We were foolish, but it's men who are foolish that move the world.
[He agreed quietly, staying near. When Combeferre reaches around him, he easily curls a hand into the fabric of his shirt to keep him. There has been some gentle, unspoken agreement made between them over these past months, Jehan feels, that allows for such a brotherly form of intimacy. Previously, he had only had it with Bahorel; but in his absence, and in Combeferre's greater role in his life of late, the familiarity had been extended. There were few people he felt so little awkward with, not in the in the capacity of emotion (for he knew most men found him awkward there, and he cared not at all, and it stopped his emotions and his poetry similarly not at all), but in the capacity of physically closeness. Jehan was clumsy and modest, so it was a rare type of friend that would see him reach for a continued contact.]
You... are free to criticize me. How could I disallow it? I was more foolish than anyone, perhaps, and more hypocritical at that. But I could not quite-- ...I could not quite not.
[He decided, with a cringe.
Let them all go, and he stay? Never. He should die a hundred deaths before allowing that. It was the bane of a romantic's soul, to send a friend to fight, or to die, alone. To be dispassionate.]
[He took a breath though, and nodded at those fortifying words. If anything, he could say he suffered almost fairly for what he had done in return, his own shots fired. For as he would not have let anyone die alone if it was in his realm to help it, dying alone had been similarly an indescribably terrible fate. Moreso now that he had time to contemplate it than adrenaline and bravery had allowed in the moment.]
It soothes me to know that you tried, Michel. [He admitted. It had not been on his mind at the time, that they would. Granted, he had also not quite expected such a roughness and quickness to it either. Admittedly, he had not had time to think very much at all.] And it soothes me to know that hindsight is cruel, but you and our friends are not, and perhaps in that we might one day forgive ourselves.
[He took a breath, before admitting at nearly a whisper,]
no subject
[He agreed quietly, staying near. When Combeferre reaches around him, he easily curls a hand into the fabric of his shirt to keep him. There has been some gentle, unspoken agreement made between them over these past months, Jehan feels, that allows for such a brotherly form of intimacy. Previously, he had only had it with Bahorel; but in his absence, and in Combeferre's greater role in his life of late, the familiarity had been extended. There were few people he felt so little awkward with, not in the in the capacity of emotion (for he knew most men found him awkward there, and he cared not at all, and it stopped his emotions and his poetry similarly not at all), but in the capacity of physically closeness. Jehan was clumsy and modest, so it was a rare type of friend that would see him reach for a continued contact.]
You... are free to criticize me. How could I disallow it? I was more foolish than anyone, perhaps, and more hypocritical at that. But I could not quite-- ...I could not quite not.
[He decided, with a cringe.
Let them all go, and he stay? Never. He should die a hundred deaths before allowing that. It was the bane of a romantic's soul, to send a friend to fight, or to die, alone. To be dispassionate.]
[He took a breath though, and nodded at those fortifying words. If anything, he could say he suffered almost fairly for what he had done in return, his own shots fired. For as he would not have let anyone die alone if it was in his realm to help it, dying alone had been similarly an indescribably terrible fate. Moreso now that he had time to contemplate it than adrenaline and bravery had allowed in the moment.]
It soothes me to know that you tried, Michel. [He admitted. It had not been on his mind at the time, that they would. Granted, he had also not quite expected such a roughness and quickness to it either. Admittedly, he had not had time to think very much at all.] And it soothes me to know that hindsight is cruel, but you and our friends are not, and perhaps in that we might one day forgive ourselves.
[He took a breath, before admitting at nearly a whisper,]
...There is one more thing.