epcot | » ᴘᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜr ʜᴀɴᴅs iɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀir, ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴀ sᴏᴜɴᴅ

[ One eye closed to aim, both eyes open to fire. R closed one and positioned the crosshairs into the crowd. A pair of calloused hands positioned themselves on the weapon. With a small movement, they shifted the barrel - the hairs moved to the opening in the crowd that had formed around a small group of young men. Atop a makeshift stand stood the mess of blond curls, once perfectly pulled back into the small bun but now with escaped strands scattered to the winds from his movements. The shooter closed one eye, lining the shot with bated breath and practiced patience, taking care to unglue his jaw and relax his stance. It was harder than normal to fall into the pattern, and his jaw wouldn't unhinge.

Grantaire took a moment to sigh and pull his body back from the task at hand, his hands leaving the gun to rub at his face. This was an unusual situation, to say the least. Hesitation. Regret? He wasn't sure what to call the sinking, churning sensation that gnawed at the lining of his stomach. It didn't feel... right. And he grimaced to himself at the thought. Right and wrong are all relative, you fucking novice. A shake of the head, pushing back the dark curl that fell into his forehead, and R took his spot back where he was, determined not to miss the opportunity and risk having to come back and do this again tomorrow. The scathing impatience of his client was the least of his concerns, but it was annoyingly time-consuming to set up in this condemned building without drawing suspicion.

Smacking his lips, he took a swig from the flask at his hip with a gruff clearing of his throat to swallow it. The open eye went back to the barrel and he again found the target - The blond. The perfect jawline, the piercing eyes, the vicious tongue, the scathing expression. He growled with irritation and waited for the wind to settle, keeping his peripheral vision on the flags floating in the crowd. One more breath, his finger on the trigger and he opened the other eye to press the lever and tried not to pay attention to the chapped, furious lips as they shouted.

Instantly, he remembers attending the rally of last week to survey. It as loud, crowded, and... very united. The police hadn't arrived yet. Supporters flocked to listen and raised their red, blue, and white flags and shout in affirmation. A few raised signs proclaiming that M. Enjolras should be running for political office were accompanied by rallying chants of "They do not speak for us! He speaks for us!" and Grantaire smiled, obviously bemused. The photographs showed him to be handsome, for sure, and of course that would attract a following like this. He tuned into the speech and his expression turned to one of intent and an odd emotion he couldn't name.

""--To suggest that that populist rhetoric and those who follow its message do not have an every-encroaching grasp on French society is not only a false statement, it is a deadly one. There are those in our society who would not only attempt to define what it truly means to be French but use it as a tool to disenfranchise those who do not fit its exclusionary image, and in some cases advocate for the removal of the most vulnerable among us. We cannot turn a blind eye to that othering though the question itself conjures ugly images of colonialism, racism, nationalism...to allow the La Pens and those of their ilk to use that distaste for discussing those realities against us will be to our peril..."

The hair raised at the back of his neck when he placed some of the phrases into the mouth as it shouted, just as it did when he heard it in person. ]

Fuck.

[ Grantaire's heart sank and he felt terrified as he raised his eye for the third time that morning to look down at the distant rally.

He knew that he was in big trouble, and going to be killed for this. This wasn't a grocery store type transaction; he could not refund a service that was paid for and say "never mind." He knew, despite these risks, even if he would be replaced and this handsome fucker would be killed anyway, that he could not shoot this activist. Nausea swept over him as he numbly pulled down his rifle and signed his death warrant. ]

[ Enjolras take a long exhale before launching into his pointed condemnation of the latest National Rally-esque legislative measure making its way through the European Parliament. He can feel Courfeyrac at his left, failing to resist the urge to smirk at his "overuse of ethos"; Combeferre is further back behind the stage set-up, always preferring to stay behind the curtain (and attempt to keep Enjolras at least close to on time for his engagements.)

Despite the signs begging him to be otherwise, Enjolras is no politician. But he knows enough about the craft, between his early-day internships and his extended family's careers, to wield their own tools against them. And with Courfeyrac and Combeferre at his side, he fully intends to use those tools to tear into any bigotry, greed, and hypocrisy that crosses his path.

