#to thine own self be true // visage

[ritterum]

Sush and the Bandit King

It was customary, during the years of ivory and palm, for the kings of Shemakha to retreat from their palaces and go forth disguised into the kingdom, that they might themselves ascertain the plights of the smallfolk. Sush, King of the Persimmon Throne, was on one such outing when he and his valets were accosted by bandits near the lawless fields of Nisat. Being the hour after dawn, the King could scarcely defend himself, as the rising sun shone true into his eyes, and so with grudging heart, he chose to yield to his captors. They in turn, recognizing the high personage of their prisoner, bound the King and his companions with rope and made to ride for their leader, though offering their captives every small courtesy out of respect for their station.

Soon enough, passing behind some cliffs, they arrived at the lair of the Bandit King, who himself received Sush and his companions in a warmly lit cavern that was bedecked in carpets, cushions, jewelled trinkets, and such luxuries as a village headman could ill afford. “Good fortune arrives at my threshold!” said the Bandit King, “and I have the privilege of calling the Radiant One my honored guest. Come: tarry a while, set aside the burdens of kingship, and let us present you with the hospitality of Nisat, whom you have denied the pleasure of your visage for so long.”

Seeing that no good would arise from a struggle, Sush acquiesced.

Later that day, the Bandit King led Sush through bustling hamlets and verdant farmland. Every storehouse was filled to the top with grain, and herds of fat cattle frolicked about the fields. “What plenitude flows through barren Nisat!” marveled the King, “and what lofty heights her children shall now certainly attain!”

“‘Tis the work of the Bandit King,” scoffed one of the outlaws. “Sixteen times did they refuse his guidance, and sixteen times did he strike them with the iron! And lo, by his patience, he has achieved what the scribes of Shemakha could not: to bring a watchful eye to defiant Nisat, that she may flourish with no worries of stumbling on her own feet.”

The King heard this, and was humbled.

The following day, the Bandit King again rode with Sush, this time through the towns and trading posts, where teams of highwaymen patrolled the streets, collecting tributes from the docile townsfolk and supervising the exchange of goods in the markets. “What order rules in unruly Nisat!” exclaimed the King. “And what remarkable discipline her people observe!”

“All naught but for the hand of the Bandit King,” sneered one of the entourage. “Sixteen times did they strike down his command, and sixteen times did he raise it high again! Lo, he has achieved through persistence what the armies of Shemakha could not: that is, to establish lawfulness in Nisat, that her children obey his authority without question.”

Hearing this, the King was humbled.

On the third day, the Bandit King yet again made to ride with Sush; but ere they could leave the shadow of the cliffs, he pulled the King aside and inquired of him subtly: “O Radiant One, thou hast beheld the prosperity and stability which have governed Nisat since I enacted my rule. Two places remain which I have not shewn to thee; the hour, alas, permits only a visit to one. Pray: first permit me the honor of thine appraisal, and by this thine indulgence, thou mayest determine the object of our visit.”

And the King knew that by these two choices, the Outlaw meant: freedom, or death.

“Thy friendship and hospitality I must extol,” said he to the Bandit, “and o’er these two passing days, thou hast grown as close to me as mine own brother. O! surely the Wheel has guided me down this slope, in order that our paths may cross. Verily, as thou hast gained a friend in my Self, so have I found an able administrator and governor in thee, who hast accomplished that which the force and splendor of Shemakha have not: namely, to bring wayward Nisat under thy firm rule.

“Such a deed cannot be compensated with praise alone - nay, thou shalt have a hundred of my finest steeds, and fifty bolts of my finest dyed silks, and as many chests of jewels as a train of servants can carry. But most importantly, thou shalt have the earldom of this land, and the power to enact laws in my name; and thou shalt have the authority to appoint headmans from among thy people, according to thy wishes. All this shall I decree.”

And the Bandit King’s head was filled with images of the comforts of noble life. “Thy wisdom knows no bounds, O Radiant One,” he said. “Come: I will shew thee the royal road.” And he charged his men with the safety of Sush and his valets, that they may arrive at the royal palace unmolested; but he himself rode at the fore with Sush, and they conversed and bantered as brothers do.

Presently they came upon a detail of the royal guard that was keeping watch over the border. “You,” said Sush, pointing to the fleetest-of-foot. “Mark my words well. Make haste and call the captain of the guard, and tell him that these men are under my protection. We ride to the royal palace, and he is to escort us there, for these men are under my protection, and I am to invest them with titles and honors. So have I decreed.”

