World: Paris
Scene: Café Musain, date indeterminate.
Players: Enjolras = Abby; Darcel = Amy
A slow evening in Musain: what with one thing and another, most of les Amis have an elsewhere to be, and Enjolras is alone in the back room. This does not seem to bother him overmuch; he sits quietly reading.
Darcel, predictably, does not have an 'elsewhere.' That would imply a definitive purpose, or at least a direction. Lacking both, he seeks out the purpose of others and lumbers in off the street almost by instinct. Looks around once. "Shrine lacks worshippers tonight." Grins briefly at his own statement of the obvious and slumps into the chair nearest the door. "Except its resident High Priest, of course."
Enjolras conceals a wince, not very well. "Grantaire." Resignedly, without looking up, and not in a tone that invites a reply.
Darcel flicks a mildly amused glance at the statue. Not so easily deterred. "Evening, Apollo," and continues as if Enjolras had made a point. "Yes, and me, if you're so desperate as to count heretics. Most religions do, in the end, when the martyrs don't flock so thickly to the slaughterhouse."
Enjolras leans his head in his hands briefly. Briefly, mentally, curses his mother for bringing him up too well-mannered to get up and walk out. "How late did you stay up thinking out that gem?"
Darcel tilts his head, grinning. "Only so late as the wine held out. Can't have theology without libations."
"Naturally." The tone is acid. He still doesn't look up.
Having mentioned wine, he proceeds to procure some, without cessation of words. "Between the maudlin wailing of the gods, whose penury is best drowned in oblivion and the grumbling of humanity who squabble with each other for heaven's rotten table scraps, which can't be stomached without strong drink, the complaints of the bilious philosophers and the avaricious growling of the priest, religion, like revolution, is one of the things that makes even less sense when drunk. But neither does anything else, so it doesn't catch you by surprise. 'Course, you're the stoical type, so God knows what you make of sense-- when he's sober."
This time Enjolras ignores him outright, though only with an effort. He flips a page of his book, deliberately.
Darcel leans back in his chair, having delivered the obligatory burst of rhetoric, even if it was to a less than impressed audience, regarding Enjolras intently. "Utopia's found its way into some hack's scribblings, then? Bound to lose itself, really."
"Pardon?"
Darcel snorts, reaches for his glass and tries a different tack. Logical sentences. Sort of. "The book. What nonsense're you packing into your marble head today?"
Enjolras closes it. "I wish," not hopefully, "you would not talk like that. --If I tell you, you'll only find something mocking to say."
Darcel toys with the glass. "And I thought you were the optimist."
Enjolras mutters, more than half to himself, "I swear I don't understand you." He stares at the cover of the book, dourly.
"Probably not, Apollo. Robespierre had nothing to say on me and Rousseau neglected to mention the matter." Crumples forwards onto his elbows. "But ignorance is a common enough trait, so it's not much to worry over."
The predictable protest: "Don't call me that." And: "Just because it's common doesn't mean it's desirable. But wait--" holding up a hand sardonically "--I know, you'll tell me that nothing is, won't you?"
Darcel taps one finger against the glass, amused. "Wouldn't presume; you're the expert on that." Picks it up to drink from it. "Plenty of things are. Just not worth losing your head to one of the blind saints' sweeps with a club trying to pull them down from the heavens."
"Talk sense, man!" If it wasn't so impatient, it might be a plea. Might.
Darcel lets the grin fade to a faint smile. Quietly: "Sense? Where would I find such an ill used thing as that in this day and age?"
Enjolras rubs his eyes wearily. "Yes, well, if you ever looked..."
Darcel sits up a little, for change of posture. "I could get as lost as you in the labyrinth, looking for it. And where'd we be when we found there was no one left holding the string?"
Enjolras slumps in his seat. "Stop it." Not imperious, this, nor yet pleading; not even energetic enough to be more than faintly exasperated. "Just -- stop."
Darcel drops his smile and looks mildly concerned. "No rebuttal, Apollo? I-- hell, they're only words."
Enjolras looks up at him, finally, with unreadable eyes. "Only words. So you don't mean anything you say, then, ever?"
"I do or I don't, and what difference does it make? Days go on. So do years, eventually, though they take their time about it." Continues to study Enjolras' face. Then laughs ruefully. "Oh, sometimes, mon ami, if you must know."
Enjolras blinks slowly at him, silent for a minute. Then, abruptly: "All right, then. Say something serious. Just for once, say something you mean."
Darcel starts, cynical equanimity shaken by surprise. "God, Apollo--" pauses for another drink, then contorts twisted brows into a frown. "Don't listen either, do you? A fountain of rhetoric and more likely to be sworn by than the Styx, but-- Well. I don't give a damn about politics. Principles, ideals, causes; they'll turn on you like Artemesia in a boat. And even if they don't they'll crumble to ashes once you've burned the place down to liberate them. I believe in you." Shrugs, and refills the glass.
If it were possible for Enjolras to pale, he would. He blinks, starts to speak, then looks down, at a loss.
Darcel lifts the refilled glass to his lips, regarding Enjolras over the brim. "So, Polemarch, do I pass your trial?"
Enjolras glances up again, looking, for once in his life, uncertain. "I don't understand you," he says again, very low. And stands, slowly, turning away.
Darcel laughs wryly, tips back the glass to drain its contents, then puts it down, spreading his hands. "'Course not. It's a long way to peer down off that pillar."
Enjolras passes a hand over his face, picks up his book and makes for the door; but pauses there to glance back. "Goodnight," he says, rather curtly.
Darcel blinks at him, then curls one hand around the glass again. "Or night, at least, Apollo."
Enjolras turns away sharply at that, and goes out without another word.