World: Paris/Subreality
Scene: The Cafe Musain, April 1832. Hitherto I have presented only the more comprehensible aspects of AnkhMUSH roleplay. Here, we stray into some truly surreal territory, including some that lies right outside of Les Miz's boundaries. If you think the titles "Twisted!Enjolras" and "Stolid!Enjolras" are weird, well, so do I. You may know them better as, respectively, Marcelin Deux and Marcelin Trois. This was before the GCDR.
Players: Deux, Q = Laura; Trois = Ann; Grantaire = Abby
Twisted!Enjolras is sitting at a table, with Grantaire. If anyone didn't know who they were, and had only a description of what the denizens of this cafe did, matched with names, they would say it was Joly and Bossuet.
Stolid!Enjolras walks in, the usual amount of books and paperwork under his arm. He catches sight of the couple out of the corner of his eye and sighs irritably, thinking mistakenly that it is indeed Joly and Bossuet. A glint of long blond hair, far too golden to belong to either of said couple, attracts his attention and he stops dead, staring.
Grantaire, fingers twined with Marcelin's, is distracted by the sound of the door, and glances over. And doubletakes.
When Grantaire starts, Twisted!Enjolras looks toward the door. He can only stare for a moment, then sputters, and eventually says, "Mon Dieu. Who on earth are you?"
Stolid!Enjolras draws himself up, glaring. "Who am I? I should ask the same question of you, Monsieur. And--" His jaw drops as he realizes who this... person... is sitting with. It drops further as he realizes what they were doing. "What-- are you doing with-- with--"
Twisted!Enjolras half-glares from under lowered brows. "That is one of the stupidest questions I have ever heard. What did it look like, oh man who looks far too much like me?"
Grantaire puts his head in his hands. "This is not fair," he confides plaintively to the tabletop. "I don't deserve to go mad."
Twisted!Enjolras pats him comfortingly on the shoulder, but says nothing, only looks at the doppleganger.
Having had no success getting answers out of his look-alike, and finding it increasingly difficult to look at him, Stolid!Enjolras turns his furious attention to the other occupant of the table. "Grantaire, what the devil is going on here? Who is this?" He approaches the table almost menacingly.
Grantaire looks up warily. Eyes his companion for a moment, and then the newcomer. "I don't ... think ... I can answer that."
"Why should he know, monsieur?" There is far too much emphasis on the title. "Who are you?"
Stolid!Enjolras snorts quietly. "I should have guessed it would serve no purpose to ask you." This said, he promptly ignores him, as usual, glaring at the... impostor? Look-alike? "My name, monsieur, is Marcelin Enjolras," he says with only the barest hint of civility. "And you are?"
"Of course it is," the seated Enjolras says, almost dazedly, "and so is mine, as you must have realized by now. But where did you come from?"
Grantaire drops his face in his hands again. "Lord," he murmurs, not without piety.
The addressed raises an eyebrow minutely. "Where I've always come from. My flat." His initial feelings of anger have subsided, though he's still speaking with that mere trace of civility. "Where have you come from?" Remembering the state of this man and--Grantaire-- when he'd arrived, he suddenly regrets the question.
That has just the sort of answer expected. "Our flat. But, originally, Vezet." This short explanation settles Twisted!Enjolras's mind, and he takes a moment to rub Grantaire's shoulder gently. "Look, it's your fair-haired boy, back again, come to remind you how much you really didn't miss him," he says softly.
Grantaire stares at the table. "God help us all." He raises his head to regard -his- Marcelin dazedly. "As if one of you wasn't bloody well enough, and then some."
"I-- see," Stolid!Enjolras says quietly, trying to piece together these bits of information. This day isn't quite turning out as he'd predicted it would. He looks mildly offended at the "fair-haired boy" comment, but for once can't seem to think of a response. He's argued with himself plenty of times, just never face-to-face.
Twisted!Enjolras grins at that. "I can second that. If another of you appeared, I think I'd go mad." He turns back to this other man. "So, m'sieur Enjolras," and that is punctuated with a chuckle, "you are my conscience, come to haunt me at last, to tell me that I should never have done this and that and the other thing, never have touched a drop of wine or allowed my sister to leave home or, heaven forfend, kissed another human being?"
Grantaire rakes a hand through his hair, attempting to compose himself. Hell, if Marcelin can cope with this, why can't he? Right. He's fine. Really.
Stolid!Enjolras blinks. Wine? Sister? What...? "Well. This is a...unique situation." He shakes his head, thinking what a field day the philosophers of Les Amis would have with this. "It would appear that though we share the same name, and--appearance, we've had rather different pasts and therefore are most certainly two very different people." This simple statement makes him feel much better than he's willing to admit even to himself.
"That," interposes Grantaire acidly, "makes altogether too much sense, and I am in a position, God knows, to disprove it."