So the fleet-footed one made haste and reported to the captain of the guard, who was in the barracks outside the Great City. The captain hearkened well, and asked: “Did the King specify the men to be His honored guests?”

The messenger replied: “No, my lord.”

The captain then asked: “Did the King extend His gracious hospitality to these men?”

“He did not mention it, my lord,” said the messenger.

Then the captain sighed, and said: “The King is in peril, and these brigands have brought Him here under duress. Only those welcomed under the banner of hospitality are truly safe from His wrathful sword. We must not tarry.” So he gathered a handful of his most seasoned troops, and rode to meet Sush’s party without delay.

He found them not far off, encamped at the Pool of Feathers (where hermits of old once washed stone-salts off petrified men), and as he approached them, the Bandit King hailed:

“Ho! Who is it that draws nigh?”

“The King’s escort, whom He has summoned hither,” replied the captain, as his soldiers slipped into the foliage and encircled the party. Then he turned to Sush, who sat on the ground quietly. “I understand that these men are under Your protection?”

“No longer,” proclaimed Sush, standing up. “I rescind my protection.”

At those words, the royal guards leapt forward and slaughtered the bandits, swift as the summer’s lightning, and the thud of their bodies against the ground was like the steady drumming of sudden rain. Scarce had the corpse of the Bandit King hit the ground when Sush issued a new command.

“Go at once to the fields of Nisat,” he ordered, “and take my retinues with you. Dispatch the outlaws there as you did here, and you will find that they have left the peasants broken and ready to accept the rule of the law. So shall we bring Nisat under the crown, once and for all.”

Thus did Sush, of the Persimmon Throne, subdue the region of Nisat and unify her people under Shemakha, where they would remain for many generations, lending glory to their kings.

Runao’s Commentary:

Mud transforms into sturdy brick as it is beat down by the sun, and brick softens into mud in the cool comfort of water. Trials harden every man equally, but this is not enough - bricks are made to be stacked upon each other, without freedom or consent, and the disciple must constantly ask themselves: who is the bricklayer, and who is the laid brick?

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“Hope you then with a fading the wind; and in my care”)

A rispetto sequence

               I

Roses; or as love, has tried to her come down her foes; but sought, with his reputed Son? Hope you then with a fading the wind; and in

my care? Out through grief, while forsake, and sorrow more and with uplift him as a Bow to put a kindness, red and by shadow of Thine!

               II

Drove thee, but for his outward form appears! My poor credit wi’ dew, young man, here did this maid, say, maidens, nor death. And hatred, miser

and shoutèd and white, empty world could be saying: Sister, when the shrinking in Years amid the came down, and curving whelming visage.

               III

Wad buy; but almost blissful swoon. You stare Aghast. Was gone, for Love fled, what it for her Feet. And perish in Comparison—The little

lore: therefore the fires of the sea inside you: on your meets she froze to more tries. Composition Unattaint,—a Rosebud blowing.

               IV

All good we’ll try what nature stalking to thy widow’s face, show whatever have I, but the shame and awake; mine own deep in each to

the Noose of the wintry sun the choicest furniture, the scene and felt the must from Memory? Wilt fall before us, I suppose.

               V

Thine on, and that mainly no small, washed cottage under half so sure, now set the damp grassy air to smoke, itself with your name. Robert

Burns: country lad is my life for a seasonable month, who long thy widow wept, melting me, i’ll ne’er for the Phlegethontic rill!

               VI

Ah, dreary grave which part to me. The very weel aff, danced with flowers, words to lutes on Marble as true, the fiddling slut there; that’s in

the memory of unkissed me and are frankincense to write for his face? Will stands; but if thou hast won a single with thy sake?

               VII

Speaking dream a little snakes of the heavenly features and for five months and perfect seisure? Good men, are cover’d up in less loud

an’ shill; no village-cotted out a ring—a little days and aff like their love’s sae meikle and fancies garlands feel how fierceness.

               VIII

He heart so heaven opened Eyes to be Italians, as not other hands and from a silver throw such a dance better? Sleep together;

and again. And winding the flowers, am I not thing too much of happy Hours; while she be, i’m welcome, white hawthorn, and boughs!

               IX

There once rose, doth spear and his Father once more delicious villain need be! I would hand with your own hear and thoughts from Beauties treasons

gone, is pleugh, an’ owre these valleys of weather. She turn’d once mournful freight. Sister, By the place, for vice which he sprains beguile my Nanie, O.

               X

I that dies on high in their mutual-darted up in not to sail at nine.—No hungry eye doth the stream and lose the new-mown hay,

till withered shall I have rose and bade it had force content; so runn’st the pack of Gau and I from home is so loyal in hot blossom!

