The Vague Ambition To Be (Les Mis oneshot)

The Vague Ambition To Be

"Are you capable of being good for something?"
"I have the vague ambition to be," said Grantaire.
"You don't believe in anything."
"I believe in you."

God, he wants a drink.

He used to buy booze in the retail store he's passing right now. He'd buy two bottles of cheap wine and disappear for two hours of blessed silence in hidden streets and alleyways.

He'd usually feel like shit afterwards.

Grantaire bites the inside of his cheek, sniffs, hides a bitter smirk in his scarf. How can a memory seem so close yet divided from him by an abyss of experience at the same time?

Most relapses occur in the first six months after treatment. Yeah. Thanks, Ameena.

He'll be nearing the Paris observatory soon. A part of him wants to stop there, sit on a bench in the surrounding gardens and sketch the trees lit by the setting sun. Maybe colour them later. Or lie on the grass there, among the leaves brown with beginning decay. The peace of it calls to him now that he's finally started drawing again.  I always liked it when you just sketched, without any need to impress, Jehan had told him during their meetup last Wednesday. Grantaire made his excuses not long afterwards, disappearing to his AA meeting sooner than planned. It's hard, accepting the praise.

On some level, the clear air still surprises him when he takes a deep breath. Grantaire does it often these days - to calm down, to centre himself, to focus long enough to remember Ameena's words when nothing else makes sense - and has yet to get used to the way it fills his mind. Yet to believe that he'll be able to keep the clean headspace intact. He can't allow himself to slip back, not after those months of work, not after Joly and Bossuet's crushing hug and sure, stay as long as you need- ...He exhales. If nothing else, Muschietta would kill him for breaking their trust.

Someone's playing Cheers Darlin' near the Arago - Saint Jacques bus stop, their rough voice making the lyrics sound real. Grantaire feels into his pocket for some change, taking a look at the busker, before his pace falters. There's a half-finished bottle of cheap wine at the man's feet and another one laid next to it, begging to be shared.

Turning away, Grantaire strides through the evening gardens with his face downwards and his hands stuffed into his pockets. He wonders - would they tremble if he unclenched them and let them just hang around his hips, swaying with the rhythm of his steps, chilled by the autumn breeze?

Ameena would nod in approval, pleased with his retreat. With not giving in. Maybe this time it would stop him from feeling like a coward.

It takes Grantaire fifteen more minutes to get to the Boulevard du Montparnasse, his bad leg slowing him down, overexerted from the rush. Two more to come to a stop in front of a small gallery. "Urban Gallery - Pop Art, Street Art," the sign specifies. How thoughtful they should meet here instead of the Corinthe or Cafe Musain. How considerate.

He doesn't go inside, stopping instead at a streetlamp, his shoes touching the short grass next to the sidewalk. After all, Enjolras could have picked the place because of the nearby Michel Ney monument and who is Grantaire to deny him the view? He ignores the fact the statue's barely visible from his post.

Immediately growing restless, Grantaire massages his right hand, starts picking at the skin around the nails. Stops. It doesn't help with the faint tremor - nothing does these days. He curses himself for giving in. What is he doing here, anyway? He could have postponed it to the next week, at least. He's promised Chetta to do the dishes and walk Croissant. His pills are at home, right next to the We believe in you! card Jehan's sent him during the second week, his planning calendar is there, appointments chicken-scratched into it with India ink, a smiley face so he doesn't forget what's important, his space is there, what is he doing here-