III. But I don't like scenes, except on the stage.

[epigrammatical]

[In which Lord Henry treats the text feature as if it were a telegram service.]

[Text, private to Dorian Gray]
[This message is sent after two days' discreet waiting after Toby's arrival. Henry is not blind and definitely noticed Dorian's reaction, but (wisely, probably) did not interfere, and has allowed time to pass before approaching Dorian—and has also been studiously avoiding Toby. He has no idea whether his friend will answer, but even if he doesn't, that will tell him much of what he needs to know.]

Are you well? I do not wish to intrude, of course, but I could not help but notice a certain amount of recent excitement.

[Text, private to Alcuin nó Delaunay]
I hope this finds you well—would you be available to dine or for a drink sometime soon? I should like to hear of your progress with our yellow book.

[Open action nice choice and not so nice, post-trainwreck choice]

[ETA: Disturbing conversations about murder and possible eventual bad behaviour within.]

Comments

[cynisme]

N'importe quoi, if it smells similar, tastes similar, feels similar, who cares what they call it?

[He takes one though with a nod of thanks, holding it out for a light before enjoying the feel of smoke in his lungs and flowing out his mouth.]

Shit, that's nice.

[He takes another drink and then another draw from the cigarette, blowing smoke up into the air and watching it go before continuing.]

Jehan Prouvaire, that's my friend, if you've spoken to him then you'd likely know that.

[epigrammatical]

[Murmured, almost to himself, at Grantaire's assesment of the ersatz tobacco of the turtle:] That statement may apply to many things that we find satisfying.

[He's reminded of certain other young men he has known—young panthers, as Oscar would call them many years later—but he's too canny to do anything too foolish just yet. He does let his fingers brush Graintaire's as he lights the cigarette, though; it could easily be an accident.]

Yes, that is the young man's name—a most passionate Romantic indeed, I thought, with considerable feeling for the beauty of the natural world.

[cynisme]

[young panthers he might remind Henry of, but in truth he is more a young lion, brash and unapologetic, loud talk and raucous behavior hiding the submissive streak beneath, that awe for the alpha male of the pride.

who that alpha male may be in this case goes without saying.

The brush of fingers phases him not at all (he is French, bien sur, not English and therefor afraid of his own skin). Instead he simply continues on , nursing bottle and cigarette in a noxious combination of narcotics.]

You speak like a lawyer, or an orientalist. As for Jehan, his Romanticism is exceeded only by his desire for sublime romance, lower case. unluckily for him we expired before he could find his muse. luckily for the rest of the world, though.

[epigrammatical]

[A (mostly) feigned look of horror.]

I beg of you, never compare me to a lawyer again. I accept the charge of orientalist with some small reservation, but it is not wholly unjustified. Are you always so hard on your friends, Monsieur—?

[cynisme]

Grantaire. I'm called Grantaire, by friends and enemies alike. As for my friends, I'm harder on them than I am on most because I expect better of them.

Not that I don't have a friend or two working as lawyers, but they're truly shit at it.

[epigrammatical]

[Henry laughs at that. He's moved a little closer to Grantaire, actually, though not so much yet as to be indecorous.]

And I am called Henry and also a bad influence, by friends and enemies alike. One should always hold both friends and enemies to high standards; friends for the reason you state, and enemies because their quality reflects on oneself.

[cynisme]

A bad influence.

[Grantaire laughs through a puff of smoke, then taps the cigarette to let ashes fall to the ground. Any action by Henry is not noticed, himself a man who disregards personal space on a daily basis.]

If I had a sous for every time I heard that about myself, then I would be as rich as my father. Then I would promptly waste it all on drink, because there's nothing else quite worth it. Every other creature comfort of ours only serves to make us want more and create a sense of dissatisfaction. Wine, on the other hand, leaves everyone feeling content.

[It's time to drink, after such a praise of liquor, and more wine drips down the side of his mouth, splashing his collar red.]

And also, enemies are a waste of time and energy. I like and I dislike, but if I chose to hate anyone I'd end up hating everyone equally.

[epigrammatical]

Hate should never be a democratic emotion. It should be carefully cultivated, like a hothouse flower—or else cut out entirely, roots and all.

[As he says this, he produces a handkerchief and, casually, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world to do, dabs at the wine on Graintaire's face.]

As for the matter of wine, I cannot dispute its virtues—but for my own part I find the greatest pleasure in those exquisite experiences that leave one unsatisfied, of which the cigarette is but one of the finest examples.

[cynisme]

[It's then that Grantaire does finally give Henry a weird look. The gesture is obvious--there is little more intimate from a friend than a brush against lips, much less a stranger. He's not scandalized in the slightest of course, given his own proclivities, but it strikes him as terribly English, going about it that way. Presumptuous and not suave at all.