               XI

Something which no soldier once, these two of thine armes, if you I say luck; it’s a’ for the sad bosom sped to the atmospheric stately

move so warm before long-wish’d in those eyes of arms! Infancy; but beings below, or by one. And talking dreaming. Most malice?

               XII

Will do nothing for it is when she said: Are not as sleep, the black hair swell of vision I ask’d white Boy is a war of smooth of friends

to pray? Us meet to twinkle me tend, like a gem, and if wee wouldst joy to low dejected signs alone in those with a woman.

               XIII

Silken sails, the Veil flung off this! Wine comes near meadows, over each product and influence of transferr’d on me, O; but her on the

hour, and the clouds like life inspired, snail-paced lord; his Verse waste not after sombre cave, ere yet ’tis not be a forests eke, made the self!

               XIV

But truly of his lamp were nought that tribe; with Gold and reck’d her out its dry String strain, where never courtesie; I bow’d down his Youth,—thoughts: bryers

raignes,&command of a stranger in a queer sorrow hath end. And not stir his breath seem’d absent still as marble cold moonshine. Enough.

               XV

He crick and said, the Lustre of the drearily, yet who says she did, he storms the ear, and show nothingness in sight winne sometimes such

Cries of all those thou felt a grieuous case; but sweet is thine. Then was once despair, the mystic heaven’s air, their only beames displeasure.

               XVI

But the tame flowing over pavement were my buried in Beauty of the World, yesterday he white ambulance these word; put up, young

man, nor Captain of? Conservative but thou yearly birds come hither, come hither, come the world nis noon so well, be well as Morning.

               XVII

At they are killed. What if so timid air of the day I die, the loved me in the best music, whose Head under here most kisse in sport

invite the spring, of drinking. My pen, and I shall adorn his close, ne’er had burst, and back to old tunnel I be, so wrought surpassed.

[roughrudesea]

top 5 Shakespeare monologues?

I DESERVE THIS 😤

1. Richard II 3.2

No matter where; of comfort no man speak: Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth, Let’s choose executors and talk of wills: And yet not so, for what can we bequeath Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives and all are Bolingbroke’s, And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings; How some have been deposed; some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed; Some poison’d by their wives: some sleeping kill’d; All murder’d: for within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp, Allowing him a breath, a little scene, To monarchize, be fear’d and kill with looks, Infusing him with self and vain conceit, As if this flesh which walls about our life, Were brass impregnable, and humour’d thus Comes at the last and with a little pin Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king! Cover your heads and mock not flesh and blood With solemn reverence: throw away respect, Tradition, form and ceremonious duty, For you have but mistook me all this while: I live with bread like you, feel want, Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus, How can you say to me, I am a king?

WHAT CAN I SAY. I heard a friend do this monologue in an acting class almost a decade ago and even with zero context, I thought about it for years. Finally reading the play only made me love it more. 

2. The Tempest 5.1

Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves, And ye that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him When he comes back; you demi-puppets that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid, Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds, And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder Have I given fire and rifted Jove's stout oak With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck'd up The pine and cedar: graves at my command Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth By my so potent art. But this rough magic I here abjure, and, when I have required Some heavenly music, which even now I do, To work mine end upon their senses that This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, And deeper than did ever plummet sound I'll drown my book.

A solemn air and the best comforter To an unsettled fancy cure thy brains, Now useless, boil'd within thy skull! There stand, For you are spell-stopp'd. Holy Gonzalo, honourable man, Mine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine, Fall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves apace, And as the morning steals upon the night, Melting the darkness, so their rising senses Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle Their clearer reason. O good Gonzalo, My true preserver, and a loyal sir To him you follow'st! I will pay thy graces Home both in word and deed. Most cruelly Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter: Thy brother was a furtherer in the act. Thou art pinch'd fort now, Sebastian. Flesh and blood, You, brother mine, that entertain'd ambition, Expell'd remorse and nature; who, with Sebastian, Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong, Would here have kill'd your king; I do forgive thee, Unnatural though thou art. Their understanding Begins to swell, and the approaching tide Will shortly fill the reasonable shore That now lies foul and muddy. Not one of them That yet looks on me, or would know me Ariel, Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell: I will discase me, and myself present As I was sometime Milan: quickly, spirit; Thou shalt ere long be free.

I’m honestly shocking myself slightly by not listing “We are such stuff,” but even thinking about this part of the play gives me chills. I love the journey Prospero goes on in this: watching him give up his magic and decide to forgive his former enemies is so engaging--and the language is completely unmatched.

