"It's splendid!"
"If you like that sort of thing," Grantaire says, amused. "Try not to gawk, brat. You want everyone to think you're countrified?"
The boy blushes, and slouches in his seat with what he presumably thinks is a sophisticated air. He is small for his sixteen years, pallid and bright-eyed, as he has always been. Their mother was loath to let him come to Paris at all, till his brother swore to keep him out of drafts and dens of iniquity.
The back room of Musain, Grantaire convinces himself, does not count. Nothing more dangerous here than a few overheated opinions, and perhaps Bahorel in his cups. And he's here to keep an eye on things, in the latter case.
"You won't have to look after me forever," the boy says, with that uncanny knack for following his thoughts.
"Tell that to Maman."
"Oh, Maman." He shrugs, grinning. "She's like that. You've got better things to do than play governess, haven't you?"
"Probably," Grantaire says dryly. The irony stings him. His little brother, always the focus of love and worry, can laugh off a mother's fears lightheartedly. While he, the elder by five years, can no more abandon his trust than he can begrudge the child the affection he takes for granted.
"So. I'll be able to look after myself soon enough."
"But not yet."
A shadow falls over them, and he looks up apprehensively. Enjolras is standing by the table, expressionless. Oh God, he's annoyed again; he's going to lecture Grantaire in front of the boy, or throw them both out.
But all he says is, "Good evening."
"Evening," Grantaire returns, trying to keep his tone easy. "Enjolras, this is my brother, Hyacinthe."
The boy reddens, and looks up with his shy half-grin, straightening self-consciously. "Good evening, m'sieur."
With a nameless pang, Grantaire watches the marble composure soften in a smile; watches Enjolras clasp his brother's frail shoulder, and welcome him to Musain.
"If you like that sort of thing," Grantaire says, amused. "Try not to gawk, brat. You want everyone to think you're countrified?"
The boy blushes, and slouches in his seat with what he presumably thinks is a sophisticated air. He is small for his sixteen years, pallid and bright-eyed, as he has always been. Their mother was loath to let him come to Paris at all, till his brother swore to keep him out of drafts and dens of iniquity.
The back room of Musain, Grantaire convinces himself, does not count. Nothing more dangerous here than a few overheated opinions, and perhaps Bahorel in his cups. And he's here to keep an eye on things, in the latter case.
"You won't have to look after me forever," the boy says, with that uncanny knack for following his thoughts.
"Tell that to Maman."
"Oh, Maman." He shrugs, grinning. "She's like that. You've got better things to do than play governess, haven't you?"
"Probably," Grantaire says dryly. The irony stings him. His little brother, always the focus of love and worry, can laugh off a mother's fears lightheartedly. While he, the elder by five years, can no more abandon his trust than he can begrudge the child the affection he takes for granted.
"So. I'll be able to look after myself soon enough."
"But not yet."
A shadow falls over them, and he looks up apprehensively. Enjolras is standing by the table, expressionless. Oh God, he's annoyed again; he's going to lecture Grantaire in front of the boy, or throw them both out.
But all he says is, "Good evening."
"Evening," Grantaire returns, trying to keep his tone easy. "Enjolras, this is my brother, Hyacinthe."
The boy reddens, and looks up with his shy half-grin, straightening self-consciously. "Good evening, m'sieur."
With a nameless pang, Grantaire watches the marble composure soften in a smile; watches Enjolras clasp his brother's frail shoulder, and welcome him to Musain.