sirenspull_logs | A very French Invasion

Entry tags:

A very French Invasion - BACKDATED

WHO: Deadpool, Enjolras, Eponine, Grantaire
What: An invasion of HoA. Grantaire wants to see Enjolras (cue awkward reunions) and Eponine doesn't really know what she wants, but will find herself watching Deadpool.
When: 17th December -in the afternoon
Where: HoA mostly.
Warnings: Well, Enjolras is a slave, so slavery? Erm......... I don't THINK we need any more warnings... Stand by for updates if needed.

Eponine manages to get them all, doesn't she? Or at least it seems that way to her. Men. Men who want her to drop everything and lead them to houses to reunite with their true loves or fallen comrades. Men who don't seem to notice that they ask her to drop everything to do such a thing. Men who don't see how much it pains her to obey.

She doesn't have to do what Grantaire asks her to do. He's nothing. He means nothing to her, and Enjolras, without Marius close by, ceases to be important to Eponine too. Especially after his attitude towards her. And yet, when Grantaire asks her to take him to Enjolras, Eponine barely hesitates before consenting to lead the way.

She can barely understand why, but it's instinct. These men, they are friends with Marius, and she feels, somehow, by helping them, that she is helping Marius too. The Amis make her feel a part of something, accepted almost, instead of the beggar or the whore or the teenager goaded into working for free. They bring her closer to Marius, to the person she so desperately wants to be and the society she so desperately wants to be a part of. She wants their friendship though, their approval; even their conversations. Talking to such a good person is the highlight of her week. So she'll help them, even though she doesn't want to go anywhere near HoA. Even though she never wants to see Deadpool again... though she misses him. Love? No, it was never love. Eponine doesn't know love. Wouldn't know it.

She peels the potatoes quickly, chopping roughly, before setting them in a pan of water. Not bothering to clean up her peelings or put the scrubbing brushes away, Eponine hurries Grantaire back out of Hattie's, and together, they start the walk to HoA.

Away from the house, Eponine feels less confident and more awkward with Grantaire. She doesn't have the intellect to understand what he says, which makes her feel ignorant. She doesn't know what to say, what would be appropriate to say to such a man. She tries to pretend he is Marius that she can talk to, but that illusion only makes her more tongue tied. In the end, she trudges in silence, pondering how to explain her absence at work to M'sieur Gold.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Did you find me so broken?" There is a tightness to his shoulders and his tone is clipped. "They are a great loss. They are good men all, and the world is diminished without them. And yet, while I honor their voices and sacrifice, it is their own choice, not mine."

"I say again, do I seem that broken? I assure..."

Then, the question. Enjolras' hand flies to the mark on his neck. He remembers how he'd been cool collared like an animal and it burns him.

He's stricken, looking down at the table, his hand on his neck.

"Don't--No. My words run ahead of me, without care for my intent. Not broken, I do you disservice to say so, but remote or scattered. Not permanently undone, but in this moment--and all moments, we mat recall, are passing--something like... adrift. The choices and absence of your comrades, our comrades cannot account for this displacement. I am more clear-sighted than may be apparent, and this..."

He shrugs, though he feels far from casual. "When Enjolras is indirect, the day is strange, indeed. If nothing else, your evasion and that mark suggest that there is more here."

More wine would be helpful. But for the moment, it's too much of a distraction.

Enjolras' eyes remain fixed and heavy while Grantaire speaks, and for a few moments after. Finally, he gestures and raises his eyes to meet Grantaire's again. The expression is not all fire and ice now, still fierce, but imploring.

"I entreat you now, since you demand answers. If you bear any love for me, any respect or any fidelity, please, do not ask me such questions. If it will restore the balance of the day then I will speak plain. Friendship is something that I have use of right now. I am grateful for your presence here, even though I mourn your fate being thrown in a place like this. But, there are things that I cannot speak of. There are things that I need to keep locked away to myself. And, I will ask you to allow me to do so."

It's his business.

