i'll be working my hands to the bone

[absinthes]

 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.)

Comments

[logomachist]

"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.

[absinthes]

"--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.

[logomachist]

"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."

[absinthes]

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."

[logomachist]

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."

[absinthes]

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

"How do you mean?"

[logomachist]

"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.

[absinthes]

A shrug.

"They always seemed very-- well aligned with who you were."

Unlike him.

[logomachist]

Alain's breath comes in a tired sigh as he takes another step toward the counter.

"Not exactly the same sort of-- catchy crisis."

Which is a source of real frustration, terrible though that is. Connected as the world is, it's somehow apparently even easier to ignore the crises going on around a person.

Ordering a small black coffee doesn't make it better, but it doesn't actually hurt.

[absinthes]

"Still the same you, though."

Well. Mostly, at least. He's going to let that lie as much as Enjolras-- Alain-- lets him. Ordering his own coffee gives him a bit of time to stall.

[logomachist]

It rankles his shoulders slightly. It has his head ducking, jaw set in faint defiance before he lifts himself up properly again.

"/I don't think so./"

No one would understand what they were talking about. It still feels too personal to say in English.

"/I don't think I'm-- as good./"

[absinthes]

"/--How could that be?/"

The statement can't help but startle some French out of him. He can't fathom a life where the man beside him isn't a few steps short of being a saint.

[logomachist]

It's a very personal thing. It's also something no one else he's ever known in this life could possibly understand.

Maybe saying it out loud will be freeing.

"/I'm not as good at it. I don't get people so excited--/"

That they were willing to die. That doesn't need saying.

[absinthes]

Alain doesn't say it, but Reese still hears it. There's a brief pause in his entire being as he breathes slowly through the memory of dying.

"/Might just mean you haven't-- met the right people yet./"

[logomachist]

"/Now I've met you./"

(Lots of memories wake him up at night. One memory--one warm small weight--helps him fall asleep again.)

Having his coffee handed over jolts him back into English, a soft thanks and faint smile for the barista handing it over. "But-- you know. It is what it is."

[absinthes]

"/Which means the-- actually useful people will be along presently./"

Or so he hopes, at least, for Enjolras' sake. Accepting his own coffee takes enough time to get his thoughts back together.

"You'll make the best of it, I imagine. You always did."

[logomachist]

That's something to turn over in his mind. That's something that sounds painfully familiar in French and in the last few centuries.

"I'm trying." Alain nods toward the corner the other man had just been posted up in playing. "Seems like-- you are too."

[absinthes]

A shrug as he takes a sip of his drink.

"It's something to do."

[logomachist]

"Trying?"

It's a better look on Grantaire--on Reese. It's worn slightly different lines into the infinitely familiar face, now that Alain is looking at it properly.

"That's everything."

[absinthes]

That gets him startling just slightly; looking at Alain with curiosity on his face.

"--Not really."

Not according to him, once upon a time.

[logomachist]

Being different had been easier when he was on his own. Now, it feels odd under his skin for a moment before he breathes in who he is.

"It goes a hell of a lot farther than I used to think."

[absinthes]

"--You're much more forgiving," he notes, a little surprised. "I thought you'd be-- all the more gung-ho."

All willing to prove himself because the last time had gone so wrong.

[logomachist]

Alain has wondered, now and then, what other people who led men to their death felt like. It's not exactly the sort of thing to reach out about.

"It's a different sort of fight, these days."

There's more room.

[absinthes]

"I suppose that's good."

It will keep him safer. That's important.

[logomachist]

"It's just different."

Other people were much less willing to die for their ideals. Alain hadn't let himself focus on it overly much.

"You have to give people more room."