World: Paris
Scene: A café somewhere, September, 1828.
Players: Grantaire, Combeferre = Laura; Enjolras = Abby
Grantaire whistles tunelessly as he enters the cafe where he sometimes eats lunch. The waitress nods to him and fetches a bottle of wine, but eludes his overly familiar touch. Passing off this failure with a shrug and rejoined whistling, he nods to a friend, who hails him and invites him over. Combeferre has a pleasant lunch set on the table, and, as usual, he is sitting with some student who is not familiar. "Sit down, sit down. Matthieu, mon ami, meet Gabriel. He's new."
"Pleased, m'sieur." Grantaire takes the offered seat and the inherent opportunity to study Combeferre's companion more closely.
The boy's gravity gives way abruptly to an engaging grin. "Likewise, I'm sure."
Combeferre leans back in his chair. "She'll be right over with your wine, won't she, Matthieu?"
"That she will, if she wants to be paid for it." Grantaire winks broadly at the other two. "And you, m'sieur, friend of Combeferre, do you drink?"
Gabriel quirks a fair brow. "On occasion."
Combeferre looks from one to the other. "You've endeared yourself to him already, Gabriel," he advises, chuckling, then pushes his chair back from the table. "I'm glad I've had the chance to introduce you, but I must be going. Enjoy your lunches, my friends."
Matthieu blinks, then smiles politely. "I'm sure we shall. Have fun at your class."
Gabriel's look of anxiety is so fleeting as to be almost imperceptible, before he smiles again. "We'll see you later, then. Take care, Etienne."
Combeferre stands, leaves payment for his part of the lunch, and nods to them both before he leaves.
The waitress arrives with Grantaire's wine and one glass. He requests another before turning back to the boy at the table. "So, Gabriel, is it? Where are you from, m'sieur?"
The boy nods slightly by way of confirmation. "Marseille. Near there." He hesitates, as though not quite sure what to say next.
"That explains it. I have family near there."
"Explains what, m'sieur?" Gabriel's eyebrows tilt quizzically.
"You look like my mother, m'sieur, or at least like the portrait I have of her." Grantaire fumbles in his pocket and withdraws a locket, which he opens and hands to Gabriel. "Surely you can see the resemblance?"
Gabriel frowns, and leans over to look; then freezes.
Grantaire closes the locket again. "It is you. She'd warned me."
The boy straightens, and looks at him sharply, suddenly grave and almost stern. "What is this about?"
"A family matter, you might say. Forgive me for not introducing myself properly from the start, but I couldn't be sure." Grantaire extends his hand. "Matthieu Grantaire, at your service. If I'm not mistaken, and I don't believe I am, I'm your brother."
"Gabriel Enjolras," he says, automatically. The color has quite gone from his face. "How can--"
"In the normal way," Grantaire answers, handing him a glass of wine. "Drink, brother. It'll help. Your mother, my mother, Lydie, you know who I mean, she fell in love with a dashing soldier back before the wars. He promised to marry her, but he went off and got his fool self killed. That would have been my father, and I'm afraid I've inherited his brain. Of course, she was a fine lady then and I'm sure she's a fine lady now, so she couldn't admit to her indiscretion, even when she had glaring proof of it." He spreads his hands, presenting himself for scrutiny.
Enjolras accepts the glass, but promptly sets it down again, resting his head in his hands. "God."
"She went on a holiday, then sent me off with his family after I was born and paid for some of my upkeep. Of course, this hardly concerns you, does it, Monsieur Enjolras? She was married, and married well, well before you were born, now wasn't she?" Grantaire's tone is somewhere between envious and scornful.
"So I understand," defensive.
"Of course she was. Your sainted mother wouldn't make the same mistake twice. She's not that foolish." Grantaire drinks the wine Enjolras rejected, draining the glass in a few swallows.
Enjolras raises his head slowly, staring at his companion with an expression half appalled, half wondering. Still he says nothing.
Grantaire refills the glass and offers it again. "A toast to our mother, my brother. How can you refuse to drink to that?"
Enjolras blinks a moment, dazed, then takes the glass mechanically.
"Odd that we meet like this," Grantaire says, leaning back and studying the man across the table. "After all this time; how old are you?"
A pause, while Enjolras finds his voice again. "Nineteen."
"Nineteen." Grantaire grins. "I knew I was your elder brother, but that's more of a gap than I'd thought. No wonder she was all worried about sending her little one off to the big city." He speaks in a falsetto. "'Look after him, Matthieu, he's the light of my life.'" In returning to his normal voice, he snorts. "I can see that."
From pallid, the boy turns abruptly scarlet. "You--" but words fail him, and he sets the glass down again sharply, in mute indignation.
"I? I what, Monsieur, mon frère?" Grantaire loses his jocular tone. "I'm to be your nursemaid by the order of our fair and chaste mother, and that rankles you, does it? It should. By God, it should. She's done me enough wrongs already without sending me chasing around Paris looking after her precious little boy. For all I care, brother mine, you can go to the Devil."