If Enjolras wishes to remain silent, that is his right, and it is not Grantaire's place to interfere. As ever, it is more his place to hang back, to observe without impacting. And why should Enjolras not request that Grantaire remain at a distance? When has Enjolras revealed himself beyond the high-flown ideals and convictions?

Still, it hurts a bit that Enjolras should choose to withhold his not-so-secret secret. ' If you bear any love for me, any respect or any fidelity...' Ah, Enjolras, but you have no idea.

"Mourn my fate in any world, the last as much as here, if you must mourn. Little here is worse, as little here is better." He half-mutters those words before speaking with greater firmness. "I will respect your wishes, Enjolras." Rising, Grantaire moves from his seat to kneel on one knee in front of Enjolras, reaching for his hand. "Only tell me what I may do and how I may be of aid. You will have my silence, if you like, and whatever else you might call to your service."

Edited 2013-01-01 16:32 (UTC)

"Much here is worse, Much worse. You have not been here long enough. You don't know..." He shakes his head.

His lips part as if he might speak. There is a moment where he considers... what if he unburdens himself? Would some peace come from giving voice to his trial by fire? Would a sympathetic ear calm his soul at all. For a moment, his lips pulse with the breath of speech, but then it's gone.

He bites his thick underlip as Grantaire kneels. "It isn't service that I require. You know how we were in the Cafe Musain. None of us were ever without the company of the others. Don't kneel, don't promise me service. Eat! Drink! Speak! Listen to me as I do the same. Don't let me be alone.

I cannot lie, I am diminished here. But, if I keep my circumstances to myself it has everything to do with my own failings and none of yours. It is because I choose not to speak of it to anyone, not because I choose to hide it from you.

Please understand the distinction."

Yet even in the wake of these words, Enjolras withdraws his hand as it is reached for. There, in the inside of his wrist is a blue and yellowing bruise his cuff can't hide, stark against his white skin.

Edited 2013-01-01 18:19 (UTC)

Perhaps Enjolras is correct. Perhaps this world is truly, measurably worse. Grantaire does not believe this or believe in the potential for a quantifiably better world (though he would readily admit that one man's situation may be less amenable in one world than another), but what does he know of these different worlds? His own ideas have been based on the existence of a single, solitary world through which men pass from birth to life's end and into darkness. These ideas may scream for reevaluation after this shift of worlds, but he hasn't the time or focus to examine them now, if ever. It may be best to simply hold on where he can and try to keep from drowning.

He smiles slightly, a half-dejected smirk at Enjolras' words. Another misunderstanding, though it may be Grantaire's own fault for shrouding his intent with inflated speech and gestures. Had it not become clear at Corinthe? Of course not; Corinthe was obscure, awash in too many details and perceived failings, too much death and too many sudden realities. Whether Enjolras knows it or not, Grantaire has long since pledged his service (not a formal idea, but an earnest recognition and offering), waiting only to find his means.

Here he finds something of an answer: simply to be, to speak, to accompany. And this is far more than he might ever have expected in Paris, as is Enjolras' admission of the reason for his silence. There is a show in this of... Well, if not of respect, at least of the camaraderie that Enjolras had so rarely shown in Paris.

It is while considering these matters that Grantaire notices the marks on Enjolras' wrists. That... That must be what he means. That must be related. (And it may be why Enjolras has withdrawn his hand, though that may merely indicate a desire to be removed from Grantaire. And who could blame him?) These marks and the trials of this new world. The slavery. The questions Grantaire might well ask.

But if Enjolras wishes to keep silent on the matter, Grantaire will honor his wish. If Enjolras should ever wish to speak, Grantaire will listen. Until then, silence. It is only Grantaire's eyes that may betray him, flashing a flicker of troubled surprise.

"Then so be it." He stands, attempting to strengthen his smile. "Every man must have his silence, every man must have his time. Far be it from me to break the respect that any man is due. Speaking, drinking, eating: these are functions I was made for. And rest assured that while I live--if life this may be--you need not be alone."

Grantaire's distress is clear to Enjolras. Once more he considers unburdening himself, the relief in confiding in a comrade is still tempting. But, the look on Grantaire's face, the suffering as well as the admiration, still stops him.

