[ Grantaire is a drunkard in the purest sense of the word. “Drunk” and “intoxicated” have become more than just habitual. They’ve become his default state of being, but this doesn’t make him an unwise man. He can see, even through the heaviest of wine-induced fogs, how Enjolras despises him. In fact, he sees it more clearly in those times than he ever could while sober. It really is ironic. He drinks to forget life and living, but ends up being confronted with it regardless of how addled his mind may be.
Even now, he can tell that Enjolras has grown even more displeased with him as of late, and he’s certain that it has something to do with his visit to the Cafe Richefeu. He hasn’t forgotten. For a moment, however brief that moment may have been, he had managed to strike some sort of optimism into his cynical heart. He was able to make himself believe that he could be wholly and seriously devoted to the cause, just like everyone else. It was only a passing fancy, however, and it had passed as quickly as it had come. After another drink of wine, a friendly game of dominoes seemed far more important than pretending to place any belief in the Revolution.
He would be lying if he said he didn’t feel somewhat guilty.
As his friends begin to empty out of the Musain at the end of a particularly energetic evening, Grantaire clambers to his feet, knocking an empty bottle off of his table in the process. ]
Enjolras.
[ He makes to reach for the other man’s arm, but rethinks this actual surprisingly quickly. A+, good move. ]
Whoever may have told you about the Richefeu—perhaps it was Lesgle. Who else would be unfortunate enough to stumble upon me? None the less, I’ve disappointed you. Let me try once more. I can do as I said. The group at the Richefeu will be half-hearted no longer if you’ll give me one last chance.
I went back to read the scene in question and now my heart hurts
[ Being the last to leave was not a rare thing for Enjolras. They others dispersed as he finished things himself, as he focused on his books or detailing things they discussed in notes to be recalled at another time. The energy of tonight had been infections, and he was in good spirits, brimming with inspiration, laying down ink as quickly as his hand could form the letters.
That mood, however, started to tip downwards as he heard that tell-tale tinkle of glass falling to the floor. He stopped midword, closing his eyes. Of course Grantaire was still here. And he still had not addressed or dealt with the Richefeu incident. He'd figured if he simply ignored the problem, it would go away. Grantaire had actually allowed him to think there was a chance anything was different. That he might actually try this time.
Not even at his name did he look up, the muscle in his jaw flexing visibly as he ground his teeth together. Slowly he finished the word he'd been writing. He tried to complete the sentence as the other continued to speak, but he knew it was pointless.
Finally, as he looked up at the drunkard, all of that disappointment written plainly across his otherwise fierce gaze, now focused intently upon the one who had failed him. ]
When I sent you, I did so with your word, your promise, to rouse them. To shake them from the stupor they had fallen into. I noted precisely that they had a stronger affinity for drink and dominoes than for anything else. And when I passed that very cafe, I found you participating in that which I sent you to pull them from. If I gave you yet another "last chance" what would I find you doing, then?
[ Grantaire’s entire life is made up of half-shaped thoughts and passing fancies, none of which have ever taken full form. On occasion, his scattered mind will be illuminated by a brief ray of inspiration, or he’ll stumble upon an idea that he might wish to build upon, but all these notions slip away by morning, leaving nothing but his vices. His brief pang of patriotism was one of these things, fed only by his admiration of Enjolras. As soon as Enjolras was out of his sight, so was the light.
He listens to the other man’s words, but seems unfazed. If anything, his gaze grows even more tender despite the harsh tone. ]
Come with me.
[ It’s a sudden request, but shouldn’t come as entirely unexpected. Grantaire can’t say what he might fall victim to if given the opportunity to return to the Richefeu, but he has the vague hope that he might regain a single speck of Enjolras’ respect if he’s there with him. ]
I’m unlikely to make the same mistake twice.
[ Yeah okay that bit is a laugh. ]
And I've already lost my last sous to Joly. My pockets are empty. I've no coin with which to pay for wine and nothing to bargain on a game of dominoes.
Rather than say that which came to his mind first, Enjolras looked instead to the papers before him. The ink was still drying on his latest page, though he doubted he could finish it any time soon. So instead he sealed his ink bottle and set his pen aside. He wished he could be rid of this burden once and for all, but the others found some positive aspects of Grantaire that he could not see. Declaring him unfit for their cause would therefor make this a dictatorship rather than the democracy they sought. It would take a majority rule to bar the drunk from their meetings, which would never happen so long as the others considered him a friend.
