![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
psalm_onethirtyoneOh, and Enjolras/Grantaire, for that girl I've just met.
Chemin
Grantaire held the wineglass in one hand and turned it in an imaginary light from an imaginary window. He watched the imaginary sunlight streak through the dark red wine, gilding it in gold and making it look like someone's opium dream of the ocean. A red ocean with golden foam, trapped inside glass walls. He turned it again with an imaginary connoisseur's wrist, and drank it off.
He was making an imaginary picture--and any elegance that came of it was imaginary, as well. He was ugly and awkward, despite a long-ago mother claiming that if one was a good person, one could look beautiful even with the strangest set of features. That, of course, was largely due to the fact that he was by no means a good person, he thought. He didn't pretend that even when he played with the imaginary picture.
Which was, of course, why he had managed to be a dancer. Of all the ludicrous occupations for a gawky boy who tripped over his own feet (though that was likely from drunkenness), dancing must be the most ridiculous. But he could. He could dance, sometimes. He tried to show up at classes sober. The instructor pushed him this way and that and muttered curses when he tripped.
And perhaps sometimes, in his own skewed, green dreams, his instructor had golden hair and a pallor to match his own--though it was five-hundred times more becoming on this other person. He thought it funny. Even in dreams, the pale face looked disgusted in him. And if you can't get happiness even in your own dreams, where are you to get it?
Grantaire leaned back in his chair, refilling the glass and twirling it half-heartedly between his fingers.
"What are you doing here so late?"
That, of course, was one voice he'd recognise absolutely anywhere in the world. No one else could ask the question, 'what are you doing here so late?' and make it sound quite so like a irritated accusation. He paused a moment, trying to imagine the sort of concerned lilt it would take if the question was directed at Combeferre instead.
"I'm drinking. What else?"
"It's a waste."
"That's the eighty-third and a half time you've said that," he answered back cheerfully, as such an exasperated statement warranted.
"A half?"
"Bahorel cut you off. Anyway, what are you doing here so late?"
"Fetching a book."
Grantaire raised his eyebrows. An answer wasn't a usual occurrence. It was far more likely that he'd receive a quelling glance than he would a real answer. He was quite surprised enough to ask, "Are you really?" It sounded stupid the instant he said it. He refilled his glass.
"As a matter of fact, I am."
"This a cafe, not a library." Again, the words sounded stupid the instant he said them. He'd no wit left, he decided. A very long time ago, he used to say things that sounded somewhat clever. Now it was just childish retorts. That was what came of absinthe and too much time spent looking at the same person. Perhaps tea and Prouvaire would give him back a trace of his talent, he thought bitterly. He realised he was being ignored. "Are you going?"
"As soon as I find my book."
"Where did you leave it?"
"I don't remember."
"You've a fault, then. I'll help you look." He stood, setting the wineglass down. The imaginary sunlight caught in it and made a crystal shadow on the table, and the dust shone in the shaft of light, making it look like an antique scene.
"I don't need your help."
"I don't care. I'll find it. When I was small, I could find anything. When my sainted mother lost something, she'd call for me and tell me what it was, and I'd find it within ten minutes. I'm very good at it."
Enjolras stepped back, folding his arms. "All right, then. Find it."
"What will you give me if I do?" Grantaire asked, his hand on the table lightly to stay balanced.
"Leave bargains out of this. You said you could find it."
"And I can. I will. I think you likely left it in another cafe. But--ah--" He made his unsteady way three tables over and pulled out a chair. To his pleasure, a large book with a red-leather cover was lying on it. "Here, is this it?"
Enjolras blinked. "Yes, that's it. How did you know?" he asked curiously.
"You were sitting right here when you ate dinner, and it's only logical to put the book on the chair instead of a table, where it risks crumbs, butter, and wine spills. There, wasn't that clever of me?"
Grudgingly, Enjolras said, "It was good of you. I didn't believe you."
For the first time--very definitely the first time, he decided, Enjolras appeared to be softening towards him a little. He shook his head, trying uselessly to clear it. "I didn't expect you to."
Enjolras suddenly stepped forward, and put his hand to Grantaire's rough cheek. "I know. Thank you," and he kissed Grantaire with his soft angel's lips. And then, as befitting a god who had just blessed a stunned mortal, he disappeared, taking his book with him.
That left Grantaire alone, still too surprised to move. At last he smiled. He hadn't smiled in such a way for a very long time. Usually his smiles were perfectly rehearsed sarcastic smiles or disorganised drunken smiles. He ran a hand through his hair, and poured the last of the wine in the glass onto the floor.
The smile stayed, the whole way back to his boarding-place.
