Midnight Vigil
Jonai
He was slightly built, with dark hair and a somber gaze, amber eyes looking at you through the haze of alcohol. As seen from his usual corner of the back room in le café Musain, the candles reflected off his face, leaving a section lit while the rest was hidden in shadow. Such was his character, half-lit by the glow of the world but concealed partially in an eclipse-like fashion. With a voice low and rough with the after-effects of too much to drink, he talked of life with an indignant tinge to his words, and a cynical gleam in his eye. He called himself capital-R, a twist upon his own name, in an extravagant need for attention, a trademark of the buffoon king.
Grantaire sat, straddling the stool like a horse, in the back room. Candles burnt low and dimly in the café, creating strange and unusual shadows, the flickering flame making them dance like gypsies. His vision obscured, he relied on his sense of touch to guide the mouth of the bottle to his dry lips, remedying them with the liquid. A slew of empty phials, resembling the one he held in his hand, littered the table in front of him. The weaker wines discarded and forgotten, capital-R turned to the fiery blood of the green faery for his solace. The night had been a long one.
The only noise in the room at the moment was the occasional soft clang of glass hitting wood when Grantaire set down his bottle, and the insistent scratching of a pen, accompanied by the soft blowing upon the ink in order to dry it quicker. Although two occupied the room, only one seemed to notice the other. Capital-R drank in surprising silence, as he watched Enjolras with a steady gaze, slipping just on the borderline of tender affection, hidden by the faint glow of the candles.
Whether it was the result of the excessive amount of alcohol, or simply the awe Enjolras seemed to inspire, Grantaire said nothing, made no crude comment, did nothing but watch, seemingly enraptured by the golden leader. Such a solemn reverie was broken by the sound of Enjolras' sigh, no louder than the whisper of a murmuring breeze. Nonetheless, the drunkard heard it, and almost moved towards him, only to hesitate, and fall back into his former position.
With hair like the very strands of Rumplestiltskin's golden thread, crowning his forehead and face with its beams of light, and sapphire eyes shining like jewels, it was hard to distinguish him from the immortal God Apollo. Ivory skin was pale and smooth, and white girlish hands worked quickly and steadily across the paper, lean fingers grasping the pen.
Events of the day left Enjolras no time for his long-overdue studies until late that night, and he was forced to work by the insufficient light of the candles. This did not prove to sway the youth, however, for he continued his work diligently and accurately, heeding neither the time, nor the other occupant of the room. It must be admitted that, once in the rhythm of his writing, there seemed to be no room in his thoughts for anything else.
Finally letting the pen slip from his fingers, Enjolras opened his watch to enlighten himself as to the time, one o' clock in the morning. Possibly believing he was alone, or not fully paying attention to what he was doing, the golden leader gave a small sigh, and rested his head on his hand in a drowsy manner. It must be said that the result of his nonstop work was bound to be the need of sleep, and it seemed that his many restless nights had finally caught up with him. Slowly, he relaxed his head upon the table, pillowed by his arms in an incoherent mockery of the position so frequented by Grantaire.
Such a placid manner Enjolras maintained for those few minutes that Grantaire himself felt as though he could possibly reach out and smooth back the unruly golden strands of his somnolent companion without reproach. The inability of any movement whatsoever of his legs at the moment, however, made that almost completely impossible. And besides that, had he really done so, Enjolras would have surely reacted in an unpleasant manner. So capital-R simply contented himself with watching the man, now looking very much like a boy, so close to sleep.
For a while, the scene stayed the same, Enjolras drowsing away the few minutes of sleep he had cleared, and Grantaire solemnly watching. Finally, the fair-haired head was picked up, and he ran a hand over his neck unhappily. The discomfort of the position had obviously just occurred to him, as he stretched his back in the slightest manner possible. Fingers raked through the incorrigible hair, and the lower of the two red lips was tucked in as he bit it in a half-realized effort to clear his head of sleep and resume its work. This, however, seemed completely impossible, as he was still very tired from the heavy load of things he had brought upon himself. Still, the self-drive that was powering the revolution as we speak powered the hand to grasp the pen once again and continue writing.
Grantaire, so recently incapable of any movement whatsoever, blinked and tried to get up. Success came of it, if only a small amount, and he walked with as steady a step as he could over to where Enjolras sat. Perhaps he could offer a bit of help, should it be accepted.
"Bonne nuit, Enjolras."
"Bonjour."
The correction was instant, and Grantaire received it with a slight half-smile, sardonic by nature, but soft in its own strange way.
"Bonjour, then. What are you doing still here at this ungodly hour?"
"And what are you doing still awake? I would expect you to be passed out on the floor by now."
