“I should have fallen with them.” His voice is laced with pain when he speaks, cradling the most-definitely broken hand to his chest tenderly. What more could he say? It hangs between them, weighted as a stone upon a line.
When the tension finally snaps, R sinks to his knees, his back still to Jehan. If their story now were to end the way he suspects, he intends to fall with his friends– avec Les Amis– no, avec mes amis.
R wonders faintly when he became so aware of his heart pounding beneath his breast, he leans to the side slightly before dragging himself to his feet once more. He turns to the poet, studying him with those impossible pools. “Perhaps you have some truth, in experience at the very least. But I have never been able to forgive myself for leading those men to their deaths and not numbering among them. I do not intend to let such a thing happen again.”
His resolve falters for a moment, and the voice he speaks with is softer, gentler– vulnerable. His not-broken hand signs alongside his words as best he can. “As reticent as I am on my position with Les Amis, I must admit– at least here to you as we speak of such things- that I am quite attached to the lot of you. Not just Enjolras. Not for the sake of memories either. It– helps.” He can picture a world where he lets these students help him recover.
“….I do in fact, consider you my friends.” Perhaps this was news- Grantaire was often drunk among them, a bigger smartass than he ought to be. “Surprising as that may be.”
“But you didn’t,” Jehan tells him, matter-of-fact. He doesn’t mean to sound mean, or like he isn’t already mourning the lives of those long past. It’s not a mean statement as it passes through his lips, just one that hints at a “but if you had...”
The poet watches him, wincing as he sees the other’s hand, most likely broken. His medical knowledge is limited, but countless rallies gone wrong have taught him enough to know that it needs to be taken care of right now, immediately. He reaches out and holds his hand underneath R’s, waiting for him to offer his hand with a small, worried smile playing on his lips. “You of all people should know I enjoy hypotheticals, but just thinking about what les amis would be like without you...”
He lets the sentence trail, eyes flicking from Grantaire’s hand to his face. His other hand comes to rest gently against the cheek on the other’s bad side, eternally grateful that the cynic trusts him enough to allow this comfort. “That isn’t news to me,” he says, with a soft laugh. “Though I’m more perceptive than most. And you know I’m always, always here to help you, no matter what it is.”
It’s something the poet has already told him tonight, but he feels like it should be repeated.
