[ooc: Omg! I'm sorry I'm so late, I thought I had replied to this. Kick me next time!! I only realized I hadn't because I used this thread for AC.]
[He let out a low breath, not quite a sigh, but almost... a noise of relief? When Combeferre insisted that he understood. Of course, he would, and that is perhaps why Jehan felt less heavy by telling him. They had not only been through the same thing, but they had come at it from similar standpoints. However they might tease at one another, a poet and a philosopher were similar, and they had both been the pacifists of the group, besides. It seemed that his own death had wounded Combeferre in the deep and visceral way that Bahorel's death had hurt Jehan: in a way that left the burning need to do something, as their minds seemed to have been equally stuck on the fact that nothing could be done to fix it, erase it, somehow offer that which was already dead and gone some form of camaraderie.
He knew Combeferre would understand all of that, from a way the others perhaps could not.
He noticed, of course, when Combeferre suddenly grabbed his own chest in some memory of great pain, and he knew that the frown that crossed over the man's face was as much for his sake as it was for his own. In a way, though he should never wish to be looked after or babied, it was still... comforting. It was comforting to know that his friend had such a desire to protect him, to protect them all, as even extended into this new life, regardless of logic. It was kind.]
There's always much to be seen in hindsight. I'm afraid that's irony's way of having a fruitful existence among men. You did what you could. You did your best. We all did, I am sure... and it was flawed, and so much of it was wrong, and it hurt in ways my mind sometimes fathoms so deeply that I lose the ability to see past it. But it could not have gone any other way. Such is the conflagration of all our personalities, in the growing-pot of Parisian soil.
I do not regret it as a whole, I only-- I only regret it in parts. If that makes any sense. ...Thank you, Combeferre. For listening to me.
[It made him feel better, in some small way, to admit he'd had reservations about the violence, to admit he'd been upset at Combeferre and Enjolras for selling their souls so cheaply before the battle was done, to admit he was upset with himself over what he'd realized was a poor decision, if not outright suicide. That he wondered if what they'd done was right, and if this wasn't a kind of purgatory built around them, for any sins committed. That he was not and could not be like Enjolras; unwavering; or Courfeyrac; finding cheer and company able in time to eclipse pain and memory.
Speaking of which...
Taking a breath, he glanced up, then away just as quickly.]
The other matter... I. It's... about Reynaud. I-- I'm quite at a loss, Combeferre.
no subject
[He let out a low breath, not quite a sigh, but almost... a noise of relief? When Combeferre insisted that he understood. Of course, he would, and that is perhaps why Jehan felt less heavy by telling him. They had not only been through the same thing, but they had come at it from similar standpoints. However they might tease at one another, a poet and a philosopher were similar, and they had both been the pacifists of the group, besides. It seemed that his own death had wounded Combeferre in the deep and visceral way that Bahorel's death had hurt Jehan: in a way that left the burning need to do something, as their minds seemed to have been equally stuck on the fact that nothing could be done to fix it, erase it, somehow offer that which was already dead and gone some form of camaraderie.
He knew Combeferre would understand all of that, from a way the others perhaps could not.
He noticed, of course, when Combeferre suddenly grabbed his own chest in some memory of great pain, and he knew that the frown that crossed over the man's face was as much for his sake as it was for his own. In a way, though he should never wish to be looked after or babied, it was still... comforting. It was comforting to know that his friend had such a desire to protect him, to protect them all, as even extended into this new life, regardless of logic. It was kind.]
There's always much to be seen in hindsight. I'm afraid that's irony's way of having a fruitful existence among men. You did what you could. You did your best. We all did, I am sure... and it was flawed, and so much of it was wrong, and it hurt in ways my mind sometimes fathoms so deeply that I lose the ability to see past it. But it could not have gone any other way. Such is the conflagration of all our personalities, in the growing-pot of Parisian soil.
I do not regret it as a whole, I only-- I only regret it in parts. If that makes any sense. ...Thank you, Combeferre. For listening to me.
[It made him feel better, in some small way, to admit he'd had reservations about the violence, to admit he'd been upset at Combeferre and Enjolras for selling their souls so cheaply before the battle was done, to admit he was upset with himself over what he'd realized was a poor decision, if not outright suicide. That he wondered if what they'd done was right, and if this wasn't a kind of purgatory built around them, for any sins committed. That he was not and could not be like Enjolras; unwavering; or Courfeyrac; finding cheer and company able in time to eclipse pain and memory.
Speaking of which...
Taking a breath, he glanced up, then away just as quickly.]
The other matter... I. It's... about Reynaud. I-- I'm quite at a loss, Combeferre.