God. What would Les Amis say if they could see me now? Hung over, aching
and sharing a bed with Grantaire. Hardly their image of someone worthy to
lead a revolution.
How could I have done that… with him? But no, the real question is why did I choose to get drunk in the Musain? Was I hoping to be caught? Was I hoping that someone would see behind the demigod façade?
In any case, it's too late for recriminations. I got drunk. I slept with Grantaire. End of story.
So, what happens now? This is not the first time that I've allowed wine to cloud my judgment and ended up in this situation. But it's never happened with anyone I knew. And never with anyone who followed me around like one of Courfeyrac's grisettes.
I should wake him and make him leave. Tell him in strict tones that this never happened and never will again.
Yet. he's sleeping so soundly. So peaceful; the calm smile he wears almost alleviates his less than pleasant visage. He's also clinging to me so tightly that I doubt I could move an arm to shake him. Shouting's certainly not an option. My voice is so hoarse that I can hardly speak, let alone yell loud enough to penetrate his stupor.
I will certainly not think about how well he fits in my arms or how passionately he kissed me last night. Nor that I was returning his kisses with equal fervor.
I must be strong, chaste, and bold. I must lead a revolution so that France will be healed. I cannot allow some besotted drunkard to rule my heart and share my bed. My Patria comes first. Always.
How could I have done that… with him? But no, the real question is why did I choose to get drunk in the Musain? Was I hoping to be caught? Was I hoping that someone would see behind the demigod façade?
In any case, it's too late for recriminations. I got drunk. I slept with Grantaire. End of story.
So, what happens now? This is not the first time that I've allowed wine to cloud my judgment and ended up in this situation. But it's never happened with anyone I knew. And never with anyone who followed me around like one of Courfeyrac's grisettes.
I should wake him and make him leave. Tell him in strict tones that this never happened and never will again.
Yet. he's sleeping so soundly. So peaceful; the calm smile he wears almost alleviates his less than pleasant visage. He's also clinging to me so tightly that I doubt I could move an arm to shake him. Shouting's certainly not an option. My voice is so hoarse that I can hardly speak, let alone yell loud enough to penetrate his stupor.
I will certainly not think about how well he fits in my arms or how passionately he kissed me last night. Nor that I was returning his kisses with equal fervor.
I must be strong, chaste, and bold. I must lead a revolution so that France will be healed. I cannot allow some besotted drunkard to rule my heart and share my bed. My Patria comes first. Always.