a charming young man

he was antinous, wild. you would have said, seeing the thoughtful reflection of his eye, that he had already, in some preceding existence, been through the revolutionary apocalypse. he knew its tradition like an eyewitness. he knew every little detail of that great thing.

[petersenhq]

[ text ] then i will put a question to you

[ text ] have you ever considered that, on some occasions, your opinion may not be wanted? because i do not think you have

[ text ] and i think you should start

[chefange]

     [ text - Grantaire ] : Simply because you do not like hearing a fact does not make it an opinion.

[petersenhq]

it was a common thought that the eyes are a window to the soul but in this moment grantaire he finds he can disparage that saying entirely; for he knows exactly what is weighing upon enjolras’ soul ( and entire being ) without any sort of clue. though he’s sure anyone would recognise that something was troubling the young man; with nothing but the air around him to go off. the question does not catch him by surprise – the topic was bound to come up eventually and so in answer grantaire simply takes a deep breath in and speaks, softly.

“i’m sure you remember, that you informed me with some vigour that i do not believe in anything. if you remember that much i think i am safe in assuming that you remember what my reply was. that statement still stands; and with precedent to further my case, i can state with confidence that it will NEVER change. no matter where – or when we are.” he straightens upright, dropping his hand from enjolras’ bicep to instead rest on his knee. “what i did – what happened, that was my choice. i may have been in a drunken haze but i can assure you, even amidst a haze i am perfectly capable of analysing such a situation to make an assumption as to what the outcome would be. i would not change that decision now. every single member of les amis made a decision; you gave everyone of them the option to leave and they chose not to.” 

[chefange]

     he feels weak, here - as if his neck is bared and ready to be torn out if grantaire so wishes. there were times he would feel this way, before. nights where the world seemed far too dark outside of his window and he would sit at his desk listlessly with tensed shoulders and bowed head. he feels ill with the scope of it - the lives lost. the lives he took - the thought of le cabuc at his knees has enjolras’ hands forming fists in his lap as grantaire speaks. the words ring true but he still cannot help but feel a vine of guilt wrapped around his throat like a vice. if their venture had worked - if the world he sees now were better - perhaps he would not feel so poorly. he would not have this guilt that floods his senses and leaves him feeling wrung out.      it is a surprising thing to say that enjolras is out of words. he prides himself in always having something to say in response to any offered statement - some reply that flows off of his lips in smooth or sharp fashion as if rehearsed. but his tongue feels leaden in his mouth as he attempts to come up with something to say in response. grantaire is right. he had told all of them they he would not fault them should they leave the barricade, but there is still some part of him that aches with the loss he had lead them into. “is it not somewhat to idealistic for you to continue believing in me?” the words might have been scornful if not spoken so quietly, voice a small sound as he contemplates.

[chefange]

continued from here @ivrognc

     enjolras despises this feeling. it is the creeping sort of emotion, the kind that slithers up his spine and latches roots into the back of his skull, hissing all the while. things like you cannot change anything and you are wasting this second chance and give up. it is, really, the product of too many near-sleepless nights spent hunched in his dark room over his laptop. spent not working on his case studies but rather another flier or another speech or another pamphlet. when he closes his eyes he can see them. he can hear prouvaire’s last cry. can see le cabuc on his knees with enjolras’ gun pressed to his head. he can hear them all dying and it is his fault. it is his fault they all died, really - there is no one else to blame. he should have planned better. should have taken the number of soldiers better into account. should have waited because while lamarque’s death was a good rallying cry they hadn’t been ready.      his hands shake and he steadfastly does not look at grantaire. there is rage and sadness and hurt in his bones, bodily aches that act only to remind him of his death. and grantaire’s death, by his side even after being so skeptical the length of time enjolras knew him. “how do you offer yourself so? after what had happened. i would not fault your hatred towards me, grantaire.”

[petersenhq]

[ text ] how much time do you have?

[ text ] i can draw up a few bullet points if you’re busy

[chefange]

     [ text - Grantaire ] : Please do.      [ text - Grantaire ] : There is no need to condense your thoughts for me, I’m sure I will be able to understand them outside of bullet point form.

[petersenhq]

continued from here ;;[ @chefange ]

[ text ] : i disagree 

[ text ] : you’re being a dick about it. stating a fact and acting like a dick are not mutually exclusive. 

[chefange]

     [ text - Grantaire ] : How, then, am I being a dick? Please do explain.

