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Disinclination: July, 1829
In the heat of July, anyone who cannot afford to leave the city does their level best to stay in the coolest possible places. Many people also take trips up the Seine in order to bathe in it before it becomes Paris' cesspool. On one such trip, Prouvaire and Enjolras acquire bright sunburns. Courfeyrac comes back only a little pinkened, as does Combeferre. Laigle and Joly declined to take part in the gathering, in favor of visiting Laigle's remaining family in Meaux. Bahorel has become quite tanned earlier in the summer, and he grins somewhat sympathetically at his friends' painful noses and ears. Around dusk, when the heat of the day starts to fade, they gather for a light supper and an informal discussion, but no real meeting. Grantaire is also there. To all appearances, he has spent much of the afternoon in the cafe, drinking wine. Most of those present are tired from swimming and sunshine, and it is not long before the friends begin to depart -- Enjolras and Combeferre with their heads together, Bahorel with an arm around Prouvaire, solicitously shepherding him homeward. "Good night," Courfeyrac says affectionately to the latter pair as they start out the door together. Bahorel grins at him. "Goodnight, Aimery." Prouvaire yawns, theatrically wide. "Do give Daniel our regards, when you see him." Courfeyrac shakes his head. "If I see him before Christmas, I will." Prouvaire clucks his tongue. "I'm sure it won't be so very long." He rubs his eyes in the manner of a tired little boy. "Good night, chéri." Courfeyrac chuckles, and pats his shoulder. "Good night, petit frère. Goodnight, Chris. Take care, both of you." "Oh, we will," Bahorel says. "Don't worry." With that, they leave. There is the sound of a chair scraping across the floor behind Courfeyrac as Grantaire pushes it back from his table and stands. Courfeyrac turns away from the door with a sigh, moving to collect his belongings, then pauses at the unexpected noise. "And goodnight to you, too," he says mildly. Grantaire gives him a bemused smile. "And I thought you didn't care for sleeping alone. Is it the heat, then? I'm sure it's too warm to think of doing anything but sleeping." "Yes, it is, rather." Courfeyrac shrugs. "Would you care for company, then?" "No," tersely. "Thank you." Grantaire blinks. "Was I that unpleasant to you?" Courfeyrac meets his eyes for a moment. "Not to me, no." Grantaire frowns. "Then what's the problem?" "I tend not to go home with people who offend my friends." Courfeyrac pushes his chair under the table. "What -- oh." Grantaire shakes his head. "If I'd seen Enjolras for half a moment between then and now, without his lover hanging all over him, I'd have cleared up the misunderstanding. I can't imagine he was that offended; a boy that pretty must get remarks all the time." "Really?" coolly. "You don't know him very well." Grantaire shrugs. "Perhaps. I'd still have said something to him, if the opportunity had presented itself, which it didn't. -- I didn't do anything to him, you know." Courfeyrac gives him a level look. "Enjolras is not given to upsetting himself over nothing." "I touched his shoulder, maybe." Grantaire shakes his head. "I don't know, now, what it all was, but it wasn't anything more than that." "So you say." "God!" Grantaire waves a hand. "What do you think I am? I didn't hurt him. I didn't force him into anything." Courfeyrac scowls. "I don't know what you are, except drunk half the time, and yes, I'd take Julien's word or Audric's over yours. For all I know you knocked him down and didn't remember it in the morning." Grantaire wipes one hand over his face. "God, no. I hardly touched him, I'll swear to that. And your Audric, what does he know? He wasn't there." "Clearly." Courfeyrac shrugs tiredly. "I'm not accusing you of anything -- except offending Enjolras, whom I have never known to take offense at nothing. Good night." "If I'd known he was that upset, I'd have talked to him about it." Grantaire frowns. "I don't understand any of this, or any of you. You'll play any games you want, won't you, and bedamned to me if I so much as ask why." Courfeyrac looks at him again. "Then why do you come back?" "Where else can I pretend that such charming company wants me around?" Grantaire shrugs. "It's a lovely pageant in here, most nights, the way you all talk. It would be easier if some of you didn't hate me -- and I didn't think you did hate me, Aimery, but I've been wrong before." Courfeyrac sighs. "I don't hate you. I don't like you particularly, either. If you want to be liked, pressing your attentions upon one of our nearest and dearest is not the way to go about it." Grantaire bangs his hand on the table. "By God, I didn't do anything to him. If I had, do you honestly think I'd be anywhere near any of you? I asked, and he said no, and that was that. Will you condemn me for that?" Courfeyrac takes a deep breath. "I'm not condemning you. I'm declining to walk home with you. Leave it at that." "I didn't think you wanted to, after all that. Just -- don't accuse me of anything I didn't do, and we'll be even." "Very well." Grantaire says something, very quietly. Courfeyrac pauses. "Pardon?" "What the hell do you care?" Grantaire glares at him. A moment's hesitation. "Nothing, I'm sure." He turns away toward the door. "It was kind of you. Charitable, to put up with me." Grantaire's voice is rougher than usual. "No," quietly. "It wasn't." "Take a goddamn' compliment. It can't cost you that much." Courfeyrac stands silently for a minute; then he bends his head, and goes out. Grantaire swears and sits down heavily in the chair where he has been all evening.
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