"I didn't ask you, wine-cask," Stolid!Enjolras snaps irritably, as usual having no patience with Grantaire's cryptic statements. This may not have been the wisest thing to say.
Twisted!Enjolras glares at the other. "Don't speak to him like that. You've no right."
Grantaire half-smiles crookedly at his companion. "If he's you, then he's allowed."
Stolid!Enjolras glares back. "I have every right. Why should I treat him any better? He's not worth it." His expression grows almost disdainful. "I can't imagine what you could possibly see in him."
Twisted!Enjolras is outraged, but after a moment, he laughs, and looks wryly at Grantaire. "God, was I like that? I am so sorry." He shakes his head, and explains to the irritable other, "You have no idea who he is, especially if you are me, or vice versa. I never bothered to find out, because it was easier to say, 'That wine-cask? He's a peasant who wastes every penny on inebriation, and he could not believe in anything if he tried.' I was wrong, and you are, also."
Grantaire takes his companion's hand and kisses it, partly to reassure him, partly to annoy the throwback, and does not bother to answer the rhetorical question.
Stolid!Enjolras closes his eyes in disgust at the display of affection on the part of Grantaire, unknowingly giving him just the reaction he was looking for. "I beg to differ," he says coldly to his counterpart. "You've chosen to pollute yourself with that. You've obviously blinded yourself to what he is." He glares at Grantaire, still innocently holding the other's hand. "Sarcastic. Cynical. Drunkard." Every word is delivered coldly and disdainfully.
Grantaire's failure to react is a little strained.
"I am never sarcastic," Twisted!Enjolras says in just the right tone to give the lie to his words. "Cynical? You have not looked closely enough, Monsieur. And as for drinking, so does every other of your friends."
Stolid!Enjolras watches his counterpart coldly and distantly. "My other friends drink to be in the company of each other. They have idealism. No, Monsieur." The blue eyes are hard as steel. "Perhaps it is you who has looked too closely. If you'd kept your distance, you'd realize what he is. But I see it's too late for that."
"Ideals," mutters Grantaire, in a mordant tone that could easily be taken for scorn.
Twisted!Enjolras gives him a sympathetic look, and turns the same expression on his 'twin.' "You, m'sieur, obviously have your head too far in the clouds to show any humanity other than tossing bolts of lightning." To demonstrate that this Enjolras, at least, is connected with the earth, he proceeds to kiss Grantaire on the cheek.
Stolid!Enjolras flushes angrily, his eyes flinty, as he watches the display silently. "And you, m'sieur, have your head so clouded by that excuse, you've obviously lost any scruples you may have possessed. I thank all of Jehan's gods that I will never turn into you."
Grantaire returns the favor, one ungainly hand coming up to caress the fair hair a moment; then he sits back a bit, looking up at outraged Enjolras with an inexpressible sadness. "Ah, but you did, my demigod."
Twisted!Enjolras shakes his head. "Perhaps not. Who knows? Silly conscience, if you're me, then you shouldn't worry so, and if you're not me at all, why do you care what I am doing?"
"I am not your conscience!" Stolid!Enjolras says, irritated. He glances again at Grantaire. "I have not turned into him. He turned into him." The expression again turns disdainful. "I, at least, have the sense not to submit to the base desires of the human race."
"And what the hell are you?" Suddenly Grantaire is no longer the subdued, chastened reprobate; this, now, is the dissenting voice, the irrepressible shadow, the man who won't shut up. He rises to his feet, even steadily. "What the hell are you a member of, my demigod? 'Base desires'. Sweet Jesus. Even Apollo had his faults." He is all at once making himself very much an obstacle, and though he's not physically between Enjolras and, well, Enjolras, that somehow is the effect.
"Remember, Grantaire?" Twisted!Enjolras inquires acidly. "He's the demigod. Let him be. Stupid, blind and alone. Maybe even dead." He stands, and addresses the target of the tirades, adding his own. "No one loves you, monsieur, and frankly, I cannot imagine how anyone might. You have built your own coffin."
Enjolras regards the pair of them frostily. "Why are you asking me what I belong to," he says coldly, "if you already know? And as for you." He turns his stony gaze upon the other. "If I die, so be it. At least I can have died knowing I've kept myself intact. I don't ask for anyone to love me, nor do I expect to love anyone." He foldds his arms, looking again like the marble Apollo of old.
Grantaire flicks a glance at Marcelin, a sort of wryly conspiratorial glance. "No, you wouldn't ask," he tells Enjolras in almost a kindly tone. And then, abruptly, catches him by the shoulders and kisses him soundly.
Enjolras jerks backward as if he's been shot. Pushing Grantaire off him violently, he catches himself on a table but before he can steady himself, he's lunging toward Grantaire again. His fist shoots out, connecting solidly with the man's jaw.
