"Enjolras?"
"Yes?" The addressed half-turned to regard the swaying supplicant before him. Faith- the comer did look as if he were likely to fall over as he fiddled nervously with his hat, but, strangely enough, did not reek of liquor. Enjolras raised an eyebrow.
"I'm sober-" affirmed Grantaire hastily, nodding, "I stayed sober, to speak to you. Drunk I am sure that I'd have more sense."
Enjolras imperceptibly snorted in amusement, then turned to give Grantaire his full attention.
"Well then? What is it that an amazingly empty winecask comes to say so solemnly? Come now, out with it."
Grantaire tried to smile at the joke; it came out a half-grimace. And Enjolras's patience seemed thin at best. Grantaire cleared his throat again; after a moment of studying his boots and the faintest exasperated noise from the man of marble, burst out suddenly,
"Enjolras, are you ill?"
"No." Enjolras blinked. "Why?"
"You've not reprimanded me once- for drunkenness or eloquence nor even for interrupting important matters- not once this week. I'm inclined to suspect that you've some malady- I've got a bet going with Joly. Perhaps it is an inflammation of the throat and lungs, preventing the habitual issuance of divine thunder upon offending scoundrels and drunkards, n'cest pas? What else could it be?"
Enjolras laughed shortly.
"Grantaire, the only malady I suffer is an acute allergy to wasting my time. Why should I allow an unrepentant, self-titled drunken scoundrel to fritter away what little I have of that precious resource as he does his own? Reprimanding you is useless and unproductive. I do not speak to those who will not hear me, Grantaire, and I do not speak to hear my own voice."
The dry winecask opened his mouth several times during the above monologue to interject, but, finally, closed it when Enjolras finished, and let his head hang.
"I'm sorry?" Enjolras did not know what to make of the hopeful petulance in Grantaire's voice, and studied him placidly.
"For what? Each after his own nature, after all, and who am I to blame you for perniciously sticking to yours? Now... is that all?"
He picked up his pen again, and before Grantaire could restrain himself, his hand shot out and caught Enjolras wrist, forcing the pen to drop from it and pinning it to the table. Likewise his eyes, dark and troubled, caught Enjolras's, and his voice was a gentle plea,
"Oh, have pity on me, Firebrand."
Enjolras's eyes flashed angrily as the hand descended, but something in R's expression made him bite back the sharp retort that had risen instinctively to he tip of his knife-edged tongue. Instead, he sighed in good-natured resignation, plucking Grantaire's hand from his wrist and placing it on the table with a politely indifferent pat.
"I don't have the time nor the patience for pity, winecask, nor do I recommend you indulge in it yourself. But you make me break my rule. I do pity you." He picked up his pen again, fixing his eye firmly, but not unkindly. "Do not ask anything more of me. There is nothing else I will give to you."
And with a nod to Capital R, he turned away, engrossing himself once more in his notebooks and papers. But Grantaire did not miss the small flicker Enjolras's eyes made to some definite spot behind him before they returned to the business of revolution, and he followed that flicker directly to the eyes of Combeferre. It suddenly occurred to Grantaire that this observer had not missed a moment nor a meaning of what had passed between him and Enjolras; the sympathy in the gaze, though sincere, bore still- if unwittingly- the egotism of one on the inside looking out. Embarrassed, Grantaire dropped his eyes and, flushed with fury at the condescension of his- well- friend, shuffled over to his own table and settled there with a plop.
"Ah yes, there it is, I see it now." He muttered to himself with some bitterness, "So there is the source of all his generous pity. I might have known." Combeferre was still watching him. He did not look up. "Well, he can have it back. Or better- he can't. He's quite enough. One must take what one can get. Whatever else he's got, he doesn't get that." Grantaire chuckled sardonically, and felt rotten- in a moment his head shot up and called for, "Wine! By whatever sinister god's got his boot-heel on my neck, in his name, Louison love, bring me wine!" She appeared swiftly with two bottles, and he thanked her with a mocking kiss on her wrinkled cheek, making her blush and a few others laugh. One of these was Bahorel, at the same table as Combeferre and Joly; Combeferre sighed and now watched him until he was done, that he might comment of some point concerning battlefield medicine. Neither Joly nor Bahorel had noticed the events leading up to this outburst. Combeferre did not enlighten them.
From then on, Grantaire was once again the bemused recipient of Enjolras' open scorn. Between that, his full glass, and monologue, he seemed almost content, and Enjolras was content to think so. Anyone who thought differently, remained silent. Grantaire, for his part, seemed to have adopted a new favorite phrase, and he uttered it frequently and always with a slightly bitter tinge, when, perhaps, someone did something utterly foolish, or was being scolded for some reason. He would lean back, a small smile or sneer would curl his lip and, like a toast he would exclaim,
"Well, each after his own nature, n'cest pas?" and he'd drink a health, heartily.
Whenever he did that, Combeferre sighed inwardly. Enjolras did not seem to notice.