absinthes | i'll be working my hands to the bone

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i'll be working my hands to the bone

He remembers the first time he drinks wine, in this life.

The red hits the back of his throat, and he's transported to another time completely. It leaves him gasping, nauseous; leaves him unable to touch a bottle because every time he does he sees nothing but ghosts and death and a man he loved more than breathing.

Later, he realizes that as long as it's not red wine he's drinking, he usually remembers more about the Amis and Enjolras than those last horrible days. He already knows it's going to be a problem, but he drinks anyways because there's no one to tell him not to and it's the only way he can see Apollo.

(He's not surprised he's alone. He's the only one out of all of them that didn't deserve heaven; that had needed to be punished with a life alone.

It doesn't stop him from looking, just a little.)

He gives up, eventually. The looking, at least. It takes a few years, but he realizes that there was never any chance he deserved Enjolras, so why would he deserve to find him? It takes a little longer, but the drinking starts to peter off as well (though never entirely) as he figures he doesn't deserve to see the old him, either.

Learning the guitar is another way to keep his hands busy in a way that's not so messy as painting (and he doesn't do much of painting anymore, either, because that's from another life too and clearly if he's here and here alone, then he needed to not be that man as much as possible.) Singing is a logical step after that, and it proceeds from there until he's performing every so often in bars and cafes around the city.

So many of the songs he picks have that sense of melancholy loss to them. It's the only grief he allows himself to feel.

(It's the only time he allows himself to acknowledge how much he still loves the man he'll never be allowed to have.)

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He remembers the first time the wind is knocked out of him, in this life.

He's barely fifteen years old the first time he gets into a fist fight at a protest. As his body folds in pain, he has the stray thought that he would actually, truly be happy to lay down his life for something bigger than himself. It hits him harder than the first in his gut to remember, abruptly, that he already has.

All the faces come back in bits and pieces. The names come more slowly. The little details he hadn't thought he would remember float in at odd moments, accompanied by an intense sort of longing that sits somewhere strange and uncomfortable in his gut. It feels strange, remembering how little time he had then and trying to square it with the longing now.

(He lies awake some nights wondering about Grantaire. He lets his thumb run over his own palm where no one's holding onto him and stares at the shadows around him until they turn back into his own room.)

It isn't so much that he's actively looking. It isn't so much that he spends much time pondering the faces around him or listening for a tone across the room. It's more that he finds himself studying more often than not in coffee shops. It's more that, the more he's in charge of organizing, the more often he pushes to move from student unions into public gathering places.

He's simply studying tonight, pushed back into a corner of the cafe. He's barely hearing the sound of music drifting from the live entertainment in the corner. Everything around him is a wash of other people while his mind tunnels in on itself.

And then he hears Grantaire's voice.

That's not right, his mind fills in instantly as his pen drops onto his book. That's an impossible thing. That's the voice of a man who's been dead for centuries.

Or maybe it's just the name. Maybe his own voice sounds the same as it used to. Maybe a ghost from the world that used to be would hear his voice ringing in the courtyard and feel the same tug.

There's no easy way to see to the other corner of the room without causing a stir. He simply leans forward in his seat, trying to catch a glimpse through the sea of seated and moving patrons for whoever's set up singing on the other side of the cafe.

He'll likely only be able to catch sight of brief flashes, at first. The hint of a green shirt. Long fingers picking at guitar strings. A mop of dark hair. He won't be able to get a proper view until a family moves from the table just in front of the corner

It's lucky, really, that they'd died all but nameless. If they hadn't, some history buff somewhere might have commented on very much he looked like one of the men that had died in the June Rebellion.

There's not much that's changed in terms of how he looks, save for two formerly crucial elements: There's an entire lack of paint spatters on him or his belongings. There's also a lack of that certain kind of ruddiness the constantly drunk seem to develop.

He idly introduces himself as Reese at one point, but his voice and face belong entirely to a man once called Grantaire.

It's him.

He almost couldn't say how he knows. The voice feels right, across the odd distortion of memory beyond the constraints of this life. The face is nearly perfect, familiar angles with something healthier in the cheeks. There have been other young men with faces that reminded him and voices that sent a strange chill up his spine. This is different.

When he looks across the room, he forgets for a second that the man who was Enjolras is dead.

But, of course, he isn't Enjolras. It takes a moment of ducking his head again, staring down at his own hands, focusing so that the name scrawled into the corner of his book comes clear again, breathing through a second lifetime of memories. Alain is the person sitting in this cafe. Alain is the person breathing slowly and deliberately until he's certain of his own name again.

It's easier to look up again after that, breathing carefully through the fact that he isn't alone.