Maybe not what Henry was going for but again, he's not French. Leave it to the English to not know how to approach human nature with ease and finesse.

He isn't sure if he wants to take Henry up on the suddenly obvious offer, so he does nothing to discourage him just yet. He simply lets his tongue peak out of his mouth to wet his lips once the handkerchief is gone.]

Hate is a virus, Monsieur Henri. If I let it, it will infect every cell in my body until I cough up hatred like I already do disappointment. If you haven't notice already, life is plenty unsatisfying. If I wanted to be unsatisfied I would be sober, which is a loathsome state. I would never suggest it.

[He emphasizes his words then, with a drink.]

[epigrammatical]

[That look ruffles Henry not a bit; he might even seem not to notice it as he tucks the handkerchief back into his coat pocket. He could have been even less subtle, of course, but he is aware that it could have resulted in the undesirable contact of his own head with the wine bottle. And he could have been more subtle, he knows, but that is not his mood at the moment.]

Sobriety, common sense, an excess of the dullest kind of sympathy—all afflictions which ail the nineteenth century like a vast case of consumption. It is as well that you have found your antidote; for my own part, I continue to measure and compound my own.

[cynisme]

For as long as it lasts me, at the very least.

[His voice is laced with unenthusiastic sarcasm, as it always is, and he takes a long drag from the cigarette before letting ash fall to the ground. He then continues, looking over at Henry and holding out his bottle in offering.

He's not against sharing.]

Sobriety, common sense, et aussi, they aren't ailments they're attempts at betterment. Doomed to fail, but oui, still attempts. It's nothing new to the nineteenth century, and neither is the human desire to completely disregard it. We are a race of natural delinquents, it comes easily to us and will continue to do so for eternity.

[epigrammatical]

[Henry regards the bottle with a split-second hesitation, then accepts it. He takes a drink, with as much delicacy as one can. He hasn't drunk like this since he was a student.]

Just as I have often said to my aunt, who appears to believe that she can improve the character of the East End by playing piano to them. In fact I should think she would be considerably more likely to incite a riot, though that is due as much to the quality of her playing as to the foolishness of the attempt.

[cynisme]

[That is so very English of him, isn't it? If this encounter as proven anything to Grantaire, it's that the English will always be so distinctly English in all manner of social behaviors. Even the most delicate Frenchmen he's met have no problem with gripping a wine bottle like an old friend. He scoffs a laugh when Henry does take it, so very delicately indeed, with a shake of his head and another long drag from the cigarette as it reaches closer to it's end.]

Sounds like a lovely woman. Should you send her to Paris make sure that she finds herself on la rue Poupee, where she will find a spectacular little beer shop with one of those new form pianos in the corner. Let the rats who scurry there get her drunk and teach her a thing or two about betterment.

[And another drag and a tap of the cigarette so the ashes could fall to the ground, he blows the smoke out quickly. He takes that moment to lean his head back against the wall they've positioned themselves against, getting a good look at the other man.]

What was it that gave me away, Monsieur Henri?

[epigrammatical]

[Henry regards Grantaire with a small smile. He understands the question, and is, to his own surprise, not certain of his next move. Matters might have been simpler if he'd run into a man of fewer words and simpler mind, but this conversation, odd as it is, has been engaging, and that he had not really expected. Though it is welcome all the same.]

I could say "a lucky guess", but you would not believe me, would you? I would ask what gave me away, but clearly you understand what a man seeks in the corners of the night.

[cynisme]

Particularly what an Englishman seeks. What gave you away was that you came up to an obviously drunk stranger,

[He pauses here, to give Henry a look and a lick of his dry lips, waving his hand to grab for the bottle again.]

with poetry and no other obvious intent but to loiter and keep the company of said stranger, moi. If you were French that would be one thing, but the English only do that when they want what they can't have at home.

Tell me that I'm wrong, Henri.

[epigrammatical]

The only regard in which you are wrong, dear boy, is in the assumption that I could not have what I sought back in London. [A sardonic look.] A discreet man with connections in the right places can have whatever he likes, even in a land ruled by a queen as dour and humourless as our own. But as a stranger in a strange land, I must resort to older methods, I fear.

[cynisme]

[The look on Henry's face actually gets a smile out of him, a toothy, lopsided grin. Sardonic is a much more natural state than anyone seems to give it credit for, and it's a matter of pride that he can strip away the layers of pretense to get to the matter as it is.

Cynicism is what's left when the wallpaper peels.]

Perhaps, but discretion is an exhausting chore. One we all must deal with to some extent, of course, but one of the benefits of being French truly is not being English, when it comes to the idea of discretion. Your culture lacks the joie de vivre that we hold so dear. Well, the better of us, the more wretched and less regal....