There was a time when Enjolras had tried, but even his optimism has its limits. He would stir any man to action so long as there were the smallest spark of initiative within him, the smallest flicker of fury or justice. But a fleeting spark was the most he'd ever seen out of Grantaire. So often he'd seen the drunkard give impassioned speeches on any number of topics, and thought it meant there was hope behind those words. However, as rare as it might be, Enjolras knew this was one he could not help.
He rose to his feet, finally, his gaze moving back to Grantaire. "If it is nothing but a lack of coin which keeps you from drinking or gambling, then there is little my presence could change. Were I to chaperone you to every task, then what is the purpose of sending you?"
Grantaire merely smiles gently at Enjolras’ stern tone. In his darkest and most drunken hours, those cruel words have cut him deeply, leaving him questioning why their fearless leader in red hates him so. But at most times, each and every word Enjolras speaks to him is as good as gold, no matter the tone.
“I’ve nothing to distract me now,” he claims brightly, raises his arms briefly before allowing them to drop back to his sides. “My ambition may be vague, Enjolras, but my mind is as clear as the cloudless sky. I can prove it to you, if you are there to witness me."
He steps forward, eyes shining in the dull gleam of the candles. "Come with me,” he begs once more. “Return with me to the Richefeu. You will see.”
Lips pressed together, Enjolras dipped his chin at the claim of a clear mind. He was able to hold his tongue on the matter, but he could not stop his gaze from flitting toward the bottle the other had knocked to the floor. Had he ever seen Grantaire with a truly clear mind? A bit of wine was not the problem. The others partook freely and joyfully, but never to the point of dulling their wits and senses. Only one of them drank himself into a stupor.
"I did see," he said, sounding more resigned and exasperated than before. "If my presence were all it took, you would have completed the task the first time. Your distraction was far too complete if you do not know who was there to witness your failure."
Perhaps, in a way, he pitied Grantaire. He was a man playing at having a passion, having an ambition. It was less convincing than children playing at war with sticks for swords and would get him nowhere. No one could provide it for him, and he would continue to fail so long as he searched for these things at the bottom of wine bottles.
His eyebrows dip as he contemplates Enjolras’ meaning. It’s true that Grantaire is hardly ever sober, and his claim of a clear mind is clearly an overstatement. He isn’t at his worst, but there’s certainly enough wine in his system to make him slow on the uptake. It takes a moment, but after a brief moment, understanding dawns on his face, and he lifts his gaze once more.
"Ah," he says, and briefly it seems as though, for the first time in his life, he may actually be at a loss for words. He had genuinely not expected Enjolras to follow him. Truth be told, he hadn’t expected that evening to transpire in the manner it had at all, but it’s long since passed and it can’t be undone now.
Perhaps it was the wine, or the friendly conversation, but something switched in Grantaire that night. He's never truly believed in his friends’ ideals, but for one sudden, brief and glowing moment, he felt as though he could accomplish as much as any other man in that room. He felt as though he could prove himself and earn Enjolras’ favor. That fire faded as quickly as it had sparked, flickering out just as soon as he stepped through the door.
"I owe Lesgle my sincerest apologies, then, for assuming that his poor luck must make him the unlucky man to stumble upon me at my lowest,” he continues, finding his tongue once more. "It was you, then, and I fear that is far worse than Lesgle."
He would beg for forgiveness on hands and knees if he thought he had any chance at earning it, but Grantaire has been here long enough to know better. He was granted one opportunity, one expectation, and he failed spectacularly.
"Will you not offer me a second chance, then?,” he asks, knowing that it’s folly to even dare to suggest such a thing. He’ll undoubtedly let Enjolras down once more, and they’ll run this gambit once more. "Or some other chance at forgiveness. Do you not hold the belief that every man should be offered redemption, Enjolras? Allow me to make it up to you. There must be some way."
With such a simple response, Enjolras assumed they were through. Grantaire was not a man of few words, so perhaps he thought himself defeated in this and he would excuse himself. In the brief silence that followed, he turned to the task of gathering his things so he could leave. The matter should be settled. But then Grantaire spoke again. As he closed his book, his fingers tightened on the cover. It was a low shot, taking aim at his beliefs. He thought even this man better than that, better than lashing out at that which he himself lacked. Pity or not, he did not see it as pleading but rather mockery.
Stern as ever, Enjolras lifted his hand. He pressed the book back down against the table, resisting the urge to slam it down to properly emphasize his mood and the point he was about to make. He took a slow breath, gathering his words, ensuring the drunkard had truly paused for a response rather than merely for breath.
