untamedantinous | un: someday, life will be fairer (open)

The library is currently occupied. To be more precise, it is occupied by one young blond man, settled in at a large table with books spread out around him. Off to the side, there is a glass of wine, half-drunk. He looks much better than he had upon his arrival, no longer dirty and bloodstained, but still a bit fragile. Some of the marble that usually adorns his countenance has been chipped away, and he is not certain if it will come back.

He is not certain of many things, here in this strange new not-afterlife, but he is certain that both the writings of Rousseau and Voltaire exist. He has the proof, right here next to him, old friends that he is relieved to have in hand. (Someday he'll find his own copies of them, maybe.) The young fellow that had healed him -- Magnus, wasn't it -- had mentioned France becoming a republic. So in lieu of talking to people, Enjolras has chosen to dive into history books and catch himself up on the last 200 or so years.

(He'd rather read than face what lies before him here. He's not sure what to do, and he doesn't like being purposeless. There is yet time to talk, time to find Grantaire, eventually, but he doesn't want to think. Not right now.)

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He dos his best to breeze by the mention of home as if it had no effect. So he affects an amused smile. "It dropped me off in a room with a bar. I can assure you that far more than the wine is decent."

Instead of returning to his original seat, he sits in a chair across Enjolras's table. "I've also found a game room, but you know that."

Best to do that, yes, and Enjolras quickly buries the rest of that thought in a sip of wine.

“Yes, I saw. I arrived…somewhere with a piano, of all things. Nearly made me think I was at my parents’.”

"Yes, I saw." He opens his book. "Although I couldn't judge it against your parents'."

"Be glad," he replies with a slight smirk. "I do not think they would care in the slightest for you."

"On the contrary, Apollo, I would irrevocably ingratiate myself to them with my unmatched wit."

That smirk is actually turning into a laugh, which he once again hides with a quick gulp of wine. "Lord. I would pay to see it."

He grins, delighted. "Oh? What is the going rate, then?"

"Oh, I don't know. 5, 10 francs? Purely for the thought of watching my father writhe, I do like it."

"Well, should he inexplicably arrive as we have, I will do my duty as an annoyance."

"It is much appreciated." His eyes crinkle a little at that, grinning. "Though I daresay seeing his only son shot down as a traitor will be annoyance enough."

"At least you rightfully earned it. Although the thought of you a traitor to France is laughable, so it was earned but not deserved."

"...Thank you?" He's not entirely certain it's a compliment, but he does take it in good spirits.

He just laughs and takes a long drink directly from the wine bottle. "You are more than welcome."

He nods, and gives Grantaire a long, speculative look. He has, admittedly, reset many of his opinions on the other young man as of two days ago; but he cannot recall if they have ever had a conversation so long without an argument before. It’s strange, and kind of nice, and perhaps the change of scenery will be a particular help.

But if he is silent too long, his thoughts do inexorably turn to the barricade, to the firing squad, Grantaire awakening, and he still is confounded by it. It’s probably best not to press, not to bring it up; and he settles into sipping his wine again. Just a brief thought of the barricades is enough to make his shoulders tense, and he’s hoping it doesn’t show too much.

Grantaire has made a very extensive study of Enjolras over the years, so of course notices, but given the course of the last few days, he's also fairly confident that anything causing that tension is something he has no desire to talk about.

So he simply keeps drinking his wine and looking through the book he selected. He can watch Enjolras out of the corner of his eye, anyway. He's had a lot of practice.

So he has. Maybe it’s the lingering thoughts of home, or maybe he’s realized that he is still feeling somewhat tired after his …eventful week, but Enjolras is now quite distracted. It is, then, understandable how he entirely misses the table when he sets his wine glass down, and ends up pushing both it and some books to the floor with a fairly loud thud.

He jumps despite himself, and quite suddenly, he’s back in the upper room of the Corinthe, shoulders set and musket in hand as he shepherds Combeferre’s retreat inside. There is work yet to be done and they are steadily losing the time to do it.

He must certainly look odd to whoever else is in the library at this time, eyes far away and hand set as though he’s holding a weapon. Perhaps it will pass quickly.

The sound startles Grantaire a bit too much as well, although he was not in the thick of everything some days ago in nearly the same way as Enjolras. His gaze drifts to him directly. "... Apollo?"

“Get down, Grantaire, would you—“ He certainly sounds like he’s back at the barricade, as that was certainly an order. But he shakes his head, and settles after a moment or two, frowning and back to himself.

“I—yes, what is it?”

Enjolras is probably used to Grantaire watching him, although this expression is slightly off of what it usually is. "Are you all right?"

“I…yes, I’m fine, I was only..” He hesitates and shakes his head. “I was only startled, it’s quite alright.” He kneels and goes to pick up the books, frowning at the broken wine glass.

"Well, who am I to say otherwise, I suppose." He turns back to his own book.

“You needn’t worry about it.” He’s searching for a rag or something, now, to get the bits of glass, and there, all clean. Now he has nothing to distract himself with, unfortunately, and he can still feel the thrumming anxiety through his body that is all too familiar from a few days ago. He shakes his head again and starts to sit; but quickly realizes he wants to keep moving, just now, and so begins pacing the room.

"Worry's not routinely in my repertoire." Still, though, he looks back up and tracks Enjolras's pacing.

“Many things that are not routinely in your repertoire seem to be, here,” somewhat impatiently. He’s going to look for a book now, he’s not sure what exactly; but he needs to keep himself moving.

As much as Grantaire's first instinct is to ask what on earth Enjolras could possibly be talking about, he has a gut feeling that that's a landmine he doesn't want to touch. So he says nothing (also not routinely in his repertoire) and returns to his book and wine.

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