Reese doesn't call the person he privately dedicates the song to 'Apollo.' He keeps his brief interludes of speaking brief and easy. If there's a hint of hurt that's from more than just singing songs so full of emotion, well. That's just how it is.

Anyone who knows a musician will likely suspect there's some deliberation to the fact that he keeps singing of wanting to be a better person. Of not deserving someone, but loving them anyways. Of not interfering in someone's life because of not being worth it and wanting them to be happy. Anyone who knows Reese will wonder who it is, because the unidentified person or people he clearly constantly thinks about has always been a mystery.

Anyone who knew Grantaire will know there was only ever one man he could be singing about.

The set ends eventually, to some scattered applause. Reese will be slow to pack up his things and get ready to go home.

It's not like there's anyone to meet or anywhere to be, after all. Breathing in a cafe that sometimes sounds just like the Musain would on busy days helps him to make it through this lifetime.

Some things take intense, calculated planning. Some things take orchestration and delicate precision. Other things needed to be barreled into without too much thought, riding the wave of emotions that had sparked the action.

Books are just books. Pens are replaceable. The entire table is swept into Enjolras's bag without much rhyme or reason. A crumpled napkin comes in with the rest, but that can be sorted out later.

(He knows the pulsing tone of exhaustion. He had never cared much about them, but he knows them now from the life like a film playing against the back of his eyes when he's trying to sleep.)

He knows that the songs are haunting because they're being sung for a ghost.

(He hadn't known then, but he knows now. He hadn't cared then, but it's painful now. Memories of what had been discarded the first time around cling to the edges of his mind, full of what he can now see was broken longing.

He knows he's the ghost.)

It takes jostling to make his way through the continued loitering. Now Alain is on his feet, the action can't help but come as a rush. It isn't so bad when he's sidestepping an older patron moving toward the door. It's more frustrating when he's caught behind a pair of teenagers who seem unwilling to commit to moving left or right with any particular speed.

"--excuse-- excuse me."

He just has to get closer. He just has to show himself that it's all been a trick of the light and a too-fervent hope, or that this is, somehow, even a sliver of a second chance.

Oh.

Just about any other time of his life, he doesn't let himself stop when he hears a voice he thinks might belong to the people from the distant past. Just about any other day, he's well-trained enough to keep from wishing.

But now? In a cafe that feels like the Musain, having just sang a series of songs dedicate to a man he spent a lifetime loving? Hearing a voice that sounds so exactly like the one he hears in his dreams? There's no chance.

The teenagers have to commit to moving to the left, because Reese can't help but stop at the voice coming from just behind them.

He tells himself he turns so quickly because he wants to get the business of convincing himself it's not Enjolras out of the way. He tells himself that it's stupid to turn at all, because it's not him and the person who's speaking isn't speaking to him, anyways.

He tells himself a lot of things, but he still stops and tries to find the owner of that voice, anyways.

It's such a pedestrian frustration. It's something he would soldier through any other day. Today, it's the thing stopping him from slotting a piece of his life back into place.

"/--idiots./"

French had been easy even before he remembered. It had come to him naturally in moments of stress, even before his last life came rushing back into him. Today, it comes as almost a tic as the teenagers slump out of the way.

And then there's Grantaire.

Then, his mind corrects, there's a man named Reese standing in front of him. There's a man whose head might still have whipped around because he thought he was being called. There's someone who's lived a life that hadn't been dragged down the path Grantaire's had.

He had gotten himself here. The rest of the plan can come after a heartbeat, hopefully, because there's Grantaire.

It's Enjolras.

He could've doubted himself if it had been just the voice. He could've brushed off the thought if it had just been the hair and the face.

But there's both, and then there's the French and that familiarly disgruntled look, and it's Enjolras.

His heart is in his throat, and then it's spilling off his lips because even if he shouldn't be so certain he can't help but say--

"--Apollo."

Even a lifetime later, it's still full of the same longing.

"/Is it really--?/"

He didn't let himself learn French, at school. He didn't want to find out how easy it would come to him or what memories each moment would bring. But it's absolutely flawless French spilling from his lips now.

He had known from the other side of the room. He had known from the familiar longing in the man's amplified voice. He had known as he had flung himself across the room and jangled himself into French.

It's still beyond a relief to hear the old (ancient; primordial) nickname, spoken with the same strains that had been haunting him on nights he couldn't sleep.

"/It's you./"

The man who died beside him. The man who stumbled to his feet after abuse after abuse to stand with him. The man who haunted him more than any other phantom at the edges of his mind.

"Apollo."

He can't help the way his voice cracks slightly. He can't help the way his body reels as he tries to stop himself from throwing himself at him.

