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[dated sometime mid first week of June]
Jun. 1st, 2014 12:47 pmThe first day of June, he'd woken up feeling not quite right: a little melancholy and everything just a little too sharp, too much, even good things. It's not a feeling Grantaire's unfamiliar with, and he'd pushed it aside as just the way he is sometimes. It had clung to him all day, seeping into conversation, dragging his feet.
And then he'd spotted the date and it had come back to him like a rush. Marius in love, Gavroche running in to announce Lamarque was dead, the way it had settled around them like silence and the way Enjolras had stood up in the middle of the room to announce that this was their time.
Their time. That was the last week he would see them alive, and he'd spent about half of it drinking through their plans, a little skeptical of the point of it, a little terrified, and a little bitter he wasn't being included. He'd watched them, he'd drunk with them, but in the end he'd stomped off and they'd died there, and he's here.
The next few days on the island seem almost like a dream, smiles and the farce of pretending to be all in one place. Of being happy, and how is it that he's allowed that? To forget, even for a moment?
He knows it's unfair: making excuses -- classes, laundry, food -- and just wandering with his thoughts. When he finds himself going back to a hut he's barely seen in weeks except to move clothes around, to sit and drink and stare at his sketchbook, he can't stand himself for it. He wants to go home - back to Tunny's place, and when did he start thinking of that as home? - and say everything, but even the idea of comfort stings.
And then he'd spotted the date and it had come back to him like a rush. Marius in love, Gavroche running in to announce Lamarque was dead, the way it had settled around them like silence and the way Enjolras had stood up in the middle of the room to announce that this was their time.
Their time. That was the last week he would see them alive, and he'd spent about half of it drinking through their plans, a little skeptical of the point of it, a little terrified, and a little bitter he wasn't being included. He'd watched them, he'd drunk with them, but in the end he'd stomped off and they'd died there, and he's here.
The next few days on the island seem almost like a dream, smiles and the farce of pretending to be all in one place. Of being happy, and how is it that he's allowed that? To forget, even for a moment?
He knows it's unfair: making excuses -- classes, laundry, food -- and just wandering with his thoughts. When he finds himself going back to a hut he's barely seen in weeks except to move clothes around, to sit and drink and stare at his sketchbook, he can't stand himself for it. He wants to go home - back to Tunny's place, and when did he start thinking of that as home? - and say everything, but even the idea of comfort stings.
