Nuit en Enfer [Grantaire]

[enjolras]

He lingered drowsily over the dossier; it had been crumpled, torn, and the lettering had all but faded. His eyes, which had befallen to a spell of unyielding weariness, strived in vain to comprehend such inhuman deceit. There was no sense to be made. He barely reached the close of a paragraph, as he followed the curlicues and coils of a long-dwindled pen, before he inanely disremembered, unable to retain, unable to recall. He tried repositioning the candle at his side: nearer to the dictation, which he found to be too harsh and fulsome, interposing little more than added ache to his pre-existing migraine; and then further which caused his eyes to peer and strain, emitting aimless, offensive shadows, which danced upon his page and pricked relentlessly at his mind.

The man, Enjolras, inhaled, caressing the unbearable ripple to the left of his brow, closing his eyes for a moment. He could smell the culvert and the gutter, the excrement and the waste. It was not so prevailing here as it was down in the thoroughfare but still bitterly distinguishable. His eyes heavily reopened, laden with sand and affliction, they settled to the blistering light though still blurred and chaotic, seemingly impotent to focus until awakened softly with the coarse stroke of enervated fingers. He turned his gaze toward the papers and collectively, with much forethought, gathered a quill.

His script appeared no more than a jotting – an abridgement of already haphazardly condensed terms – detailing mostly inattentive ideas and thoughts, the first that entered his mind, habitually citing requisitions, firearms, a march upon Grand Trianon, with allusions to God and injustice and mentions of Marius, Combeferre, Lègle and Courfeyrac. But Enjolras, he sighed, as he so often sighed, itching an invented itch that bothered his recurrent facial hair (which he had not shaved in weeks). And what of the demonstration? Suppose Marius did not show, what then?

Would he be able to assemble as much attentiveness if he continued the oration alone? Or would they deem the ramblings of a solitary youth nothing more than a need for attention? His mind was reeling with self-made uncertainty. It was rare but it did happen and this headache was clouding his judgement. His inkwell was running dry. It was only then he noticed that it had begun to rain. The chill struck him disdainfully, cavorting up his spine, causing an involuntary convulsion of the shoulders. Enjolras lit another candle (as though that would appease the bitter air) before rising to his feet, before ambling toward the window.

The street outside was silent, save for the occasional wanderer, distorted with rainfall and dark with desolation. He brutally closed the window, fiddling with the latch, fingers dampened by trespassing water, laughing at his labour as he declined languidly against the casement. His deliberations had since eluded him: something to do with Grantaire, what was his role? Had he written it down? Enjolras cursed, filthily, louder than intended. He glanced toward the cluttered escritoire. ‘Prouvaire est de recueillir la poudre à Canon (douze francs la livre sur les quais) tandis que Grantaire est d'exploiter le –’ No, he hadn’t. He rolled his eyes and cursed again.

[Deleted]

A thud, the door flying open sharply, and a rather soaked, scruffy looking male half stumbled in. Clothes dripped water from the rain onto the floor, the rain having tried its best to wash away the numerous stains of spilled wine that had long since coated the clothing that the cynic wore. "Shut up, shut up," he murmured quietly more to himself at the voice that was interrupting any time he spent imagining what life could be like with Apollo.

He had a one track mind as of this moment, his head throbbing with a headache, a bruise and a slight lump forming from the previous nights drunken wanderings that may or may not have resulted in him falling asleep under a lamp post that he walked into. He was ignorant of the breeze blowing through the place from the door that he'd so casually left open, threatening to extinguish the flames of the candles that flickered, and equally as ignorant to the way it would send any loose papers flying in total disarray.

He was instead quick to buy three bottles of wine uncorking one to settle to drink it as fast as possible. While the rain may have erased some stains new ones were quick to follow as he sought to start his drinking session early for him. As he turned he noticed Enjolras his jaw slackening slightly. More wine was spilled down his front before he collected himself. "Should you not be resting? You look a mess," he stated no flowering of words from Grantaire. For once however his voice was clear of the drunken slur, even if it was ever so slightly rough. As he noticed the rain starting to make puddles on the inside of the door he finally realised that he'd left the door open. Easily he pushed it shut trying to ignore that it would bring him over closer to Enjolras.

"After all it'd be terrible if you should die of exhaustion before you reached the barricades to die for no good reason," he added on with a shrug as if it really didn't matter to him. He couldn't let on that it did, and more than he would ever want to admit. He had left a trail of water and wine that dripped from his still sodden clothes. For him the rain had woken him up from his slumber and he had slept, in his opinion, far too long. He was having to suffer a hangover and he didn't like it at all. However it did mean he was sober enough to define and argue his points should the worst come to worst, and normally it did.

"I do not see the point when nothing will ever change, and the world will have lost intelligent and smart students," he added on to his earlier comments. Struck with a hangover, soaking wet through, Nicholas Grantaire was certainly much more belligerent than would be usual for him. He didn't wish to lose his Apollo which was no doubt being of no help as he sought to desperately drive sense into the other males mind that he knew he would have no chance of doing.

"It won't just be you dead! It'll be you, your friends! Everyone! Do you REALLY want that to happen? What if you're the only survivor? Or do you not think of that? Too caught up in your dreams?" Grantaire knew he was being selfish, knew he was being caught up in what he wanted but at that moment in time he didn't care. He couldn't dream that this revolution would be successful, faced instead with the harsh gritty knowledge of reality. Something he could never escape. So maybe he was trying to stop the revolution for his own selfish reasons, was that really too bad? He didn't want to lose the light of the sun. Indeed he'd already decided himself that he would be at the barricades, even if he didn't believe in the cause - which he didn't - just to be there in case he could save Enjolras' life. He knew he didn't count for much, that hardly anyone would miss him should he die. But he also knew that Enjolras deserved to live. At the very least he could go out with him, surely he couldn't be denied that could he?

Slowly he slumped, sprawling into a nearby seat. Or at least that was his intention. His weight was totally unbalanced sending himself, and the chair sprawling backwards and kicking the table over at the same instance. The bottle of wine in his hand was smashed at the instant that Grantaire hit the floor, though it was nearly empty. At the same instance the other two filled bottles also collided upon the floor creating a puddle of wine to soak into Grantaire's already soaked clothes. From the floor a low groan issued, he wasn't even drunk and being clumsy. Why? Why did life have to curse him like this!

"I need more wine!" he groused. "IF this revolution succeeds, which it won't, there had best be more wine for sale!" he added on. Finally the relatively sober cynic was quiet, trying to work out how to extract himself from the tangled mess of chair and floor and limbs that he'd become, slowly, his head pounding more now as he groaned again. He managed it though with much groaning, and over much effort. He was also quick to go and buy himself another three bottles, after trying to stand the table and chair back up. He had more success with the chair than the table suffice to say .

With the three new bottles, one already uncorked and to his lips he turned to lean on a wall instead figuring it may not deposit him to the floor as the chair had, looking over at Enjolras. "What say you to all that I've said? Tell me, I'm curious as to your arguements, seeming as you so believe your dream world is so amazing and perfect and so likely to happen. What do you say about the potential loss of life, about the fact you could never see your precious new world in?" he asked, his voice quieter, softer.

((OOC: Grantaire was being talkative. Words: 1039. Sorry about the length? ^.^;;;