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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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.

"All-- right, then."

He can do coffee. He can follow Alain the way he used to follow Enjolras, but to far less dangerous an end.

He still moves like there's always somewhere important to be. He still holds himself with a certain urgency, as if the world isn't turning quite fast enough.

But he's thinking, just now, about the man following beside him.

"Is it... Is it-- just you?"

"As far as I've-- found."

He hadn't been looking too heavily (he hadn't deserved to find anyone else; certainly didn't deserve being here with Enjolras now.)

"What about-- you?"

"Just me."

Which hadn't been the terrible sort of thing he could imagine it being for someone else. There had been more time to focus. There had been more time to find his way into safer, more productive ventures.

"I didn't think..."

Someone else would have looked properly.

"--Really just you?"

He can't help but sounds surprised.

"I would have thought people would-- flock to you like flies."

Especially after last time.

"Flies swarm."

Look at that. Arguing is still easy.

He takes a breath to feel himself again. His fingers tap thoughtfully at the strap of his bag, faintly grounding. "There just-- hasn't been anyone."

The comment earns a snort and a wry expression aimed his way.

"As pedantic as ever, I see."

He has to take a breath of his own to make sure he doesn't add 'Apollo.' It means he's much more focused when Alain admits that he hasn't found anyone.

(He can't help the way his heart aches a little for the other young man. Only one of them had deserved to be alone.)

"--Well," he finally says, glancing up at the menu instinctively, "I imagine they'll come out of the woodwork once word of your-- winning personality starts to make its rounds again."

There's frustration in his sigh. Over the years, it's become incredibly inwardly directed. Lashing out used to be easy, but this much time living with himself has pushed most of the anger in back on the man he used to be--the odd amalgam he had come to be now.

"I don't know how much more it can... come out, exactly."

He can't help the way his brow lifts, at that.

"How do you mean?"

"I'm-- /I'm myself./"

There isn't a better way to put it. There isn't even a proper way he can think to put it in Enlish for a few heartbeats.

"If there's anyone else, it-- They're more themselves, I guess."

More wrapped up in their own opportunities. Less easily dragged into the infinite number of problems Alain still wanted to throw his life into.

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