since he'd eaten, he knew. But the thought of food turned his stomach. No, it was a drink he needed. Several drinks. Then he'd feel better. He'd just get up, get a drink, and then lie down in the quiet and sleep. He'd stay out of everyone's way. It would be fine.