even though i tried, it all fell apart
Jun. 8th, 2021 07:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pylades_drunk[dated to late night on the 5th, into the morning of the 6th]
Grantaire makes an effort to give the day some respect. Things have been better than they were, after all; he's made a home with Yona, with Fred and Glenmeower, much as they sometimes have to soldier through it. He's still drinking; hasn't found a good reason to stop, but he reckons he can't be begrudged: it's not every day, after all: it's not what it was in Paris or even the first months here or the first weeks after Edgar disappeared. He's working. He's sparring. He's even painting, and selling some of them.
If Courfeyrac were still here, if Combeferre and Jehan and Marius were, they'd all collect together with wine and song and drink to dead friends and push through the gaping hole in their chests. But they're not. They, too, have disappeared from this place, sent back to bleed out on stained floors or dirty streets for no promise of change, just like Edgar.
Grantaire sets his jaw, primes a new canvas, feeds his cat and hums an irreverent political song in French under his breath and sets himself to painting something in some sort of homage.
It works for a good few hours.
As the light starts to die, as the clock ticks ever toward the night and the dawn he lost everything -- there, in Paris, and a year ago, Neil, and he hadn't known it then, but perhaps he'd started to know that he'd lose Edgar too -- his mood darkens with it.
He needs something else. Grantaire's always joked that there are a few things he does to get out of his head: paint, drink, fight, fuck. Art's been tried.
He doesn't have an idea of where he's going in his head when he leaves the apartment except that he doesn't want to think; doesn't want to be himself tonight. He wants to believe that anything could happen, to be the sort of person who goes out thinking of possibility, just for a night; he wants to feel something, whether it's a stranger's lips or a bruised jaw or both. He wants to be a man whose best moment wasn't his death.
In the morning he'll wake and have to put those people back together. But for now, as he shoves his way into a crowded Saturday night in a club full of loud music, he's hungry for anything else.
Grantaire makes an effort to give the day some respect. Things have been better than they were, after all; he's made a home with Yona, with Fred and Glenmeower, much as they sometimes have to soldier through it. He's still drinking; hasn't found a good reason to stop, but he reckons he can't be begrudged: it's not every day, after all: it's not what it was in Paris or even the first months here or the first weeks after Edgar disappeared. He's working. He's sparring. He's even painting, and selling some of them.
If Courfeyrac were still here, if Combeferre and Jehan and Marius were, they'd all collect together with wine and song and drink to dead friends and push through the gaping hole in their chests. But they're not. They, too, have disappeared from this place, sent back to bleed out on stained floors or dirty streets for no promise of change, just like Edgar.
Grantaire sets his jaw, primes a new canvas, feeds his cat and hums an irreverent political song in French under his breath and sets himself to painting something in some sort of homage.
It works for a good few hours.
As the light starts to die, as the clock ticks ever toward the night and the dawn he lost everything -- there, in Paris, and a year ago, Neil, and he hadn't known it then, but perhaps he'd started to know that he'd lose Edgar too -- his mood darkens with it.
He needs something else. Grantaire's always joked that there are a few things he does to get out of his head: paint, drink, fight, fuck. Art's been tried.
He doesn't have an idea of where he's going in his head when he leaves the apartment except that he doesn't want to think; doesn't want to be himself tonight. He wants to believe that anything could happen, to be the sort of person who goes out thinking of possibility, just for a night; he wants to feel something, whether it's a stranger's lips or a bruised jaw or both. He wants to be a man whose best moment wasn't his death.
In the morning he'll wake and have to put those people back together. But for now, as he shoves his way into a crowded Saturday night in a club full of loud music, he's hungry for anything else.