Enjolras pushes back his chair and stands. "Good. I don't need looking after. Least of all by, by..." he trails off again, exasperated.
Grantaire stands, almost matching his height. Though there is only half a bottle of wine on the table, he moves smoothly. "By me, yes. By the child who should never have been born. But Gabriel, I was born before you; I have every right to claim her as my mother. You cannot deny me my existence. I could destroy your happy little family, don't think I couldn't. If your father knew the first thing about me...but no, I couldn't do that to my loving mother whom I have not seen since I was half your age, and I certainly couldn't do that to you, dear brother, apple of her eye, beloved of your doting parents. I'll keep my peace, same as I always have, and for her sake I'll stop you from getting into trouble. It would simply kill your father."
Enjolras is pale again. "I don't want to deny you anything. I don't even know you. And you don't know me, or my father, so I'll thank you to keep your speculations to yourself. I didn't ask for this, m'sieur!"
"I know you as well as anyone could who receives monthly letters on your progress," Grantaire says levelly. "I know what your first word is. If I looked in my boxes of letters, I could find out what you recited in school every year of your life. I know what your father does and where he goes on business trips. Don't tell me I don't know you, brother, because I do. Your problem is that you don't know me."
Enjolras steadies himself on the back of the chair. "I..."
"You're going to do what your parents want you to do," Grantaire assures him. "You'll study. You'll enjoy Paris. Because if you don't, I'll write to our mother and tell her so, and we'll both be in trouble. So you'll do everything as expected, nothing less. Right, brother?"
The blue gaze hardens. "Don't take that tone with me, m'sieur, if you please."
"And why not, little boy? You certainly look like you need someone to look after you." Grantaire shrugs. "I only know who you are because I've been told to take care of you. I owe your mother, my mother, debts upon debts, and she has given me a task. I'm damned if I'll let her down."
Enjolras' chin comes up. "You implied just now that she owes you something."
"She does. That doesn't mean I have the right to betray her as much as she betrayed me." Grantaire walks around the table and puts a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. "I'll take care of you for her. If she owes me for this, too, so much the better."
"I don't need to be taken care of!"
"Tell that to your mother, then, and tell her you know about her disgrace, and see what she says about the matter."
"I might." The young voice trembles slightly, and then, suddenly, loses all its hauteur and becomes almost pleading. "Why are you--"
Grantaire asks in an incongruously gentle tone, "Why am I what?"
Enjolras hesitates, then reaches up to clasp his arm, his face terribly earnest. "Angry with me. I can't help what my mother's done, but give me a chance, brother."
Grantaire pulls away from him, scowling. "You have everything I ever wanted, everything I should have, and you think I want to associate with you anymore than I must from filial respect, not to mention what she's paid me already? Did she drop you on your precious blond head?"
The boy's breath catches; then he sets his jaw, eyes blazing. "Very well." His money joins Combeferre's on the table. "Then I won't trouble you further. Good day, m'sieur," and, biting off the word before his voice can shake again, he turns to walk out.
"You can't just run away from me."
Gabriel whirls. "Don't pretend you want anything to do with me," bitterly.
"What I want has nothing to do with what I'm going to do." The answer is acidic. "I'm going to do what I was asked and paid to do; I'm going to keep an eye on you."
"Paid." The boy's mouth twists in disgust. "Then consider it pay easily earned, and leave me alone."
"Ah, now, if it were that easy I'd never have talked to you in the first place, and let Combeferre say what he would." Grantaire half-grins. "I've got to send letters to your Maman, and if they don't fit with what you're writing, we'll both be in trouble."
Enjolras' fingers tighten on the doorframe. "I refuse to be tended by a man who insists on insulting me."
"I don't think it matters much what either of us want," Grantaire says, shaking his head slightly. "I'm going to make sure you don't get into any trouble, and if you don't let me, I'll write to your mother."
"Write what you like." And with that defiance, he swings out onto the street.
Grantaire follows him. "Don't be a fool. This could work to our mutual advantage; think of that, an alliance with a brother you didn't know you had yesterday, and one who can't stand the sight of you, besides. I don't have to tell your mother the truth. As long as our stories agree, she won't be any wiser. We could use this."
Enjolras spins again to face him. "What in God's name are you babbling about?"
"We could lie. Don't you know what that means? She doesn't always answer when I write her for money, but she wouldn't say no to you, would she, golden boy? With my letters to back your requests, you'd have whatever you wanted."
There is a tight pause; then Gabriel backhands his brother across the face. "Get away from me."
Grantaire uses several words that accurately depict his level of fraternal feeling and staggers away. "You're not getting rid of me that easily, boy. Don't think it for a minute. For today, you've won your privacy, but another time like this and I'll write home for you." With another curse, he retreats into the cafe.
Enjolras watches the door shut behind him, then turns away, making his way blindly up the street.