001 | video | WARNING: THREAD WITH SURGERY
[He’s washed up now, wine poured into a glass he found in his new living quarters, wearing something clean.
Clean for now, at least. He taps the screen, still quite maladjusted to this but taking it in stride.]
Alright, in theory I know how this works, but how I’m expected to be comfortable with such radical, fantastic changes to the everyday and mundane is a touch ridiculous. We the people do not change so easily, we do what is comfortable to us until it is no longer comfortable, and then we move on to the next habitual escape. See my own actions as an example. I arrived on this plane, sober, soaked and in pain, so my first action was to find an escape from two of the three ailments.
[He holds up his glass with a lopsided smile, a toast to the screen, before taking a drink. A drop dribbles down his chin and stains the collar of his shirt.]
Mm, and who would have thought that the afterlife would dress me like a china-man? Not so high and mighty are the empires of Europe now, I see. Could colonial exploits be more of a joke than it is now? That I would like to see.
Now, if someone on this here web of decadent communication could point in the direction of Monsieurs Jehan Prouvaire, Etienne Combeferre and Michel Enjolras, I may be satiated enough to keep to myself.
Clean for now, at least. He taps the screen, still quite maladjusted to this but taking it in stride.]
Alright, in theory I know how this works, but how I’m expected to be comfortable with such radical, fantastic changes to the everyday and mundane is a touch ridiculous. We the people do not change so easily, we do what is comfortable to us until it is no longer comfortable, and then we move on to the next habitual escape. See my own actions as an example. I arrived on this plane, sober, soaked and in pain, so my first action was to find an escape from two of the three ailments.
[He holds up his glass with a lopsided smile, a toast to the screen, before taking a drink. A drop dribbles down his chin and stains the collar of his shirt.]
Mm, and who would have thought that the afterlife would dress me like a china-man? Not so high and mighty are the empires of Europe now, I see. Could colonial exploits be more of a joke than it is now? That I would like to see.
Now, if someone on this here web of decadent communication could point in the direction of Monsieurs Jehan Prouvaire, Etienne Combeferre and Michel Enjolras, I may be satiated enough to keep to myself.

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There is no need to point to me, I am here. Are you well, Guillaume?
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[he's smiling though, sipping casually at his drink, all too glad to see another familiar face.]
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You did not answer my question, however. Are you hurt? We all were upon our arrival, and if so, I should like to look you over.
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Wow, most of the people Dorian knows who drink like that are, er, ex-lovers. Who drink like that because of him. Anyway.][But one thing bothers him about this.] The communication devices are far from decadent. They too much mimic life and leave little room for deception. [This isn't decadent. It's faithful. That's terrible. Someone bring out Photoshop.]
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Luckily for Dorian then, that Grantaire is everyone's perpetual ex-lover and the world is his need to drink.][Really though, he just shrugs, finishing his glass and pouring himself another.]
The narcissism to share pointless drivel with the world and the ease of doing it from the comfort of your home. Not quite lapping absinthe from a mistress' navel though. Hedonistic then, not decadent. Dare I even say human.
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How unlike your three friends you are, Monsieur. [It is not disapproving, more amused.] Very well; it is human, and I forgive the slight to my Hedonist friends. We would, of course, prefer the absinthe to these devices on a whole. I see you are no longer soaked. Has fixing your sobriety done anything for the pain?
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[only half-joking here sob]
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If Charon takes francs I had three in my pocket and the blind twit missed them.
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And that it should be Grantaire-
He hurries to the man's apartment as quickly as he can, his chest is still tender despite the rate at which he is healing. There is much that he would like to discuss with the man, and not least of which is the matter of his - their - deaths.
He knocks on the door, tempted simply to enter and greet Grantaire without waiting for permission. If no answer is forthcoming, it's likely he will do so.]
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[He expects it to be Jehan or Combeferre. He knows no one else on the turtle, and he's too sober now to have a hope for Enjolras. His bottle ran dry an hour ago, but he's not yet sober enough for getting up with pain in his chest to be worth it. It's comfortable here, even if he's bored out of his mind. He's been entertaining himself getting acquainted with these new, impossible developments called computers.
Now though, he's trying to light his ruined matches.]
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For a moment he pauses in the doorway of the room, taking in the setting. There is an empty bottle there. The man sitting at his desk, to be blunt, is the exact picture of one who has died and somehow lived through it. The attempt to light wet matches speaks of a state too far from sober for Enjolras' usual liking.
But none of that is relevant, currently.
With a few steps Enjolras crosses the room to kneel at Grantaire's side, to put them on an equal height. He smiles and takes his hand again, a deliberate mirror to their shared deaths which he has long been thinking on.]
It is good to see you, mon frère.
[And calling him brother, before a response can be given, he embraces the cynic to himself.
It may be a miracle for a cynic to give his life for a cause he has long denied, but it gives Enjolras hope that there may be more to him that a bottle and some drunken wit.]
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hey gaiz lemme interrupt your moment here
dammit Ferre
/o/
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[But, more importantly:] Have you found your friends?
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I am glad you've found your friends, though, no matter what you want to call say of them. [And that's definitely an amused smile, she likes you French boys.]
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How pampered you must be that discomfort is the largest of your complaints when radical change is introduced. [ Eyeroll. Singular. As the other is a little missing. ] You've got shelter, clothing, food and drink - and the city has enough people you can probably find someone to pay, or someone that just hates themselves enough, to let you cry on their shoulder over the dreadful state of your comfort.
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Are you done now, or do I have time for another drink?
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By all means, don't let me stop you from wallowing. You're doing such a good job of it.
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[He knows better, at least for his own part.]
Furthermore, there are numerous individuals here who are not only familiar with the concept of alternate realities or worlds but who claim to have travelled to them personally, and who are themselves convinced that this is simply another of those worlds.
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[FRENCH PEOPLE.
Nita, obviously not-human pointed ears and all, is leaning towards the screen, looking concerned.]
You're okay? You don't need a doctor?
[Because all the rest of you have been bleeding from multiple serious injuries on arrival.]
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A lot of who exactly? Men? People? Frenchmen? Intolerably intelligent drunks?
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Decadent communication?
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Not that I'm judging, of course, it seems just the sort of hedonism that should work well for me.
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