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

[futaille]

"Very well. The option remains open if you change your mind, however."

[untamedantinous]

"I do not intend to change my mind on that in the near future, I am afraid."

[futaille]

He doesn't look the least bit amused, honest. "I had a feeling the odds weren't particularly high on that one, either."

[untamedantinous]

“Wise of you, mon ami.” He sips at his wine. “I confess I cannot recall your other points just now.”

[futaille]

"In summary, tempting fate is fine, the changing landscape is a good thing, Hannibal of Carthage was an idiot, it's silly to try to figure out a particular reason why we're the particular ones here, progress is an illusion, metaphysics is pointless, gods are bumblers, people shouldn't avoid things just because they like them, and animals do a better job at animaling than humans do at humaning."

[untamedantinous]

"Progress is an illusion?" He settles down properly at Grantaire's table now, willing to entertain this at least for now. "Very well. Seeing as we do not have Combeferre present to defend the righteousness of progress, I shall have to do it for him." He takes a sip of wine and shifts position, affecting his very best imitation of Combeferre. "As monsieur Franklin said, 'without progress, words such as improvement, achievement, and success have no meaning.' I do not see how you can disavow progress when you yourself were part of it, if only a small part, as was I. Our barricade was not an illusion, you know as well as I our deaths were not, either -- and did not our deaths serve as some form of progress towards the second republic?"

[futaille]

He leans back in his seat. "Very well, Combeferre. It was a simplification, obviously. I'm not saying progress doesn't happen to a degree, but it cycles back. Gains are made and lost again. Progress towards the second republic, which fell to the second empire after a bare four years. And then progress to the third republic, and then tyranny again. Fourth republic, fifth republic, people strive, progress, settle, fall back again, and it repeats. History mirrors itself."

[untamedantinous]

"It was, yes, --and I will grant you that it is cyclical. But it is still necessary, or else how would one improve?"

[futaille]

"Do they improve? It seems that once people attain progress, they often put all their determination into squandering it."

[untamedantinous]

"Of course they do. Think of a child, learning to walk. He starts crawling, progressing to standing and pulling himself up, and then finally walking on his own. Is that not improvement?"

[futaille]

"Ah, and now we broach the riddle of the Sphinx. Four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon. But don't forget three in the evening. Still again there regression, in the end."

[untamedantinous]

"Even so, progress still exists. You cannot say it is an illusion."

[futaille]

"Clearly I can say it. I just need to open my mouth and make words happen. But I will concede the point. It was a poor summary of what I said anyway. It's not an illusion so much as I think it will never actually get to where it wants to go."

[untamedantinous]

"I did not expect that you would, it would be very odd of you to say so if you did."

[futaille]

He chuckles slightly. "Now I don't deny it would be nice if it did."

[untamedantinous]

He purses his lips a little, a teasing glint in his eye. "And you call yourself a cynic."

[futaille]

He laughs incredulously. "I hardly think that much has changed."

[untamedantinous]

"Here I thought you took pleasure in denying most anything I said." He takes an amused sip of his wine.

[futaille]

"Oh, well that's not true," he immediately says with a grin.

[untamedantinous]

He just raises his eyebrows, as if to prove his point.

[futaille]

"You see, I'm obliged to disagree with that, as if I agree with it, I'll prove you wrong, which would make me wrong, and I clearly can't have that."

[untamedantinous]

"Clearly not." He takes an amused sip of wine. "Then you would have nothing else to talk about."

[futaille]

"You know, I don't think you actually believe that. Because the idea of me having nothing to talk about is utterly inconceivable."

[untamedantinous]

"I have heard you be silent before," he points out. "But you were asleep, I suppose."

[futaille]

"Precisely. Therefore it was not for lack of anything to talk about, and merely for the body's need for occasional rest."