Entry tags:
Mailbox / Phone
Have a missive for Mssr Grantaire?
Leave it here.
Leave it here.
even though i tried, it all fell apart
[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.
Entry tags:
[for neil]
[Following this]
Perhaps it's not the best choice, but nothing especially, seems like it is, right now. In some ways, it seems like the only choice.
He makes his way over to Marcus's, the long walk of it into the edge of Darrow and toward the country feeling like it should do something for how broken and distant he feels, but not in any real measure breaking through it: he's a little colder, that's all. Somewhere along the way tears come and go, but not anything that feels like it touches the hole under his skin.
Doubt sets in, as he gets there; he isn't wanted here, he's interrupting; there's a good thing, a family in this place and he just disrupts it. Grantaire smokes a cigarette. Maybe.
It doesn't matter. It doesn't mean Neil wouldn't want to know. It doesn't mean Neil should find out from someone else, or weeks later, or through a goddamn text not arriving.
He knocks on the door and rubs at his eyes, just staring a little ways into nothing.
Perhaps it's not the best choice, but nothing especially, seems like it is, right now. In some ways, it seems like the only choice.
He makes his way over to Marcus's, the long walk of it into the edge of Darrow and toward the country feeling like it should do something for how broken and distant he feels, but not in any real measure breaking through it: he's a little colder, that's all. Somewhere along the way tears come and go, but not anything that feels like it touches the hole under his skin.
Doubt sets in, as he gets there; he isn't wanted here, he's interrupting; there's a good thing, a family in this place and he just disrupts it. Grantaire smokes a cigarette. Maybe.
It doesn't matter. It doesn't mean Neil wouldn't want to know. It doesn't mean Neil should find out from someone else, or weeks later, or through a goddamn text not arriving.
He knocks on the door and rubs at his eyes, just staring a little ways into nothing.
[oneshot; edgar's disappearance]
Not for the first time in his life, Grantaire is woken by the absence of sound.
Briefly, later, he'll have the fleeting thought that if only he hadn't closed his eyes; if only they hadn't decided to take a nap, if only this or that thing: but the truth of it is that if it hadn't happened while he was asleep, it would have happened anyway. He's sure there's someone -- in all the disappearances Darrow, or Tabula Rasa, or any of these places he's lived have inflicted upon all of the people they've snatched away and brought together -- who's walked into a room mid conversation and the person they're speaking to has just been gone, the room empty.
Would it be better if it had been like that? Would it be worse? Would it matter, anyway?
As it is, he wakes, because the rise and fall of Edgar's chest doesn't lift his arm; the light huff of his breathing isn't next to him, or anywhere. Edgar's side of the bed is made, which is answer enough for the questions that leap to mind, the confusion that gives way to panic. His phone still rests where it was dropped on the night stand. His shoes are still kicked off next to the bed.
He'd searched half the island, when Tunny disappeared. He'd smashed half the bottles in the Winchester. That was under a year of being together. After nearly five, after near-deaths and rescues, after wedding vows and one husband's leaving them both and forging their way together anyway, he doesn't have to. He knows.
Edgar's gone. He's gone. He's not anywhere Grantaire can look for him, or follow. He's not in some other Darrow hidden beneath the earth or through a portal. There are no protests to be made or demands to go together. Right now, there's not even anyone in the apartment.
He pulls his knees up to his chest and wonders at how his breath and his mind and his blood seem unperturbed; how many times a heart can break, how much loss can fracture through it and yet keep it beating. He should be crying, he thinks, but somehow a sob doesn't rip its way from his throat. Not yet. What would it be for?
Outside, the winter sky fades into darkness.
Briefly, later, he'll have the fleeting thought that if only he hadn't closed his eyes; if only they hadn't decided to take a nap, if only this or that thing: but the truth of it is that if it hadn't happened while he was asleep, it would have happened anyway. He's sure there's someone -- in all the disappearances Darrow, or Tabula Rasa, or any of these places he's lived have inflicted upon all of the people they've snatched away and brought together -- who's walked into a room mid conversation and the person they're speaking to has just been gone, the room empty.
Would it be better if it had been like that? Would it be worse? Would it matter, anyway?
As it is, he wakes, because the rise and fall of Edgar's chest doesn't lift his arm; the light huff of his breathing isn't next to him, or anywhere. Edgar's side of the bed is made, which is answer enough for the questions that leap to mind, the confusion that gives way to panic. His phone still rests where it was dropped on the night stand. His shoes are still kicked off next to the bed.
He'd searched half the island, when Tunny disappeared. He'd smashed half the bottles in the Winchester. That was under a year of being together. After nearly five, after near-deaths and rescues, after wedding vows and one husband's leaving them both and forging their way together anyway, he doesn't have to. He knows.
Edgar's gone. He's gone. He's not anywhere Grantaire can look for him, or follow. He's not in some other Darrow hidden beneath the earth or through a portal. There are no protests to be made or demands to go together. Right now, there's not even anyone in the apartment.
He pulls his knees up to his chest and wonders at how his breath and his mind and his blood seem unperturbed; how many times a heart can break, how much loss can fracture through it and yet keep it beating. He should be crying, he thinks, but somehow a sob doesn't rip its way from his throat. Not yet. What would it be for?
Outside, the winter sky fades into darkness.
Entry tags:
[for edgar]
[backdated to Halloween]
Grantaire's birthday is actually the first of November, but he was born at just after the clock struck midnight -- and anyway so many things happen around Halloween in this city that the difference between it and All Souls' Day is barely noticable. He's never cared much about celebrating his own existence, but being guaranteed a disaster leaves a bit of a sour taste and tends to dissuade from digging too deeply into events. (Much as it seems to for Edgar, although differently: the catastrophes on New Year's are more funny, usually, than horrifying -- but it being how he counts his birth and his death is.)
He does know there's a festival in that town that's bizarrely cropped up north of the city. It being a weekend, they've had a bit of their own party at Green Gardens in the afternoon, but some of the older children had wanted to go. On their own. Grantaire has already agreed to take whatever handful of children are content to go trick-or-treating in Darrow, reasonably early in the evening before he takes the rest of the weekend off, but he and Greta have put their collective feet down on the East Hallow front. "Absolutely not. We're your legal guardians. What if something happened to you? In another town? Come out with us, or stay in, unless you've got someone signing you out: that's it."
