Well, I might not advise to walk directly to him and say, 'Ah! But you are our angel, and my angel, and I own you.'
[There was a mischief in his eyes, just briefly, as he glanced up at Combeferre.]
But to say to a friend that he is all of ours, because he has imbued us with his spirit, and that that includes you? Why, you may make him blush even, but I doubt such a truth would bring him anything but pleasure. Surely, every friend and-- I should say even-- every man or angel desires positive recognition from those they love. Ownership? Indeed not. Perhaps you took that idea from the same place you fathomed the one about leashing people?
[Here, he arched a brow at him: evidence that they had been spending too much time together, of late. He nearly had the look down.
On the matter of Courfeyrac again, he made great sense, and by the end of it, Jehan looked some combination of affronted and desperate, as if he was not sure if he'd been insulted or found out. That was to say... on the one hand, he wanted to rebel entirely, with his whole soul, against the idea that he might not think them a lasting or true fit. He believed very strongly in love, and was known to become infatuated in his quiet ways, and stuck to that infatuation with a loyalty that was almost, at times, a bit pathetic. Granted, besides a few young romances parted by distance, such infatuations were one-sided. In Paris, mess that it was, they were carried on in the usual manner that poets preferred: glances, that sustained muses of feelings, that sustained emotional connection, that sustained writing. But truth be told... truth be told, perhaps he was not so different than Courfeyrac. He was very young, and had never fully enlisted in a real, lasting romance either. He wrote about it, and read extensively about it, and by his very nature in the art of it supposedly pined after it. But that was just the thing... the act of pining, one might say, was to Jehan as love-making was to Courfeyrac; addictive, normative, and almost expected of him.
Maybe he had also doubted his ability to go beyond that.
But after a moment's faltering, he suddenly looked very stalwart; almost violently so.]
Absolutely. Absolutely, I do think so, because-- because I do not care if it is immodest, but I think he is very happy, very at ease when he is with me and that brings me unspeakable joy. I know that I am at my gladdest when I am with him, and while I will spare you any limericks on the matter, I daresay that we have all grown, and are fresh, and new, and becoming something else. And whatever he has become, I adore it, and so I must trust that it I will not ruin it, because I too much enjoy the way he sighs over my terrible clothes, and gets crumbs on the sheets, and laughs like music at a tempo too fast.
no subject
[There was a mischief in his eyes, just briefly, as he glanced up at Combeferre.]
But to say to a friend that he is all of ours, because he has imbued us with his spirit, and that that includes you? Why, you may make him blush even, but I doubt such a truth would bring him anything but pleasure. Surely, every friend and-- I should say even-- every man or angel desires positive recognition from those they love. Ownership? Indeed not. Perhaps you took that idea from the same place you fathomed the one about leashing people?
[Here, he arched a brow at him: evidence that they had been spending too much time together, of late. He nearly had the look down.
On the matter of Courfeyrac again, he made great sense, and by the end of it, Jehan looked some combination of affronted and desperate, as if he was not sure if he'd been insulted or found out. That was to say... on the one hand, he wanted to rebel entirely, with his whole soul, against the idea that he might not think them a lasting or true fit. He believed very strongly in love, and was known to become infatuated in his quiet ways, and stuck to that infatuation with a loyalty that was almost, at times, a bit pathetic. Granted, besides a few young romances parted by distance, such infatuations were one-sided. In Paris, mess that it was, they were carried on in the usual manner that poets preferred: glances, that sustained muses of feelings, that sustained emotional connection, that sustained writing. But truth be told... truth be told, perhaps he was not so different than Courfeyrac. He was very young, and had never fully enlisted in a real, lasting romance either. He wrote about it, and read extensively about it, and by his very nature in the art of it supposedly pined after it. But that was just the thing... the act of pining, one might say, was to Jehan as love-making was to Courfeyrac; addictive, normative, and almost expected of him.
Maybe he had also doubted his ability to go beyond that.
But after a moment's faltering, he suddenly looked very stalwart; almost violently so.]
Absolutely. Absolutely, I do think so, because-- because I do not care if it is immodest, but I think he is very happy, very at ease when he is with me and that brings me unspeakable joy. I know that I am at my gladdest when I am with him, and while I will spare you any limericks on the matter, I daresay that we have all grown, and are fresh, and new, and becoming something else. And whatever he has become, I adore it, and so I must trust that it I will not ruin it, because I too much enjoy the way he sighs over my terrible clothes, and gets crumbs on the sheets, and laughs like music at a tempo too fast.
[SO THERE.]