RP for boygeneral

[winecask]

Grantaire is, as he has been these past few days, sitting despondently in Enjolras' rooms, in a small, clean boarding house that is a far cry from his own dirty, cheap lodgings. Those had been veto'd following the realization that R could have whatever amount of drink and other items squirreled away in his tiny room, and, as Enjolras was apparently

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[boygeneral]

To help, there was a bit of normality; the hunched figure of Enjolras himself, sitting at his desk across the sparse room. There, he carefully dipped the heads of pins in different colored wax, blowing on them to dry. These would be the markers for his newest (and only) attempt at decorating the room: a map showing the streets of his beloved Paris. He'd slipped out earlier while Grantaire was asleep to purchase it, and hung it carefully, squarely beside his window, where he could see it whenever he looked up from work or study.

He was silent, intent on his task, but that didn't mean that some small part of his attention wasn't given to the sad personage to whom he'd given his bed. Grantaire was, among other, less positive things, something of a friend, and Enjolras' current side project. His friends say he needs more humanity, more politeness; instead, he will give them a healthy R, to contribute both these things for him.

[winecask]

R, unfortunately, was not feeling altogether healthy at the moment.

"E-enjolras. Enjolras. I need a drink."

[boygeneral]

Enjolras glances over, putting down the most recently finished pin, and frowns. He has many frowns, most of which Grantaire has seen for one reason or another, and this one is unavoidably a little concerned, if skeptical.

"Again? Already?"

[winecask]

Grantaire was either becoming even more adept at appearing pitiful, or he truly felt terrible. "Yes, again. Yes, already. I've returned to shaking, now."

[boygeneral]

Enjolras fetched the wine from its hiding place in his wardrobe; he'd long since stopped returning it to the more secure spot under his desk (and a floorboard). Grantaire seemed to be needing it more and more frequently, and despite his distrust of the man, Enjolras did not want to risk him coming to more harm. This was supposed to help him after all.

And it wasn't as if Grantaire was likely to get across the room to steal the bottle without raising some sort of fuss.

Wordlessly, he poured some into a mug and took it over. "Can you hold it?"

Perhaps he doesn't completely buy the act, or perhaps he thinks R will spill; the mug is only half full.

[winecask]

R glances at his hands, as if he's thinking about it. Despite Enjolras' doubts, he truly is shaking minutely, skin clammy and sweaty. Battling down his needs for opium and hashish and a dozen different vices, he reaches for the cup with barely-controlled hands. One drink is all he needs, he thinks; one drink hand perhaps the sickly feeling will end. If he doesn't drop it.

[boygeneral]

Noticing the trembling of Grantaire's hands - and some people think Enjolras unobservant - the blond keeps a steadying hand on his mug and frowns.

He will not let this fail.

He will not let Grantaire break
his mug.

[winecask]

Grantaire concedes to the hands on the mug, bending to sip at the wine inside. He closes his eyes, a blissful expression on his face as he tasted the alcohol. It's not enough, not by a long shot; but it's something, and it even tastes a little like heaven.

[boygeneral]

The change in Grantaire's expression makes Enjolras take a half step back, his steady, helping hand on the mug at odds with the disgust that's taken over the rest of his features.

"Do you see yourself?" He's rarely kept silent his opinions in this man's presence, he's not likely to start now.

[winecask]

Grantaire opens his eyes, suddenly guilty and remorseful. He knows Enjolras' opinions; they've been stated and restated a hundred times. All the same, the looks hurt, just as any harshness from his Apollo would always hurt.

"No, Enjolras, I haven't precisely got a mirror."

[boygeneral]

"You cannot tell me that you are blind to the damage you have done," is his stern, incredulous response. He is sure, very sure, that he will never understand this man. Nor does he precisely want to. It's hard enough to look at him; the sheer waste of it all is painful.