In the end, he'd persuaded them with going a little further and to the big houses on the trick or treating route. If he had had any thoughts of going to the thing himself -- and he's not sure he did -- by the time he gets them all checked back in, most of the little ones exhausted and the older ones even more wired, he's well content to have a night in with Edgar.
It sounds nice. Whatever it means: he's not sure if Edgar has anything planned or if they'll both fall asleep watching some inanity on the television. It sounds nice.
"Do you know," he says even as he swings open the door, a couple abandoned trick or treating pumpkins and a bag of craft supplies he'd carted over in the morning for the party in his arms, "how goddamn heavy a five year old in some kind of -- car robot costume -- is when they fall asleep riding your shoulders? I didn't, but I do now."
Grantaire's birthday is actually the first of November, but he was born at just after the clock struck midnight -- and anyway so many things happen around Halloween in this city that the difference between it and All Souls' Day is barely noticable. He's never cared much about celebrating his own existence, but being guaranteed a disaster leaves a bit of a sour taste and tends to dissuade from digging too deeply into events. (Much as it seems to for Edgar, although differently: the catastrophes on New Year's are more funny, usually, than horrifying -- but it being how he counts his birth and his death is.)
He does know there's a festival in that town that's bizarrely cropped up north of the city. It being a weekend, they've had a bit of their own party at Green Gardens in the afternoon, but some of the older children had wanted to go. On their own. Grantaire has already agreed to take whatever handful of children are content to go trick-or-treating in Darrow, reasonably early in the evening before he takes the rest of the weekend off, but he and Greta have put their collective feet down on the East Hallow front. "Absolutely not. We're your legal guardians. What if something happened to you? In another town? Come out with us, or stay in, unless you've got someone signing you out: that's it."
In the end, he'd persuaded them with going a little further and to the big houses on the trick or treating route. If he had had any thoughts of going to the thing himself -- and he's not sure he did -- by the time he gets them all checked back in, most of the little ones exhausted and the older ones even more wired, he's well content to have a night in with Edgar.
It sounds nice. Whatever it means: he's not sure if Edgar has anything planned or if they'll both fall asleep watching some inanity on the television. It sounds nice.
"Do you know," he says even as he swings open the door, a couple abandoned trick or treating pumpkins and a bag of craft supplies he'd carted over in the morning for the party in his arms, "how goddamn heavy a five year old in some kind of -- car robot costume -- is when they fall asleep riding your shoulders? I didn't, but I do now."
Entry tags:
[for edgar]
[July 22nd]
Dates are a thing that stick in Grantaire's mind like lines of poetry or snatches of song; not at the forefront but ready to be plucked from the air when something reminds him, to attach far too much meaning to if he wants.
Nothing has stuck in his mind very well in the last almost-two-months, but when the date catches his eye, he remembers it's important, then remembers why it's important with a small wry smile. If you'd asked him that day what the next five years were going to be like, he'd have laughed at you. Back then, drinking and fighting and getting tugged laughing down the street into the bed of a man he'd never met before that day, he couldn't have imagined being alive in five years, much less what he had to live for.
Living right now feels like he's missing a part of himself -- it's much easier to breathe, now, in this apartment, than in that house of memories, but it still hurts, feels off balance. -- and the last two months have been full of wishes. Wishing it would all go back to how it was, wishing he wasn't himself, wishing a million pointless things. It's oddly relieving in this moment to realize that all of it, sobriety and Neil and marriage and the collapse of it, all of it's because he knows Edgar. And he wouldn't take that back, not even if he knew this would happen.
Maybe he had known, even from the start, that he'd be someone important. That passion and that insouciant grin he hasn't seen in much, much too long and the way he makes Grantaire want to be someone better for him. It's been hard to know what sort of person that is in these last weeks, who he is at all anymore much less who Edgar needs or wants him to be, but he wants to try.
"Hey," he says to him, where Edgar's curled on the sofa watching or not-watching television, and he runs his fingers back through Edgar's hair like a cat's before dropping down next to him. "Do you remember, back before we were even properly lovers, really, when I showed up at your door all covered in ash from that shit version of Darrow?"
Dates are a thing that stick in Grantaire's mind like lines of poetry or snatches of song; not at the forefront but ready to be plucked from the air when something reminds him, to attach far too much meaning to if he wants.
Nothing has stuck in his mind very well in the last almost-two-months, but when the date catches his eye, he remembers it's important, then remembers why it's important with a small wry smile. If you'd asked him that day what the next five years were going to be like, he'd have laughed at you. Back then, drinking and fighting and getting tugged laughing down the street into the bed of a man he'd never met before that day, he couldn't have imagined being alive in five years, much less what he had to live for.
Living right now feels like he's missing a part of himself -- it's much easier to breathe, now, in this apartment, than in that house of memories, but it still hurts, feels off balance. -- and the last two months have been full of wishes. Wishing it would all go back to how it was, wishing he wasn't himself, wishing a million pointless things. It's oddly relieving in this moment to realize that all of it, sobriety and Neil and marriage and the collapse of it, all of it's because he knows Edgar. And he wouldn't take that back, not even if he knew this would happen.
Maybe he had known, even from the start, that he'd be someone important. That passion and that insouciant grin he hasn't seen in much, much too long and the way he makes Grantaire want to be someone better for him. It's been hard to know what sort of person that is in these last weeks, who he is at all anymore much less who Edgar needs or wants him to be, but he wants to try.
"Hey," he says to him, where Edgar's curled on the sofa watching or not-watching television, and he runs his fingers back through Edgar's hair like a cat's before dropping down next to him. "Do you remember, back before we were even properly lovers, really, when I showed up at your door all covered in ash from that shit version of Darrow?"
Entry tags:
[for greta]
[dated to roughly the 20th or so of june? we can move it around, but maybe ~two weeks since neil left?]
There's a part of Grantaire that derides himself, has since the beginning, for not coping better with this. Another one is pretty damn certain the idea of coping well with your husband walking out is a fiction, if it even truly exists at all. He'd told Greta the day after it happened, in vagaries; let her know that Neil and they were taking some time apart and that right now he wasn't well fit to do the job and would need some time, he wasn't sure how much. He's not proud, but it's better that he hadn't tried to keep going. Or forgotten altogether to tell her, the way things have been.
