“Oh god,” Grantaire sighs. “Why did I bother asking?”
He looks himself up and down. “Bacchus, of course. Can’t you tell by my artful toga?” He sighed, then looks at Enjolras.
“And - what are you? Didn’t know you participated in such… commercialised holidays.”
:: { ℑ⋅ℇ } ─ ─ ─ ::
Desperation, he wants to say
but the words paint themselves
across strong features rather than
leave his tongue. It doesn’t matter.
Either would’ve said e n o u g h .
”–Ah, so the drink was for a
spot of method acting, was it?
I’m ｉｍｐｒｅｓｓｅｄ.“
( He looks anything but. )
At the mention of the bicorne
atop his head, Enjolras offers a
grimace, an eyeroll sent to the
skies. For once, his irritation is
not aimed at Grantaire.
”No costume, no entry. A
reinstated rule in my honor, no
doubt.“ A pause. His tone
remains dry when he speaks
but with a quiet thread of pride
underlying it.
”I’m my worst nightmare, can’t you tell?“