[Author's Note: This is a fragment. I will probably expand it in future, but I would love to know what you all think so far.]
Finally I'm the only one left in the room, except for Grantaire, who sits looking battered. On my way to the door I pause to rest a hand on his shoulder. He shows no sign that he feels it.
"Give it up, can't you?" I say gently. "You're not doing yourself any favors."
"Then I've something in common with the rest of creation."
"What do you expect him to say, Grantaire?"
"Expect?" He laughs shortly, looking up at me. "I expect nothing. I'm seldom disappointed."
"Then what is it you want?"
I shouldn't have asked that. I've cut too deep; his eyes flick away, staring out the window. A look of real hurt, and seeing it, I recognize it; recognize the half-scornful, half-heartbroken smile he wore a moment ago. I've seen both before. It is the face of a man in love.
I don't want to know this. This is my friend, a man I've known for years, drunk with, fought with, bothered grisettes with. If he harbors a guilty passion, I don't want to know about it.
"Does it matter?" he says tiredly.
"Doesn't it?"
"No. Not really."
It occurs to me that I've never actually known how old he is. About my own age, I'd assumed, but watching the sharp clean-shaven face, hearing the tremor in his voice-- he must be younger than he lets on. Perhaps that explains what I saw just now; boys are given to hero-worship. Certainly it's a more reassuring theory than the other. So I squeeze his shoulder lightly. "Let me walk you home."
"Who says I'm going home?"
"Well, if you'd rather stay here and brood, I'll leave you to it."
It works. Grimacing, he gets to his feet and follows me to the door.
Finally I'm the only one left in the room, except for Grantaire, who sits looking battered. On my way to the door I pause to rest a hand on his shoulder. He shows no sign that he feels it.
"Give it up, can't you?" I say gently. "You're not doing yourself any favors."
"Then I've something in common with the rest of creation."
"What do you expect him to say, Grantaire?"
"Expect?" He laughs shortly, looking up at me. "I expect nothing. I'm seldom disappointed."
"Then what is it you want?"
I shouldn't have asked that. I've cut too deep; his eyes flick away, staring out the window. A look of real hurt, and seeing it, I recognize it; recognize the half-scornful, half-heartbroken smile he wore a moment ago. I've seen both before. It is the face of a man in love.
I don't want to know this. This is my friend, a man I've known for years, drunk with, fought with, bothered grisettes with. If he harbors a guilty passion, I don't want to know about it.
"Does it matter?" he says tiredly.
"Doesn't it?"
"No. Not really."
It occurs to me that I've never actually known how old he is. About my own age, I'd assumed, but watching the sharp clean-shaven face, hearing the tremor in his voice-- he must be younger than he lets on. Perhaps that explains what I saw just now; boys are given to hero-worship. Certainly it's a more reassuring theory than the other. So I squeeze his shoulder lightly. "Let me walk you home."
"Who says I'm going home?"
"Well, if you'd rather stay here and brood, I'll leave you to it."
It works. Grimacing, he gets to his feet and follows me to the door.