Finishing his usual calls for actions (i.e. vote proactively, haunt those elected officials like poltergeists while they're in office with constant correspondence, camp outside when they dare forget who hired them, etc.) Enjolras signs off with a wave before stepping back down to Combeferre's tired expression.

"You were 20 minutes over this time. We've got maybe 7 minutes now before the cops come to disperse based on my last update...Shall we?" Enjolras shrugs as he lets his hair down, pulling the stray hairs that'd be pulled out of place by wind and his own fervor back into a bun. ]

Sorry, but you know how the La Pens make me feel. We should still have plenty of time...

[ Courfeyrac claps him on the back to lead him through the preplanned route of back-alleys, back to Combeferre and Courfeyrac's shared flat, to prep ahead of the Parliamentary session testimony on fair housing practices. It's a maze Enjolras only half-follows, but then he doesn't need to; his guide and his center push him along, keep him steady and on track in more ways than he can count. ]

[ R remembers tailing the speaker, feeling out his patterns and deciding when best to attack. Enjolras was well-shielded when not doing what he did best. The apartment of the allies currently flanking him had one small window; Enjolras’ flat was even worse, and he had a roommate with a girlfriend who rarely left. Cluttered. Clunky. The soapbox of his rallies was his best option- and yet.

Walking away was tempting- Grantaire could easily disappear and use what savings he had to reinvent himself. He was currently using the name Rémi- he introduced himself as R for the surname he kept hidden and held onto- but he had so many it was becoming foggy to remember if that was the first name his mother gave to him before leaving her toddler in a bus station. ]

Hey! You three- I need to talk to the blond.

[ It was obvious that walking away- a tempting offer- was not what R was prepared to do. Unfortunately. He jogged up, his mental map of this horrible city serving him well and guiding him stealthily and quickly through the alleys like a predator to intercept them. His nostrils flared and he moved his damp curls out of his eyes, shifting the long, heavy bag at his back and kept pressing to catch up regardless. ]

Edited 2020-09-23 14:44 (UTC)

[ It doesn't take much time for Combeferre and Courfeyrac to close ranks, partially obscuring Enjolras' view of the man as they place themselves between them. It's a practiced move; while the scruffy man is not uncharacteristic of the type of "fans" Enjolras has acquired over the years (something about liberal progressives and their penchant for equally liberal standards of self-grooming...?) both Combeferre and Courfeyrac are also all-too-aware of the enemies Enjolras has made over the last few years.

Unfortunately for the pair, their would-be martyr has no patience for their bodyguarding and nudges them aside with his hands. They exchange ready glances and remain close behind as Enjolras walks past them, eyebrow quirked at the dark-haired stranger. ]

And how can I help you?

[ R watches with a small smile of respect as Enjolras dismisses his protection and comes toward the murdering stranger. His hand goes to the strap on his shoulder, readjusting his bag before looking up- ah, he was taller than R remembered. Or perhaps he just suddenly felt small and insignificant beneath the righteous expression. ]

You're in a lot of danger. I wanted to advise that you be careful. [ He clears his throat as he takes a breath to continue. The voice is hoarser than usual, from disuse and the unexpected level of concern it carries. ]

I would recommend leaving Paris - or at the very least to stay hidden for a while.

[ Enjolras' jaw clicks into place at the "suggestion", eyes narrowing. He keeps his hand splayed behind him, reminding his companions to hold back; he's in no need of protection at their expense. ]

Is that meant to be a threat? If it is, you're wasting your breath, I've heard it all before. I'm not getting pushed out of this city because people who could've changed things a long time ago are getting uncomfortable with being called out on it.

[ A single snicker in reply- and then R laughs, unexpectedly. The ferocity and even more so, the arrogance has him paralyzed for a long second in mirth. He grins and shakes his head, raising his eyebrows and trying to pull his disbelief back in to have a semblance of gravity. ]

A threat? Monsieur. I don't think-

[ There's a very quick eye movement while he reconsiders the admission he was about to make. Air quotes accompany to emphasize the next bit. ]

The only threat is that someone is trying to have you killed, and that's not me "threatening" you. No one is "threatening" anything; this isn't blackmail, or coercion, or a joke.

Right.

