RLDATE: 3/14/00 11:53:55 AM
ICDATE: Spring, 1830
SCENE: Corinth

Enjolras sneezes.

The door is kicked open, and in breezes Grantaire. "Hello!"

Enjolras wipes his eyes, sniffles, and blinks blearily at the new arrival. "Hello."

Grantaire quirks an eyebrow, and meanders over to join him, uninvited. "You look terrible," he notes genially.

Enjolras blows his nose on a handkerchief. "I think Joly was actually sick, this once, and he managed to give it to me. And, thank you."

Grantaire chuckles, and fishes a more or less clean handkerchief out of his pocket and offers it as backup. "You ought to be home in bed."

Enjolras raises an eyebrow at the nasty piece of cloth. "I'm all right, I have plenty of napkins here. I can't be home in bed. My concierge is not the most pleasant of women. She'll give me a mustard plaster, or ask a doctor in to bleed me." He shudders.

Grantaire says firmly, "Then you need to move." He kicks out a chair and drops into it, poking the scorned handkerchief back into his pocket. "I'd say you need a girlfriend, but you'd hit me."

Enjolras groans and puts his head on his arms. He speaks into the table, his words only half audible. "If I had the energy, I would hit you, yes."

Grantaire chuckles again. And can't resist baiting him a little. "Be practical, mon ami. A devoted nurse in the house? And it isn't as though you wouldn't find any takers."

Enjolras turns his head enough to glare at Grantaire. "You're taking advantage of my weakened state. I'm not sick that often." He sneezes again, sighs, and blots his nose with a miserably wet napkin. "I can fend for myself."

Grantaire says mildly, "You damned stubborn fool."

Enjolras wipes his eyes on his sleeve. "I don't mind being alone. I only mind being sick." He takes a deep breath that gurgles a bit in his throat. "What if my hypothetical companion took sick? Then it'd be twice as bad."

"All for love," Grantaire says cheerfully.

Enjolras shakes his head slightly. "Love and phlegm will get you a full handkerchief."

Grantaire wrinkles his nose. "Damned stubborn philosophical fool. Take the damn' handkerchief. It can't give you anything worse than you've got." And he proffers it again.

Enjolras sneezes again, several times. When he recovers, he takes the unpleasant handkerchief, which is much more pleasant than his current snotrag. "Thank you."

Grantaire nods, pleased, and leans back in his chair. "Welcome."

Enjolras wipes his eyes and sits up. "I'm sure you have a favorite cold cure. Everyone does."

Grantaire breaks into a wry grin. "I do, but you wouldn't take it, you abstemious wretch, you."

Enjolras closes one eye to focus better, which doesn't exactly help. "I'm not sure. Does it work?"

Grantaire's grin widens. "Not really, but it certainly takes your mind off it."

Enjolras rubs his cheekbones and sniffles. "So do mustard plasters, and leeches, and snail shells."

Grantaire quirks a brow. "Snail shells?"

Enjolras winces at the memory. "Oui. That was Courfeyrac's suggestion. He said his grandmother used to powder them and inhale them, and it fixed her every time." He pointedly rubs the end of his nose. "I think he just wanted to see me cough."

Grantaire chuckles. "Probably," he agrees.

Enjolras frowns. "And you think it's funny, too. I'm glad I could provide amusement."

Grantaire holds up his hands placatingly. "Touchy, touchy."

Enjolras laughs shortly. "Yes. Touchy, and sick, and altogether out of sorts. Do you know anyone who is sweet-tempered while they are ill?"

"No," Grantaire says candidly, "but I didn't think you could get any crankier."

Enjolras wrinkles his brow, and coughs. "Am I crankier?"

Grantaire automatically leans over to pat him on the back. "Only a little."

Enjolras recovers, and doesn't glare. "My, I must be an unpleasant person."

"Well..." Grantaire hesitates.

Enjolras nods. "Thank you for agreeing."

Grantaire sighs. "Do you try to be unpleasant? Is that it?"

Enjolras shakes his head, frowning. "No more than you do, I am sure."

Grantaire sits back, nettled.

Enjolras sighs deeply, which makes him cough again. "Perhaps I should go home."

Grantaire winces at the sound. "--Only if you let me walk with you."

Enjolras starts to say, "N--," but stops himself. "I suppose. I owe you a handkerchief, after all."

Grantaire brightens. It really doesn't take much to cheer him up. "All right then."