[He puts out the cigarette, or what's left of it, against the wall and lets it drop before he continues, leaning his head back against the wall with wine bottle teetering against his lips.]

But you never answered me when I asked what gave me away. Don't tell me you were simply being reckless.

[epigrammatical]

[Many of his fellow-countrymen despise the French for their tendency to believe themselves superior in all things, but Henry actually enjoys it. Not least because on more than a few points, he agrees with them. He smiles at Grantaire's pronouncement; it gives him nearly as much pleasure as less verbal activity does.]

It is not in me to be reckless except when to be so is the least necessary. It was no one thing; rather an accretion of details. I might have been on my way after giving you a cigarette but, perhaps, for the way you took pleasure in it, or the way you spoke of influence. [He extinguishes the remains of his own cigarette.] Romanticism has its charms, my dear fellow, but when it has left one with the taste of dust in one's mouth, the only remedy of the elixir of cynicism, and more than anything else, that is what I seek.

[It's as close as Henry will ever get to admitting to how wounded the conversation with Dorian left him, and he's admitting it to Grantaire, a stranger, here in an alley. It is indeed as close to raw as Henry has ever gotten, though even now he guards himself with his epigrams and aphorisms. He needs to keep these about him, if nothing else.]

[cynisme]

[Now, Grantaire doesn't believe the French to be better in all things. That would be idealistic, and he could never be called that. No, he simply subscribes to the familiar belief that the French will, generally, just continue to be better than the English at most things.

He can't help but scoff though, pouring back more wine and resting shoulders back against wall, and then his eye contact returns, sloppy and bare.]

Romantics are only cynics who've yet to have their idealistic bubble of hope popped. They preach of God and sublime human emotion but don't realize that Newton was right, and that everything that goes up only comes down harder. The taste of dust that you're so familiar with is called disappointment of that wretched Human Condition.

[He smirks to himself, as if there's something more to it, some idea swirling in his head, and with another sip he continues with less roundabout poetics, more slurred forward monologue.]

As for the elixir of cynicism, you're looking at it, I am the Dionysus of cynicism and I've yet to make up my mind on you.

[epigrammatical]

Have you not? I wear all that I am in my buttonhole, and as carefully cultivated.

[And a snatch of poetry comes to him, courtesy of the Dionysus comment—]

II en est, aux lueurs des résines croulantes,
Qui dans le creux muet des vieux antres païens
T'appellent au secours de leurs fièvres hurlantes,
Ô Bacchus, endormeur des remords anciens!

[cynisme]

[That comment gets a snort out of Grantaire, and a rebuttal of his own.]

You do not.

[But then again there's poetry, more poignant than the last, and Grantaire listens, bringing bottle to lips.]

Your poet forgets that some of us drink in order to get into a fever to begin with. Santé. [He can toast to that, drinking again.]

[epigrammatical]

[He does not deny the rebuttal verbally, instead simply adjusting the lapel of his coat where there is, in fact, a blossom as close to a Parma violet as he's been able to find, now considerably the worse for wear.]

Oh, M. Baudelaire understands the uses of drink quite well—Pour ne pas sentir l'horrible fardeau du Temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans trêve. Mais de quoi? De vin, de poésie ou de vertu, à votre guise. Mais enivrez-vous.

[Thus filling out more of the passage that he quoted earlier.]

[cynisme]

That's the problem with you poets, or whatever you've decided you are. You have no original thoughts of your own, only quotations from others who likely do the same thing. And what is it that you think of drink, hm? Go on, use your own words this time, that poet of yours can't help you now.

[And Grantaire leans languid against the wall, taking another sip of his drink. It may be this answer that tips the scale, that has Grantaire decide what he thinks of this pompous, decadent Englishman for no regard for his own personal safety.]

[epigrammatical]

[Henry smiles, and there's something sharp in his look now.]

It is one of mankind's finest inventions, next to the cigarette. The cigarette is the finest of evanescent pleasures; drink makes a guest of itself in body and soul and like all guests, often overstays its welcome, but one always invites it back. It is a chain that binds and the key to the chains. It is, like all sensation, an anodyne for the soul. Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, and nothing can cure the senses but the soul.

[That is one of the few maxims of his own that he is happy to repeat, because he actually believes it.]

[cynisme]

Ooh la la, and is that all your own thought? If so, I may almost be impressed. Congratulations, monsieur, you have my vote.

[He's smiling, a silent mocking laugh despite the honesty of his words. He is impressed, should Henry truly be using his own words and not those of someone else. The farce still remains though, that of two decadents, one old and one new, having a pissing contest.]

You're wrong though, so incredibly wrong, because a cigarette is a craving, a delicious taste akin to the finest fruit or chocolate, but wine. Wine dulls the senses and numbs you to the pains of living like no cigarette ever could. Give me death before I choose a cigarette over a good, hard drink.