[ Unsurprisingly, Enjolras is unswayed by the man's warning or his air-quotes (though, that didn't exactly help sell it.) He crosses his arms with a slightly disdainful tilt of the chin as he sizes the brunette up and clearly isn't all that impressed with what he sees. ]

Well, you can pass on to whoever is "trying to have me killed" that I'd certainly like to see them try; in the meantime, their threats won't cause me to change course.

[ R looks at him in complete disbelief. The amusement is gone, and replaced by a furious, half-open mouth fighting to find the right words. ]

You arrogant bastard.

[ That'll do. He huffs and helplessly raises his hands, narrowing his eyes at the other man and causing the two behind him to step toward him. ]

Do you want to be killed? Do you think that will help sell your point? It's not like it's the army or big brother are going to shoot you down, guns blazing, leaving you for an example. You're not going to die a martyr. You'll be shot by a random mercenary, or poisoned by a passerby; don't be fucking daft. The most you'll get is conspiracy theories about who arranged it.

[ Oh okay, so this man is just outright deranged. Enjolras takes a step back out of reflex (he's not scared, he doesn't do scared thank you very much) and feels Courfeyrac braces his back. He doesn't dare tear his eyes from the irate shorter man but he can only imagine his and Combeferre's faces; they're perfectly used to the belligerent, and even the dangerously irate, who think Enjolras somehow represents the problem rather than just being the voice of those social ills. Not always being the best of friends with law enforcement, they've learned to deal with in their way, but the back alley is narrower than what would be ideal, and not many of their group were tracking the exact route.

Combeferre, the voice of reason, tries to nudges Enjolras back wordlessly behind them again, trying to get a barrier between their orator and this stranger warning of violence. Unfortunately for Combeferre, he is friends with what is quite possibly the most stubborn, hot-headed idiot in Paris. ]

Look, I don't know who you think you are but if you think I'm going to be scared off by your ridiculous intimidation efforts, you're absolutely insane. Do you know how many death threats I get on a weekly basis? I'm not going to stop fighting just because some asshole wants to hurt me. I don't give a shit about martyrdom or whatever you're going on about, I'm just after what's right.

[ With that, he finally acquiesces to Combeferre's urgent tugs, brazenly turning his back to the stranger. ]

Please.

[ R doesn't make to follow him, but raises his voice and winces immediately. Who knows what's listening or watching to ensure delivery- He snorts from his nostrils takes urgent strides to tail them, grabbing Enjolras' arm. ]

I'm not scaring you, but I should be. I don't care that you're important; I don't care what's right, or how many people "want" to kill you. [ A deep shaking breath and Grantaire lowers his voice again and squeezes his arm tighter and grits his teeth. ]

I was sent to kill you, you pompous, self-important piece of shit. And I'm here by choice, not because I couldn't have done it.

[ The look Enjolras gives him is a comical mix between outrage and confusion. ]

...You're insane. You're literally insane. Who even says that?

[ Combeferre and Courfeyrac, on the other hand, have far less difficulty processing what the stranger has owned to. Combeferre's insistent tug is far less gentle now, practically yanking Enjolras behind him with a short surprised, yelp from the man in question; Courfeyrac busies himself with snapping a photo of the man both as a precaution for any potential police report and for circulation amongst their group.

"I think we're done here." Combeferre says curtly, not wanting to rile the man up any further (or Enjolras for that matter, who stills looks ready to punch the nose of the tiger who's threatened to eat him.) ]

[ If life wasn’t hard before, it felt difficult these days. Before, “hard” meant trying to get away with murder- specifically hired murder- while going unnoticed and untraceable. That had its sticky moments, to say the least; R felt lucky to still be alive after one incident in particular and didn’t want to be back in Brussels anytime soon.

All of that felt like a warm up to his current mission. It didn’t help that he wasn’t being paid. It didn’t help that it was self-inflicted pressure and tension that kept him on course. The choice has him currently has him eyeing a firmly closed wooden door from beside a stone staircase. He leans against the stone, pretending to be nonchalant while staying vigilant on his periphery to anything unusual. A group of men sat behind the door in an empty theater, but one man kept him planted here chain smoking and waiting.

