A discussion I had with a fellow refugee. He complained of the numerous natural and unnatural ways in which individual's amorous propensities were inflamed in and around Wyver, often without their knowledge. He mentioned the gala and those throwing glitter.
[And since he refuses to consider any of that nonsense because he has better things to do, he thought of you.]
[ It’s still early in the day, but Grantaire already wants a drink, just to be certain that his lack of belief remains intact. It’s almost foreboding, the way, how belief keeps trying to worm its way into his mind. He wouldn’t know what to do with it. ]
I cannot say what happened to others, but whatever I felt, it was surely only the wine.
[ Deny, deny, deny. It can't be the work of magic anyway, he tells himself. He never even got that second kiss, and he wouldn't mind it still. ]
[ He pauses, giving the question a brief amount of thought before responding with a soft smile. ]
Perhaps.
[ It's a vague answer, but it's difficult for him to say what the truth is. He won't allow himself to believe in the idea of magic, but he had felt something on the night of the gala. He's always felt a pull to Enjolras, though. That's the trouble. What had made this any different, beyond the fact that he had actually acted upon it? ]
How can one say truly, with all this talk of magic and of wine?
As many things can often be. How can one distinguish the difference between love and admiration?
[ Listen—he literally has no idea. ]
Or even at times, the difference between terror and admiration. They can be one in the same. Perhaps this was two things at once as well. Is it ever truly as simple as we wish it to be?
[ If Grantaire could stay on topic, they would probably argue with one another all day, but that’s just the thing. Grantaire cannot stay on topic. He veers off so wildly sometimes, it’s impossible to trace the conversation back to its origins. ]
I only make things as simple as life itself makes them, Enjolras.
Any other is bound to be a more agreeable man than me.
[ He halfway wishes he could agree, but he can't bring himself to lie to Enjolras. For as much as Grantaire reveres him, he should be able to muster up more for him than he does, but he just can't figure out how.
Still, he pauses, unwilling to let the conversation go just yet. ]
Ask me again. Ask me again in a month.
[ A month won't turn him into a believer, but maybe something can spark something in him. ]
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[And since he refuses to consider any of that nonsense because he has better things to do, he thought of you.]
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I cannot say what happened to others, but whatever I felt, it was surely only the wine.
[ Deny, deny, deny. It can't be the work of magic anyway, he tells himself. He never even got that second kiss, and he wouldn't mind it still. ]
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[And as frustrated as he'd like to be (knowing how magic influences people would really help) he's aware that in this case it might just be the wine.]
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[ He can admit to that. He's made it obvious enough in all the time they've known one another, after all. ]
I do believe in you.
[ Grantaire, this is not the time. ]
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Perhaps.
[ It's a vague answer, but it's difficult for him to say what the truth is. He won't allow himself to believe in the idea of magic, but he had felt something on the night of the gala. He's always felt a pull to Enjolras, though. That's the trouble. What had made this any different, beyond the fact that he had actually acted upon it? ]
How can one say truly, with all this talk of magic and of wine?
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It is simple. Either it was magic, and something you've not experience before or it wasn't. I'd not have thought that hard to distinguist.
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[ Listen—he literally has no idea. ]
Or even at times, the difference between terror and admiration. They can be one in the same. Perhaps this was two things at once as well. Is it ever truly as simple as we wish it to be?
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A sigh-] Not the way you talk about it.
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I only make things as simple as life itself makes them, Enjolras.
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I'll find someone else to ask.
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[ He halfway wishes he could agree, but he can't bring himself to lie to Enjolras. For as much as Grantaire reveres him, he should be able to muster up more for him than he does, but he just can't figure out how.
Still, he pauses, unwilling to let the conversation go just yet. ]
Ask me again. Ask me again in a month.
[ A month won't turn him into a believer, but maybe something can spark something in him. ]