![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
[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."