"Redemption," he said, slowly, fiercely. "Is something any man can seize, any day his heart desires it. Lest he is held physically, by chains or bars, every day redemption is possible. It is not something for which permission is granted. If permission were a prerequisite to redemption, no man would have it." But that was as far as deflection could go. He must address the issue directly, for fear the man before him would think it did not apply to him. His hands curled into fists as he drew up his next words. "This was no first chance, nor was it your second, or your third. Each time we meet, each and every day we are together, has been a chance. It is not action alone, it is not the task itself. We are here to enact change, we are here to show that any man can do right by his fellow man, by his country, no matter his status. We each bring a unique perspective, our own experiences, as fuel for this fire. Yet what you bring threatens to douse those flames. No chances I offer you will change that, it is a chance you must find yourself."
Despite how directly Enjolras speaks, Grantaire still feels as though he is the one exception. Redemption, alongside nearly everything else, is always just out of reach, close enough that his fingertips may brush it, but he can never grasp it. He tries, earnestly. Every time he’s begged to be put to use in regards to the revolution, he’s meant it. He wants to be accepted by Enjolras and to help his friends, but he always falls short and gives up before the job is through.
“I bring no perspective,” he points out. “I bring no experiences and I bring no fuel for your fire. I do not believe in your revolution. This monarchy—I do not disdain it as you do. It means little to me. Any other government would mean just as little.”
It’s not particularly wise to speak so openly about such things in the face of the leader of the revolution, but Grantaire’s lack of passion is no secret. There’s little reason not to speak frankly, though there’s no anger in his words. That same soft, longing expression doesn’t shift from his face.
“I don’t wish to douse your flames. I wish to be of use. I don’t need to believe in your revolution to do that, do I?”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
im ruining the timeline here but hope u can deal because it’s SOMETHING amirite okay look a tag
Even now, he can tell that Enjolras has grown even more displeased with him as of late, and he’s certain that it has something to do with his visit to the Cafe Richefeu. He hasn’t forgotten. For a moment, however brief that moment may have been, he had managed to strike some sort of optimism into his cynical heart. He was able to make himself believe that he could be wholly and seriously devoted to the cause, just like everyone else. It was only a passing fancy, however, and it had passed as quickly as it had come. After another drink of wine, a friendly game of dominoes seemed far more important than pretending to place any belief in the Revolution.
He would be lying if he said he didn’t feel somewhat guilty.
As his friends begin to empty out of the Musain at the end of a particularly energetic evening, Grantaire clambers to his feet, knocking an empty bottle off of his table in the process. ]
Enjolras.
[ He makes to reach for the other man’s arm, but rethinks this actual surprisingly quickly. A+, good move. ]
Whoever may have told you about the Richefeu—perhaps it was Lesgle. Who else would be unfortunate enough to stumble upon me? None the less, I’ve disappointed you. Let me try once more. I can do as I said. The group at the Richefeu will be half-hearted no longer if you’ll give me one last chance.
I went back to read the scene in question and now my heart hurts
That mood, however, started to tip downwards as he heard that tell-tale tinkle of glass falling to the floor. He stopped midword, closing his eyes. Of course Grantaire was still here. And he still had not addressed or dealt with the Richefeu incident. He'd figured if he simply ignored the problem, it would go away. Grantaire had actually allowed him to think there was a chance anything was different. That he might actually try this time.
Not even at his name did he look up, the muscle in his jaw flexing visibly as he ground his teeth together. Slowly he finished the word he'd been writing. He tried to complete the sentence as the other continued to speak, but he knew it was pointless.
Finally, as he looked up at the drunkard, all of that disappointment written plainly across his otherwise fierce gaze, now focused intently upon the one who had failed him. ]
When I sent you, I did so with your word, your promise, to rouse them. To shake them from the stupor they had fallen into. I noted precisely that they had a stronger affinity for drink and dominoes than for anything else. And when I passed that very cafe, I found you participating in that which I sent you to pull them from. If I gave you yet another "last chance" what would I find you doing, then?
ur welcome
He listens to the other man’s words, but seems unfazed. If anything, his gaze grows even more tender despite the harsh tone. ]
Come with me.
[ It’s a sudden request, but shouldn’t come as entirely unexpected. Grantaire can’t say what he might fall victim to if given the opportunity to return to the Richefeu, but he has the vague hope that he might regain a single speck of Enjolras’ respect if he’s there with him. ]
I’m unlikely to make the same mistake twice.
[ Yeah okay that bit is a laugh. ]
And I've already lost my last sous to Joly. My pockets are empty. I've no coin with which to pay for wine and nothing to bargain on a game of dominoes.