3. The Tempest 4.1

You do look, my son, in a moved sort, As if you were dismay'd: be cheerful, sir. Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex'd; Bear with my weakness; my, brain is troubled: Be not disturb'd with my infirmity: If you be pleased, retire into my cell And there repose: a turn or two I'll walk, To still my beating mind.

Okay I lied -- had to include “We are such stuff.” How could I not? I’m a Tempest and a Prospero stan. How could I NOT list this one when it is like *THE* iconic monologue?

4. Hamlet, 3.3

O, my offense is rank it smells to heaven; It hath the primal eldest curse upon't, A brother's murder. Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will: My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent; And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother's blood, Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy But to confront the visage of offense? And what's in prayer but this two-fold force, To be forestalled ere we come to fall, Or pardon'd being down? Then I'll look up; My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? 'Forgive me my foul murder'? That cannot be; since I am still possess'd Of those effects for which I did the murder, My crown, mine own ambition and my queen. May one be pardon'd and retain the offense? In the corrupted currents of this world Offense's gilded hand may shove by justice, And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself Buys out the law: but 'tis not so above; There is no shuffling, there the action lies In his true nature; and we ourselves compell'd, Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To give in evidence. What then? what rests? Try what repentance can: what can it not? Yet what can it when one can not repent? O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul, that, struggling to be free, Art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the newborn babe! All may be well.

3.3 is my favorite scene in Hamlet. I LOVE the tableau of Claudius praying, and Hamlet right behind him, ready to strike. Hamlet the character obviously has some incredible speeches, but this Claudius monologue is the one that always stands out to me: it is such a juicy glimpse into his inner psyche that is more carefully guarded for the rest of the play, and I love this moment (however brief) of unraveling.

5. Macbeth 5.5

She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

Forgive me for being so basic but I would really be lying to myself if I didn’t list this. Although this one, more than others, really depends on the actor. I have seen some renditions of this monologue I really do not jive with, but when it’s done well, it is top tier. 

[vischys]

The eldest of Sparda merely inclined his head as he sheathed his Devil Arm back to her saya, rising elegantly to his feet amongst the youthful acclamation. His lofty form radiated an aura of courtly self-pride despite his indifferent expression as he approached the table that Fosh, Navarro, Gerald, and Taz had worked together to set up, giving a brief nod of appreciation to Maggie who had provided the proper heat required to pull off his chosen technique in cooking.

Not wanting to sit in the center of the crowd, naturally Vergil strode toward the farthest end of the table. That was before Ink called his name, beckoning him to take his place next to her it had him halted just briefly in hesitation. Though upon seeing the bright and expecting smile his demoiselle wore upon her lovely visage, he knew that his course had been spoken for.

It is only proper for the host to ask her honorable guest to sit next to her, Vergil justified silently as he turned from his previous course and went to the chair besides Ink. And as said honorable guest, it would be disrespectful of me to repudiate her in that matter.

But of course, dear Vergil. His humanity's smooth cadence echoed in his mind despite his best attempt to ignore it. Though as one and your only spokesperson in matters concerning your human half, foolishly foolish pitiful enfeebling trait of a sentiment, as you often put it, I must solemnly remind you that above all, to thine own self be true.

Too engaged with his human side, Vergil failed to notice the gaze and noise of amusement aimed toward him till he took his seat next to Ink.

The fact that you are a part of and within me once more speaks loudly on my stance in that regard.

”Holy crap, man, you thought Navarro is the leader?!”

The sudden mirthful exclamation from the youth with metal arm snapped his head up and drew his attention away from Ink.

A beat of silence as Vergil processed exactly what part of his deduction that elicited a source of amusement as more laughter broke around the table.

His head tilted slightly to the side in a silent “Is he not?” , brows furrowed in genuine puzzlement and the corner of his lips twitched in subtle annoyance at this sudden role of a clown being abruptly thrust upon him.

“Our apologies, Vergil. You see…“ His narrowed gaze swiveled toward Hellmare, catching the hint of utter absurdity that somehow he must have made in his deduction somehow if one as refined as her would even think to join this jeering farce. “Navarro isn’t the leader of, Ink is, you see.”

Dead silence succeeded Hellmare's gentle revelation.

Well, it felt like dead silence to him despite the noises of amusement behind him because his whole mental world shrunk as the weight of Hellmare's words sunk within and his gaze inadvertently fixed upon the sheepish Ink, who was apparently the one who holds the titular title of a leader.

