![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pylades_drunk[for neil and, potentially, marcus; dated to a few days after Neil leaves - flexible]
Grantaire is drunk.
That was the intention, and that is the effect, though it might be a less expensive endeavor than it would have been had he never stopped drinking in the first place. There's a promise to the liquor, one he knows well: the pain won't matter as much, and if it does, well, eventually tonight won't remain and maybe he can just -- just sleep --
He'd gone to McCormick's to do the damage. Whether that was sick irony, pettiness or the fact that it, despite some renovations, for all intents and purposes still looks quite a bit like the Winchester -- enough to conjure the bitter ghosts of a different sort of loss, and comfort too, in a way -- he isn't even sure himself. (He'd jokingly declared, "If my surname is McCormick, do I drink for free?" and of course, they'd looked at him like they'd heard that one before. A bartender joked he didn't sound like a McCormick, and he'd said somberly "Well, a man I love gave me his name, but he left," and he'd gotten a shot poured on the spot and a "Shit, man." And a few moments later, a "We don't actually have a McCormick, either." He knows. He hasn't been in McCormick's since knowing Neil, because he knows.)
He picked up another bottle somewhere after leaving, and he's wandered his way down roads he knows and those he has only driven in the passenger seat of Neil's car.
"This is the priest's house," Grantaire says, conversationally; it's far from a shout, but it isn't meant to be unheard, if anyone were listening. "No --" he corrects himself, "The ex-priest. The exorcist. You must know the ways of hell, Father. This is Hell. And all the devils are here," he adds, and takes a drink, with a snort.
"You must know, then," he adds, a little more directly to the silent windows and siding, "that the coldest circle is reserved for those who betray. But for all that ice, that's cold comfort, when betrayal is its own torment? What do you think, husband," he calls up, and he is speaking to be heard now. "When you swore yourself until death, did you keep in mind you were promising yourself to two dead men? Did you note the date when you walked out, were you counting down the days, or did it just feel right to shoot two dissidents through the goddamn heart on 6th June?"
His bottle is empty now and he flings it at the concrete, smashing it against the foundation of the house. It feels good. It's easier to be furious than to gasp against the emptiness in his chest. It's easier to pretend his eyes only sting in anger.
"Neil McCormick, come down here and speak to me like a man instead of fleeing love like a thief in the night! My murderers had more courage to look into my eyes. You told me to be honest with you, angry? Here I am. You didn't have the decency then to do the same, look at me now and tell me it was all a lie to my face."
Grantaire is drunk.
That was the intention, and that is the effect, though it might be a less expensive endeavor than it would have been had he never stopped drinking in the first place. There's a promise to the liquor, one he knows well: the pain won't matter as much, and if it does, well, eventually tonight won't remain and maybe he can just -- just sleep --
He'd gone to McCormick's to do the damage. Whether that was sick irony, pettiness or the fact that it, despite some renovations, for all intents and purposes still looks quite a bit like the Winchester -- enough to conjure the bitter ghosts of a different sort of loss, and comfort too, in a way -- he isn't even sure himself. (He'd jokingly declared, "If my surname is McCormick, do I drink for free?" and of course, they'd looked at him like they'd heard that one before. A bartender joked he didn't sound like a McCormick, and he'd said somberly "Well, a man I love gave me his name, but he left," and he'd gotten a shot poured on the spot and a "Shit, man." And a few moments later, a "We don't actually have a McCormick, either." He knows. He hasn't been in McCormick's since knowing Neil, because he knows.)
He picked up another bottle somewhere after leaving, and he's wandered his way down roads he knows and those he has only driven in the passenger seat of Neil's car.
"This is the priest's house," Grantaire says, conversationally; it's far from a shout, but it isn't meant to be unheard, if anyone were listening. "No --" he corrects himself, "The ex-priest. The exorcist. You must know the ways of hell, Father. This is Hell. And all the devils are here," he adds, and takes a drink, with a snort.
"You must know, then," he adds, a little more directly to the silent windows and siding, "that the coldest circle is reserved for those who betray. But for all that ice, that's cold comfort, when betrayal is its own torment? What do you think, husband," he calls up, and he is speaking to be heard now. "When you swore yourself until death, did you keep in mind you were promising yourself to two dead men? Did you note the date when you walked out, were you counting down the days, or did it just feel right to shoot two dissidents through the goddamn heart on 6th June?"
His bottle is empty now and he flings it at the concrete, smashing it against the foundation of the house. It feels good. It's easier to be furious than to gasp against the emptiness in his chest. It's easier to pretend his eyes only sting in anger.
"Neil McCormick, come down here and speak to me like a man instead of fleeing love like a thief in the night! My murderers had more courage to look into my eyes. You told me to be honest with you, angry? Here I am. You didn't have the decency then to do the same, look at me now and tell me it was all a lie to my face."
no subject
Date: 2020-06-10 08:19 pm (UTC)"I wasn't trying to hit the --house," he protests, more quietly, as though that's the important part. He is a little bitter at Marcus, true, that Neil gets to run away to the man that presided over their wedding -- all those jokes about having an excommunicated priest one of the grooms slept with tasting just a little more bitter and less funny -- but it's not his fault, either, it's not really what he cares about right now.
He tries to form words and just shoves his palms against his eyes before looking back at him. "Do you remember, that time you --shoved me against the stairs and told me you'd kill me if I hurt Edgar?" He laughs, unfunny and hurt and raw. "What do I do with that, Neil?"
no subject
Date: 2020-06-10 08:33 pm (UTC)I wanted to go to him. To comfort him. To tell him I was sorry. That I didn't mean it. That I didn't want to hurt him. But however true that might've been, it wouldn't have been fair.
None of this was fucking fair.
"What are you doin' here, Grantaire? You know nothing you're gonna get outta me right now is gonna make any of this better."
no subject
Date: 2020-06-10 09:29 pm (UTC)"I don't know," he says and runs a hand through his hair. "I want to know what we did. I want to know why you didn't tell us. You -- you said before, you were trying to hurt me, that you wanted to hear me be angry with you, is that -- you couldn't push us away hard enough, we were all too all right being broken? I just -- putain de merde, Neil. It's not going to be better. I don't want it to feel better."
"I told you you'd get tired of me," he says after a long moment, with a broken little laugh, and leans on the porch rail from the other side. The movement makes the world spin, but it feels a little like it should be spinning. It's just more physical.
"It could be different, we could be different. You could come home, we don't--" He shuts up, then, because it's not fair, and it's not even attractive, begging someone who doesn't want what he has to offer.
no subject
Date: 2020-06-10 10:25 pm (UTC)I scoffed, throwing my hands up between us, surrender and disbelief, both.
"You didn't fucking do anything, R. You didn't. You didn't miss any red fucking flags, and I wasn't lying to you. I love you, but I feel fucking suffocated, and I fucking shouldn't. That's not a good fucking way to be, man. It's not fucking fair, not to me, and not to you."
no subject
Date: 2020-06-10 11:03 pm (UTC)"Then that is a thing we did," Grantaire snaps back, even as Neil is completely right that he's the one sounding foolish, over reacting. Could he have waited this out, like Neil is implying, left him be for a few weeks and it would have been fine, if only he wasn't such a failure, so quick to react, so destructive? Is it him who's ruining this, as they speak? The thought stabs like a knife; it feels bitterly unfair of Neil to suggest at the same time.
"You told us you needed space for you don't know how long, no warning, no asking, no discussion. Just you and all your things in a pack, one night, as though that's better. You've been gone for days, 'haven't bothered you except to make sure you're safe, get nothing, and all you can say is that you love me but it's not fair? We could have changed things, we could have loosened them, back then when -- when we could have changed things. Before it got to -- this." He includes himself in that gesture. "If this is what's best, if I'd been a better, more patient man. If you took whatever time, and say, say you decided to come back -- Neil." His tone is all pain. "How do we ever get to know you'd stay, after four years and now--?" Tears are streaming down his cheeks and he hates it.
"You're right," R mutters. "You're right. I love you; to think you felt that way, it's like being punched. I can't bear that we might have made you feel that way. But just -- don't, don't tell me this is better for us." Grantaire shoves himself back off the railing and stumbles, skidding backwards and falling, landing hard on the asphalt. Of course. Of course he isn't just a fool but he has to look like one.
no subject
Date: 2020-06-10 11:32 pm (UTC)"It's not better! It's not fucking better, R. I didn't fucking plan this, okay? I didn't. I don't fucking have the answers that you want!"
