Enjolras stares at the achingly familiar face, unable to form a single sound. Time loses all significance, contorting into one infinite moment that may have lasted a second or a year. Finally, the air caught in his throat falls from numb lips in a rush, carrying a single word: "You." It is as if this inconceivable shock has robbed his mind of everything but the one word; he repeats it, again and again, until in one sudden snap, everything returns to him. "How?! I... I saw you! I buried you!"
Combeferre is not sure what he expected. The worst case scenario would probably involve Enjolras screaming, or thinking he’s seeing a ghost, or something of the like— all of which would be perfectly logical reactions. That in mind, this silent shock he’s getting is not so bad.
He has a lot that he needs to say; there are words on the tip of his tongue, begging to rush past his lips all at once. However, he knows better than to unload so much onto Enjolras. His friend is already dumbfounded, gawking unabashedly at the seeming specter before him, and the guide has not yet said three words. Instead, he swallows and waits, tense-shouldered and narrow-eyed, examining the pale face he’d missed so dearly while he’d been gone. It had been ages since he’d last seen anyone he called friend. To find Enjolras, alive and well, was a profound relief to his system, and yet stirred so much anxiety within his gut. Would his friend accept his presence now, or reject him? Believe him, or deny him? It seemed that sending him away, assuming he was only an apparition, would be the most logical course of action; if that was what Enjolras chose, Combeferre wouldn’t blame him. Three years and a supposed death warranted that. If he explained, and did get turned away, he would go without argument. He saw that Enjolras was safe, and that was enough.
Finally, the other spat a word out, and it shot at him again and again, filling the space between them with accusation and awe. He absorbed it silently, until a more coherent exclamation came. “I know,” he muttered, just loud enough to be heard. “I know. I… I lied.” You could call it that, he supposed. Faking one’s death is a lie. Combeferre met Enjolras’ eyes calmly, half-extending a hand to his friend, imploring him to listen. “And I am here now. Enjolras… There is much I have to tell you. You deserve an explanation.”