Three weeks have passed since he’d “introduced” himself to his would-be target. The chatter within the black market sites didn’t escape R through proxy servers and silence. A master of his craft after many successes and a handful of failures, the assassin played dead- or at least vanished. Given the sense of outrage that his client had in replacing “the cretin” -it was the smartest course of action. If known to be alive, he might be on a hit list himself. Probably for a lot less money.

He narrows his eyes at the door before smothering another cigarette against the ball of his sneaker. Dry, dirty nails grappled with the edge of the beanie he’s donned to hide his curls. Anything to blend in and change his typical visage to let his disappearance become accepted. He waited, and stayed ready, and continued to hope he was smarter. ]

[ The three weeks that have past have made Enjolras-- well, complacent isn't quite the right word, but certainly more lax than he should be with his own security after his strange, hostile encounter on the back streets of Paris. Part of this just boils down to an obvious character flaw; where Courfeyrac has offered to disseminate the photo he snapped and Combeferre has drafted contingency security plans in conjunction with Bahorel, Enjolras has been stubbornly resolute in his desire to maintain his normal pattern of life to maintain public pressure ahead of the next legislative assembly.

It's this lack of self-preservation that finds him the last to leave their not-so clandestine meeting location this week despite the repeated insistence of his friends. Unperturbed, he packs up the last of his things in a leather messenger back and slings it over his shoulder before heading to the backstage door (the front having been locked by an irate owner upon Combeferre's departure 30 minutes prior.) The night air is colder than he expects, and he takes a sharp inhale of breath at the shock of the chill, propping the door open with his shoulder to pull out his scarf from his bag. ]

[ R hears the door open, and waits for the sound of a shut behind it. He looks up curiously, and the next second seems very long but exceedingly quick at the same time. Enjolras was lucky that he didn’t shut that door, or the assassin might not have caught. It might be his imagination or years of knowing what to listen for, but R swears he heard the distant click of the hammer pulled back from the human-shaped shadow that moved at the same moment R did in response to the metal grinding of the opening door. ]

GET DOWN.

[ The harsh cry of a disused voice startled both target and shooter enough that the sound of a silenced gunshot isn’t followed by the sound of pierced flesh. In a fluid movement, Grantaire pulls the pistol from the small of his back and aims it over the staircase at the shadow. A second, louder shot and R misses the head by centimeters but it’s enough to send the would-be killer running back into the darkness past the reach of the dim light of the lamp outside the theater. ]

[ There's a low ringing in Enjolras' ears as he's pressed to the ground, trying to process how and why he's gotten there. It's another beat before his senses come back into focus and the ringing fades: a dark shadow runs away from him, while closer still is the man from the other day, a gun gripped tightly in his hand.

Enjolras shoots back as quickly as his hands and knees will carry him; his eyes are wide with that all-too-human fear of death. ]

You--!!

[ The blonde stops himself short on whatever he was originally going to say, apparently thinking better of his first instinct. Instead, he squares his shoulders and locks his jaw into place, the typical visage of willful defiance.

He won't look at the barrel. He won't. ]

I'm not going to beg. So if you're going to do it, just do it.

[ R looks down at the once-shaken man who's apparently regained every bit of his composure that he usually held. Speaking of holding, the assassin is momentarily enraptured by the fact that the man who'd just tried to be shot at for a second time was staring into his eyes, not at the still smoking gun in R's right hand. Fearless. An absolutely strange thing to him. ]

I just stopped you from getting shot. [ He holds up the pistol, and gestures it toward the mouth of the alley. ] This? Was shot at the attacker. As I said before, if I wanted you dead you would be.

[ A pause and he looks over Enjolras, waiting to find blood pooling somewhere and find that he'd failed to protect him anyway. ] Are you hurt?

[ Enjolras is still trying to determine if he did hit his head; a concussion would so nicely explain why this man who, again, is literally waving a handgun and talking about how easy it would be to murder him, is simultaneously checking on his well-being.

His expression is still guarded as he tries to scoot back further from the brunette, wincing momentarily when he finds that, yes, he did scrape his hands bracing himself from his short drop to the ground. ]

...Okay, let's say I believe you now. Why are you doing this?