Vanity Van Ink is the leader of this rambunctious yet exceptional lot of juvenile demonic youths!?

His mind rewound back to his first encounter with Ink, how she chastised him for his judgment. How he chastised her in return for her dangerous lack of self-preservation and her tendency to assume the best of others in their second encounter. How she naively expected the Rose Witch to not hold grudge against them. How she easily invited him, Vergil, was a mere stranger apart from their brief alliance, and before that, was ready to point his sword at her in order to claim a bounty set upon her head.

His gaze then darted to Navarro.

Compared to Ink's naive borderline careless acceptance, Navarro had been the one amongst them who exhibited the proper amount of common sense (as the boy put and wariness toward Vergil's presence. He was also one of the youths who exhibited a particular level of maturity in judgment by steering away from the influence of a man-made crude entertainment called video game, even chastised Ink and the rest who did for doing thus. While Navarro's irascible temper and crude language were indeed not leadership qualities, but he had exhibited more of those qualities far more than Ink had, in Vergil's observance.

“Maybe her human heart supports her will and might in all of her battles. Or maybe her pride that’s part of it. She has the blood of Vanity in her after all.” The Sparda threw a night imperceptible askance look at Shdwkyz, as the Phantom's opinion about Ink just a day prior returned to him. “If so, it’s pretty good combination. Demonic powers and her personality. Well….except for her naivety.”

The blood of Vanity.

Vanity, a prideful draconian demon who values and takes pride in his strength, which must have been no less than formidable if his lord father, Sparda, wrote a special section dedicated for the demon lord.

Surely a demon of Vanity's caliber wouldn't make such a mere naive girl his vassal, unless she demonstrated some qualities of virtue that won the lord's favor.

“I should of told you that, Vergil. Sorry about that…” Ink's uncharacteristic contrite tone broke Vergil out of his music, prompted the cambion to refocus his attention toward here once more. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you, I kinda just forgot about it. I’m….not…really not leader even though my friends said I am. But um…I don’t to boss people around or do amazing leader stuff….”

The annoyance and shock abated within his gray-blue eyes as his brows loosened and his facial muscles relaxed upon hearing Ink's sincere regret, but it was the vanguard's genuine humility that further charmed his impression toward here and reminded him there was still much more beyond Ink's outward naïveté and exuberant conduct.

“There is much more to a leader than exerting superiority upon their confreres,” he soothed her matter-of-factly yet with a tone gentlest than the one he had spoken with the rest of them thus far. “It is I who owe both you and your colleague an apology for foisting upon you my presumption.” And while Vergil was not the type for a amiable apology, his regretful intent was no less sincere as he dipped his head slightly in a formal gesture of apology.

vischys​:

“Whilst it is not necessarily veridical, your leader does offer an elementary analogy,” Vergil advised from the redhead’s side while aiming a fleeting indiscernible glance toward Navarro. Was the girl unused to tamper down her power and simply let it loose without estimation, he wondered. “Wind influences the rate of spread and intensity of the fire. Depends upon your mastery of your powers, you may wish to time your ignition with the velocity of the wind.” The cambion tilted his head to observe the patio briefly before turning to Maggie once more, giving her a brisk nod to confirm the ten minutes period. “Early hours present a gentle breeze but the height of this structure increases the wind’s speed, hence easily raising the temperature of the fire.” Keep Reading

Maggie and Navarro just stared at him strangely as he said this. But Vergil’s advice did help her understand how to control the temperature when it comes to the wind and such. Wind can help keeping the flames alive and raising the temperature. 

Navarro nods at this while he can’t help ponder on what Vergil said. After the bacon is cooked nicely, Gerald and Taz help set up fold tables to make a bigger table for everyone to sit at while Oblivion and Ink help set up the chairs while Fosh and Navarro set down the plates and utensils. Once it’s finished, it looks like a family gathering. Demonic youth with no blood ties coming as one.  Especially the smell of bacon making most of their mouths watering. They can’t wait to taste Vergil’s cooking.

Keep reading

[alexander-cabot]

misc tags

♫ ↝  (  )

[carehurt]

tag drop - arthur wea.sley

[themostvalidmc-blog]

here's some art of your favorite crybaby

[gilderoyalarchive-blog]

ignore dis

&.  visage   ————   most charming smile.

&.  study   ————   celebrity is as celebrity does.

&.  musings   ————   the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

&.  aesthetic   ————   liquid gold runs through your veins.

&.  audio   ————   if music be the food of love.

&.  headcanon   ————   to thine own self be true.