[petersenhq]

as pathetic as it sounds, grantaire isn’t quite sure when the last time he felt so alive was. ( actually, he can pinpoint it exactly. the last time he had felt so alive had been mere seconds before death. ironic, he supposes. ) he can all but hear the cogs whirring in enjolras brain; green-grey eyes fixate upon his face; he fears if he blinks the mop of golden hair will disappear, or rather suddenly belong to someone else – a stranger. 

there’s a retort, and it’s so familiar that it aches. it had to be a contradiction; by definition, that was what they were. opposite sides of the same coin – a revolutionary idealist, and a sceptic. “well, then forgive my outburst. please, continue inducing violent out bursts and ill-tempers.” grantaire’s gaze falls once more to the flier upon the board, to the much larger volume of paper and after a moment of consideration he reaches out to take one. numerous questions arise; most concerning the fact that, perhaps enjolras should leave the campaigning thing alone for just a few moments – this is an entirely different country and not to mention a new CENTURY. one that he does not understand ( and, quite simply, hopes he will never have to. )  slowly, he brings himself back into the present and out of whirling thoughts. “i’m going to get a coffee. would you like to join me??”

[chefange]

     enjolras feels off balance, as if someone had punched him hard in the solar plexus and left him breathless and dizzy. though, that is not unusual of grantaire’s presence. in paris the arguments between them had often left enjolras heady and far too riled up, words flying from his lips like bullets or daggers even as mind spun out of control. “it is base to believe anger is not a viable emotion when faced with the injustices america offers it’s people.” he replies with some heat to his words even as grantaire takes one of the red sheets of paper. there are dates and locations printed in bold, black ink that he designed on his laptop to catch and hold attention and there is a part of him that is awaiting some other comment from the other.      it’s the offer that has him silenced even as he draws a breath to continue speaking about how anger is warranted in this situation and telling those who are oppressed that they should not be angry is just another form of oppression. the words fall dead on his tongue and they taste too bitter to say. not now. after a moment he shuffles his papers in a seemingly confident manner before nodding. “i would. it has been some time since we last spoke.” permets-tu? rings through his mind like a hollow bell and one hand comes to idly rub at the joint of his shoulder, where he had been pinned to the wall by bullets fired at so close a range. it aches beneath his fingers. “were do you have in mind?”

[petersenhq]

grantaire often finds his thoughts flickering to ( fixating upon ) enjolras in the present; he has come across an endless number of students equally as opinionated – if not more so – and certainly as confident in their beliefs as he. though, he notes none come close to the vibrancy and colour he has always associated with rants lasting entire meetings which eventually ( somehow ) simmer to heated conversations. unless, of course the drunkard in the corner decides to take it upon himself to add a little SOMETHING to the debate.

he curses himself quietly, brushing thoughts of the past from his mind like cobwebs – except these are cobwebs that refuse to be brushed aside and instead plant themselves like a tree, demanding to be heard. naturally, it catches him off guard ( there’s no way, even with the world having turned itself upside down that he would mistake another for a man so unique as ENJOLRAS . ) silently, grantaire moves to stand behind the figure, panic bubbles within him but he pushes it down, favouring a light comment over screaming something akin to bloody murder and perhaps losing consciousness. “– it has been said, that surrounding oneself with too much red can lead to volatile behaviour.”

[chefange]

     there are certain things enjolras misses most about his life. or rather, his first life. prouvaire’s poetic words and friendly smiles - combeferre’s presence that soothed like a balm - bousset’s dreadful luck and good nature - and, loathe to admit it, grantaire’s voice calling out from it’s place in the back of the room with some contrary statement that always left enjolras’ blood hot and boiling. the sound has never been welcomed, really, but now? every so often he will catch a snatch of conversation and think for a moment that it sounded familiar - sounded like the drunkard who kept returning to the meetings of les amis despite the fact he never seemed to agree or believe in anything said. it never had been.      until this moment. enjolras freezes and feels his heart falter within his chest, the steady rhythm there tripping and skipping a beat as thumbtack sinks through the paper and into the cork of the board. he had long ago resigned himself that there would be no familiar people in this place. no courfeyrac or marius or bahorel or - or grantaire, even, the man who had died hand in hand with him. bullet wounds ache across his body as he turns, speechless for a long moment. “and who is to say that is not my aim?” he finally manages.

[chefange]

     enjolras has taken to posting fliers places he believes others who care for the cause as much as him might take notice. the red paper is plastered against several coffee shops, used book stores, the library. it only seems proper to extend his crusade of posting fliers to the university. nearly all of les amis had been students and to ignore them in this age would be hypocritical and pointless. the art school seems a good place to start, so he sets about down the halls to find a good place to post the pieces of paper that are printed with information about the meetings being held and the rally that’s coming up and how all are welcome.      he swerves towards a bulletin board with the stack of papers at the ready and starts to put one up, not paying much attention to his surroundings other than the thumbtack in hand and the fliers tucked under his arm. 

@ivrognc