At the time, he might have thought they were taking some time apart, that that was all. Now he knows better. He's not sure if he ruined any chance of that when he showed up at Marcus' house, or if Neil never really needed just space. Since then he's not sure it matters. If they were to try to reforge something, anything, something entirely different even, he's not sure he could trust Neil to stay. Not after not even saying anything to them, not even trying to talk through what was going on in his head. Or, he might believe Neil wanted to be with them, but he couldn't trust himself not to be thinking about it, not to question whether every word or action might be too much or not enough.
Even now, he catalogues it all, goes over every memory in search of something, some proof, the straw to the camel's back. Something to blame, something to carve or burn away so he can be rid of that part of himself, of the both of them. He can't find it, of course. So he drinks, and he fights; he paints and he destroys the paintings; he cries more than he'd like and he clings: all of it with and without Edgar, who weathers this in stormy silences and eruptions of emotion both, whose unstemmed grief makes Grantaire feel even more worthless.
This morning, he sits at the table and pours a shot of whiskey into his coffee, and stares. What just last night had hit him with a sadness somehow even more profound and gutwrenching than it'd been all the time before -- free of anger, full on loss -- has faded to a sort of apathetic, bleak melancholy that feels endless. It isn't a feeling Grantaire's never experienced before; it's just a new, nastier reason for the nothingness.
He passes a hand over his face. He's not sure how long he's been sitting when the knock comes at the door.
There's a part of Grantaire that derides himself, has since the beginning, for not coping better with this. Another one is pretty damn certain the idea of coping well with your husband walking out is a fiction, if it even truly exists at all. He'd told Greta the day after it happened, in vagaries; let her know that Neil and they were taking some time apart and that right now he wasn't well fit to do the job and would need some time, he wasn't sure how much. He's not proud, but it's better that he hadn't tried to keep going. Or forgotten altogether to tell her, the way things have been.
At the time, he might have thought they were taking some time apart, that that was all. Now he knows better. He's not sure if he ruined any chance of that when he showed up at Marcus' house, or if Neil never really needed just space. Since then he's not sure it matters. If they were to try to reforge something, anything, something entirely different even, he's not sure he could trust Neil to stay. Not after not even saying anything to them, not even trying to talk through what was going on in his head. Or, he might believe Neil wanted to be with them, but he couldn't trust himself not to be thinking about it, not to question whether every word or action might be too much or not enough.
Even now, he catalogues it all, goes over every memory in search of something, some proof, the straw to the camel's back. Something to blame, something to carve or burn away so he can be rid of that part of himself, of the both of them. He can't find it, of course. So he drinks, and he fights; he paints and he destroys the paintings; he cries more than he'd like and he clings: all of it with and without Edgar, who weathers this in stormy silences and eruptions of emotion both, whose unstemmed grief makes Grantaire feel even more worthless.
This morning, he sits at the table and pours a shot of whiskey into his coffee, and stares. What just last night had hit him with a sadness somehow even more profound and gutwrenching than it'd been all the time before -- free of anger, full on loss -- has faded to a sort of apathetic, bleak melancholy that feels endless. It isn't a feeling Grantaire's never experienced before; it's just a new, nastier reason for the nothingness.
He passes a hand over his face. He's not sure how long he's been sitting when the knock comes at the door.
Entry tags:
[for jyn]
[Around June 10th or 11th? The morning after this.]
Grantaire is drunk. Grantaire is still drunk. Or rather, there were a few hours after he woke up in the orange of late morning on the couch, where he was perhaps no longer drunk, but he'd remedied that as soon as he could scrounge up something, between the lurch of his head and the empty hole in his chest and the memories that kept seeping in, out of order, from the night before.
Shouting outside Marcus's house like a true jackass: he can't remember what he said but he knows how hurt he is, and he knows other times he's drunkenly shouted well enough to know it was probably overwrought, heavy on metaphor and mostly unfair. Neil arguing with him, and -- he doesn't remember falling, but his ass sure as hell does -- Water. Water Neil gave him, for some reason. Edgar, at some point that might have been later, coming in; he'd woken and been upset with, or afraid for him, maybe, he just remembers apologizing and crying and holding onto him. Had he been sick, then? Or at a later time? Or not at all?
It's all a nightmare, and he hates the house right now. It's empty, and the bedroom is full of memories and even worse, full of his own drawings of those memories -- he's ripped up a few of them, though that wasn't last night -- and everything just feels like Neil. And, the more he thinks, the more he feels that this wasn't unsalvagable until he acted a fool last night, not the other way around, even though his few messages back and forth with Neil in the days between, messages he's gone over a million times, seem damning enough.
Does he want it to be salvagable?
There's one person, he thinks, besides Edgar, who always understands him, who understands this, too. Love, this damned invention of the gods or science that masquerades itself as a gift. And will understand, he thinks, learning how to trust, to believe in anything enough to marry someone and having them ripped away.
This time, when he knocks on the hull of the Millennium Falcon, he comes with real alcohol.
Grantaire is drunk. Grantaire is still drunk. Or rather, there were a few hours after he woke up in the orange of late morning on the couch, where he was perhaps no longer drunk, but he'd remedied that as soon as he could scrounge up something, between the lurch of his head and the empty hole in his chest and the memories that kept seeping in, out of order, from the night before.
Shouting outside Marcus's house like a true jackass: he can't remember what he said but he knows how hurt he is, and he knows other times he's drunkenly shouted well enough to know it was probably overwrought, heavy on metaphor and mostly unfair. Neil arguing with him, and -- he doesn't remember falling, but his ass sure as hell does -- Water. Water Neil gave him, for some reason. Edgar, at some point that might have been later, coming in; he'd woken and been upset with, or afraid for him, maybe, he just remembers apologizing and crying and holding onto him. Had he been sick, then? Or at a later time? Or not at all?