Chemin
Grantaire held the wineglass in one hand and turned it in an imaginary light from an imaginary window. He watched the imaginary sunlight streak through the dark red wine, gilding it in gold and making it look like someone's opium dream of the ocean. A red ocean with golden foam, trapped inside glass walls. He turned it again with an imaginary connoisseur's wrist, and drank it off.
He was making an imaginary picture--and any elegance that came of it was imaginary, as well. He was ugly and awkward, despite a long-ago mother claiming that if one was a good person, one could look beautiful even with the strangest set of features. That, of course, was largely due to the fact that he was by no means a good person, he thought. He didn't pretend that even when he played with the imaginary picture.
Which was, of course, why he had managed to be a dancer. Of all the ludicrous occupations for a gawky boy who tripped over his own feet (though that was likely from drunkenness), dancing must be the most ridiculous. But he could. He could dance, sometimes. He tried to show up at classes sober. The instructor pushed him this way and that and muttered curses when he tripped.
And perhaps sometimes, in his own skewed, green dreams, his instructor had golden hair and a pallor to match his own--though it was five-hundred times more becoming on this other person. He thought it funny. Even in dreams, the pale face looked disgusted in him. And if you can't get happiness even in your own dreams, where are you to get it?
Grantaire leaned back in his chair, refilling the glass and twirling it half-heartedly between his fingers.
"What are you doing here so late?"
That, of course, was one voice he'd recognise absolutely anywhere in the world. No one else could ask the question, 'what are you doing here so late?' and make it sound quite so like a irritated accusation. He paused a moment, trying to imagine the sort of concerned lilt it would take if the question was directed at Combeferre instead.
"I'm drinking. What else?"
"It's a waste."
"That's the eighty-third and a half time you've said that," he answered back cheerfully, as such an exasperated statement warranted.
"A half?"
"Bahorel cut you off. Anyway, what are you doing here so late?"
"Fetching a book."
Grantaire raised his eyebrows. An answer wasn't a usual occurrence. It was far more likely that he'd receive a quelling glance than he would a real answer. He was quite surprised enough to ask, "Are you really?" It sounded stupid the instant he said it. He refilled his glass.
"As a matter of fact, I am."
"This a cafe, not a library." Again, the words sounded stupid the instant he said them. He'd no wit left, he decided. A very long time ago, he used to say things that sounded somewhat clever. Now it was just childish retorts. That was what came of absinthe and too much time spent looking at the same person. Perhaps tea and Prouvaire would give him back a trace of his talent, he thought bitterly. He realised he was being ignored. "Are you going?"
"As soon as I find my book."
"Where did you leave it?"
"I don't remember."
"You've a fault, then. I'll help you look." He stood, setting the wineglass down. The imaginary sunlight caught in it and made a crystal shadow on the table, and the dust shone in the shaft of light, making it look like an antique scene.
"I don't need your help."
"I don't care. I'll find it. When I was small, I could find anything. When my sainted mother lost something, she'd call for me and tell me what it was, and I'd find it within ten minutes. I'm very good at it."
Enjolras stepped back, folding his arms. "All right, then. Find it."
"What will you give me if I do?" Grantaire asked, his hand on the table lightly to stay balanced.
"Leave bargains out of this. You said you could find it."
"And I can. I will. I think you likely left it in another cafe. But--ah--" He made his unsteady way three tables over and pulled out a chair. To his pleasure, a large book with a red-leather cover was lying on it. "Here, is this it?"
Enjolras blinked. "Yes, that's it. How did you know?" he asked curiously.
"You were sitting right here when you ate dinner, and it's only logical to put the book on the chair instead of a table, where it risks crumbs, butter, and wine spills. There, wasn't that clever of me?"
Grudgingly, Enjolras said, "It was good of you. I didn't believe you."
For the first time--very definitely the first time, he decided, Enjolras appeared to be softening towards him a little. He shook his head, trying uselessly to clear it. "I didn't expect you to."
Enjolras suddenly stepped forward, and put his hand to Grantaire's rough cheek. "I know. Thank you," and he kissed Grantaire with his soft angel's lips. And then, as befitting a god who had just blessed a stunned mortal, he disappeared, taking his book with him.
That left Grantaire alone, still too surprised to move. At last he smiled. He hadn't smiled in such a way for a very long time. Usually his smiles were perfectly rehearsed sarcastic smiles or disorganised drunken smiles. He ran a hand through his hair, and poured the last of the wine in the glass onto the floor.
The smile stayed, the whole way back to his boarding-place.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-01 02:00 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-01 07:24 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-01 11:29 am (UTC)Word fairy, yo.
"That's the eighty-third and a half time you've said that," he answered back cheerfully, as such an exasperated statement warranted.
"A half?"
"Bahorel cut you off.
Hee!
So. Much. Love.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-01 07:26 pm (UTC)*eeps* Is that good or bad?
So. Much. Love.
^_______^ Thaaaaanks.