That frock doesn't suit you, take it off

[permets_tu]

Who| Grantaire and Enjolras
What| 10 Year Reunion
Where| Training Center; District 3 Apartments
When| January 1st
Warnings/Notes| Frogs. Also, toads.



Grantaire loses all desire to socialize somewhere between the second and third swallow, stricken with a melancholy that urged him towards retreat from his seat at the bar he presently occupied. Eponine, as he understood it, had been jailed, he was presently making a half-hearted attempt to avoid the others, and the memories of the Arena were still too clear, despite his better efforts to cloud them. Were he a better man he would make his apologies for having mocked Courfeyrac and the wreck he had become, understanding now in some very small part what the man must have endured to bring him so low.

He left the bar, his cup unfinished.

Grantaire's return to the District 3 Apartments was meandering, noting various alternative paths that led to the same place, some quicker than others. He avoided confrontation as he walked, missing Paris and her familiar streets, missing familiar faces, detested and well-loved alike. His eventual return to the Training Center had him slumping against the wall of the elevator, indifferent to anyone else who might also occupy it, closing his eyes for the unsettling and short trip it would be to his residence. He was plotting a decadent future for himself, one where he was destined to sleep and sleep and never wake again, if he was lucky. It seemed a worthwhile ambition and one he may even achieve with the way he feels. Fortitude straightens his spine, he shall persevere, belief in this paltry ambition soars!

Grantaire stepped out the elevator, heading for the kitchen with grand intentions towards liberating a bottle from a lonely life spent in idleness. He spared a thought for Marius as he goes, wondering whether or not the other man occupies the apartment and debating the merits of checking.

Comments

[orestes]

Under the light of the dimmed overhead, Enjolras paced uneasily He appeared deflated, a stark contrast to his tone. While his voice still commanded robustly, his Doric curls had been cropped short, and were dark without the sun to kiss them, an unanticipated side effect of a life lived underground. He was paler than ever, and while his lips were red, his face remained marred by the Capitol's handiwork. Over his right eye, some crest or other hard burned an ugly scar. It was clearly healed and well cared for, but there was only so much to be done. On his back was a faded military jacket. The standard issue of District 13.

"Calling, not shouting," he elaborated the nuance, irrelevant though it was. Momentarily, he mourned being sucked, against his will, into their usual dance. Enjolras frowned, the realization pulling fine lines onto the contours of his mouth. He sucked his breath and his teeth, idle irritation mounting as he caught the motion, fragmented, of Grantaire gesturing wildly in the dark. His knowledge of the man and his unflattering disposition only enhanced he picture as he subconsciously filled in the negative space. Grantaire waved wildly. The tumultuous lines between Enjolras' brow and the angry burnt flesh of his brand knit together. He raised a golden eyebrow, capable only of imagining the mockery in Grantaire's eyes. He was displeased. It was an excess and yet he could barely help it.

"I haven't the slightest idea, and I was the first to warn them against him. Nevertheless, they want Marius." He hissed again, patience as thin as the air filling the space between them. "Weeks you have been here and yet haven't a mind to inquire after him? Typical."

Abruptly, and in spite of his anger, he dropped his weapon. He stepped more fully into the light of the kitchenette. Disconcertingly it was like every other kitchenette in every other suite. A pang of the familiar hit him and he fueled his impotent rage into his words. "If that is truly the case, I'll be going. Promise me, Grantaire, that you will tell no one I was here."

[permets_tu]

He recoiled, stung. "Think less of me!" he challenged. "Weeks, and I have seen him, I have made my inquiries, I have even exchanged a word or two, here and there, mood suited, but his company tonight was as welcome to me as it is to you in--where is it you hide? No, do not tell me, I reel from the burden, and would not have you troubling yourself, you--"

Enjolras stepped into meager light and Grantaire was silenced. It was Enjolras after all, yes, the form was familiar, the expression well-known, but the marble was defaced, the flesh carried the evidence of abuse and it exposed itself as horrific, vile, tragic.

It served as a very different sight from his last memory of Enjolras. That memory was clear, cherished, and it contained a man transfigured, the martyr, he had stood unflinching and those who beheld him had hesitated. He had been godlike in his imperious beauty, his arrogance in the face of death had been valorous. He had been breath taking .

