[Jehan insisted. And perhaps he was more resolute in his language now, as language was a powerful thing. He rooted for Combeferre, even if he could predict no outcome. As it was, he stood by what he had already said: that in having what he had of Enjolras, Combeferre had more than any other man.
When the hand clasped over his own, he gave it a gentle, warm squeeze and nodded at his words. He was not ashamed of his feelings, or of debating them publicly, only of putting a burden on a friend who had enough of his own, or worse, troubling him. This he had not wanted to do, but everyone had their limits. Being lost for a week had pushed Jehan well beyond those limits, and he could not help the inward collapse.]
Thank you. Your kindness in this has been indispensable. I do feel a bit better, and I will mull your words carefully, and remember them, should the density of it all become too great again.
[He was grateful, too, for the element of deeper friendship. He'd always thought them all quite close, but he knew he was on the periphery of that closeness. That was nothing to a writer, nothing to someone who liked to wander, and think, and fill themselves with feelings of a million different natures and times, who had a home to return to in the South, and some little family, and who was in love with a pretty someone they barely spoke, with and who had nearer friends in Paris, such as Bahorel. But on board this ship? With only dour thoughts, and nowhere to go? Shakily and secretly in love, far from home, with only the very best of friends all together? That might have made him feel left out in a way he would not have blamed any of them for-- but he hadn't. Those deeper friendships, and indeed, that affair (though no longer 'shaky', it would seem) cemented that he could not. They had been very good to him, he felt.
Though as Combeferre continued to be more directly good to him now; naming off traits he felt were admirable; Jehan sank into his shirt collar, turned a violent shade of pink by degrees, and wished he could evaporate into his coat.
Panic alone kept him quite alert! For he was afraid, now, that perhaps he had made it sound as if he were fishing after compliments? Practically groaning, he shook his head.]
That-- you really think too much of me. I am no more intelligent than you, no more kind than he, understand no better than our elder, Bahorel. I am not nearly as good-looking as Enjolras, and I thank you for your advice regarding mirrors, but I do not need the daily reminder of how I look; I think I can recall it, and I have eyes to see my clothes with before I put them on.
[Managed to tease in return, but his voice was small; sheepish and nervous. It had lost the lilt to it of when he spoke on a subject he knew well; and tragedy was that; and took on the guise it wore in any other matter.
Especially clandestine romances that involved himself.]
...I cannot say you are altogether incorrect, though. I do fail to see where I could be more tempting than any other, far better suitor of any other time. Again, I know that he does-- [here, once more, he smoothed out the paper, pausing to give it a brief, affectionate stare.] --love me. But I am concerned, I suppose, that he sells himself short, or too quickly, because of what we know of our death, and the impermanence of this ship. I worry because I love him, and so much that you cannot imagine Michel. [Which, of course, Michel probably could, but Jehan had once again hit a subject he knew and had gathered speed and energy in his rambling.] I worry because the thought of sharing him, or losing him, or even-- I admit with utmost embarrassment-- insisting he stay the night in yours, or Enjolras' rooms again fills me with a pain so acute that if he knew it, I think he'd assume I was mad. But I am a poor liar, and he will know it. ...Do you truly think he-- we-- are making a wise choice?
[Jehan trusted feelings on the whole. But he felt that if wisdom gave emotion its blessing, he would no longer need to worry.]
no subject
[Jehan insisted. And perhaps he was more resolute in his language now, as language was a powerful thing. He rooted for Combeferre, even if he could predict no outcome. As it was, he stood by what he had already said: that in having what he had of Enjolras, Combeferre had more than any other man.
When the hand clasped over his own, he gave it a gentle, warm squeeze and nodded at his words. He was not ashamed of his feelings, or of debating them publicly, only of putting a burden on a friend who had enough of his own, or worse, troubling him. This he had not wanted to do, but everyone had their limits. Being lost for a week had pushed Jehan well beyond those limits, and he could not help the inward collapse.]
Thank you. Your kindness in this has been indispensable. I do feel a bit better, and I will mull your words carefully, and remember them, should the density of it all become too great again.
[He was grateful, too, for the element of deeper friendship. He'd always thought them all quite close, but he knew he was on the periphery of that closeness. That was nothing to a writer, nothing to someone who liked to wander, and think, and fill themselves with feelings of a million different natures and times, who had a home to return to in the South, and some little family, and who was in love with a pretty someone they barely spoke, with and who had nearer friends in Paris, such as Bahorel. But on board this ship? With only dour thoughts, and nowhere to go? Shakily and secretly in love, far from home, with only the very best of friends all together? That might have made him feel left out in a way he would not have blamed any of them for-- but he hadn't. Those deeper friendships, and indeed, that affair (though no longer 'shaky', it would seem) cemented that he could not. They had been very good to him, he felt.
Though as Combeferre continued to be more directly good to him now; naming off traits he felt were admirable; Jehan sank into his shirt collar, turned a violent shade of pink by degrees, and wished he could evaporate into his coat.
Panic alone kept him quite alert! For he was afraid, now, that perhaps he had made it sound as if he were fishing after compliments? Practically groaning, he shook his head.]
That-- you really think too much of me. I am no more intelligent than you, no more kind than he, understand no better than our elder, Bahorel. I am not nearly as good-looking as Enjolras, and I thank you for your advice regarding mirrors, but I do not need the daily reminder of how I look; I think I can recall it, and I have eyes to see my clothes with before I put them on.
[Managed to tease in return, but his voice was small; sheepish and nervous. It had lost the lilt to it of when he spoke on a subject he knew well; and tragedy was that; and took on the guise it wore in any other matter.
Especially clandestine romances that involved himself.]
...I cannot say you are altogether incorrect, though. I do fail to see where I could be more tempting than any other, far better suitor of any other time. Again, I know that he does-- [here, once more, he smoothed out the paper, pausing to give it a brief, affectionate stare.] --love me. But I am concerned, I suppose, that he sells himself short, or too quickly, because of what we know of our death, and the impermanence of this ship. I worry because I love him, and so much that you cannot imagine Michel. [Which, of course, Michel probably could, but Jehan had once again hit a subject he knew and had gathered speed and energy in his rambling.] I worry because the thought of sharing him, or losing him, or even-- I admit with utmost embarrassment-- insisting he stay the night in yours, or Enjolras' rooms again fills me with a pain so acute that if he knew it, I think he'd assume I was mad. But I am a poor liar, and he will know it. ...Do you truly think he-- we-- are making a wise choice?
[Jehan trusted feelings on the whole. But he felt that if wisdom gave emotion its blessing, he would no longer need to worry.]