"You underestimate me, oh fearless leader. One's absinthe-brought remedy does not begin until the dark hours of the morning, when dawn has not yet risen, and Artemis wields her silver bow."
"Leave me be, winecask," Enjolras said with a sigh, kneading his temples with one hand. "I am in no mood for your obscure, drunken ramblings."
Biting one white knuckle unhappily, Grantaire paused thoughtfully for a moment, watching as Enjolras began writing once again, before pouring a bit of the absinthe in a small glass. Then with one hand, pushing it over to where one of Enjolras' hands lay.
"If you intend to work this late, at least give the time a bit of color."
Face wrinkling up for a moment at the revolting liquid, he drew back and pushed the glass back over towards capital-R.
"Drink it yourself if you wish to, I will not touch it."
"Not even a bit? I'm telling you, it will help."
"Never. Take it away and leave me be. Go back to your bottle, winecask, I am very busy and wish to have nothing to do with you."
The words, coming from anyone else's mouth, would have had no effect on the inebriated Grantaire. But such a cold tone from Enjolras sent a wash of unconcealed shame down his back, and capital-R bowed his head submissively.
"Ah, well..."
He sighed softly, and walked back slowly to his own cluttered table in the corner. Secluded by the dark shadows that resided in that certain area, he gulped down the last of his seemingly only companion, the bottle, laid his own head down upon his arms, and closed his eyes in hopes of sleep.
Enjolras tried to get back to the pile of work that still awaited his attention, but the fact of the matter was, his mind simply would not stay in that area. One hand inconspicuously reached out, and toyed with the untouched glass of absinthe still sitting on the stained wood. A small plea of friendship from the drunkard, disregarded unkindly by Enjolras. He pulled the glass closer, and peered into it cautiously, as if perhaps frightened of seeing something in it. The slightly moving liquid only reflected his finely chiseled face, and nothing else. Still, perhaps Enjolras fancied he saw the fervent, sorrowful eyes of Grantaire, now unconscious due to both the drink and the grief of rejection.
Raising himself up, Enjolras collected his books and papers silently; then, slinging the bag over his shoulder, took both a candle and the glass into his hands. Walking steadily over to where Grantaire lay, he reached the table and extended the candle so as to illuminate the sleeping form. He stood there for a good five minutes, watching R, before setting the glass down softly and hurrying out the door.
Jonai
He was slightly built, with dark hair and a somber gaze, amber eyes looking at you through the haze of alcohol. As seen from his usual corner of the back room in le café Musain, the candles reflected off his face, leaving a section lit while the rest was hidden in shadow. Such was his character, half-lit by the glow of the world but concealed partially in an eclipse-like fashion. With a voice low and rough with the after-effects of too much to drink, he talked of life with an indignant tinge to his words, and a cynical gleam in his eye. He called himself capital-R, a twist upon his own name, in an extravagant need for attention, a trademark of the buffoon king.
Grantaire sat, straddling the stool like a horse, in the back room. Candles burnt low and dimly in the café, creating strange and unusual shadows, the flickering flame making them dance like gypsies. His vision obscured, he relied on his sense of touch to guide the mouth of the bottle to his dry lips, remedying them with the liquid. A slew of empty phials, resembling the one he held in his hand, littered the table in front of him. The weaker wines discarded and forgotten, capital-R turned to the fiery blood of the green faery for his solace. The night had been a long one.
The only noise in the room at the moment was the occasional soft clang of glass hitting wood when Grantaire set down his bottle, and the insistent scratching of a pen, accompanied by the soft blowing upon the ink in order to dry it quicker. Although two occupied the room, only one seemed to notice the other. Capital-R drank in surprising silence, as he watched Enjolras with a steady gaze, slipping just on the borderline of tender affection, hidden by the faint glow of the candles.
Whether it was the result of the excessive amount of alcohol, or simply the awe Enjolras seemed to inspire, Grantaire said nothing, made no crude comment, did nothing but watch, seemingly enraptured by the golden leader. Such a solemn reverie was broken by the sound of Enjolras' sigh, no louder than the whisper of a murmuring breeze. Nonetheless, the drunkard heard it, and almost moved towards him, only to hesitate, and fall back into his former position.
With hair like the very strands of Rumplestiltskin's golden thread, crowning his forehead and face with its beams of light, and sapphire eyes shining like jewels, it was hard to distinguish him from the immortal God Apollo. Ivory skin was pale and smooth, and white girlish hands worked quickly and steadily across the paper, lean fingers grasping the pen.
