Jehan listens, rapt but worried. He glances to the journal, fingers itching but body staying put. He can’t help but think about reading the words of a Grantaire he’ll never know, wondering how a man this broken could once be as hopeful as the leader he so adores.
His frown etches into the tiniest smile at Grantaire’s joke, a hint at his friend’s regular mood in this heavy air. But then he realises that the reason R was so drawn to Enjolras in the first place is because he saw himself in their golden leader. It’s a thought that nearly makes him gasp, as so many questions he’s asked over the years finally have answers as more and more connections slide into place.
Learning that the cynic was once a golden revolutionary of his own makes his heart hurt more than it probably should.
He wonders how much it hurt Rene Grantaire to be pulled so easily into the family - the security - created by les amis.
He opens his mouth to speak, thinking on how much he’d do for Enjolras and his friends and the cause. “I’m sure they wouldn’t blame you. They probably decided themselves that they’d walk through fire and back for you on their own.”
Like les amis have for Enjolras.
“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.”
