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}
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?”