[ Grantaire rolls his eyes at the non-answer to his question, and motions for Enjolras to show him his hands and wrists. The shotgun is put back at the small of his back and he holds out his hand. Part of knowing what places are weakest to strike (or shoot, or burn, or lacerate-) is knowing a bit about anatomy. ]

I'm doing this because if I've given up my life as I know it to not kill you I may as well do the thing properly, yeah? If you die, it was for nothing.

[ If Enjolras' petulant face is any indication, the man's answer is far from satisfactory, but he does as he's been non-verbally asked...to a point. Enjolras reluctantly holds out one of his scraped hands out for inspection, the other kept stubbornly behind him as if keeping it concealed maintained some sort of noble resistance to...well, whatever the hell this was. ]

That still doesn't explain anything, you know that right? What, you went around killing people on behalf of some fat oligarchs for a living then decided today that it just wasn't for you? Come off it.

[ Grantaire squints up at him before inspecting his hand and apparently finding the results passable for now, as he motions for the young man to get up. He checked his watch, trying to remember when trains stopped departing from Paris. ]

I killed people for a living, sure. I don't care who asked; I didn't question it. I don't even know who was behind this assignment, but it's a contract of anonymity on both sides. I'm hoping I'll survive based on that fact to keep us both alive. But it makes knowing how to keep you alive harder, by the same logic.

[ His eyes are ever moving. Paranoid. Anxious. His muscle are increasingly tense, waiting for more movement besides the sound of hum of cars passing in the street yards away; waiting for anything unusual about the passersby. Another attempt was unlikely so soon, but he couldn't chance it. R decided he would be needing more coffee soon. ]

Let me be clear. I hope this will allow you to relax, at least about me or my actions. I stopped because you were my target and I will not kill you for any amount of money. We need to get out of Paris.

[ Weirdly, the short twitchy assassin's assurances, intermixed with casual references to prior murders committed almost thoughtlessly, provide him with little comfort. Enjolras pulls back his back gingerly, still eyeing the brunette like a cornered animal as he pushes himself up. ]

It doesn't. [ Subtle. ] And I'm not going to leave, with you or anyone. I already told you I'm not going to be intimidated into silence and the hearing on the new energy diversification bill is next month--

Are you actually insane?

[ Grantaire breaks in, his voice a venomous hiss of a whisper. While sounding intense and betrayed, he also manages to wear an expression of genuine concern. ]

Why do you want to die so badly, you damned fool? You can't do anything if you're dead. As asinine as it is to try and make people listen and care, you're good at it. I get it. I've seen it. But do you think dying for this is worthwhile? Your mates can carry the message, and look to you when you return. But right now you are seriously pissing someone off-

I don't! But I can't do anything if I'm outside Paris pretending not to exist anymore either. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are competent and they've got passion for what we're working towards, but I'm not going to pretend this wouldn't play into that counternarrative. I'd be giving those people trying to end almost exactly what they wanted anyway: my silence.

[ His lip curls slightly as he spits out his accusation, eyes filled with nothing but cold resentment: ]

I don't want to be lectured by someone willing to kill for those assholes and keep that abusive system in place, just for a fucking paycheck.

[ It's petty, immature. He regrets it as soon he says it; for all his anger and resentment at the situation, for as little as he feels he can trust this man...he did just save him from a bullet.

The anger in his eyes is already cooling into a low, dulled resentment when they flick away from the other man's face. He draws his arms against his chest, still a little petulant in his remorse. ]

...I'm--Look, just please understand why I can't leave. Even if it is dangerous, I don't have a choice unless I want to undermine everything all of my friends have been working for over the last few years.

[ Grantaire rolls his eyes, actually leaning and craning his neck back as if to look up to the heavens for guidance. Or perhaps to get away from the judgmental gaze of the asshole before him. ]

I understand why you don't want to leave. That's entirely different from not being able to. I want you to think about the difference between your disappearance for a few months-- and your re-emergence later when this threat has at least passed or been dealt with-- and your final, unyielding, unavoidable death. The loss of your voice for your causes forever.

[ He looks back at his would-be target and sighs, flexing his hands as his eyes sweep across the alley again. ]

The reason that my fucking paycheck exists is because there is a difference.