It's all a nightmare, and he hates the house right now. It's empty, and the bedroom is full of memories and even worse, full of his own drawings of those memories -- he's ripped up a few of them, though that wasn't last night -- and everything just feels like Neil. And, the more he thinks, the more he feels that this wasn't unsalvagable until he acted a fool last night, not the other way around, even though his few messages back and forth with Neil in the days between, messages he's gone over a million times, seem damning enough.
Does he want it to be salvagable?
There's one person, he thinks, besides Edgar, who always understands him, who understands this, too. Love, this damned invention of the gods or science that masquerades itself as a gift. And will understand, he thinks, learning how to trust, to believe in anything enough to marry someone and having them ripped away.
This time, when he knocks on the hull of the Millennium Falcon, he comes with real alcohol.
they can take this heart away, they can take this flesh and blood
[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."
Entry tags:
[for jyn]
dated to whenever?
It's a strange thing, knocking on the hull of a space-ship. On the one hand, there's so much in Darrow, so much of his life that is so far away from anything he'd experienced back home that little surprises him anymore. The way Grantaire has managed to adapt to technology, as it is here, is sometimes funny even to him (and so are the strange gaps in his knowledge).
But this is a ship that flies amongst stars, goes from planet to planet. Or would, if it weren't stuck here. And that's a thing of normalcy for Jyn. Her life is so much like his own and so little, too.
Right now, he's more concerned with the parts of her that are like him, though, and so he gives the door of the ship another set of three resounding knocks.
Hopefully, she's at least here.
It's a strange thing, knocking on the hull of a space-ship. On the one hand, there's so much in Darrow, so much of his life that is so far away from anything he'd experienced back home that little surprises him anymore. The way Grantaire has managed to adapt to technology, as it is here, is sometimes funny even to him (and so are the strange gaps in his knowledge).
But this is a ship that flies amongst stars, goes from planet to planet. Or would, if it weren't stuck here. And that's a thing of normalcy for Jyn. Her life is so much like his own and so little, too.
Right now, he's more concerned with the parts of her that are like him, though, and so he gives the door of the ship another set of three resounding knocks.
Hopefully, she's at least here.
[for jyn]
It's been quite a while since Grantaire, with any regularity, picked up his canne de combat or practiced even the more basic of boxing and savate. Although there's plenty of reason for that -- ranging from being busy with Green Gardens and set design for Shakespeare in the Park to the stress of a wedding to simple lazy domesticity -- as the days push onward toward his birthday and another year he finds himself critiquing his lack of discipline. It's funny how changes for the better can make one feel old.
There's always a bit of strange energy too, in the fall. The dark clings, in these shorter days, and drags at him, making him feel restless and inert at the same time. And there's a sort of ominousness; it's so rare that the end of October goes smoothly that being prepared for anything seems sensible.
So it is that he makes himself go to the gym, to box and spar and wear himself out, and after one visit leaves him cursing sloppy technique but pleasantly sore and remembering his own strength, he decides to go again.
This time, he invites a friend who can fight him more roughly than a bag.
There's always a bit of strange energy too, in the fall. The dark clings, in these shorter days, and drags at him, making him feel restless and inert at the same time. And there's a sort of ominousness; it's so rare that the end of October goes smoothly that being prepared for anything seems sensible.
So it is that he makes himself go to the gym, to box and spar and wear himself out, and after one visit leaves him cursing sloppy technique but pleasantly sore and remembering his own strength, he decides to go again.
This time, he invites a friend who can fight him more roughly than a bag.
[for regan]
Grantaire's been back and forth to Green Gardens a bit. But as the snow's gotten deeper and the goblins more prevalent, i's gotten more and more difficult to navigate, Edgar's gotten a bit more shell-shocked, and he's mostly been holed up for everyone's sanity. That, and he can't properly chide Neil for going alone into the woods after Derek if he's going to be going back and forth himself all the time.
He's still maintained a -- relatively -- regular stream of updates with Greta, though. A bunch of kids need better than to be alone in the midst of this, and honestly he's thought a few times of setting up camp there with his little collection of incendiaries he and Theon have been launching off the balcony at the goblins. So far, though, things had seemed all right.
Then she texts him in a panic to say Saoirse's gone and she's got to go.
He doesn't think twice.
Well, that's a lie: he does think about going after Saoirse with her, but after a moment he realizes it might be a good way to get every functioning administrator of Green Gardens killed or kidnapped -- and oh, Dieu, when did he become an administrator of anything? -- and he takes a flashlight, his canne, and an awful lot of outerwear and heads out through the snow towards Green Gardens.
He's still maintained a -- relatively -- regular stream of updates with Greta, though. A bunch of kids need better than to be alone in the midst of this, and honestly he's thought a few times of setting up camp there with his little collection of incendiaries he and Theon have been launching off the balcony at the goblins. So far, though, things had seemed all right.
Then she texts him in a panic to say Saoirse's gone and she's got to go.
He doesn't think twice.
Well, that's a lie: he does think about going after Saoirse with her, but after a moment he realizes it might be a good way to get every functioning administrator of Green Gardens killed or kidnapped -- and oh, Dieu, when did he become an administrator of anything? -- and he takes a flashlight, his canne, and an awful lot of outerwear and heads out through the snow towards Green Gardens.
Entry tags:
backdated to June 5th
It's almost an obscenely beautiful day, Grantaire thinks, but then it wasn't a particularly miserable June when they'd put up the barricades, either. A little warm, and the middle of a cholera epidemic, but the weather hadn't been ugly.
This, though, is something else. Lilac scents the air; the weather might be described as perfect. Fruit ripens early on the branches of trees he wasn't even aware had ever borne fruit.
In the past, he'd celebrated the anniversary of their deaths with friends who had been there, drinking and vacillating between a hedonistic revelation of the shortness of life and a somber acknowledgement; in the more recent past, since he'd stopped drinking and some of them had disappeared, it'd been a smaller, sort of private reflection.
Today, he wanders in the park with a friend who knows what he's thinking of. They talk about other things, and they talk about their friends, and they let the specter of mortality wander into their conversation as it wants to, for there's no stopping it.
"Do you ever think about what happens if we disappear?" Eponine asks. Grantaire doesn't keep such close tabs on her that she feels smothered by it, but she's grown to enjoy that he texts to check in from time to time. When she was first here, she thought he might be using her as a stand-in for her brother. Now, it's just good to have someone who knows Paris, who has anything in common, on days like today.
