granxaire:

That was almost unfair. You could generally count
on Grantaire for a few things. Access to alcohol,
cigarettes, and coffee were generally among them
along with a spectacular ability to fuck up most
things he touched.
             Okay, so maybe low expectations were fair.

                     “He’s kind of like having a cat,” Grantaire mused.
                     "You know, you leave the kitty flap open and he
                       comes in sometimes, occasionally he brings a
                       dead bird, but usually he just eats your food in
                       the middle of the night and disappears before sunup.

             ”—I think he might also rip off someones
                       face if they tried to put a bell collar on him,”
              he added as he pushed off the wall to do as he was told.
                      "I see numbers, and accounts, and some more
                                 numbers and wait—”

:: { ℑ⋅ℇ } ─ ─ ─ ::

               It’s more than easy, it’s almost
           routine, to tune Grantaire out; just
           let the words wash right over him,
           crash against a shore that’s too far
           away to unsettle him. Grantaire’s
           voice carries in the early morning
           (or is it still late night?)  s i l e n c e
           of the apartment, ideas of collars
           and food bowls following Enjolras 
           as he picks out his usual mug to
           dump in a more than usual amount
           of sugar into before he adds coffee.

                                    ”I’d like to see you try that on him,“
                                   he mutters, taking a sip of the too 
                                   hot liquid but not minding the way it
                                   burns down his throat. The effect is
                                   almost instantaneous (psychosomatic,
                                   someone would say, but who cares?).

                 Enjolras catches the tail end
             of Grantaire’s thought process
             and there’s something distinctly
             smug about the way he settles
             back into the couch, glitter all but
             forgotten. ”That last withdrawal.
             I’m not seeing things. They did
             get sloppy.“ It’s not posed as a
             question but he’s waiting on the
             confirmation, on the approval to
             exact his own brand of justice.