Lucien Enjolras (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
untamedantinous) wrote2024-06-05 10:08 pm
untamedantinous) wrote2024-06-05 10:08 pm
open: did you see them, lying side by side?
It is June, by the general reckoning of things. Here in the mansion, it is not June -- it is the 19th of Kumaras. Time should not matter so much to a dead man. But it does, and in the general reckoning of things Enjolras has been dead a year. It feels strange, he knows it has been seven months, or so it feels; and yet none of his friends aside from Grantaire have arrived. (Aside from the brief visitation of Combeferre and Courfeyrac: perhaps two spirits on their way to a better plane, if one believes in that sort of thing.) It feels stranger still to not have them by his side. Over time, he has grown more accustomed to social niceties, to making an effort with people--his lieutenants are not here to do that for him.
They should be here. Combeferre should be here, practically living in the library as he did on visitor's day; Courfeyrac laughing along with Sagramore and Laertes, running races and shooting arrows with Apollo, making merry with Dionysus. All of them deserve better, deserve a chance to see what peculiar magics this place can work in their afterlives. Since they are not here, Enjolras decides; they deserve tribute.
So he sits in a bar -- not the cafe, but a slightly more secluded one, a heavily scrawled notebook lying nearby. Enjolras is unaccustomed to drinking heavily, but surely his friends deserve a proper toast. Therefore, there is a bottle of bourbon that he chose with some wry amusement, and a half-empty glass in front of him. He is not drunk, not yet; but certainly maudlin. He has seen too much death for his twenty-five years, and the recent happenings in the mansion have been cause for concern on that front once again.
They should be here. Combeferre should be here, practically living in the library as he did on visitor's day; Courfeyrac laughing along with Sagramore and Laertes, running races and shooting arrows with Apollo, making merry with Dionysus. All of them deserve better, deserve a chance to see what peculiar magics this place can work in their afterlives. Since they are not here, Enjolras decides; they deserve tribute.
So he sits in a bar -- not the cafe, but a slightly more secluded one, a heavily scrawled notebook lying nearby. Enjolras is unaccustomed to drinking heavily, but surely his friends deserve a proper toast. Therefore, there is a bottle of bourbon that he chose with some wry amusement, and a half-empty glass in front of him. He is not drunk, not yet; but certainly maudlin. He has seen too much death for his twenty-five years, and the recent happenings in the mansion have been cause for concern on that front once again.