"I try not to," Grantaire rejoins, picking a plum off a low branch. "I've only just started thinking in future tense. At any rate, that just calls up questions of the afterlife, and most of those possibilities are ridiculous or awful. Probably, nothing. We just --- stop. It'd be worse for the people here."
They ponder that for a moment. "Let's not do it, then," she says a little over-brightly, and holds up a hand. "Plum?"
"Certainly," he says, and throws her one.
Smirking, she steps back to catch it, right into the middle of the path.
This, though, is something else. Lilac scents the air; the weather might be described as perfect. Fruit ripens early on the branches of trees he wasn't even aware had ever borne fruit.
In the past, he'd celebrated the anniversary of their deaths with friends who had been there, drinking and vacillating between a hedonistic revelation of the shortness of life and a somber acknowledgement; in the more recent past, since he'd stopped drinking and some of them had disappeared, it'd been a smaller, sort of private reflection.
Today, he wanders in the park with a friend who knows what he's thinking of. They talk about other things, and they talk about their friends, and they let the specter of mortality wander into their conversation as it wants to, for there's no stopping it.
"Do you ever think about what happens if we disappear?" Eponine asks. Grantaire doesn't keep such close tabs on her that she feels smothered by it, but she's grown to enjoy that he texts to check in from time to time. When she was first here, she thought he might be using her as a stand-in for her brother. Now, it's just good to have someone who knows Paris, who has anything in common, on days like today.
"I try not to," Grantaire rejoins, picking a plum off a low branch. "I've only just started thinking in future tense. At any rate, that just calls up questions of the afterlife, and most of those possibilities are ridiculous or awful. Probably, nothing. We just --- stop. It'd be worse for the people here."
They ponder that for a moment. "Let's not do it, then," she says a little over-brightly, and holds up a hand. "Plum?"
"Certainly," he says, and throws her one.
Smirking, she steps back to catch it, right into the middle of the path.
five (two) golden rings?
It's Christmas Eve and they're still decorating. Re-decorating, inasmuch as there were very many decorations before, because the cats have done their very best to topple the tree, late-purchased as it was, twice now (once Trick actually got stuck in the damn thing) and have brought down a good number of the baubles.
There's some bizarre holiday movie on the TV, though, and everyone's laughing. It'd be easy to snipe at each other if any or all were in a mood, over something as stupid as decorations and the cats, the stress of oncoming snow for Edgar or holidays in general for both Grantaire and Neil. Instead, it feels warmer than it has in months, and he turns from where he's choosing an aesthetically pleasing spot on the slightly disheveled tree for one of the ornaments to watch Edgar and Neil getting more fucking around accomplished than actually decorating.
It feels right, this moment, relaxed and unloaded, and it sort of just slips from his mouth.
"We should get married."
This is not how he planned it.
There are actual rings supposed to be involved, for one thing, hidden away in the room he rarely uses anymore. Several different length speeches that never sound right in his head, one version where they're all gathered together and another individually and private. Some where it's fairly romantic and spectacular (a few of these at Julie's suggestion, for she's crafty and he'd confessed his thinking to her back in July), and some more like this.
This isn't spectacular, it's not even something he was quite prepared to hear himself say, but it carries, and he bites his lip, suddenly anxious all over in a way he's not familiar with.
There's some bizarre holiday movie on the TV, though, and everyone's laughing. It'd be easy to snipe at each other if any or all were in a mood, over something as stupid as decorations and the cats, the stress of oncoming snow for Edgar or holidays in general for both Grantaire and Neil. Instead, it feels warmer than it has in months, and he turns from where he's choosing an aesthetically pleasing spot on the slightly disheveled tree for one of the ornaments to watch Edgar and Neil getting more fucking around accomplished than actually decorating.
It feels right, this moment, relaxed and unloaded, and it sort of just slips from his mouth.
"We should get married."
This is not how he planned it.
There are actual rings supposed to be involved, for one thing, hidden away in the room he rarely uses anymore. Several different length speeches that never sound right in his head, one version where they're all gathered together and another individually and private. Some where it's fairly romantic and spectacular (a few of these at Julie's suggestion, for she's crafty and he'd confessed his thinking to her back in July), and some more like this.
This isn't spectacular, it's not even something he was quite prepared to hear himself say, but it carries, and he bites his lip, suddenly anxious all over in a way he's not familiar with.
(no subject)
There are only a few weeks of art classes left for the little ones at Green Gardens, and then summer sessions begin. That'll be more taxing, but more interesting, as well, Grantaire thinks, working with the older children who have art classes -- from what he still thinks of as proper instructors -- available to them during the school year.
But toward the end of the year, the days end early, with projects just winding up, and so he has plenty of time to amble towards Edgar's work in time to meet his boyfriend when he clocks out. It's on this walk, familiar and relaxing, that he spots a new sign.
Grantaire is very familiar with the city. It's a point of pride, in fact: he likes to know where the best place is for this and that deal, the attractive staff, the food or the clothing. He'd memorized it as he had memorized Paris. It's taken a while, but Darrow is smaller, and he's done a good job of it, in his own estimation.
This interloper, then, takes him by surprise. What really catches him off guard is the nature of the place. It's a rather nice, young-looking establishment: from the street he can see copper lighting, a nice wood bar, round wood tables with little glass mason jars. He could have sworn just a few days ago that --
"Wasn't this place a florist's shop?" he inquires of the delicate-featured young man standing outside.
"Before us?" he says with a small smile. "Yes, I think so. Were you looking for a florist?"
"No," he says, and laughs. "No, I'm sorry. It's just that I've never seen this place before."
"We're quite new," the young man says with a tone of endless sympathy for such a mistake. "Would you like to try a free sample of our food? I promise you, it's like nothing you've tasted before. The cuisine of my homeland," and he says a word, but Grantaire's damned if he could repeat the series of syllables that roll off his tongue.
"Well, I suppose I've time for a sample," he agrees, and the server disappears and reappears with a small plate. On it, there's a glazed piece of meat, curled around by what look like the rind of some sort of fruit, and speared through with, rather than a toothpick, something like rosemary, the wand of an herb. The plate is drizzled with a green dressing, and the effect of the whole thing is as though he's ordered an entire entree. It's impossible that this could be the sample, this vibrant, aromatic dish.
