[ 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. ]
no subject
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. ]