There have been no classes for the law students this day, which explains why Enjolras, when he strides into Musain's back room in the evening, pushing the door open with his shoulder through sheer habit, is for once not book laden. What he has been doing with himself is anyone's guess, but if the barely perceptible slump of his shoulders and the stormclouds making golden lightning of his pale brows are any indication, it hasn't gone well.
Grantaire looks up from the table as he hears someone enter the back room. He has been here since sometime this afternoon and is suprisingly sober. (For him.) His eyes light up when he sees his idol, but they assume a quizzical expression as he notes Enjolras's bearing. "Hello," he says cautiously.
Halfway to a chair, Enjolras pauses and turns curiously towards the voice. He consciously straightens his shoulders as he recognises the speaker and walks firmly the rest of the way to his customary seat. "Bonjour." Clipped, but too tired to be properly curt.
Grantaire smiles. "Gods above! Apollo, your halo is looking a little worn out. Been illuminating Paris with your ideals too long?"
Enjolras rests his head on one hand. "If by that you- no. Not today. Find yourself another victim, Grantaire; I've had enough of arguments for one day."
A genuine look of concern crosses Grantaire's face. He bites his lip, trying to figure out how to ask Enjolras a question without being turned to stone by his glare. "Argued out, are you?" is the best thing that he comes up with.
Without looking up, Enjolras responds, dryly. "That /is/ what I said."
Grantaire nods. He runs his fingers through his hair and stares at the table again. "What kind of a beast was it that could drain the vitality out of you?"
"People." Enjolras addresses the wall, rather than his companion, almost as if he's unaware of where the question came from. "Men who're too fond of the sound of their own voices to take note of anything beyond their own self importance, or make use of any sense that might lurk in their flaccid heads." He shoots an accusing look at Grantaire, including him by default in that category.
Grantaire grins. "Well now, I never admitted to have much sense."
"But frivolity aside, I must admit that I've never seen you this... wearied by this." He waves his hand in a gesture meant to convey the faceless masses but nearly tips over his glass.
Enjolras shrugs and rests both elbows on the table, the heels of his palms propping his cheeks and his fingers covering his eyes. "Every man has his limit. God, it's- Wednesday? No one's likely to come this evening. I should go home."
But he doesn't really seem inclined to move.
Grantaire nods. "Even Gods get weary of presiding over their thankless worshippers."
"I suppose you would know about that" Enjolras mutters into his hands.
Grantaire flinches. "I know nothing useful, remember?"
"I doubt that" Enjolras allows, without stirring. "Though that was hardly relevant."
Grantaire flushes at the compliment of sorts. "Are you really so eager to hop in your chariot of fire? Stay a bit, and relax before the marble chips."
Enjolras looks up at him, wryly. "If I had a chariot of fire, doubtless I'd have driven home in the first place. As I have to walk-" he shrugs and concedes, leaning back in his chair, unconsciously tilting his head to one side like a weary child.
"May I join you or will I... disturb you?"
Enjolras blinks and sits a little straighter. "I- can't imagine that where you sit could cause more or less disturbance."
Grantaire closes his eyes and waits for thunder to strike him. As Jupiter's attentiona are focused elsewhere, he remains in one piece. He cautiously rises and takes a chair across from Enjolras.
"You must be tired if you haven't once shouted at me and called me 'wine-cask'," he remarks then immediately wishes he'd kept quiet.
Enjolras blinks at him in some bewilderment. "I- what? Would you rather be shouted at?"
Grantaire colors slightly. "Well, no. I, well, it's a change. Takes some getting used to, is all."
"Mankind can adapt to anything." Enjolras rubs at his eyes with one slender hand. "Even civility. It's one of our more remarkable traits. I only shout when provoked."
Grantaire smiles wryly. "And I have a habit of provoking you. It's a very bad one, but I'm afraid there's nothing to be done about that."
He tilts his head. "So... if I keep provoking you, will you adapt to that and stop shouting?"
Enjolras' eyebrows lift. "There is always something to be done. Nothing is so set that it can't be improved upon." He snorts and folds his arms. "People can adapt to anything. The results of that adaption are not always pleasing to all concerned."
Grantaire laughs. "True, Apollo. If you ceased to shout, you'd be less interesting."
Enjolras shakes his head. "Thank you. I think."
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