❝ — Lucky for me, whether I’m sober or not
doesn’t seem to make much of a difference. ❞
Undomesticated seemed synonymous with the
fierce and perilous state of i n d e p e n d e n c e.
There was risk in losing such should he give his
memories to the another: whether it be a being or
a toxin. What was more, Bahorel had no need, no
want to forget.One could not have the good of
success, of victory, of anything positive —
Without the negative. As long as it amounted to
an extreme, it was tolerable.
”Well, that makes one of us.
Wish I could say the same thing.”
Grantaire sighed and put the cigarette out,
pushing himself up from his chair and going
across the room to glance out the window.
The Musain was one of the few buildings in
the Outer City that still had real windows.
Those people who managed to find a home
with the windows and doors still in tact were
the lucky ones. Grantaire was not one.
”—I'm going with you next time you go out there.”
“ And you will be for as long as you avoid
coming to terms with what has passed. “
Combeferre knew. Combeferre could relate — but
in a way, suggesting for Grantaire to find
peace with his past made Combeferre a hypocrite.
He had his own shadow of guilt and remorse
from what had happened almost a year ago. On
the outside, the guide had moved forward, but
there were days when his chest felt so heavy
with grief and longing that he couldn’t breath.
Laughter. Dark, horrid laughter filled the air and
Grantaire snatched up his drink. Once he finished it
off, he placed the glass back on the table and eyed
Combeferre, his jaw tight. He is normally not so sharp
towards his friends, but his sister is the one memory
that he does not like to share with anyone. It is the
one thing he cannot let go, not as hard as he tries.
Combeferre should understand that— let him be.
“—Then it looks like we’re both f u c k e d.”
❝ Sobriety. It plays more games upon —
maddeningmind than any
Bahorel smiles, and the expression is little more than
a thin pursing of the lips. It is not genuine, but it is
not fake. The man is not a performer, though he does
act; he is raw, and he is resolved to remain
undomesticated — Whether it be by narcotics or the
conventional. Really, he could get a steady job …
Somehow. He was able, though he denied
“opportunity.” He could lead a stable life. However,
such could only be a deception.
”You’ve got that much right. I’m a
hell of a lot worse off when I’m sober.”
Grantaire takes a long drag from his cigarette and closes
his eyes, holding the smoke in until he feels as if he might
cough it out. Slowly he blows it out, closing his eyes as the
tears burn behind his lids. The pressure that had built up
within his chest is released along with the smoke, and
the drunkard relaxes in his seat. When he is sober, he
remembers, and no one likes to remember the bad things.
❝ I’m serious. I don’t know what the hell
I was thinking, but it’s time that whip myself
into shape. Get a steady job or something & aim
for security. — Even if we’re out back. Wouldn’t
be a bad idea for you to consider, too. ❞
❝ … ❞
I’m fucking hilarious.]
“Right… Now I’m thinking you’re the one on drugs.”
Grantaire places his cigarette back between his lips
and leans back, propping his feet up on the table
between them. Not only is Bahorel not going to do
that, but the mere idea that Grantaire might get his
shit together long enough to get a job is perhaps
one of the most ridiculous things the cynic has ever
heard. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to do something
good— it’s more that he doesn’t believe he C A N.
”You’re fucking kidding me, right? You can’t be serious.”
❝ Interesting take, monsieur. But I believe
it to be a wrong take.The people of the upper
city care not for our lives; we are pests, and we
are the disgrace of the city. However, they much
prefer a submissive, controlled pest to one who
is willing to burn. To place fire by their boundaries
at first would promote confusion. Is the fire within
or no? And then, perhaps, apprehensive, about
something. About what? They are uncertain. But
I will say again, we might gain some unwanted
“Do you really think our beloved dictator would
allow us to burn fires so close to his perfect
city? Surely he would eliminate us. At least
those responsible for the act. If no one fessed
up, he might take it out on those who just
happen to be close enough to him at the time.
He won’t allow it to happen— not twice. It’s an
entertaining idea, mind you, but I don’t think
it’s a very good one. Too many unpredictable
variables. Enjolras would be disappointed.”
Combeferre pauses. Grantaire tried — Combeferre could
see it now. Grantaire just did not succeed; however, it
was the attempt that mattered to the guide. Combeferre
rakes his fingers through his hair, pulling up a chair
before the drunkard.
“ It’s all right, Grantaire — I understand.
…I can wait to speak with Enjolras.
How have you been? “
“I have been the same as I always am.”
Bitter, tired, t o r m e n t e d. It is all the
same to Grantaire. Never does he feel
any different. He can be joyous, it’s true,
but he cannot truly be happy. He can’t
remember the last time he felt happy.
At least, that’s what he tells everyone.
He can remember it perfectly. His sister’s
smile, her warm presence… He was happy
when she was around— truly happy— and
now he only had faded memories of her.