World: Paris
Scene: Café Musain. 1829? Part of what we like to call the Mythical Friendship.
Players: Enjolras = Laura; Grantaire = Abby
The back room of the Cafe Musain is not the most hospitable location in the world if one happens to be drunk. Most minor sprees are easily ignored.
Hospitable or not, Grantaire is slouched in his seat in the corner of the room, a dour tangle of arms and legs, quite flown, but for once in his life taciturn with it.
As the night's meeting disperses, Enjolras looks around the room to see if anyone has left a textbook behind. He sees no books, only Grantaire. In exasperation, he pulls out a chair and sits at the table. "Why do you waste your time?"
With a slowness that looks insolent, Grantaire raises his head. "Beg your pardon, avenging angel?"
"Time, money, my patience, all down the drain," Enjolras says irritably, ticking off points on his fingers. "Why? You should just stay home and sleep if you must be so useless."
Grantaire prods his empty glass. "I'm getting there, I'm getting there. Don't think it wouldn't be easier."
"That is precisely what I just said. If you did not drink, think what you could do, Grantaire. You could spend your money on worthwhile things. You would have time to be a good citizen." Enjolras gestures with one hand. "In your present state, you are nothing but a drain on the society: good for the cafes, and nothing else."
"Tsssss. Citizen." Grantaire turns the glass carefully upside down. "That currency has been devalued. Any ranting fool..." Instead of launching into a tirade, however, he trails off vaguely.
Enjolras is not swayed into cynicism. "Any ranting fool would be far better off if he spent his time worrying about improving what he does not like instead of dulling his brain."
Grantaire gives him an odd little suppressed smile, almost a smirk. "Right. Right."
Enjolras glares for a second, then realizes that it is utterly wasted. He pushes the chair he is sitting in back from the table and stands up. "Wallow, then, if you must. Degenerate. Molder. It is all your own fault."
A dark look flashes upward. "Everything is." It's unexpectedly bitter.
"That is what you chose, isn't it?" Enjolras gestures sharply. "That is what you wanted: escape. Nothingness. Apathy. Eh bien, congratulations, you have found it." He shakes his head. "To think, sometimes I almost miss your company. No. Not today. I am certain, today, that you no longer care."
Grantaire takes in a sharp breath as that hits home. Then: "How ... the hell ... would you know?"
"If you truly cared about anything but your own selfish desires to escape reality and responsibility, you would not be there, steeped in your vice."
A hand darts out to knot in his sleeve. "You don't know. You don't talk to me and you won't let me talk to you and you won't let me near and you don't know. Wasn't me that said to hell with it, don't talk to me, wasn't me that walked away. Don't tell me what I think, Marcelin!"
Enjolras, surprised, puts a hand on Grantaire's wrist, but does not complete the movement and remove the offending appendage from his person. "I do not talk to you or listen to you because you are not the man you were," he explains. His tone is gentle, even if his words are not. "I can only imagine what you think by watching what you do, and what I see is not a man whom I wish to befriend, and not a man whose ideas matter to me. I will not tell you what you think if you behave according to those thoughts. I will not have to tell you anything: not that you are wrong, not that you aggravate me, not that I would rather you were out of my life entirely."
Grantaire falters before this mild lecture, but rallies. "All right, all right, so..." He tugs on his sleeve gently. "Sit down, for God's sake, talk. Talk to me. I'll listen."
Enjolras takes a deep breath and sighs before he complies, sitting in the chair he pulled out before. "I know you will listen. What I want you to do is understand and care about what I have to say." With one finger, he prods one of the bottles on the table. "You are wasting yourself for this poison. It kills your mind and your spirit. It is killing the man who was my friend before he decided that he had to hide his true feelings from the world. You were right; I do not know what you think. You mystify me. Do you agree with me, still, and mock me simply to play Devil's advocate?"
Grantaire lets go the sleeve, and looks down at his hands, and sighs. "Maybe."
The quiet tone is gone. "You are impossible," Enjolras exclaims, aggravated again. "Answer the question. Do you know why you do anything anymore?"
Grantaire glances up with some shadow of his old quickness. "Do you?" he counters. "Does anyone?"
"I know why I do things. That is a foolish question." Enjolras shakes his head slightly. "You are not inspiring me to wish to speak with you further. You wanted my attention. You have had it. You have wasted my time. Will you be useful, or would you rather I left you to your pointless pursuit?"
Grantaire regards him a minute, with an odd sort of mingled gentleness and mockery. Then, like a patient parent: "Well, what do you call useful, then?"
"If I ask you a question, I would appreciate an answer, not a flippant remark. Then you would be marginally more useful in this farce of a conversation. What do I call useful? Spending time working for change, giving money to those in need, gaining an education." Enjolras gestures at the cafe. "That is why you are here, in this city, is it not?"
The crooked half-grin again. "If I quit skipping classes, you'll deign to associate with me? Is that all that's bothering you?"
Enjolras sighs deeply. "I could hardly care less whether you attend classes or not. It is hardly the only method of acquiring education. Tell me, what have you learned in the past month?"
Grantaire slouches back in his chair with an amused look. "Not to tangle with an avenging angel."
Enjolras slams his hand against the table. "Do not call me that."
Grantaire flinches, but is undaunted. "So don't act like it, Saint Michael. Why should I give a damn about the great Goddamned cause if you don't give a damn about anything else?"
Enjolras gives him a glare that suggests that the question is far too obvious to answer. He stands again, dramatically. "There are few things worthy of true belief. If you cannot recognize one of them, I will continue to think that you have lost all your sense and senses." He looks toward the door. "I cannot afford distractions. Perhaps you can afford nothing but."
Grantaire shoots back sourly, "You can't afford friends."
"I can afford any number of friends who truly care about the state of their country. What I cannot afford, monsieur, is to waste more of my time in this argument. Adieu." He walks to the door, opens it, and goes out.
Grantaire watches the door shut, and buries his face in his hands.