Between songs, Grantaire pauses. “Thanks. Thanks for being here. Thanks for listening, or pretending to listen, or texting or whatever it is you’re out there doing. I just, um, I just drove here. From Portland. Have you ever driven all the way across Montana and, what’s that other state? You know which one I mean? Anyway, there’s fucking nothing out there. Who dreamed up the interstate? The fastest way from place to place and the fastest road to alienation and despair. You can’t do anything while driving. You can’t read, you can’t write, you can’t fuck, you can’t drink. What’s the point? What a horror it is, driving ourselves aimlessly around this giant slab of land, driving ourselves mad, getting used to it all the while.” Grantaire breaks off in a fit of coughing.
Lag Time, by Mlle. Les Mis AU for all publics (ie don’t need to know the canon) where they are all singers/song writers/musicians and Grantaire has a crush like the sun on someone pretty much as huge and also, anxiety and other issues. And Enjolras is probably a robot, as usual.