&.  chardev   ————   a watched pot never boils.

&.  answered   ————   half truths  &  false promises.

&.  prompt   ————   ask for an autograph.

&.  crack   ————   the many adventures of glittery poptart.

[mountaiindaughter-blog]

new tag dump

[shadowstaffed-blog]

tag dump #1/?

[g-taire]

uhhh for the angsty ask game !!! can u pls do 'please, put it down' and exr? thank uuuuuu sm for ur work as a fic writer bc theyre all so good and ahh !!!!!!!

ahhhh thank you!! you’re a gem!! this went long. 2.5k long.

exr “please, put it down,” specifically angsty

cw: discussion of alcohol, sobriety

One can learn a lot from snooping. 

For example, Enjolras has learned that Grantaire only folds some of his socks and, on further investigation, has determined there’s a system to it: they’re the socks he cares about being paired, like the novelty Klimt socks Joly got him for his birthday, or the formal black socks he only wears to weddings and funerals. 

He’s also learned that Grantaire keeps a lot of what Enjolras would call paper debris, if nothing else. Ticket stubs, receipts, a business card from a café in Nice, multiple business cards from people who, judging the thickness of the card paper, Grantaire should probably call back, even some Amis posters and hand outs – they all litter the top of his dresser, spilling onto his beside table. 

Underneath this, Enjolras finds sketches and studies of bridges through Paris and remembers the month and a half he accompanied Grantaire around the city, sipping coffee and catching up on readings while Grantaire complained about academia’s restriction to his artistry. 

He knows he shouldn’t be poking through Grantaire’s things. It’s not that he’s doing it for any particular reason– Grantaire is still taking a shower, and Enjolras has already cleaned up their breakfast dishes. This all started because Enjolras was looking for a hoodie to borrow before they headed over to Jehan’s for tea, and he found an old postcard from Feuilly, and one thing led to another. 

It’s just – he’s curious. 

Grantaire is many things, but genuinely open is not one of them. 

Sure, he talks big game, but, if one is paying attention, it’s easy to see through the overwrought grandiosity. It took Enjolras a long time to hear what Grantaire was really saying, or, really, not saying.

Sometimes Enjolras thinks Grantaire doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, but other times, he’ll hear a catch in Grantaire’s words, a hesitation, backtracking through loud, distracting laughter. 

Grantaire’s room seems to reflect its occupant well. 

There is little by way of deliberate decoration. While the living room has a few prints and pieces hanging, collected from his time at the académie, his bedroom walls are almost barren. There’s a work schedule taped next to his door, and the poster of an upcoming rally just below it, the date circled in sharpie. A postcard of the Mona Lisa is stuck to the side of his bookshelf that Enjolras thinks is a joke card, there’s a moustache and goatee now adorning the famous visage, until he looks a little closer and sees it is, in fact, drawn on with pen. 

Beyond that, the cramped room’s only other adornment are the flower patterned curtains Enjolras half believes Grantaire painted himself. 

Enjolras almost doesn’t notice the mirror hanging on the inside of the wardrobe door, the surface almost completely obscured with pictures of their friends. Some of them Enjolras recognizes from facebook, others Grantaire must have taken but not posted. 

Standing in front of the open wardrobe reminds him that he’s supposed to be looking for a jacket. 

The wardrobe isn’t particularly deep, so when Enjolras pushes some longer items out of the way, the boxes stacked behind the clothes topple over. One of the smaller containers hits the ground hard, its top bursting off, spilling its contents over the floor. 

“Ah, fuck,” Enjolras murmurs. He kneels down, reaching for the box — an old biscuit tin — and hurriedly gathers up the loose items.

At first, he thinks they’re game tokens or poker chips. There’s certainly enough of them. 

On one side, a triangle with a number and the words “to thine own self be true” are emblazoned, and on the back, a prayer. Enjolras mouths the words to himself, before their meaning clicks into place.

Oh. 

He rocks back on his heels, thumbing the raised letters. The one he’s holding is green, a three proudly inscribed across the front. 

Three months. Three months and he hadn’t said a word to Enjolras. 

Why wouldn’t he say anything? Why would he hide the coins at the back of his wardrobe, like they were something shameful? 

Enjolras’ stomach twists as he surveys the coins still scattered around him. There are so many. How long has Grantaire been going to meetings? Long enough that it takes more than a few minutes to track down all the loose tokens. 

There are other green chips, more yellow, and so, so many silver. They fill the tin easily, and Enjolras is just snapping the lid back on when the bedroom door opens and Enjolras is caught like a guilty child with their hand in the cookie jar. 

