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tushanshu_logs2013-02-09 10:52 pm
cynisme) wrote in tushanshu_logs2013-02-09 10:52 pm
Entry tags:
OPEN | a drink to life
Characters: Grantaire and YOU!
Date: Tonight.
Location: Outside on the street, in the Wood sector.
Situation: Grantaire has just been dragged out of the sea and instead of washing up and resting, he took to the streets.
Warning/Rating: None at the moment.
Sober is a terribly overrated state of being. Sitting on the ground, tree bark behind him satiating the itch of sea water he hasn't yet washed off, he’s more than glad for the bottle in hand. Finding a wine shop hadn't been hard, not with how helpful these people seemed to be. It had been his first goal, to find one, rather than bother with cleaning himself up or orienting himself to whatever limbo or purgatory this was. The irony that he can drink in the afterlife, which he’s surprised enough at the existence of, almost makes him laugh. He would laugh harder, deeper, if it didn't ache so much, like something was digging into his ribs from the inside.
Waking up gasping for breath, wheezing, and soaked to the bone hadn't been easy. Everything ached and stung like the salt water was burning him from the inside, and sobriety was blinding him like the crisp, shining sun. Now the wine has gone to his brain once again and he can manage, watching the dull glow of the ground below him. It has a warm presence to him, or perhaps that’s just the contrast of wine to chilled blood in his veins.
Only now when the world around him is dulled and malleable once again does he slide a hand into his shirt, to poke at his wounds. Definitely dead, then, if he’s not bleeding profusely and not passed out from shock and blood loss already. It’s a medical oddity he can only imagine that Joly or Combeferre would want to dissect him for, no matter what cost to his person. He wouldn't blame them, they’re only human like everyone else. He sighs through his nose, dropping his head back against the bark of the wood and staring up at the sky. Bottle to mouth, he wonders: If he’s here, what heaven has Enjolras passed to?
Date: Tonight.
Location: Outside on the street, in the Wood sector.
Situation: Grantaire has just been dragged out of the sea and instead of washing up and resting, he took to the streets.
Warning/Rating: None at the moment.
Sober is a terribly overrated state of being. Sitting on the ground, tree bark behind him satiating the itch of sea water he hasn't yet washed off, he’s more than glad for the bottle in hand. Finding a wine shop hadn't been hard, not with how helpful these people seemed to be. It had been his first goal, to find one, rather than bother with cleaning himself up or orienting himself to whatever limbo or purgatory this was. The irony that he can drink in the afterlife, which he’s surprised enough at the existence of, almost makes him laugh. He would laugh harder, deeper, if it didn't ache so much, like something was digging into his ribs from the inside.
Waking up gasping for breath, wheezing, and soaked to the bone hadn't been easy. Everything ached and stung like the salt water was burning him from the inside, and sobriety was blinding him like the crisp, shining sun. Now the wine has gone to his brain once again and he can manage, watching the dull glow of the ground below him. It has a warm presence to him, or perhaps that’s just the contrast of wine to chilled blood in his veins.
Only now when the world around him is dulled and malleable once again does he slide a hand into his shirt, to poke at his wounds. Definitely dead, then, if he’s not bleeding profusely and not passed out from shock and blood loss already. It’s a medical oddity he can only imagine that Joly or Combeferre would want to dissect him for, no matter what cost to his person. He wouldn't blame them, they’re only human like everyone else. He sighs through his nose, dropping his head back against the bark of the wood and staring up at the sky. Bottle to mouth, he wonders: If he’s here, what heaven has Enjolras passed to?