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Grantaire dreams of smoke and fire. He dreams of the burning stench of flesh. He dreams of fire licking at his feet, and the sharp tang of blod in the mouth, and the weight of a sword in his hand. He dreams of a figures with their wings extended out, feathers tipped in blood. He dreams of the way eyes widen as you stab someone through the heart, the ease that a sharp blade will slide into the ribcage.He dreams of the war and how sometime bodies would crash into the flames, burning, wailing, screaming, crying.
He dreams of the way wings snap as they burn.
He dreams about death.
So many deaths. So many senseless stupid deaths.
He dreams he is locked and weighted to the ground, hands wrapped around his ankles, people screaming his name. His victims, perhaps. Or maybe a warning. But he is ever distracted by an uncoming target. The next victim of a senseless war.
He dreams of an Angel with golden wings turning to look at him.
He dreams of harsh blue eyes.
He wakes up screaming.
-
Grantaire wakes up angry when he dreams of the war. This means Grantaire wakes up angry most days. His tail curls back and forth agitatedly, even as he creates himself a drink. He smiles with the thought of shattering the glass.
Although the war is over, Grantaire knows better than to think it will last. The war is never over. Grantaire has lived through 100 cease-fires, and he’s never once seen it last for more than 5 months. He knows. They were made to fight. And even if that were not the case, they’ve been fighting for thousands of years. It is all that they know. Angels and demons will always descend back into chaos. Grantaire knows. He’s seen it. He’s seen it a million times. He is nothing more than a weapon, destruction is all that he can hope to achieve.
No matter. He is good at killing and violence and destruction. It’s hard not to be when it’s all their is.
He likes his job as a member of the Vangaurd. He likes how his team is the first one in and the last ones out. He likes the mindlessness of the violence. He has no problems with the war. War is what they were made for, after all. (Quite literally in some cases. Bahorel was made in the Level3labs to be a perfect solider. The very embodiment of war. He was made of the split genetics of a fallen angel solider and a demon scientist. The experiments turned his wings to leather and his eyes to fire, but he can certainly take a punch. Bahorel laughs often on the battlefield.)
Grantaire likes the war. It’s only when they are at war that he might catch the delicate sloping of wings drenched in red blood.
Grantaire likes the war. He likes the drive, the purpose, and the high likelyhood of taking a blade to the heart.
Grantaire has no problem with war. It’s the peace he can’t handle.
Tonight marks the year anniversary of the 72nd Lamarque accords, the longest lasting peace that the two nations has ever seen in the last 100 years. Everyone is on edge. There are whispers in the air of both an attack and of covert plans, of dismantling the emperor, of the Holy Choir readying a secrete weapon.
Grantaire doesn’t care. Grantaire plans for the evening involve as much alcohol as he can get his hands on, and maybe ice-cream.
“Grantaire!” Grantaire drains the drink in his hand before turning to the door as his response.
Bahorel stands in his doorway in Mess Dress, his wings tucked neatly under his jacket. From the front, Bahorel almost looks like any other demon would. This pisses Bahorel off to no end.
“Looking normal, Bahorel. What’s the special occasion?”
Bahorel taps his tail to the floor once and raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
A couple of seconds pass in silence while Bahorel stares on incredulously, and Grantaire pours himself another drink.
“Do you even fucking read your summons?” Grantaire shrugs, and his eyes slant towards the coffee table where the last three summons sit, still in perfectly wrapped rolls.
“Not really, No.” Bahorel laughs and finally walks all the way into the apartment.
“Go put on Mess Dress, Fucktrumpet. I’ll fill you in” And Grantaire complies. If he flicks Bahorel in the face with his tail as he walks by, well… nobody is perfect.
When he comes back out, hair a mess and jacket in his hands, Bahorel has moved to the couch. Grantaire sits on the arm and wraps his tail around Bahorel’s arm out of habbit.
“Okay. Officially. What’s up?”
“The Holy Choir is coming.”
Grantaire would love to say that he didn’t fall off the couch in shock, but he did.