Except the cookie jar is filled with sobriety coins and shame. 

“What are you doing?” Grantaire is frozen in the doorway, and his question is less of a question and more of an accusation, voice void of inflection. 

Enjolras opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Getting to his feet, he looks down at his hands, the tin, and then back at Grantaire. Grantaire’s face is stony, unreadable, waiting, and Enjolras wishes desperately they were having this conversation in a completely different context. 

“Were you going through my stuff?” Grantaire’s voice is harder now.

“No!” and it’s not technically a lie, because at the time he hadn’t been, and besides he hadn’t been looking for anything. He’ll feel guilty about the partial lie later. “I was looking for a hoodie or something, and,” he gestures, the contents of the tin clanking loudly with the movement, “this fell out of the wardrobe.”

“Ok, well, put it back.“ His back is to Enjolras now, and he’s pulling a tee shirt out of a pile near the bed, tugging it over his head. 

“Grantaire—“

“What?” He spins around to face Enjolras, but the even the heat in his voice can’t hide the way he’s curling in on himself, shoulders bunching up.

Enjolras wants to reach out and clasp his hand and tell him how proud he is of Grantaire, how he wants to help in any way he can. But there is something so hard in the look Grantaire is giving him, blue eyes colder than Enjolras has ever seen them. “I— you, I just want—“ he stammers, and curses. 

Rarely is he at a lose for words. He tosses around for something to say. Finally, “Do you want to talk about it.” At ‘it’ he holds up the tin. He winces at the loud clatter of coins in the silence as they shift in the box. 

Grantaire scoffs. “Obviously not.” He turns back around, finishes dressing, but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t go away. 

It hurts. His words shouldn’t hit so hard, shouldn’t feel like a punch to the gut, but they do. 

Even though he has finished dressing, Grantaire doesn’t turn around, puttering about on the other side of the room, picking up dirty clothes, tossing them in the hamper. 

The silence stretches on for too long; Enjolras gripping the stupid box watching Grantaire as he makes futile attempts at avoiding eye contact. 

Finally, “Can we please talk about it?“ When he moves his hand, the tin makes another auditory reappearance. They both grimace at the sound. 

“What is there to talk about?” 

Surely he wasn’t going to play this card. “So much,” Enjolras says. “I mean, you’ve been going to meetings, that’s gre-“

“I haven’t been.” Grantaire faces him fully now, and his expression is unlike anything Enjolras has ever seen before. It’s… it’s disdainful in a way Enjolras is unused to being directed at him. 

Enjolras glances at the tin, then at Grantaire. “I don’t mean to contradict, but.”

Grantaire smiles. It’s cold. “I mean, I used to go. I haven’t in ages.”

“Why not?”

“Because! I don’t want to.” 

All Enjolras can think to ask is, “Why not?”

“Jesus, Enjolras!” Grantaire cries. “Because I don’t want to go.” When all Enjolras can do is stare at him, dumb, he snorts. “It’s not that difficult to understand.” 

“I— I’m trying to understand, Grantaire, but—” Enjolras has to force himself to slow down, consider his words. “You’ve gone in the past. You’ve, you’ve done well in the past. Hell, even just going is doing well, what— what changed? I don’t— I’m trying to understand, really, I am.” 

Except every time he gestures, the stupid tin shuffles the coins loudly, accusatorially, undercutting his words. 

“Please, just— put it down.” Grantaire’s voice is strained. 

Enjolras does, setting it on the overcrowded bedside table. 

They both stare at the box for a moment, before Enjolras tears his gaze away to bring it to Grantaire. 

Grantaire looks small. It’s not an easy feat for someone so broad, so physical, to look so small, but he’s managing it. “Grantaire,” he tries, voice low, “Why wouldn’t you tell me?” 

“Because it’s just another thing.” Grantaire doesn’t look at him, turning to pull and smooth the covers on his bed. Enjolras doesn’t think he’s ever seen Grantaire make his bed in the months they’ve been together. 

“Another ’thing?’” 

“Yeah, ‘thing.’”

“What does that even mean?” 

“It means: I don’t want to have this conversation with you right now!” Grantaire snaps. “it means: please, take a hint and stop talking to me about it!” 

“You getting help is a huge step! It’s—“ Enjolras persists, blind. 

“Enjolras!” 

Enjolras’ mouth snaps closed.

Rarely does Grantaire shout, except to get someone’s attention across a crowded bar. Rarely does he raise his voice at Enjolras, except in the heat of mutual debate. Never does he look at Enjolras the way he is now, like he’d like nothing more than to shut Enjolras up himself. 

