an empath of apathy

Fuck off. Adrien Grantaire R 23 Art Student drop-out You can fuck right off. Grantaire isn't home right now. Leave a message if you think it'll do any good. Vive la France or something...

[thegrand-r]

[thingy w/ azelma&r that will hopefully culminate in huggage]

[wondering if maybe he should think about actually moving from his spot huddled up against the kitchen table or not. hm.]

[agenerousheart-deactivated20150]

Oh no you don’t, ven para acá! [Starts following him] Grantaire, I haven’t seen you in so long. My tia misses you. Your spanish still sucks, I see. 

[thegrand-r]

At least I try. Go away. In a kind of now-ish fashion. Scoot. Skedaddle. Go do...work...things. Or whatever it is you do.

[agenerousheart-deactivated20150]

Well, haven’t been around here in a while. ¿Que anuncian?

[thegrand-r]

[is only in the outside world because 'walk of shame' but ANYWAY]

Um. Habla usted...français, Feuilly? Ah fuck, it's been too long... Dos...lenguas(???) son...muy(??) - sont trop eh...compliqués pour les Français. We can barely master our own tongue. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm a very busy loser. Good day to you, sir, and um...adiós. [as he continues on his merry way home]

[thegrand-r]

Parkour! || Bahorel & Grantaire

[lesaintpatrondemeutiers]

"Eyyyyy." Bahorel looked up, ditching his resting face— a study in apathy; medium: the human physiognomy, eyes half-lidded, mouth turned down at the corners— for a cockeyed grin. He put his phone away, looked his friend up and down, and nodded appreciatively. "You look like a cool and sophisticated intellectual, with just the amount of slovenliness to be artsy. I know it wasn’t intentional, but the hipster-nerd look is in right now, following the larger fashion of capitalizing on previously marginalized groups. Nerds were hardly an oppressed faction, of course, but their pop-cultural representation as bottom of the food chain came from somewhere, and it’s cool to be on the bottom now. Bourgeoisie teenagers with rebellious urges, no personality and no cause, recycling twentieth-century garbage to champion and posting links to watered-down activist journalism and petitions no one will read."

Realizing he had been speaking for too long, he ended his speech with an unconcerned wave of his hand. “But whatever. What’s good? Hope the rest of your night was okay— I felt kind of bad bouncing so quick.” As a general rule, Bahorel reserved judgment on people he had only just met, with exceptions for police officers and love at first sight, and he was reconsidering the latter. He had, however, found Brujon to be unusually shady. Street he could handle. He had pharmed out his share (small time) in the high school daze, and slummed around with plenty a hoodlum, but this fellow was a little older, a little colder.

[thegrand-r]

Unusually for Grantaire, he did not respond to Bahorel's ramble with one of his own. He did, however, zone out, staring absently at a place in what used to be the promenade, where he recalled seeing the wind blow up a woman's petticoats once. In fact, if it weren't for the colours in impressions that he didn't quite see, he wouldn't have even realised Bahorel was talking. Rude, eh?

It was the wave of Bahorel's hand that made Grantaire look up. He blinked.

"Hm?" he asked first, then catching on to what he said. "Oh, right. It's whatever, man."

Grantaire sat back on the bench, folding his arms over his stomach and turning his eyes to the old men playing chess.

[thegrand-r]

Parkour! || Bahorel & Grantaire

[lesaintpatrondemeutiers]

Bahorel was there already, demolishing his preferred phallic breakfast food and watching the old men play chess with one another across the stone tables. The elderly in general were an unwanted presence because they reminded everyone that their bodies were decaying, but these particularly elderly folk, Bahorel felt, negated some of that effect by managing to dress well and keep a couple of friends who would still reminisce— with admittedly hit-and-miss accuracy— about friends and lovers from the good old days.

