the_obverse: (boozin')
[personal profile] the_obverse
Sometimes, after a man drinks enough, he wants some cool air, and a space where there's no one around.

. . . or at least, so Grantaire assumes the logic was, now that he's sobered up enough to realize that he's surrounded by trees, and the building of the bar is nowhere in sight.

There have been smarter decisions in his life. On the other hand, there have been stupider ones, too.

Date: 2014-01-29 05:38 am (UTC)
pro_patria_mortuus: (here upon these stones)
From: [personal profile] pro_patria_mortuus
Enjolras had not thought himself to have notably better (non-metaphorical) night vision than Grantaire. Well, apparently it's the case. And, after all, Paris had lampposts; even when the lamps were broken, there were candles in windows.

"Come, then." He touches Grantaire's shoulder -- light, companionable enough, in passing and brief -- and steps forward again.

"In circles or straight, this path must lead somewhere."

Date: 2014-02-01 04:56 am (UTC)
pro_patria_mortuus: Enjolras in profile, head bowed, rifle in hand. (marble lover of liberty)
From: [personal profile] pro_patria_mortuus
Not in circular paths with no forks to take towards a better outcome, no.



At any rate, the path remains, and in fact widens slightly. There's a dim gleam ahead, like sunlight through thinner trees; a cold breeze slides along beside them, and ruffles the hair at the back of Enjolras's neck.

Date: 2014-02-01 05:35 am (UTC)
pro_patria_mortuus: (is it simply a game)
From: [personal profile] pro_patria_mortuus
It's a familiar sort of comment from Grantaire: ridiculous, and not worth responding to. The path was there, plain to see, whether or not Grantaire's eyes were sharp enough to perceive it. It always was.

He continues on.

The cold has come on astonishingly fast. It feels like winter, though it was a warm October day.
Edited Date: 2014-02-01 05:40 am (UTC)

Date: 2014-02-01 06:07 am (UTC)
pro_patria_mortuus: (we strive towards a larger goal)
From: [personal profile] pro_patria_mortuus
It's sunlight, at any rate.

The golden brightness is welcome, but also confusing. It was night a moment ago; it was twilight before that, when the trees were thinner and Grantaire was stumbling deeper into forest. But now the sun is bright, and the air has a cold bite that cuts through Enjolras's jacket. He's frowning.

His breath is a fog in the air. He glances back, briefly, but doesn't stop.

Date: 2014-02-01 06:24 am (UTC)
pro_patria_mortuus: (we strive towards a larger goal)
From: [personal profile] pro_patria_mortuus
Enjolras would in fact appreciate the self-restraint, if he knew. The idea does not occur to him.

Seeing in Grantaire confusion, cold, and no help whatsoever, he turns his frown back to the winter sunlight filtering between the trees.

Date: 2014-02-01 06:39 am (UTC)
pro_patria_mortuus: (we strive towards a larger goal)
From: [personal profile] pro_patria_mortuus
Enjolras's jaw tightens briefly.

He does -- of course he does; how else would a man function? How else would a world? -- and yet there's snow on the ground up ahead.

He strides on. There's nothing for it but to push through, and see what comes.

What comes is the Milliways lawn, and a thin skim of snow drifted across the ground, and ice edging the lake. Across it, the stables, the greenhouse, the bar.

Date: 2014-02-02 08:44 pm (UTC)
pro_patria_mortuus: (we strive towards a larger goal)
From: [personal profile] pro_patria_mortuus
Enjolras doesn't recognize the quote, but it doesn't matter.

"The season seems the only visible change," he says, when they've progressed a little further.

As for what's inside, of course, there's no way to tell as yet.

Date: 2014-02-02 09:33 pm (UTC)
pro_patria_mortuus: (we strive towards a larger goal)
From: [personal profile] pro_patria_mortuus
"Dante would recognize very little here."

Enjolras is not complaining about that; Dante's loving depictions of hell's torments never held much appeal for him. Purgatory and paradise, likewise. He has always preferred the ascent of earthly Progress in human society.

The wind bites through the light wool of his jacket. Grantaire, shivering in only shirtsleeves and waistcoat, must be freezing.

If he were any of their other friends, Enjolras would tuck an arm through his, even put an arm around his shoulders; little enough against a winter wind, but friendship warms a man more than wool. Wandering outside drunk and half-decent is foolish, but foolishness should not deserve pain. But this is Grantaire, who smells like a wineshop floor, who often looks as if he's been struck whenever Enjolras does something as simple as touch his shoulder, for reasons Enjolras has never cared to think about too closely. There is a gulf between them, all misunderstandings and sarcasms over things unspoken, that Enjolras has never known how to bridge.

The café will be warmer, at any rate, and perhaps it will hold some answers.
Edited Date: 2014-02-06 04:28 am (UTC)

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