That memory now found opportunity to be replaced with the vision that stood before him now.

Grantaire hesitated. Here stood Enjolras, painfully changed, entrenched in a new revolution. The conflict was long-lasting, surpassing the brief hours of a single day, and Enjolras fought. Suffered, and fought. They were gone from France but where tyranny ruled Enjolras stood in active opposition.

The conviction in his voice had been the same.

"Wait!" His look was gentle, desperate, contrary to the quarrelsome tone from a moment ago, he was distracted by urgency. "Let me follow you."

[orestes]

"To what end?" He quirked an eyebrow. It was a curious expression on the most perfect of faces. On his, marred as it was, the thing snaked angrily, lines crushing and blending into his scars. "I have been sent for Marius, not you." And not Courfeyrace, or Combeferre, or Joly. Enjolras may have had misgivings about his mission (and he did), but they did not include the higher ups of District 13 declining to suggest that he bring along Grantaire of all people. For one thing, he was physically ill-equipped to handle the military lifestyle. He might go into withdrawal before he was even out of reeducation. He wouldn't be worth it.

There was, however, something worthwhile in the request itself. Grantaire would make a poor soldier, but there were other ways to fight, he had learned as much over the years spent in Panem. Open rebellion was only useful when there was a small chance of success. Even symbolic success.

The seconds ticked away. Enjolras closed his eyes and contemplated. When he opened them again the digital clock had moved forward by a minute. Loyalty wasn't an end, to be sure, but it had an instrumental value. He would be stupid not to acknowledge it, but he was manipulative to consider acting on it. An Aristotelian conundrum if ever there was one.

"I cannot take you with me, but there is something you can do here." The words were harsh and clipped when they finally left him. They offered a customary contrast to Grantaire's plaintive tone. He spoke in French, knowing full well that Grantaire would be unable to respond in kind. "The people I am with right now, the rebels, are fighting for something they believe in. That is good. But they are brutal and vengeful, and none of them will be satisfied until the people of the Capitol are subjugated as they are now." He paused, looking through the darkness of the suite to make sure he had been understood. "I need not tell you how I feel about that particular wish. I need you and the others to elevate the Capitol. They must seem human, too human, or there will be no one left alive when this war ends."

[permets_tu]

Just so. What can be said in the face of such candor, his request is refused with precision and he is more the fool for even asking. He knew none of the details for the refusal beyond what he could think up for himself and the conclusions he drew were clear enough in how he looked away, looked down, bitterness twisting across his lips in an uneven line. They were plunged into silence. Once before he had woken to something like it, to the smell of gunpowder, blood, and serene stillness. He draws a ragged breath and is about to blurt anything to disrupt the heavy quiet when Enjolras spoke again. Grantaire nearly swallowed his tongue.

The prosody is melodic, the spoken word matches his mental repetition, and they crest over him warmly, a comforting familiarity. It caused an unexpected ache in his breast and he realized just how much he had missed this, both the language and its sound formed with this particular voice. It did not cloak the absurdity of the request.

"You seek to snuff out a quality of human nature," he muttered and could laugh, if the endeavor were not so depressing. Enjolras would not see one tyrannical society toppled to be replaced by another but he surely understood the dubious nature of the errand.

"I suppose you have given thought to the difficultly of the task? How best does one turn the satisfied man from pleasure, who can be swayed when he is secure in his own good fortune. You hope to see them turn from revelry, see them embrace the cry of the oppressed and practice sympathy so they might receive it in return?" He licked his lips and considered it, shaking his head slowly. "I am skeptical of covert rehabilitation, I am wary of outspoken recruitment, I only need recall Courfeyrac's sad face, Eponine's, who is now jailed. They are all free of the mark now, does the news interest you? You bear yours like a cross, the irreverence suits you. Delusion does not. You hope to see the people changed but I doubt their capacity, Enjolras." The opinions was not unfamiliar ones though the tone was unusual. Grantaire, who has lived and died and lived unwillingly again hoping only to follow Enjolras in any way he could, who laughed and ranted and jeered, spoke seriously.