Conceivably, these were Bahorel’s good old days, or they would be in the future. He tossed his banana peel out and spent a minute feeling sorry for himself, thinking maybe he should climb into the garbage bin himself and see if he couldn’t find people more his caliber in there. Then he was annoyed at his own moment of weakness. This was the circle of life. The cigarette burn on his elbow that had hurt like a b*tch at the time but seemed to hurt more now; the t-shirts and hats and bracelets he owned that were like items from the gift shop visiting everyone else’s lives, or just like muddy footprints they left visiting his; the radio and several songs which had never made it to the radio triggered synapses firing and grabbed shit out of the back of his head no matter how hard he tried to reeducate himself. It was a tricky road to walk, convincing himself that he hadn’t wasted his time while making sure he didn’t waste too much time dwelling on what had been, even though it was a self-indulgent guilty pleasure misery of his.

This train of thought he found to be discomforting, so he sat down on the bench to play a game on his phone until Grantaire arrived.

[thegrand-r]

Something that always struck him, ever since he'd remembered living as a not-revolutionary, was how different the streets of Paris were, and yet how similar the people were. As he walked past alleys, where the buildings had been rebuilt time and time again, but the people collaborated to steal loaves from the market, each incidence of this jarring effect caused the metaphorical raincloud above his head to darken and widen.

Grantaire sulked, his pace slowing as he dragged his heels and took a drink from his flask. Why had he agreed to step outside his door today? He'd already done it twice this week. New record. Every so often he stopped and ducked into an alley, the closed space comforting him. He wasn't scared of the thieves. They had always been around. But the streets were too wide for Paris.

Eventually, Grantaire made it to the park. It didn't take him long to find Bahorel, but it did for him to approach him, early as it was and late as he was. He briefly considered turning on his heel and going home, but he'd been given the choice here. He had been given the choice, he could freely choose to leave, and he would if he had to. So he approached Bahorel and wordlessly sat down beside him, peeking over his shoulder at the game he played.

[thegrand-r]

Parkour! || Bahorel & Grantaire

[lesaintpatrondemeutiers]

Bahorel stopped to brainstorm. When he craned his neck out the window he found it was humid but not too hot, cloudy with a chance of rain. Good enough weather to be outside. He shut the window so the moisture in the air wouldn’t seep into his things and turn the pages of his books barely damp and his clothes barely musty with an insidious but annoying minuteness, and then suggested to Grantaire that they visit the park near the university.

Without waiting for a response, he slipped his sneakers on and exited the building, making for a nearby deli so he could buy a subpar coffee, a banana, and a bagel. In order to juggle his purchases more easily, he put the banana through the bagel hole and tucked both under his arm while he drowned the mediocrity of his drink in milk and sugar. He inquired after the health of the shopkeeper and her husband, asked for a napkin, and then exited to eat his anachronous breakfast on the walk to the park.

[thegrand-r]

Tugging on a few jumpers, Grantaire put off replying to the text for a little while. The park near the university...presumably, he meant the university that he attended, as opposed to the art school Grantaire used to attend. It was a reasonable assumption to make, he thought, pausing mid-movement to gauge himself. Could he do this? How long would he be able to be out for? ...If he brought his wallet or a sketchpad he might be able to convince himself he could go into a shop unprompted, or actually try to get something down on paper. It was a long shot...but going to the park would be good for him. Maybe.

Grantaire texted Bahorel another affirmative as he picked up the over-the-shoulder messenger bag he hadn't touched since he got back, slipping a sketchpad and a few pencils and biros into it alongside his wallet and flask (just for courage, just for a helping hand). He shoved his hair back with a bandana, but couldn't be fucked with his contacts, so it was as he left the flat, phone and keys in his pocket once he locked the door behind him, that he put his glasses on. It had been a while since he'd been to the park. At least it was a Sunday morning...nobody would be around.

He headed towards the park.

[thegrand-r]

Parkour! || Bahorel & Grantaire

[lesaintpatrondemeutiers]

For Grantaire, this was generous. Bahorel had been basking in the rays of his friend’s favor for twelve hours now, and he considered himself very lucky, since Grantaire’s disfavor was dismaying to the point of a forced, woeful kind of existentialism. Nonetheless, he was beginning to feel a bit nervous about Grantaire, whose prophecies of doom had historically taken place in the future rather than the past. The future, Bahorel could contend with. The past, not so much. He hesitated for a good few seconds before asking Grantaire if he wanted to hang out again, then tossed his phone away and got up to pull some clothes on.

