open: don't let the wine go to your brains

[untamedantinous]

It shouldn’t be this hard to prepare for a meeting. He’s done it countless times before. However, this time, it somehow is difficult. He’s never really had to set things up at times like this; and he knows as well as anyone else that he is not the best at social niceties. Granted, this meeting is in a much more well-appointed cafe than any he had ever been accustomed to holding space in in Paris. At least they have the benefit of a larger space. Consequently, Enjolras has spent much of the day of the eighth of Menestheus preparing, a little uncertain of how to plan a social gathering that is not immediately centered around planning a revolution. He is trying his best, at least.

Most of the tables and chairs have been pushed a bit more to the center of the room; the couch is arranged off to the opposite side. There are even various pillows scattered about, should anyone choose to sit on the floor. Arranged on a few of the larger tables and the counter there is a modest spread of food: of course, some of Laertes and Galahad’s pastries; but Enjolras has also procured what amounts to a few charcuterie platters: sliced sausages and meats, a selection of (mostly French) cheese, and various sliced loaves of bread and crackers are laid out for perusal, and spreads to go along with them. In an effort to provide multiple options of entertainment, Grantaire has set up a table somewhat near the food, with an assortment of wines and liqueurs. Off to one side, there are a few pots of brewed coffee, cream, sugar, and whatever else anyone might like to add to their beverage of choice. If anyone is drawn to the liquor cabinet, they will find three cups filled with various pieces of paper sitting atop it.

Enjolras himself is lingering on the couch with a glass of wine and some bread. He’s not sure how many people were even informed about this gathering, though he had done his best to advertise. If no one arrives then perhaps he will try again another time; but at least a few in attendance other than himself and Grantaire would certainly be welcome.

Comments

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad's gaze flicks back to Lan Wangji, and he lifts his own cup in turn, copying the slow, thoughtful way he drinks his tea. It tastes green and earthy; Galahad savors that taste. It's late enough in the evening that he's allowed to drink now, the sun having disappeared beyond the tree line, and after a day of fasting the warmth of the tea in his stomach and the flavor of green on his tongue is as heady as the mulled wine at Wanderers Gather. He closes his eyes. The noise recedes to a bearable level as he lets himself stop being present and sink into his field instead, and as he sits cross-legged there watching the heads of wheat and the fish move as if caught in an invisible pull of tides he feels such immense gratitude towards Lan Wangji.

[lightbearinglord]

Galahad's eyes shut, his young face turning smooth and his aura palpably calming. His breathing slows and deepens. It almost makes Lan Wangji smile to witness it. He remains alert, to keep an eye on Galahad, but he matches his breathing to Galahad's, a small reminder to both of them that this is a moment they are in together. He could be meditating with his brother, or even with Sizhui; there are, he is realizing here, a thousand ways to brush up against the reality of another human spirit, none of them quite the same but nearly all of them worth nurturing. He drinks his slowly-cooling tea, maintains quiet awareness of his companion, and lets the bustle of the room wax and wane apart from them.