Enjolras exclaims, "Argh!" and adds in a quieter voice, "I hate it when my eyes itch."

Grantaire jumps; then blows out his breath in relief, and suggests, "Cold damp cloth?"

Enjolras scrubs at his eyes for a few moments. "No, no. It won't help. Nothing will help. I need a knife!"

Grantaire puts out a hand gently to stop the scrubbing. "Easy. Easy. Glass of water," he requests of the nearest girl, over his shoulder.

Enjolras grumbles loudly and incoherently, but puts his hands firmly on the table. "I'll stop. I will. But they do itch." His fingers tighten on the table's edge. "I won't rub them. I won't."

Grantaire lays his hand over Enjolras' firmly. "I know. 'S almost as bad as an itch in the back of your throat. --Ah, there. Good girl." He takes the water glass from Fricassee and sets it down on the table, reaching for a clean napkin.

Enjolras's mouth tightens. He glares rather unpleasantly at Grantaire. "I can rub my own damn eyes, thank you."

Grantaire glances up at him with dark brows lifted, pauses, then proffers the napkin with a challenging air.

Enjolras takes it in tense fingers, and very delicately wipes his eyes, then sets the napkin on the table. "Thank you."

Grantaire pushes his unruly hair out of his eyes with a sigh. "You're welcome."

Enjolras lets go of the table and folds his hands together. His fingers are still quite tense. "I suppose you see now that you don't want to walk me home." He pushes his chair back and stands up.

Grantaire says mildly, climbing to his feet, "How does that follow?"

Enjolras takes several coins from his pocket and leaves them on the table to pay for all of the laundry he's created. "You as much as said I'm terribly unpleasant when I'm ill, and then I went and snapped at you again. Why ask for more abuse?"

Grantaire says blithely, "Because I'm a fool. Aren't you always telling me so? Where's your coat?"

Enjolras blinks and looks blankly at Grantaire. He looks at the chair next to the one where he was sitting, moves a pile of soiled napkins and picks up his coat. When he goes to put it on, he ends up with a napkin in his hand. "Eeugh. I can't wait until my hands are really clean again."

Grantaire moves to divest him of the napkin. "Mon ami, I think it's hygiene you're really in love with."

Enjolras tosses the stupid napkin onto the table. "It's disgusting. One can hardly found a healthy nation on a pile of mucus filled napkins."

Grantaire chuckles, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder. "Probably not."

Enjolras ignores the touch. He wipes his hands on his coat, scowling at them and everything else about himself. After a few minutes looks at his palms, which have not been significantly cleaned by this scrubbing. "I give up." Glancing back at Grantaire to see if he will follow, he starts for the door.

Grantaire trundles after, his hands in his pockets.

Enjolras walks more slowly than normal, and pauses every few houses to cough, sneeze, or sniffle.

Grantaire follows along companionably, occasionally offering a thump on the back or other therapeutic intervention.

After a few of these kindly gestures, Enjolras thinks to ask, "Why are you being nice?"

Grantaire looks over at him with utterly guileless eyes. "Why not?"

Enjolras considers this between coughs. "You already said I'm unpleasant, and you don't want this damned cold. Why risk catching it?"

Grantaire points out, "You said you were unpleasant. I only said you were cranky."

Enjolras rummages through his coat pockets and comes up with a relatively clean handkerchief. "Fine, so I'm cranky and sick, and not much better when I'm not sick." He blows his nose. "Did you think I would be struck by a cart?"

Grantaire says simply, "I worry about you." And then, lest someone actually believe he gives a damn, he adds with deliberate flippancy, "What would happen to the Republic if you sneezed yourself off a bridge by mistake?"

Enjolras snorts derisively and immediately regrets it. He puts one hand across his sinuses as if that will help. "They'd have to find someone healthy."

"Yes," says Grantaire lightly, "and in this year of disgrace where would they find one?"

Enjolras manages to smile at that. "Ah, but if I fell off of a bridge, that would not be my problem at all."

Grantaire elbows him lightly. "Some people would miss you. I can't think who, but someone."

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. "That's as it may be." He turns away from the nudge and walks to the steps of a nearby house. "Ah, here I am, home. I was beginning to think I had lost it under the rags, too. Thank you for walking with me. And for the handkerchief."

Grantaire looks up at the building. "Hmph," is all he says, and then with a quirk of a grin, "You're welcome. You damned stubborn fool."