quatre: they will put away the sword

[untamedantinous]

There are a number of kitchens to be found in the mansion, as most people know. Enjolras is in one of them, flour speckling his flannel shirt and black jeans. There is a recipe book open on the counter near him, open to a page on baguettes. The young man in question is currently absorbed in kneading some dough: once again, something new to concentrate on. (Yes, he had known that Combeferre and Courfeyrac were only here for a day, but that does not really make it much better.) So, inspired by Laertes -- and, perhaps, the underwhelming boeuf bourguignon the mansion had provided the other day -- he is attempting a French classic. Perhaps a homemade baguette will taste better than mansion-provided food.

Comments

[futaille]

"Very likely, and I doubt he would be nearly as entertaining while doing so."

[untamedantinous]

“We have very different definitions of entertaining,” he replies, mildly enough. “But no, I do not think I would prefer him. I prefer getting to know you better.”

[futaille]

He smiles wryly and shrugs. "There's not that much to me, really, but you're perfectly welcome to it."

[untamedantinous]

“Oh, there is more than you’d think, I’m sure. For example: do you have any siblings at home?”

[futaille]

"Just one. A sister. But I didn't know her very well. She was barely walking when I left for Paris."

[untamedantinous]

“Quite the gap,” says the young man with no siblings. “How old were you when you came to Paris?”

[futaille]

Grantaire blinks. Enjolras actually taking an interest is so strange. "I was fifteen."

[untamedantinous]

He may have had some quiet conversations with Combeferre while Grantaire was otherwise occupied, is all. “Ah.” He nods. “…I was seventeen. Paris seemed massive to me, even coming from Toulouse.”

[futaille]

Otherwise occupied is an excellent way to phrase that. "Paris is massive, even when put up against any other city in France."

[untamedantinous]

“Quite,” he nods. “It was a little overwhelming,” he says with a wry smile. “Thankfully I met Combeferre not too long after that.”

[futaille]

"And history was made," he says wryly, taking another drink.

[untamedantinous]

"I...suppose?" He sounds a little amused.

[futaille]

"Oh, it's undoubtedly true. Every action creates history, even the small ones. Possibly especially the small ones, for all they're buried under the grand idiocies."

[untamedantinous]

"It does not seem all that historic, to me, but I would say that I am quite biased."

[futaille]

"Well yes, you're a devotee of the grand idiocies." It's said fondly, though, with little of the acid his opinions were often served with. "They're the bricks of history, but the mortar is made up of thousands of small idiocies made by all the people whose names are never taught."

[untamedantinous]

He simply rolls his eyes, but it is fond, and takes another sip of his coffee. "Mm. We never got to that last bit."

[futaille]

"True enough. Bricklaying accident." He has another sip.

[untamedantinous]

"Would that our walls were so strong." He sounds extremely dry, but --Grantaire tends to bring that out in him, apparently.

[futaille]

His smile grows a bit wry. "You were shorted on your delivery of mortar."

[untamedantinous]

“Much to Combeferre’s displeasure,” with a wry shrug. “We did have a cannon, at least.”

[futaille]

He pauses for a moment before bursting into absolutely delighted laughter. "Oh, well played."

[untamedantinous]

He looks a little pleased with himself, but nods. “We wouldn’t have had the room anyway.”

[futaille]

"Perhaps so. It was cozy enough."

[untamedantinous]

“I suppose. I do not think Mère Hucheloupe favored us taking over her café, but—“ He shrugs.

[futaille]

"But it was recompense for being such loyal customers over the years, clearly."