He baffles at it, and then he takes a picture and sends it off to the internet, exclaiming about this place.
"It's even better eaten than looked at," the server encourages, rosy lips curling into a smile, and Grantaire laughs and lifts it to take a bite. The meat is succulent, with a slight underscore of gaminess like venison or duck that he can't quite name, and the sweet, tangy fruit explodes into life with the smoky herbs in his mouth.
"You're right," Grantaire says, dumbstruck. "It's like nothing I've ever tasted." He pauses. "Might I order a whole plate of it? To go --" he reminds himself, for the time had left his head. "I've got to meet my boyfriend. I have to bring him some."
"Lucky man," the server says. "But wouldn't you rather sit down and have yours, here, before taking something home? We're between lunch and dinner, you see," he waves to the empty restaurant, placing a hand on Grantaire's back. "It won't take us any time to whip you up something."
Grantaire blinks at the empty restaurant. It seems so very inviting, the wood interior, lush decor that he hadn't even noticed looking in. "I suppose it won't," he agrees, sitting down at the nearest table. "Yes, I'll take an order of -- that, and one to go."
"Perfect. Let me set you up with a paired drink while you wait."
Grantaire nods, then catches himself. "Wait, I don't drink --"
"Oh, you'll find its intoxicating quality has nothing to do with alcohol," the server chuckles, and Grantaire nods, watching him disappear into the kitchen.
[OOC: Neil and Edgar can TL/thread back and forth with each other under this and I'll put a separate TL below for rescuing Grantaire if that's good?]
But toward the end of the year, the days end early, with projects just winding up, and so he has plenty of time to amble towards Edgar's work in time to meet his boyfriend when he clocks out. It's on this walk, familiar and relaxing, that he spots a new sign.
Grantaire is very familiar with the city. It's a point of pride, in fact: he likes to know where the best place is for this and that deal, the attractive staff, the food or the clothing. He'd memorized it as he had memorized Paris. It's taken a while, but Darrow is smaller, and he's done a good job of it, in his own estimation.
This interloper, then, takes him by surprise. What really catches him off guard is the nature of the place. It's a rather nice, young-looking establishment: from the street he can see copper lighting, a nice wood bar, round wood tables with little glass mason jars. He could have sworn just a few days ago that --
"Wasn't this place a florist's shop?" he inquires of the delicate-featured young man standing outside.
"Before us?" he says with a small smile. "Yes, I think so. Were you looking for a florist?"
"No," he says, and laughs. "No, I'm sorry. It's just that I've never seen this place before."
"We're quite new," the young man says with a tone of endless sympathy for such a mistake. "Would you like to try a free sample of our food? I promise you, it's like nothing you've tasted before. The cuisine of my homeland," and he says a word, but Grantaire's damned if he could repeat the series of syllables that roll off his tongue.
"Well, I suppose I've time for a sample," he agrees, and the server disappears and reappears with a small plate. On it, there's a glazed piece of meat, curled around by what look like the rind of some sort of fruit, and speared through with, rather than a toothpick, something like rosemary, the wand of an herb. The plate is drizzled with a green dressing, and the effect of the whole thing is as though he's ordered an entire entree. It's impossible that this could be the sample, this vibrant, aromatic dish.
He baffles at it, and then he takes a picture and sends it off to the internet, exclaiming about this place.
"It's even better eaten than looked at," the server encourages, rosy lips curling into a smile, and Grantaire laughs and lifts it to take a bite. The meat is succulent, with a slight underscore of gaminess like venison or duck that he can't quite name, and the sweet, tangy fruit explodes into life with the smoky herbs in his mouth.
"You're right," Grantaire says, dumbstruck. "It's like nothing I've ever tasted." He pauses. "Might I order a whole plate of it? To go --" he reminds himself, for the time had left his head. "I've got to meet my boyfriend. I have to bring him some."
"Lucky man," the server says. "But wouldn't you rather sit down and have yours, here, before taking something home? We're between lunch and dinner, you see," he waves to the empty restaurant, placing a hand on Grantaire's back. "It won't take us any time to whip you up something."
Grantaire blinks at the empty restaurant. It seems so very inviting, the wood interior, lush decor that he hadn't even noticed looking in. "I suppose it won't," he agrees, sitting down at the nearest table. "Yes, I'll take an order of -- that, and one to go."
"Perfect. Let me set you up with a paired drink while you wait."
Grantaire nods, then catches himself. "Wait, I don't drink --"
"Oh, you'll find its intoxicating quality has nothing to do with alcohol," the server chuckles, and Grantaire nods, watching him disappear into the kitchen.
[OOC: Neil and Edgar can TL/thread back and forth with each other under this and I'll put a separate TL below for rescuing Grantaire if that's good?]
[eden]
[Timed to Dec 13th]
Although spending the first full day inside and well assured that his body is perfectly fine -- as well as of the temporary nature of all of this-- helped with the initial shock, the novelty of Grantaire's new arrangement is already beginning to wear off.
There are at least as many hindrances, little reminders that this body is foreign, uncertainties, as there are more pleasant surprises. Many times so, really. He could play it for a lark, he supposes, take hold of not being himself by the horns, so to speak. Be some other character altogether. He can imagine it, can imagine laughing at it. Dressing up and putting on a persona to go with the new body.
But when he thinks about doing it he can't imagine being relaxed enough to go about it. He does have to leave the apartment, eventually, and he probably needs at least one full outfit that suits this body if he isn't to look mad or be forever uncomfortable, for that matter. But even contemplating how to do that much makes him want to just shove this body into his own clothes and go straight to the darkest corner of Tintern -- or the Winchester, where he rarely stops and no one will figure it out -- before attempting it.
So instead of any of that, he texts Eden. Of all the people he can think of to talk about this, she will understand both Darrow's ridiculousness and what he's feeling right now.
He starts, deletes, rephrases, deletes it again and sighs, lighting a cigarette he's allowing himself, sitting on the windowsill to let the smoke out. Polite greetings sound inane, casual ones sound too familiar. In the end, he goes with blunt.