[ It's an uncomfortably reasonable argument and therefore he hates it. Enjolras' burrow is furrowed in angry contemplation while they sit in terse silence. ]

...Would I actually be able to come back? Or, I guess, would it be "dealt with"? You also make it sound like it's a constant, active threat.

[ Grantaire sighs, adjusting the hat which had started to itch as the sweat gathering around his scalp was drying. Seeing no reason to sugar coat this situation a bit, he replies honestly. ]

I don't know. It is a matter of the who and therefore the why of why you are being targeted that determines how constant this threat will be. Is it regarding an upcoming election? Is it about a specific platform? Or about someone you love? Is it personal? I have no idea. My paycheck doesn't need to know, and in fact is paid to someone who does not know my name or appearance, for similar reasons.

[ He frowns and encourages the angry man to move out of this alleyway; the crescendo of distant siren whirring making him remember that the sounds of gunshots attracted attention. ]

[ The quickly-approaching sound of sirens does little to move him; Enjolras' crossed arms stiffen and he locks his knees as if trying to make himself immovable. ]

So there's no guarantee fleeing would be any different than if they had been successful and taken me out? In that case, I'll just take my chances.

There's no guarantee with hardly anything when it comes to human nature. [ A scoff and he clicks his jaw. ] And yet there you go trying your best to change the world anyway. That's the most contradictory and self-serving excuse you've made yet, and that's coming from a cynic like me.

[ Grantaire glares at Enjolras, getting fed up with his dawdling. He wasn't just trying to get himself killed, he was going to get R killed too and unlike the stubborn boy, he wasn't ready for that. ]

Of course there's a difference between your disappearance and your death.

Oh fuck you.

[ Enjolras' nose flares with a sharp exhale of breath, that rageful fire reigniting in his eyes. ]

It's not "self-serving" you yellow-livered prick! I'm not going to turn tail on your half-assed maybe. I don't know what you get out of me fleeing, or-- [ He pulls back a moment, eyes narrowing with a vindictive, acidic suspicion. ] Or if this is somehow what you've really been paid for, but if you have an issue with me staying, you are more than welcome to fuck right off. No one's asked you to stick around and lecture me!

If I wanted to lecture you, I would cite examples of how your energy is wasted on what you hope to accomplish, of what you're trying to change. But I'm not, I'm doing the fucking opposite. I'm trying to keep your dream alive by keeping you alive, you arrogant fuck.

[ He points at Enjolras squarely, putting emphasis on what he's here for. What the hell was this going to take to get this man with a death wish out of Paris? he wondered vaguely. But he was too committed at this point to back down. ]

You're completely full of shit. You honestly want me to believe you're invested in my well-being and you mock me for trying to do something good with my life in the same breath?

[ Enjolras scoffs, harsh and haughty; he looks back behind him into the alley as if too annoyed to even look at the other man for a moment. ]

God, I bet you haven't done a single worthwhile thing in your life, you spineless hypocrite, and you're still going to sit there and try to tell me what actually matters? If you're so worried about what your employers will do, go ahead and run, but I'm not going anywhere with you.

I do expect you to accept it. Because you are bigger than what you do or do not accomplish! Like hell I know what matters, but I know what I’m capable of and I know what I’m not.

[ The sirens are in the street closest to the alley and he hears a car door slam. Red, flashing lights make him look even more grim, but he won’t leave without Enjolras. An immovable object has been moved unstoppable force, it seems. ]

Are you willing to trust me just a little? I don’t want you happy I want you living.

» ᴘᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜr ʜᴀɴᴅs iɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀir, ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴀ sᴏᴜɴᴅ

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shhhh side-stepping the actual speech language because i'm lazy shhhh

it’s an art we perfect for the sake of the men

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casually parkours out of doing another starter

i always carry our relationship it’s FINE

kiss kiss

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how dare you call out his childish behavior

"PUT ME DOWN. PUT ME DOWN! NOOOO PICK ME UP PICK ME UP PICK ME UP-"

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excuse u that's his line

get in line angel

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the assassin's equivalent of a small child having a meltdown in a target

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bitch you ain't gettin me to no secondary location

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