His room was a mess of half-packed and mislabeled boxes full of lamps and books and the most recent loads of laundry as they happened. He was dragging the bottom of the barrel now, and as a result resorted to wearing a bright orange volunteer t-shirt from some embarrassingly backwater country fair that had taken place some years ago.

Briefly he stopped to wonder if hanging out with Grantaire meant hanging out with more of his sexual partners, given that in his brief sojourn at the crib of Grantaire, he had already met two. The more, the merrier, he supposed.

[thegrand-r]

Once again, the reply shocked Grantaire. It was a simple question of whether he wanted to hang out again or not. He liked that. There was no demand, there was no persuasive element to it, and there was absolutely no guilt tripping. He appreciated that.

He glanced out the window from his position in the kitchen. The birds were chirping, as early as it was. It was going to be a nice day....

Grantaire texted him back, a simple affirmative: 'yeah sure what did you have in mind?'

Then he put his phone down, clasping his hands together as if to pray, clearing his throat. Fuck. What the fuck was he doing.

[thegrand-r]

Parkour! || Bahorel & Grantaire

[lesaintpatrondemeutiers]

Bahorel was sleeping.

After leaving Grantaire’s last night, he had run through a third of his phonebook before deciding he’d rather just go to bed. Unfortunately, he was sidetracked by a neighbor’s shindig and didn’t reach that elusive blessing, sleep, until half past four. He passed out fully clothed except for one sock and woke up feeling strangely asymmetrical when his phone went off a few hours later.

He pulled off his other sock and read the text message, and in his relief rested his head on the pillow and fell asleep for a full forty-two seconds. Then his phone slipped from his hand and hit the floor with an unassuming thump that jarred him out of bed proper. He tripped into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and texted Grantaire back: ‘it’s cool. your friend seemed chill. i hope you had fun. :^)’

With his head bowed and water dripping off his eyelashes, victim to the fickle mercies of his shower head and associated plumbing, Bahorel existed in a constant state of nodding off. Each time his eyes slipped closed, he dreamed that he was dying, and a sensation of falling followed until he landed in his own body with a slight but unpleasant jerk. He blinked sleepily, pressed a hand to his chest, felt his heart beating.

Some time later found him significantly more awake and stretched out on his bed naked and wet-haired, checking his text messages. He was concerned for his friends and himself and concerned about showing his concern for either in a potentially detrimental way. It was a tricky situation which required subtlety and probably a bit of lying, neither which were his forte, as he had demonstrated to Grantaire last night with that clumsy falsehood about a soccer injury.

[thegrand-r]

Grantaire actually jumped a little when he got the returning text, hot ash from his cigarette falling onto his knee. He batted it away and sucked on the cigarette, eyes widening. He'd been texted back, and he wasn't used to that. Not these days.

It took him a while to answer, too busy trying to get his hands to stop shaking and his legs to stop bouncing up and down. He tried to draw to get himself calm, but...it didn't work. And he didn't want to put any more illegal substances into his body so soon after he already had - especially not when he was trying to cut back. He settled for: 'yeah. thanks for coming.'

Furthermore, it was a peculiar feeling, this one. He felt as though he needed to get out, stretch his legs, do something, just...antsy, all holed up in here. But...people were godawful and surely nothing good could happen if he (god forbid) socialised...It was quite the predicament. He turned on the TV, but turned it off again when the news was discussing the shittiness of people again. Maybe not.

[thegrand-r]

Parkour! || Bahorel & Grantaire

Grantaire woke up as the sun rose, as he usually did. He awoke alone, something which really shouldn't have surprised him. But it did. Brujon had gone. Letting his head fall back against the pillow, Grantaire could only think about how dry his mouth felt, how warm and...itchy he was. Too hot. Already? Wow. This was an actual problem, wasn't it...?