I got a surprise from Darrow: and he sends along a picture, his familiar-and-unfamiliar face looking back, lips pursed in wry annoyance.
I need a goddamn drink. He types it, deletes it, and rephrases to: I really want a drink right now and sends it before he can rethink. This city is ridiculous. Would you ...mind terribly talking to me for a while?
Although spending the first full day inside and well assured that his body is perfectly fine -- as well as of the temporary nature of all of this-- helped with the initial shock, the novelty of Grantaire's new arrangement is already beginning to wear off.
There are at least as many hindrances, little reminders that this body is foreign, uncertainties, as there are more pleasant surprises. Many times so, really. He could play it for a lark, he supposes, take hold of not being himself by the horns, so to speak. Be some other character altogether. He can imagine it, can imagine laughing at it. Dressing up and putting on a persona to go with the new body.
But when he thinks about doing it he can't imagine being relaxed enough to go about it. He does have to leave the apartment, eventually, and he probably needs at least one full outfit that suits this body if he isn't to look mad or be forever uncomfortable, for that matter. But even contemplating how to do that much makes him want to just shove this body into his own clothes and go straight to the darkest corner of Tintern -- or the Winchester, where he rarely stops and no one will figure it out -- before attempting it.
So instead of any of that, he texts Eden. Of all the people he can think of to talk about this, she will understand both Darrow's ridiculousness and what he's feeling right now.
He starts, deletes, rephrases, deletes it again and sighs, lighting a cigarette he's allowing himself, sitting on the windowsill to let the smoke out. Polite greetings sound inane, casual ones sound too familiar. In the end, he goes with blunt.
I got a surprise from Darrow: and he sends along a picture, his familiar-and-unfamiliar face looking back, lips pursed in wry annoyance.
I need a goddamn drink. He types it, deletes it, and rephrases to: I really want a drink right now and sends it before he can rethink. This city is ridiculous. Would you ...mind terribly talking to me for a while?
[bodyswap/whathaveyou]
It was one of the rare few nights last night, the kind in which Grantaire falls asleep first and no one bothers him to get up. So it's his own bedroom, as his as the lower bedroom is anymore, that he wakes in. This arrangement resorts itself almost nightly: the bedroom that was Grantaire's is technically on offer to Yona, but she does not always borrow it; meanwhile he curls up with the other two more often than not, or sometimes one or more of them join him downstairs.
But last night, it was the lower bedroom and just he in it.
This is rare enough that he isn't expecting to feel rested, precisely, but it's not that that wakes him. He's sprawled on his side, almost on his stomach, in the sort of ridiculous formation he only takes when he's alone. There's some sort of odd pressure, like he's being constrained by his own bed, so he rolls sleepily on his back.
He reaches to rub his chest and his eyes snap open. Instead of simply palming a cramp away, the flesh gives roundly under his fingers, squishes, responds. In a way both familiar and entirely, horrifyingly, unfamiliar.
He sits up, scrabbling and stares down at his breasts. For that's what they are, full and unmistakable ( long description and also cut for dysphoria )
There is nothing for it.
All this Christmas about, and this, this is what has him wanting to run for a drink. Only he has no clothes to get one, and it would be a ridiculous failing after almost a year. But how do you go to a meeting and profess "I come here all the time, but today I woke up in a woman's body"? Who would he even tell?
He ought to tell someone, though. He must or it will reveal itself anyway. It gnaws at him, irrationally or not, what if Edgar and Neil are horrified? Edgar seemed to enjoy Neil well enough when he turned into his lanky, feminine alter ego, but Grantaire is much more -- feminine -- for one thing: what if he isn't Edgar's type like this? If only Neil disapproves, he thinks he can perhaps bear that, though he's surprised by how little he likes the idea. Neil's likely to give him a straighter answer as to his looks, anyway; Edgar will be kind because he loves him.
Resolutely, he takes down a buttonup shirt from his closet and throws it around his frame. A bit shorter than he usually is in the torso, it hangs to just below his hips, protecting most of his modesty. Grantaire tiptoes from the room, arms wrapped around himself, and goes for the stairs.
[Neil or Edgar can either wait to be woken up or find him trying to sneak upstairs; Yona is welcome to spot him -- or know what happened -- too! Though his icon is Marion Cotillard, he doesn't look EXACTLY like her, though he might bear a resemblance in the same way you might tell a friend they look like a celebrity.]
But last night, it was the lower bedroom and just he in it.
This is rare enough that he isn't expecting to feel rested, precisely, but it's not that that wakes him. He's sprawled on his side, almost on his stomach, in the sort of ridiculous formation he only takes when he's alone. There's some sort of odd pressure, like he's being constrained by his own bed, so he rolls sleepily on his back.
He reaches to rub his chest and his eyes snap open. Instead of simply palming a cramp away, the flesh gives roundly under his fingers, squishes, responds. In a way both familiar and entirely, horrifyingly, unfamiliar.
He sits up, scrabbling and stares down at his breasts. For that's what they are, full and unmistakable ( long description and also cut for dysphoria )
There is nothing for it.
All this Christmas about, and this, this is what has him wanting to run for a drink. Only he has no clothes to get one, and it would be a ridiculous failing after almost a year. But how do you go to a meeting and profess "I come here all the time, but today I woke up in a woman's body"? Who would he even tell?
He ought to tell someone, though. He must or it will reveal itself anyway. It gnaws at him, irrationally or not, what if Edgar and Neil are horrified? Edgar seemed to enjoy Neil well enough when he turned into his lanky, feminine alter ego, but Grantaire is much more -- feminine -- for one thing: what if he isn't Edgar's type like this? If only Neil disapproves, he thinks he can perhaps bear that, though he's surprised by how little he likes the idea. Neil's likely to give him a straighter answer as to his looks, anyway; Edgar will be kind because he loves him.
Resolutely, he takes down a buttonup shirt from his closet and throws it around his frame. A bit shorter than he usually is in the torso, it hangs to just below his hips, protecting most of his modesty. Grantaire tiptoes from the room, arms wrapped around himself, and goes for the stairs.
