"I have no intention of lying to him. On the contrary. I'll tell him tomorrow."
He's not looking forward to the conversation, but that doesn't matter. It's important. And even if it weren't, between the cruelty of a hard truth and the cruelty of a lie, Enjolras will always choose the former.
"He comes from 1830, Grantaire." Enjolras's gaze fixes intently on the man slumped before him; he leans forward slightly, as though he could make Grantaire understand through sheer intensity. (It's never worked that way.) "Two years. My hope is to use that time."
no subject
"I have no intention of lying to him. On the contrary. I'll tell him tomorrow."
He's not looking forward to the conversation, but that doesn't matter. It's important. And even if it weren't, between the cruelty of a hard truth and the cruelty of a lie, Enjolras will always choose the former.
"He comes from 1830, Grantaire." Enjolras's gaze fixes intently on the man slumped before him; he leans forward slightly, as though he could make Grantaire understand through sheer intensity. (It's never worked that way.) "Two years. My hope is to use that time."