"Another round." Smitty mumbled, motioning to the bartender. Grantaire sighed, annoyed by the poor drunkard's choice. If Grantaire was to spend the rest of eternity watching drunks pass time in a dumb old bar, he at least wished that they could have better taste in what they used to poison their insides.
"You're miserable." Grantaire muttered, standing up as the shot of poitÃn passed through him. He had been sitting on the counter, finding it a good place to watch the faces of customers as their sobriety faded. Of course, the rebel in him also thrived on the fact that no living person could do such a thing without being tossed out of the bar. The masochist in him thrived on the fact that this perk proved him to be, in fact, dead.
Grantaire made his usual lap around the bar, watching the usuals as they ordered their usuals, smiling at the young couples, and laughing as college students tried their luck with bourbon. He then came upon a group of students, none of which seemed to be drinking, they had a few glasses of what Grantaire decided was water, and one of them - a fellow who was dressed, well, eccentrically with flowers all up in his hair and a sweater vest that hadn't been cool since forever, had a glass of red wine that was untouched.
The obvious leader of the group was who Grantaire noticed last, he'd been so fixated on all the little quirks that the group seemed to have. There was the obvious tough guy, the book worm, the artist, and the eccentric man that Grantaire decided was either a poet or a young man with a terrible sense of style. While Grantaire was inspecting this group of young men, two more arrived, the obvious ladies man (The way he treated the wait staff screamed it, but Grantaire sensed something sincere and kind about the man at the same time) and the socially awkward puppy.
It was only then that Grantaire looked towards the leader, and it was then that Grantaire found the god that he'd been so terribly uncertain of.