I'm too lazy for that small text html
There was a time when Enjolras had tried, but even his optimism has its limits. He would stir any man to action so long as there were the smallest spark of initiative within him, the smallest flicker of fury or justice. But a fleeting spark was the most he'd ever seen out of Grantaire. So often he'd seen the drunkard give impassioned speeches on any number of topics, and thought it meant there was hope behind those words. However, as rare as it might be, Enjolras knew this was one he could not help.
He rose to his feet, finally, his gaze moving back to Grantaire. "If it is nothing but a lack of coin which keeps you from drinking or gambling, then there is little my presence could change. Were I to chaperone you to every task, then what is the purpose of sending you?"
wow well fine
“I’ve nothing to distract me now,” he claims brightly, raises his arms briefly before allowing them to drop back to his sides. “My ambition may be vague, Enjolras, but my mind is as clear as the cloudless sky. I can prove it to you, if you are there to witness me."
He steps forward, eyes shining in the dull gleam of the candles. "Come with me,” he begs once more. “Return with me to the Richefeu. You will see.”
no subject
"I did see," he said, sounding more resigned and exasperated than before. "If my presence were all it took, you would have completed the task the first time. Your distraction was far too complete if you do not know who was there to witness your failure."
Perhaps, in a way, he pitied Grantaire. He was a man playing at having a passion, having an ambition. It was less convincing than children playing at war with sticks for swords and would get him nowhere. No one could provide it for him, and he would continue to fail so long as he searched for these things at the bottom of wine bottles.
no subject
"Ah," he says, and briefly it seems as though, for the first time in his life, he may actually be at a loss for words. He had genuinely not expected Enjolras to follow him. Truth be told, he hadn’t expected that evening to transpire in the manner it had at all, but it’s long since passed and it can’t be undone now.
Perhaps it was the wine, or the friendly conversation, but something switched in Grantaire that night. He's never truly believed in his friends’ ideals, but for one sudden, brief and glowing moment, he felt as though he could accomplish as much as any other man in that room. He felt as though he could prove himself and earn Enjolras’ favor. That fire faded as quickly as it had sparked, flickering out just as soon as he stepped through the door.
"I owe Lesgle my sincerest apologies, then, for assuming that his poor luck must make him the unlucky man to stumble upon me at my lowest,” he continues, finding his tongue once more. "It was you, then, and I fear that is far worse than Lesgle."
He would beg for forgiveness on hands and knees if he thought he had any chance at earning it, but Grantaire has been here long enough to know better. He was granted one opportunity, one expectation, and he failed spectacularly.
"Will you not offer me a second chance, then?,” he asks, knowing that it’s folly to even dare to suggest such a thing. He’ll undoubtedly let Enjolras down once more, and they’ll run this gambit once more. "Or some other chance at forgiveness. Do you not hold the belief that every man should be offered redemption, Enjolras? Allow me to make it up to you. There must be some way."
no subject
Stern as ever, Enjolras lifted his hand. He pressed the book back down against the table, resisting the urge to slam it down to properly emphasize his mood and the point he was about to make. He took a slow breath, gathering his words, ensuring the drunkard had truly paused for a response rather than merely for breath.
"Redemption," he said, slowly, fiercely. "Is something any man can seize, any day his heart desires it. Lest he is held physically, by chains or bars, every day redemption is possible. It is not something for which permission is granted. If permission were a prerequisite to redemption, no man would have it." But that was as far as deflection could go. He must address the issue directly, for fear the man before him would think it did not apply to him. His hands curled into fists as he drew up his next words. "This was no first chance, nor was it your second, or your third. Each time we meet, each and every day we are together, has been a chance. It is not action alone, it is not the task itself. We are here to enact change, we are here to show that any man can do right by his fellow man, by his country, no matter his status. We each bring a unique perspective, our own experiences, as fuel for this fire. Yet what you bring threatens to douse those flames. No chances I offer you will change that, it is a chance you must find yourself."
....I CANT COUNT IT'S SIX MONTHS LATER
“I bring no perspective,” he points out. “I bring no experiences and I bring no fuel for your fire. I do not believe in your revolution. This monarchy—I do not disdain it as you do. It means little to me. Any other government would mean just as little.”
It’s not particularly wise to speak so openly about such things in the face of the leader of the revolution, but Grantaire’s lack of passion is no secret. There’s little reason not to speak frankly, though there’s no anger in his words. That same soft, longing expression doesn’t shift from his face.
“I don’t wish to douse your flames. I wish to be of use. I don’t need to believe in your revolution to do that, do I?”