He knows Grantaire has him in high regard. He always did. Can he really admit to being in such a low state to someone who looks up to him?

"I am grateful, and I thank you." But the other phrase about life, if life this is, gets his attention.

"Grantaire, tell me please, what is the last thing that you remember before coming here?"

Given Enjolras' recent evasiveness, the question is surprisingly direct. Grantaire watches Enjolras steadily for a moment before responding. "Corinthe. A drunkard who has slept through the battle cries out for the Republic and is permitted to join the revolution's golden pillar. Shots are fired. And then... Here we are."

Edited 2013-01-02 00:42 (UTC)

"Spare me the euphemisms please, Grantaire."

They've ignored one elephant in the room, let them not remain blind to a second one as well.

"That's the last thing I remember as well. I never... I never did understand you. You did not have to die."

"But we all do, and what good have I ever been at living?" Grantaire grabs his chair and pulls it next to Enjolras, taking a seat. "Granted that I can reel off speech like no other and excel in sport and merriment, that I am a true champion of the great gods of wine, beer, and absinthe... But what is all of that?

"If a man is offered a chance to prove himself in death, should he not seize it? Even the most miserable of men may show some valor in the end, if he acts upon his... If he is consistent with himself.

So far as consistency may be deemed a virtue."

"To put it plainly, the others died for the revolution. You did not. You died for something else. And, what am I to do here with that knowledge in this place, with you before me? We have met no maker or final years. So...now what?"

"Ah. Yes."

Perhaps Enjolras made more of the choice than Grantaire has expected. "I should think the more pressing questions relate to the fact of our un-dying. Or perhaps these are questions too vast for answers and to broad to tackle at this moment." It would almost be easier, he thinks, than answering the questions around which Enjolras speaks. Grantaire isn't certain that he has hold of a certain answer, or that he knows how to find one. He simply acted as he needed to act, as he felt was fitting.

But always, always there are reasons somewhere. And if Enjolras insists...

"As for myself and my decision, I point again toward consistency. For what other reason did I place myself among such revolutionaries? Charming company and fine fellows, but what reason had I to sit among their ranks? It was not merely to mock or even to converse, though the dialogue certainly gave me pleasure, and the companionship proved essential."

He shakes his head. "I have spoken of man's need to believe, and I have excluded myself from the category. Perhaps this is untruthful. Though I mistrust belief and spurn truth, there are times I wish..." He gestures vaguely, a wave of his hand. "Avec vous, I saw something of belief's steadfast light. I caught sight of foundation in an unsteady world. Do you understand? There was something immovable, and matched against this, what was the worth of life?

"You need do nothing with this, though. Understand it or look aside, take my terms as you will or dismiss them entirely. I am full of words; there will be time for more. And none need mean a thing."

"Life is what we make of it. Death is to. But, you could have lived. You were young. There was lots of time for you."

What Enjolras will not express is how grateful he was to have someone by his side.

A laugh escapes; Grantaire can't quite hold it. "Ah, Enjolras, listen. Do you hear none of it?"

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. "I could have continued to draw breath. But without that one pillar, where would I be, and what? More hollowed out and emptier still, falling in upon myself.

"My choice, then: to walk in emptiness or take the single action by which I might prove myself, by which I might show that I had one..." Just. Just say it. "I had one belief."

"Me..." Enjolras finishes for him. "It was me... It was always me..." The realization is fast and hard, and has the impact of a bullet. "Grantaire, I don't want that. I don't..." He inhales and exhales. "I don't want your blood on my hands. the others, they died for the same cause I did. But not you... Grantaire please..."

Oh, no. No, he hadn't meant for it to hit like this...

But Enjolras sees. Enjolras really sees, and he hasn't drawn back.

Grantaire feels torn open, exposed as he has never been before, but he plunges, reaching again for Enjolras' hand, for both hands. Trying to catch onto something solid. Making certain this was... That all of this is actuality.

