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

[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.

[epigrammatical]

[Henry acknowledges the compliment, such as it is, with a nod and a wave of the hand, a small gesture of mock humility.]

A thought sprung fully-formed from my brow as Minerva, my dear fellow. For my own part, I admit a preference for the cigarette, but perhaps de gustibus non disputandum est, as the saying goes.

[cynisme]

And the man who first spread that excuse clearly could not hold his own ground in one. [Whether or not he means it as an insult to Henry directly is unclear, and will never really be clarified if Grantaire can help it. What he thinks of Henry has solidified nicely enough in his own mind, and he will happily share that opinion with all of their mutual friends. Not Henry though, not right this moment.

He's silent for a moment, glancing at Henry again, meeting eyes as he takes a sip from his dwindling bottle, flesh lips to glass lips. He says nothing, only nods to himself and smirks. He glances up at the sky, as if something up there could make up his mind towards whatever it is he happens to be mulling in his mulled brain. Another nod, and he pushes himself off of the wall and downs the rest of the bottle without a second though. It's then abandoned on the ground and he stretches.]

Alors, it's been interesting. Try not to get the tar beaten out of you with that wandering worm of yours.

[He doesn't even wait for a response as he walks backwards, grin on his lips, a wink, and a salute against his forehead, then turns on his heels with a sway in his step and a hum on his lips.]

[epigrammatical]

[The riposte gets an appreciative chuckle, but Henry says nothing, only watching Grantaire as he finishes the bottle and turns to go. He waits just a moment—]

I am touched by your concern, dear fellow. Are you quite sure you won't have another cigarette before you go?

[cynisme]

[He's already quite a few footsteps away by the time Henry is finished, and Grantaire only turns on his heels and keeps walking, backwards, as best he can for those few steps that he chooses to continue to engage Henry.]

Not if you're going to offer, non, but if you follow I might just change my mind, eh? I am happily capricious in that way.

[His wink is sloppy, over the top with a click of his tongue to go with it, before he twirls back on his heels again and carries on. Not, though, without a stumble.]

[epigrammatical]

[As Grantaire starts walking backward, Henry starts to follow.]

Capriciousness is one of the few qualities on which one may rely these days.

[And in a few easy strides he's at Grantaire's side, in time to catch his arm and steady him on a stumble. There's a still, tense moment then, as he regards the younger man's face.

And then without warning, possibly surprising even himself, he pulls Grantaire toward him and kisses him roughly on the mouth.]

[cynisme]

[That one, right there, was a surprise. Not for lack of Henry's nature, nor out of wariness for their current local, but for his resting state of being. Any Victorian man (whether truly Victorian, Edwardian, or Napoleonic or Restoration) would be shocked being grabbed and kissed by another of the same sex, in public, even after a good flirt and a lead on.

A fuck-all attitude is a fuck-all attitude but social norms continue to be, well, norms.

He doesn't push Henry away, though a voice in the back of his mind that sounds unsurprisingly like Bahorel is telling him to give the Englishman a firm whack on the jaw, not does he kiss back. He simply waits, and when Henry pulls away Grantaire's hint of a smile is patronizing. A hand shoots up, hesitating right before contact (a mockery, really, a teasing play on a slap that won't happen) and then resting on the other man's face. A pat. Patronizing.]

Christ in heaven you are going to get yourself killed one of these days, or your teeth knocked out which is probably worse. I'll pass, Henri, go home and think about what you've done like a good boy.

[His eyes unfocus, he wobbles, he steps back to carry on.]

[epigrammatical]

[Strangely, that reaction is almost as satisfying as a reciprocation would have been. Far from being put out, Henry takes a step back himself, and offers a small bow. There is a strange, ironic smile on his face.]

Bonsoir then, M. Grantaire.

[cynisme]

Mhm, à bientôt. [And that's the last response that Henry gets from Grantaire, who turns around with hands in pockets, sauntering off with a whistle on his lips.]