Events of the day left Enjolras no time for his long-overdue studies until late that night, and he was forced to work by the insufficient light of the candles. This did not prove to sway the youth, however, for he continued his work diligently and accurately, heeding neither the time, nor the other occupant of the room. It must be admitted that, once in the rhythm of his writing, there seemed to be no room in his thoughts for anything else.
Finally letting the pen slip from his fingers, Enjolras opened his watch to enlighten himself as to the time, one o' clock in the morning. Possibly believing he was alone, or not fully paying attention to what he was doing, the golden leader gave a small sigh, and rested his head on his hand in a drowsy manner. It must be said that the result of his nonstop work was bound to be the need of sleep, and it seemed that his many restless nights had finally caught up with him. Slowly, he relaxed his head upon the table, pillowed by his arms in an incoherent mockery of the position so frequented by Grantaire.
Such a placid manner Enjolras maintained for those few minutes that Grantaire himself felt as though he could possibly reach out and smooth back the unruly golden strands of his somnolent companion without reproach. The inability of any movement whatsoever of his legs at the moment, however, made that almost completely impossible. And besides that, had he really done so, Enjolras would have surely reacted in an unpleasant manner. So capital-R simply contented himself with watching the man, now looking very much like a boy, so close to sleep.
For a while, the scene stayed the same, Enjolras drowsing away the few minutes of sleep he had cleared, and Grantaire solemnly watching. Finally, the fair-haired head was picked up, and he ran a hand over his neck unhappily. The discomfort of the position had obviously just occurred to him, as he stretched his back in the slightest manner possible. Fingers raked through the incorrigible hair, and the lower of the two red lips was tucked in as he bit it in a half-realized effort to clear his head of sleep and resume its work. This, however, seemed completely impossible, as he was still very tired from the heavy load of things he had brought upon himself. Still, the self-drive that was powering the revolution as we speak powered the hand to grasp the pen once again and continue writing.
Grantaire, so recently incapable of any movement whatsoever, blinked and tried to get up. Success came of it, if only a small amount, and he walked with as steady a step as he could over to where Enjolras sat. Perhaps he could offer a bit of help, should it be accepted.
"Bonne nuit, Enjolras."
"Bonjour."
The correction was instant, and Grantaire received it with a slight half-smile, sardonic by nature, but soft in its own strange way.
"Bonjour, then. What are you doing still here at this ungodly hour?"
"And what are you doing still awake? I would expect you to be passed out on the floor by now."
"You underestimate me, oh fearless leader. One's absinthe-brought remedy does not begin until the dark hours of the morning, when dawn has not yet risen, and Artemis wields her silver bow."
"Leave me be, winecask," Enjolras said with a sigh, kneading his temples with one hand. "I am in no mood for your obscure, drunken ramblings."
Biting one white knuckle unhappily, Grantaire paused thoughtfully for a moment, watching as Enjolras began writing once again, before pouring a bit of the absinthe in a small glass. Then with one hand, pushing it over to where one of Enjolras' hands lay.
"If you intend to work this late, at least give the time a bit of color."
Face wrinkling up for a moment at the revolting liquid, he drew back and pushed the glass back over towards capital-R.
"Drink it yourself if you wish to, I will not touch it."
"Not even a bit? I'm telling you, it will help."
"Never. Take it away and leave me be. Go back to your bottle, winecask, I am very busy and wish to have nothing to do with you."
The words, coming from anyone else's mouth, would have had no effect on the inebriated Grantaire. But such a cold tone from Enjolras sent a wash of unconcealed shame down his back, and capital-R bowed his head submissively.
"Ah, well..."
He sighed softly, and walked back slowly to his own cluttered table in the corner. Secluded by the dark shadows that resided in that certain area, he gulped down the last of his seemingly only companion, the bottle, laid his own head down upon his arms, and closed his eyes in hopes of sleep.
Enjolras tried to get back to the pile of work that still awaited his attention, but the fact of the matter was, his mind simply would not stay in that area. One hand inconspicuously reached out, and toyed with the untouched glass of absinthe still sitting on the stained wood. A small plea of friendship from the drunkard, disregarded unkindly by Enjolras. He pulled the glass closer, and peered into it cautiously, as if perhaps frightened of seeing something in it. The slightly moving liquid only reflected his finely chiseled face, and nothing else. Still, perhaps Enjolras fancied he saw the fervent, sorrowful eyes of Grantaire, now unconscious due to both the drink and the grief of rejection.
Raising himself up, Enjolras collected his books and papers silently; then, slinging the bag over his shoulder, took both a candle and the glass into his hands. Walking steadily over to where Grantaire lay, he reached the table and extended the candle so as to illuminate the sleeping form. He stood there for a good five minutes, watching R, before setting the glass down softly and hurrying out the door.