"Enjolras. Enjolras. Please don't--The choice was my own. You were correct, I made the choice, and you..." He smiles even as his hands shake slightly, his eyes bespeaking joyful pain. "You are who you are. For all that you gave me, unknowing as it was, don't make this a curse. You've no idea what you... All of that time, and I never... I have never doubted who you are. And I cannot say just what or how much that has meant to me.

"For that enormity, death is no cost, at all."

Edited 2013-01-02 04:51 (UTC)

When Grantaire's hands touch his, Enjolras flinches. There is an instant where he looks like he will pull back and vanish again like he did when Grantaire first arrived.

Instead, he leaves his hands in Grantaire's. His face of finely carved alabaster remains impassive. But, he blinks, and a tear rolls over his pale cheek.

"If I gave faith to someone without it then that is something. But, I know what I gave you... cold looks and disdain. I gave you the back of my shoulder and that was all. Mes Amis were so full of hope and faith and love but you... I only saw something dark in a cluster of bright lights.

Maybe I should have known better."

"No, mon ami, you saw clearly. I am as close to negative being as any man alive can come. My declarations of rampant disbelief are not mere bravado, and in general, I spoke not beyond what I saw. The world's light to me is largely obscured and broken, fractured by the thousand lies that we are told and all that we so foolishly would force the world to be. At times, I am surprised to find I do not drain the joy of others. But no one listens, no one wants to listen, and so others are immune. And so I have been allowed to reside among others.

"You saw... what most see. You saw what you believed. And how could a creature of such light ever perceive the intentions of one so shaded as I? Not that I was fully hidden, but... Such men become nonentities."

Slowly, almost not daring the attempt, Grantaire moves one hand to wipe the tear from Enjolras' cheek. "But you must give yourself some credit. You tolerated my presence, if coldly." An odd expression, some incongruously warm smirk, crosses his face. "Leave a man the smallest spark of light--call it truth, hope, beauty, or whatever you may--and he will train his eyes on it and grasp hold in the darkest night.

"You were there; that was enough."

Enjolras keeps his deep blue eyes fixed on Grantaire now while he speaks. He pulls his breath and tenses when Grantaire touches his cheek, but he does not withdraw.

"I had a purpose and was blind to all else. I will not apologize for that. And yet, if I had it to do over again..."

"You would do the same, would you not? Knowing what you did, and how?"

He keeps his hand against Enjolras' skin, fascinated by the closeness and the feel of it, the warmth that truly does run beneath this marble. And those eyes, what is there to read in those eyes so near, so suddenly open...

Grantaire is alive and adrift, sensing almost too much to truly feel any of it now. "If that is blindness, call it blindness of the highest order. We are at our best when truest to ourselves, when truest to some fixed point or idea, and when have you been anything but purposeful? When have you been anyone or anything save Enjolras, singled-minded vision and all?"

Enjolras continues to blink back tears, not moving his face, still accepting the touch.

"I can't say. I wouldn't have changed anything regarding the barricade or anything else. I couldn't. But you..."

"I? What would I change? What could I change? Ever at odds and singular, I amount to little enough.

"Had there been welcome..." A shrug. "What use in suppositions? We wrote our lives up to the end. Here, we may write on. Our lives carry on, and we must find our ways."

Without further reflection, Grantaire moves to kiss Enjolras on the forehead, a gesture long-awaited and lacking hurry, light and deeply honest.

Enjolras' breath hitches, and he holds it. The gesture of reverence twists the knife deeper and he closes his eyes against the pain, just feeling Grantaire's closeness, and the lips on his forehead. He wants to pull away, push him off, but he remains stock still, accepting it like a penance.

When he breaths again he exhales one phrase.

"Forgive me."

Impossible to say how the act has been perceived. Stillness may be a sign of disgust, of shock, of welcome; whatever the case, it is at least not repulse. Enjolras has received the gesture, and this is more than Grantaire could have asked for.

"There is nothing to forgive, my brother."

He is holding Enjolras' hands again, and simply gazes, his self inexpressibly open. This man and this martyr, this boy of the golden hair and golden soul, so long distant and admired, has at last opened his arms.

"I knew that you'd say that. But please... you call me brother. You have more than earned that... but forgive me all the same."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject