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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: 2020-06-11 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.