After sorting himself out to the point where he knew he'd be able to function like some vague sort of semblance of a human being at least, Grantaire looked at his phone. The perks of vanishing off for a while was that the texts and emails slowed to a near-standstill. It was calming. He still got the odd commission request, but...after explaining, things tended to be okay. He could cope with having his phone. Besides, what if there was an emergency?

The only problem with having a phone was the urge. He wanted to call his friends. On his own terms. But he couldn't. If he did, they'd take his reaching out as 'I'm back', and he couldn't have that. On the other hand...he did, he supposed, have one friend who didn't consistently try to make him hang out with people, who recognised how important choice in immediate areas was. He'd left yesterday, though...which, Grantaire supposed, was fair enough, considering the company. Still...he owed him an apology, right?

So he texted him: 'hey sorry about last night. totally unplanned.'

It would suffice.

[lesaintpatrondemeutiers]

Dans le Crib de Grantaire || Bahorel, Grantaire & Brujon

Grantaire has a face on his chest and there are clothes strewn about his room. He made enough to push his total earnings above the rent line tonight so he doesn’t feel bad about spending the past few days practically comatose except for the adventure yesterday. In his out-of-it state, with a pianist napping on him and some crumpled euro notes on the dresser, he’s rather glad he’s got so much shit in his system. He starts thinking. Somehow that train of thought makes him wonder if Bahorel’s cool with the general weirdness of last night. So he picks up his phone without thinking and dials, humming the national anthem beneath his breath.

Bahorel is on the sidewalk outside his dorm trying to teach himself to do a kickflip when his phone vibrates in his back pocket. He loses his balance and lands unceremoniously on his ass, skinning one elbow as he throws out his arm to catch himself. As he straightens up, catching his errant skateboard with one heel, a bowlegged grad student decked out in the deliberate miscegenation of a Brooks Brothers model haircut and a drug rug walks by and arches one sculpted eyebrow. Bahorel winks at him and raises his phone to his ear.

Bahorel: Yo yo yo.

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[brujoning-deactivated20140828]

Anyone doing anything this weekend? Or am I gonna be all by my lonesome?

[thegrand-r]

Hm...you're gonna be all by your lonesome.

[sunnycenter-blog]

So.

Who wants to attend a cocktail party?

[thegrand-r]

Can an acceptable answer to that be 'if by attend, you mean live vicariously through text updates and participate by participating from the comfort of one's own home'? If so, yes. If not, nah, I've got better things to do. Like the usual. And avoiding all forms of humanity.

Like, really, Courf, really? There are probably two reasons for why they're called cocktail parties. The first is obvious, that they serve appropriately named cocktails at such events. The second reason is simultaneously less and more so, in that they dub such events 'cocktail' parties as the majority of people who attend them in their bourgeois suits and upper middle class frocks in the gardens with fountains and champagne to wash down the cocktails, are in fact, cocks and their tails. No offence.

[red-lipstick]

Dima Rebus (b. 1988, Москва, Russia) - Enter, 2012 Paintings: Watercolors

[la-poesie-ou-la-mort]

Under layers rather than outer layers. A couple of t-shirts, a cardigan, a thin jacket, a coat… scarves and hats and… jeans with leggings or whatever underneath. Yes. I wear women’s clothing sometimes.

[thegrand-r]

Huh. Fair enough, I guess. Men's clothing may have pockets but it's really fucking hard to find thick trousers; women's seems to be the way to go. We do, after all, live in a so-called 'free' age.

[thetinyeagle-deactivated2014082]

That would probably be a good idea. Say…tomorrow?

[thegrand-r]

Yeah, sure, uh…I’ve got class from eight ‘til ten but I’m free anytime after that.

[thetinyeagle-deactivated2014082]

[laughs] What rigid schedule? Life is far too unpredictable for me to have a schedule, mon ami.

[thegrand-r]

It’s more rigid than mine. [raises an eyebrow] We should really just find a day, shouldn’t we?

[thetinyeagle-deactivated2014082]

Any day’s fine by me. You choose!

[thegrand-r]

Aw, come on, you’re gonna make me choose? You’re the one with the rigid schedule.