"You bastard!" Twisted!Enjolras shouts, but before he finishes the word, there is a bright flash of light, and a new man appears, middle-aged, with a receding hairline but bright, inquisitive eyes, and wearing nondescript clothing that is unfamiliar. This man claps his hands, applauding gently. After the first clap, none of the other three are able to move for the moment. "Really, boys, I was wondering what was taking you so long." He looks to Grantaire for an explanation.
Grantaire, knocked headlong into the other Enjolras' arms, takes a minute to steady himself and wait for the stars to stop twinkling. "Beg pardon?" He's not even going to ask where this person came from. After this evening, he may not boggle at anything ever again.
"You took quite a long time to kiss that one," the new man explains with a wave of his hand towards Stolid!Enjolras, "and all the while you and your little friend have been extolling the virtues of animal passion. What do you think of it, now that you've had a taste?" he asks the recently assaulted man.
Stolid!Enjolras has managed to get back a measure of his composure and glares at the newcomer, though the look has a bit less fire than usual. "That--that--" He turns the glare on Grantaire and is mildly pleased to feel it regain full power. "He kissed me! That drunken, sarcastic, cynical--" He runs out of words and contents himself with spitting and wiping his mouth on his sleeve in utter disgust.
Grantaire dissolves into laughter. He can hardly help it. "It's not usually considered an insult."
"You noticed," Twisted!Enjolras observes to his double. "I am amazed."
Everyone's favorite snarky omnipotent being shakes his head. "I don't think it did any good, this time. Pity. Waste of a perfectly good kiss." He gives Grantaire a wry grin. "Perhaps next time you should brush your teeth first."
"I'm not blind," Enjolras snaps back, one hand clutching the edge of the table for support. He glances at Grantaire disdainfully. "Any overtures from you would be an insult."
"Surely you didn't want a kiss from him?" the stranger asks, mock-incredulously, with a wave of his hand at Twisted!Enjolras. "That could be arranged."
Grantaire retorts, "I was demonstrating the fact that one doesn't have to ask." With that, he slips an arm about his Enjolras' waist, and directs a sardonically amused look at the stranger.
Twisted!Enjolras holds up a hand to ward away the offer of a kiss. "I wouldn't kiss him for a hundred francs."
Stolid(and Shaken)!Enjolras grits his teeth. "I don't want a kiss from anyone," he says tightly, "least of all him." Pointing at Grantaire. "But certainly not him either." Pointing at the other. He puts a hand to his forehead and closes his eyes briefly. Why me? he thinks silently.
"How interesting," Q, for of course it is Q, comments. "I thought all humans were designed to enjoy contact with their own species. Have you no hormones?"
Grantaire blinks once. Then glances at his companion bemusedly. "You don't happen to know who the hell this is, do you, cher?" he inquires in an undertone.
Twisted!Enjolras shakes his head. "Not the first idea."
Stolid!Enjolras takes a calming breath. It doesn't help. "Of course I have hormones," he says quietly. "But unlike certain others, I have the ability to ignore them and focus on more important things."
"No, you don't," Q says flatly. "You just take cold baths nightly and freeze your sorry flesh." He shrugs. "Stupidity is no better than what you call amorality, and at least they're having fun."
"He has a point," Grantaire observes, tightening his arm around Marcelin.
Twisted!Enjolras protests this not at all, and nods.
Enjolras draws upon his last speck of self-control to keep himself from screaming in frustration. "Their perversion is not something I would like myself associated with," he says, his voice taut. "Perhaps they're having 'fun' as you put it, but I'll never sink to that level."
Q spreads his hands. "Far be it from me to force you to enjoy anything. Would you like to go home to your nice, safe, boring cold bath, Monsieur?" He is far too deferential.
Grantaire's expression hardens at Enjolras' phrasing, but he declines to be abashed.
Stolid!Enjolras regards Q with an expression not unlike hostility, though he instinctively realizes there's a power behind that human facade that shouldn't be reckoned with. "What I would like to do, Monsieur," he says, more calmly than he's said anything since he'd arrived in Musain, "is to be left alone and not be tormented by drunkards and twisted copies of myself."
Q nods. "That makes perfect sense to me." He takes a pocket watch out and says with a cruel smile, "Enjoy your last two months, three days, four hours, and thirteen minutes of life, Monsieur." With a snap of his fingers, he makes Stolid!Enjolras disappear.
Grantaire starts. "What was that?" he demands of Q.
Q grins. "An experiment, m'sieur, to see if the other part of your lover here could take a hint." He plucks a small board out of the air and makes a note on it. "Results: negative."
Grantaire snorts, unimpressed. "I could have told you that much."
Twisted!Enjolras shakes his head. "That's hardly fair, now, is it? You didn't tell him what would happen."
"No one told you, either, and you figured it out. To each his own destiny. Most of the time." Q bows to the two remaining men, and disappears.