Whatever else I might've said was cut short, when he stumbled back, his ass hitting the pavement hard. "Fuck," I said, rushing towards him and dropping into a crouch at his side. "You need to go home, man. You need to let me drive you, or... call you a car. You can't stay out here like this."
no subject
Date: 2020-06-11 12:11 am (UTC)The knowledge, more than the actual pain, of falling backwards is what shudders through Grantaire first, the ache of his hips afterwards a dull thing that promises nothing good tomorrow, but not much right now. "Don't touch me," he says, petty and knowing it, flinching one shoulder back, but he sort of wants Neil more than anything else, too, so it's a largely unsuccessful effort with himself, and he doesn't protest any further, just puts his head in his hands, trying very hard not to cry, his shoulders hitching for just a moment. "I'm fine," he says finally. "I'm fine, I'll --" He shoves one hand over his face, focusing on how to best get up. "I should go home," he agrees. "I'm sorry. I'm -- so sorry."
He's not sure he can quite make it clear what he's sorry for, because it's not just being here, it's everything. Doing too much. Not doing enough. Not being strong enough to not be this.
no subject
Date: 2020-06-11 03:29 am (UTC)Fingers curling against my palms, I squeezed my eyes shut, reminding myself to breathe.
"Did you fucking walk here?" I asked, phone in my hand. "Where's Edgar, does he know where you are?"
It felt unfair to mention him at all, let alone pass any sort of judgement about R leaving him to his own devices, when I'd done the same, but they needed each other. The idea that I'd maybe fucked that up, too, hit me harder than any of the rest of it.
no subject
Date: 2020-06-11 07:46 pm (UTC)Neil shuts his eyes in a way that, even intoxicated, Grantaire can tell is pained, or anxious, or perhaps angry, but differently -- not all right, and he just feels tired and grieving and guilty for all that he is, all that this is. He tents his knees and leans forward, bracing himself on his knees for a moment.
"Yes," he says, but that's too many questions. "Walked. Cars didn't exist for 23 years of my life," he points out, wryly, and hauls himself to his feet, although he finally gives in and grabs for Neil's hand to get himself properly upright the last few inches. Even if they're -- if they're nothing, anymore, if whatever they were is put aside for a while, even if he has to remind himself of that and pull his hand away. "I can walk home," he argues, though this time it's softly.
"He -- ah. He doesn't know I'm," he sketches Marcus's house generally with one hand. "Here, but he knows I went out. I don't know where he -- if he's home or not." It's not a good truth, but it is the truth. Edgar's not prone to saying before he takes off, the last day or two. Or coming home at any reliable time. Grantaire won't be enough of a hypocrite to argue with him on it, not yet. He understands. The bed is like a farce, too empty to sleep in and too full of memories to leave, if you let yourself lie in it awake. Better to be on the edge of oblivion before resorting to that.
no subject
Date: 2020-06-16 03:30 am (UTC)"You walk, you're gonna end up passed out in a fucking ditch," I said, pulling out my phone and opening up the ride share app. There was somebody claiming to be ten minutes away.
no subject
Date: 2020-06-26 03:35 am (UTC)Grantaire raises his head and looks up at Neil for a long pained moment, shoving his hands in his pockets. There are a hundred things he could say and none of them, not the most hurt or the most rational, make any goddamn difference. "I should find Edgar, anyway," is what he ends up on, and rubs his neck.
no subject
Date: 2020-06-26 03:52 am (UTC)"Just wait for the fucking car," I said to him, gesturing for the empty seat on the porch. Without another word, I slipped back inside, moving carefully through the house and into the kitchen.
I came back a few minutes later, setting a bottle of water down for him, within reach.
no subject
Date: 2020-06-26 05:26 am (UTC)He has no fucking clue where Edgar is or if he'll be back home tonight. He's already replaying his words in his head, regretting what he'd said, regretting a million things he hasn't done or has, wondering what it would take to wake up another person entirely. It feels like a very long time in his head and he startles when Neil comes back out; he hadn't expected him to.
Neil sets down a bottle of water and Grantaire manages a small wry smile. "You don't have to be kind to me, you know," he says, but his tone is soft, and when he screws off the top, he finds he's thirstier than he thought.
no subject
Date: 2020-07-01 01:36 am (UTC)I felt like I should've told him I was sorry, but I didn't know where to start. Sorry for the last year, sorry for the time before it, sorry for walking out, sorry for making promises that I'd wanted to keep... God, I'd wanted to keep them, I still wanted to keep them, but I just... couldn't. Sorry for all of it.
But sorry didn't mean shit. So, I kept my mouth shut.