"/What are you-- doing here? You shouldn't have had to-- come back. You didn't have anything to fix./"

His presence is so very counter to all the rules he's imagined for his situation.

Habitual wrinkles of frustration bleed into simple confusion. Of course the man who used to be Grantaire would have been looking. Of course this soul or entity or consciousness would have been considering what answers might exist to the odd question of their second life.

Alain's French has always had an unconsciously archaic twist. It comes out, more often than not, as if he had been taught to speak in centuries past rather than in middle school.

"/Permit me--/"

He hears it, this time. Or, more accurately, he feels it, like the tug of scars he doesn't actually have riddling his chest.

"--let." Switching back is disorienting. It still feels crucial to force himself through. "Let me-- buy you a cup of coffee."

They should talk, after all. If they're both here, they shouldn't ignore it and pretend everything is exactly as it was a few minutes ago.

That earns a startled blink. That earns a hint of a frown.

He needs to take a minute to make sure the right language falls from his lips.

"--Why would you want to-- do that?"

The question doesn't quite knock into him physically. It isn't the sort of punch to the gut words could sometimes be, digging under a man's skin and burrowing against his core.

It still prompts him a half-step back.

"Why... wouldn't I?"

A shrug that shifts the guitar on his shoulder.

"You don't-- like me." Maybe he should say "didn't." It still feels right as is. "And I imagine you're-- busy."

"I don't know-- you."

This is Grantaire. Every inch of him is certain that the man standing before him is the man who offered his hand moments before they died.

And yet, Grantaire is dead.

This is Grantaire, but this is also a man who people call 'Reese.' This is a man whose eyes focus properly in conversation. This is a man whose fingers are covered in callouses rather than flecks of paint.

"And this is..." It's not more important than what he'd been working on. It's not something he'd drop anything imaginable for. And yet. "...this isn't nothing."

"It doesn't have to be-- something, either."

A part of him wants it to be. That part of him is also the part that loves a ghost.

"You don't need to have to-- tolerate me being around, this time. It can be different."

It had been an interesting solitary exercise, before. It had been fascinating to pull through his own mind and lay out this life by the last; to see what had changed and what had, apparently, been so close to his core that it couldn't.

It's different when it's someone else. It's like the slow baring of an ugly scar.

"It sounded like it... is different."

And perhaps the fact he had been properly listening is a sign of difference as well.

A tired laugh. He's so caught up in his own faults (they're so much clearer, with Enjolras here before him. They stand out in such a glaringly obvious fashion) that he doesn't even hear the way this young man differs from the statue he had loved once upon a time.

"Not so different."

"Shouldn't we find out?"

That's the logical next step. That's the scientific approach to the incredibly oddity of having finally found someone else.

"It's just coffee."

That earns another rough shrug, before he nods.

"I-- suppose. Why not."

He never could say no to him.

It's Grantaire. It's Grantaire, and he looks like he might actually have worked out a few of the kinks that had gotten in the way last time. It's Grantaire, and they're going to have a cup of coffee together.

They aren't alone.

Relief smooths at one of the habitual wrinkles in his forehead. He's nearly turned away to start herding them toward the counter when it occurs to him to properly stick out his hand.

"--Alain."

That's different. That's something to keep track of.

The hint of relaxation in Enjolras earns just a hint of the same in Grantaire. It takes him a moment to understand what it is the other young man is doing.

He surprises himself, just a little, when he smiles slightly at the introduction.

"--Reese." It takes him a moment to remember. It takes another to tentatively offer his hand to shake; bracing himself for the wave of memories that might come.

His body braces unconsciously. His breath catches quietly in his throat before their hands come together.

(It's amazing. The sensation of Grantaire's hand in his own doesn't inspire pain or anxiety or hurt. It doesn't rip violently through him, the way dreams sometimes did.

It simply brings a wave of appreciation and something not unlike affection.)

Reese's hand isn't perfectly familiar. It has callouses he doesn't recognize. It's missing the odd sensation of paint and soot. Alain's own fingers squeeze briefly tighter than necessary, trying in a heartbeat to learn the sensation.

"Reese."

This is Reese's hand. This is Reese's slight smile and wonderful rasping voice.

"Alain."

He can't help the brief tremble in his voice as the memories hit. He can't quite keep himself from squeezing his hand slightly.

"Let's-- coffee?"

This name in that voice is odd. It takes a moment to settle properly into his mind and the pit of his gut.

"Coffee."

Letting go takes a minute. He feels it taking too long, but he can't quite let go until he has a sense of certainty again.

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i changed my mind completely about his modern first name

legit

:3

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