milliways_bar | (no subject)

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gavroche thenardier

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Grantaire has a bottle and a table to himself, at which he is bored, and therefore singing.

"D'ou viens-tu, bourgeois? D'ou viens-tu? Je viens du rabouin -"

He's singing in French, in which language it scans perfectly to the tune - although listeners whose first language is English are probably hearing something more along the lines of "Bourgeois, where are you coming from? I'm coming straight from the devil," which shouldn't scan at all. Milliways translation magic can be a very peculiar thing.

Alas, there is not enough magic in the world to make Grantaire's voice sound on-key.

(Is he annoying people? Most likely. Does he care? Not in the least.)

[00C: Millitimed to before Enjolras' entry.]

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"Someone", Gavroche says, amused, "is going to take your voice away or something if you keep that up."

"Rien de plus, bourgeois -"

Grantaire breaks off, a moment late, and laughs. "And what would they do with it when they had it? Keep it in the field to fright away crows?"

"Perhaps." He grins. "Or those unusually vicious rabbits I told you about. How are you, Grantaire?"

"I live as well as a dead man can, I suppose," answers Grantaire, amiably, and takes a swig of wine to illustrate before focusing, suddenly, on Gavroche once more.

"Well! But sit and have a drink with me - it seems to me I've a question or two to ask you."

"Really?" He raises his eyebrows inquisitively, sits, and flags down a rat for an extra cup. "Ask away, I shall answer as best I can."

Grantaire passes him the bottle, and then props himself up on the table on his elbows.

"You'll forgive me if you've told me this already -- if I'd had a better memory, perhaps I might have passed one of my classes --"

Most of the first night of his arrival is something of a haze to him now; the details are hard to recall, in the general shock of finding himself here.

"- but how many years was it that you said had passed for you in this place?"

"I don't recall if I did say or not", he says with a slight frown, "but it's been close to ten. Several of those as the boy you knew, not aging, and then several more in better circumstances."

"By which you mean living ones," Grantaire says, with a half-mocking smile.

"Pray, let us not stand on ceremony! We may as well speak plain. Do not fear I will take offense, or begrudge it to you; believe me, I envy none."

"All right. I wish I could share it with you, but it's far out of my power. But yes, living ones." He smiles slightly. "And then after all this time, here you are, a familiar face."

Grantaire taps himself on the crooked nose.

"It delights me," he remarks, wryly, "that there is someone to whom it brings some small measure of joy."

His face has never been exactly what you might call decorative.

"But then, over a decade, you've surely encountered many faces prettier than mine, living and dead -"

"Prettier, yes", he says, cheerfully mocking. "And some almost as good company. But always, I hoped for someone from our own world to arrive."

"Your standards are high!" exclaims Grantaire.

But then, after a moment, circling around, he returns to the subject of his query: "Well! I confess, I find myself with an interest in your friends, Citizen Gavroche -- particularly the dead ones; for ten years seems a long time to be dead in a box."

For the record, he means the bar, not the one made of pine and buried -- though the latter would be a reasonable assumption.

"Then you must meet them", Gavroche declares. "I must admit, there are more living than dead, but I don't discriminate. You must come, too, and see where I've been living. Meet the people who took me in."

Grantaire blinks for a moment, momentarily derailed.

Of all the people on whose company it has been his habit to inflict himself, he does not think there are many who would demand he come back and meet their family.

"Well! I'm glad you've no fear they'll judge you by your company!"

He laughs.

"If you knew the denizens of the Underside, you'd understand, having a liking for wine is nothing to condemn you. Besides, you're a friend."

"That's kind," he says, a little distantly.

Many men have a liking for wine; it's not on this fact that Grantaire condemns himself.

But who is he to turn down a meeting with these fellows of Gavroche's? At best, they will be congenial, or, better, have something to say about this strange place where he's found himself; at worst, they will be dull, and he will amuse himself as he always does.

"Very well!" he goes on, with more animation. "I will come have a dinner with your friends, providing of course that they offer the dinner; we shall make merry and tell hair-raising stories of your early years."

He's not sure what he said wrong, but cheers up when Grantaire does.

"Dinner I can promise, and a hearty one too. I'll let you know when the time is set."

Grantaire gives Gavroche a friendly shoulder-slap.

"That's settled, then; what an occasion it will be! My first postmortem dinner engagement."

[ooc: a good wrap, maybe?]

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