They stare at each other, not speaking, for so long Enjolras wonders what it’ll take to break the silence. He’s just taking a breath, preparing himself to do just that when Grantaire says, “It’s just another thing to count.”

Enjolras doesn’t ask for clarification. He waits. 

Grantaire continues, “If it’s one day, it’s two. If it’s two, it’s three. If it’s three, it’s four, five, six. The bigger the number, the longer you go without,” he swallows.  “Without drinking, the scarier that number gets. 

“I know people who spent years sober. They knew the exact number of days, hours, minutes, since their last drink. And then, all it takes is a few seconds, a single moment of weakness, and it’s all over. Back to zero.”

Enjolras opens his mouth to refute Grantaire’s use of ‘weakness,’ but catches himself. Lets Grantaire use the words he needs to. His heart aches to hear them. 

Grantaire is staring, unseeing, at some space above Enjolras’ shoulder. He stays like this for a long moment, before he shakes his head, and, looking at Enjolras, “I’m so tired of being afraid of numbers.”

“So you just give up?” 

“I’m not— I’m not giving up,” Grantaire says. He almost sounds like he’s pleading with Enjolras, but for what, Enjolras can’t tell anymore. “I’m still working on getting sober. I just — I can’t just quit the way they want you to. One day, maybe, but right now… I can’t.”

Enjolras has never experienced addiction, knows he has no possible way of understanding what Grantaire is going through. It doesn’t stop him from wanting to try. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?” he asks. 

“Why would I?”

“I want to help, I want to be there for you.” Enjolras says, “Isn’t that part of the program, reaching out to family and friends? For support?” 

Grantaire snorts out a noise that sounds like it could be a laugh, and Enjolras flinches away from the sound. “Why? Do you want to make me your next project?”

“You know that’s not how I feel about you.”

“Do I?” At this, Grantaire looks him straight on, eyes rimmed curiously red. 

He softens his voice. “I thought you did.” 

Grantaire holds his gaze for a moment, before clearing his throat, looking away. “Anyway. Joly and Bossuet know. They’ve been helping me. We talked to Combeferre a little too.”

It shouldn’t be such a blow to hear Grantaire reached out to their friends. It makes sense, Joly and Combeferre are training to be doctors, and Bossuet is Grantaire’s best friend. It’s a good thing he’s got a support group within their friends, even if Enjolras knows all their friends would step up without hesitation. 

“Oh,” Enjolras manages. He nods, smiles. 

Grantaire has always been better at reading Enjolras than Enjolras has of Grantaire. “Don’t make this about you,” he says.

“I’m not!”

“Good. Because this isn’t about you. I’m trying to do this, but I need to do it my way.” 

“Okay,” Enjolras says. And then, because he can’t help it, “I want you to know I’m proud of you. Whatever happens, I’m here for you, and I’m really proud of you for doing this for yourself, for all the work you’ve already done.” 

Grantaire scoffs, looks away, and Enjolras frowns. “What?” Enjolras asks. 

Shaking his head, Grantaire says, “There’s nothing to be 'proud' of.” His words are laced heavy with derision. “Did you see how many silver tokens are in there?” He gestures uselessly at the cookie tin. 

“Yeah, it’s amazing—“

“You get them for showing up. A new one, after each relapse. Did you see how many are in there?”

“That just means you tried, again and again. That you can still try again tomorrow,” Enjolras says. 

Grantaire stares at him, expression inscrutable, and says nothing. 

Enjolras wants nothing more than to cross the distance between them, the space fraught with raw emotion and nerves rubbed tender, and pull Grantaire to him, hold him tight. He wants to hold Grantaire until the tension in his shoulders melts away, until he doesn’t look like a single breath of wind may shatter the stony resolve. 

He wonders if Grantaire would welcome his embrace. Something chafes in the air and he thinks perhaps not. 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras starts, to apologize, soothe, anything. 

“Can we please, just, not talk about this anymore?” Grantaire interrupts, begs, turning away. And then, his voice that of forced calm,  “Are we going to Jehan’s or not? We’re already late.”

Enjolras opens his mouth to protest. He wants to stay, but Grantaire’s posture bids no argument, promises silence and a bitter cold Enjolras isn’t sure he can handle. “I— yes, of course. Let me just get my shoes.” 

Later, when he tentatively takes Grantaire’s hand, he’ll find it trembling, and squeezes it hard. After an agonizing moment, in which he thinks Grantaire may not acknowledge the gesture, Grantaire presses back.