[When he stood and came to drape an arm around him, Jehan found it easy to lean in and to press his forehead into the fabric of his shirt and hide his face. Again, there was at least the comfort of being free from feel obnoxious and silly in doing do, after all they had been through already. From clasping his hand at the barricade, to doing the same in a state of undress after being birthed from tubes, to aiding with corset strings, to tempering microwaves. Surely, in light of all that, leaning headlong into comfort and perhaps hiding among it was not so outlandish.
And if it was, well. Jehan had always been a little bit strange.]
You are far from stupid, but we cannot-- how can we...
[Collecting his thoughts was difficult, as he had so many, and they were scattered as if on wings in his mind. Their flurries were worse than usual, and they all shared the same dull, dragging colour, as if heavy gravity and stinging fire had conspired together to paint them a shade of dark and flickering that no man had yet imagined before.
He heard all that Combeferre said, and would try to respond in turn, grasping at wings of ideas and attempting to make sense, himself.]
It is not progress. [Jehan agreed; though of course, he would. He saw very little 'progress' in the inventions of their own day... he had thought very little of them, too.] It is arrogance. It is ease. It is simple thoughtlessness! Food with no flavour that still nourishes is better than starvation, yes; but a man who dines on fictions alone will never be full. It is a ship that floats through the stars, amazing; but a ship that does not land is shipwrecked, no matter how impressive its gleaming, technological mast. It has a medical bay that could cure every illness... and yet, you still suffer from the same headaches, and there are worse social ills here than in Paris, and there is no autonomy, and where there is slight autonomy there is violence that has increased in brutality and decreased in feeling.
[A breath, and he pushed his face a little nearer into the fabric, accepting that he could perhaps be childish, as Combeferre compared there status to that of children.]
I was told I speak as if I am from an old novel, and yet I did not know the title of the novel... even such things as this are lost on me now. We strive to catch up, to understand; need we? Has so much changed? Are men not still selfish, and brutal, are we not still in a place without rights, without freedoms, without even the comfort of dawn?
[He had died with the future on his lips, he had believed in it; and he felt betrayed by it.]
The more I think on it, the less happy I am. And I cannot seem to help it.
no subject
And if it was, well. Jehan had always been a little bit strange.]
You are far from stupid, but we cannot-- how can we...
[Collecting his thoughts was difficult, as he had so many, and they were scattered as if on wings in his mind. Their flurries were worse than usual, and they all shared the same dull, dragging colour, as if heavy gravity and stinging fire had conspired together to paint them a shade of dark and flickering that no man had yet imagined before.
He heard all that Combeferre said, and would try to respond in turn, grasping at wings of ideas and attempting to make sense, himself.]
It is not progress. [Jehan agreed; though of course, he would. He saw very little 'progress' in the inventions of their own day... he had thought very little of them, too.] It is arrogance. It is ease. It is simple thoughtlessness! Food with no flavour that still nourishes is better than starvation, yes; but a man who dines on fictions alone will never be full. It is a ship that floats through the stars, amazing; but a ship that does not land is shipwrecked, no matter how impressive its gleaming, technological mast. It has a medical bay that could cure every illness... and yet, you still suffer from the same headaches, and there are worse social ills here than in Paris, and there is no autonomy, and where there is slight autonomy there is violence that has increased in brutality and decreased in feeling.
[A breath, and he pushed his face a little nearer into the fabric, accepting that he could perhaps be childish, as Combeferre compared there status to that of children.]
I was told I speak as if I am from an old novel, and yet I did not know the title of the novel... even such things as this are lost on me now. We strive to catch up, to understand; need we? Has so much changed? Are men not still selfish, and brutal, are we not still in a place without rights, without freedoms, without even the comfort of dawn?
[He had died with the future on his lips, he had believed in it; and he felt betrayed by it.]
The more I think on it, the less happy I am. And I cannot seem to help it.