[Neil or Edgar can either wait to be woken up or find him trying to sneak upstairs; Yona is welcome to spot him -- or know what happened -- too! Though his icon is Marion Cotillard, he doesn't look EXACTLY like her, though he might bear a resemblance in the same way you might tell a friend they look like a celebrity.]
Entry tags:
[for jack]
[maybe backdated a little bit earlier in October?]
Even if the news about Jack's dad and Luke's husband hadn't -- slowly but surely -- reached Grantaire, he'd have thought it was a bit too long since he spent time with the boy. Now that Jack isn't in the Children's Home, he's backed off a bit from seeking him out, feeling odd about being friends more with the boy than with his adults. Surely he doesn't really need Grantaire in his life, not with parents, and now that he's in school with friends his own age.
But he still stops by now and then, as the boy's like a little brother and seems to enjoy the time, and now that he's going through a sort of loss that Grantaire's all too familiar with, how can he stay away?
He stops into the bookshop, then, on a weekend, saying hello to Luke first, and heads through to find Jack. "Bonjour, petit," he greets him, holding out an arm to telegraph a hug before he gives one.
Even if the news about Jack's dad and Luke's husband hadn't -- slowly but surely -- reached Grantaire, he'd have thought it was a bit too long since he spent time with the boy. Now that Jack isn't in the Children's Home, he's backed off a bit from seeking him out, feeling odd about being friends more with the boy than with his adults. Surely he doesn't really need Grantaire in his life, not with parents, and now that he's in school with friends his own age.
But he still stops by now and then, as the boy's like a little brother and seems to enjoy the time, and now that he's going through a sort of loss that Grantaire's all too familiar with, how can he stay away?
He stops into the bookshop, then, on a weekend, saying hello to Luke first, and heads through to find Jack. "Bonjour, petit," he greets him, holding out an arm to telegraph a hug before he gives one.
Entry tags:
[for eden]
Grantaire doesn't exactly smoke, although if attending recovery meetings started it as a habit, it'd be exactly the sort of irony he enjoys in his life. He doesn't exactly not smoke, either; it's a social sort of vice he isn't opposed to sharing with others, although if he has the choice between tobacco and other green things to calm his nerves, he'll smoke the latter.
Right now, there's the usual post-meeting clamor for caffeine and nicotine, and he stands in its wake, watching the attendees head appropriately far outside the building to smoke or stand around the coffee machine with styrofoam cups.
At first, Grantaire had left the meetings quickly after they were over, annoyed that he couldn't do this on his own and eager to rejoin the real world, as he saw it. He hadn't wanted to associate with other alcoholics, other people whose struggles reminded him of his failures. But months in, he's realizing more and more that some of the people here have more in common with him than some of those he'd befriended before he went sober.
He leans on the brick, tapping his fingers on his own cup, slightly over-roasted coffee an excuse more than anything else to linger. He etches a line with his fingernail into the side. He isn't always good at befriending new people, but he likes being around them. The meetings encourage disclosure; it's easy to feel close. It's not unlike the Amis, in a way: a very specific circumstance and set of people who he's found common ground with.
He glances over as a young woman comes through the door. Eden. He's seen her quite a bit around here, and though they haven't spoken much outside the meeting, he likes what he knows of her.
Offering a sideways smile, Grantaire raises his cup to her in hello.
Right now, there's the usual post-meeting clamor for caffeine and nicotine, and he stands in its wake, watching the attendees head appropriately far outside the building to smoke or stand around the coffee machine with styrofoam cups.
At first, Grantaire had left the meetings quickly after they were over, annoyed that he couldn't do this on his own and eager to rejoin the real world, as he saw it. He hadn't wanted to associate with other alcoholics, other people whose struggles reminded him of his failures. But months in, he's realizing more and more that some of the people here have more in common with him than some of those he'd befriended before he went sober.
He leans on the brick, tapping his fingers on his own cup, slightly over-roasted coffee an excuse more than anything else to linger. He etches a line with his fingernail into the side. He isn't always good at befriending new people, but he likes being around them. The meetings encourage disclosure; it's easy to feel close. It's not unlike the Amis, in a way: a very specific circumstance and set of people who he's found common ground with.
He glances over as a young woman comes through the door. Eden. He's seen her quite a bit around here, and though they haven't spoken much outside the meeting, he likes what he knows of her.
Offering a sideways smile, Grantaire raises his cup to her in hello.
a parisian saunters (homeplot take two)
[dated to June 5th and 6th in game]
Grantaire blinks his eyes open, and he is in his rooms in Paris.
It's not so unfamiliar. The experience of waking up in Paris, at least, is not, in his memory or in a dream; so often that is what he remembers and that is where his dreams take him, to the in-between feeling of being roused by something. But usually it is the Corinth, and he is woken by silence. To the reality of the situation flooding into him like a shock. That immediate clutch of horror and sickness at his chest, the settling of death and desperation into the wine shop on that fateful dawn.
Instead, he sits up here. This is exactly as he remembers his flat; small, dark, but homey. Warm already with the sunrise and the wafting stink of a choleric summer, though not as bad as it might have been in more impoverished areas. A cabinet holds his clothing, a basin in the corner. The room is littered with reused canvas and wine bottles.
He has never remembered the smell of Paris in a dream.
As he wakes himself, he realizes, strangest still, Edgar stretches beside him.
Has he been sent home? What day is it, what year?
Grantaire blinks his eyes open, and he is in his rooms in Paris.
It's not so unfamiliar. The experience of waking up in Paris, at least, is not, in his memory or in a dream; so often that is what he remembers and that is where his dreams take him, to the in-between feeling of being roused by something. But usually it is the Corinth, and he is woken by silence. To the reality of the situation flooding into him like a shock. That immediate clutch of horror and sickness at his chest, the settling of death and desperation into the wine shop on that fateful dawn.
Instead, he sits up here. This is exactly as he remembers his flat; small, dark, but homey. Warm already with the sunrise and the wafting stink of a choleric summer, though not as bad as it might have been in more impoverished areas. A cabinet holds his clothing, a basin in the corner. The room is littered with reused canvas and wine bottles.
He has never remembered the smell of Paris in a dream.
As he wakes himself, he realizes, strangest still, Edgar stretches beside him.
Has he been sent home? What day is it, what year?