"Probably," Enjolras agrees, though he doesn't drop his hand just yet.
"No; there's a bath and a basin in the little room there." With quite marvelous plumbing.
He remembers, with a sudden immediacy, his first night in this room. Exhausted, filthy, covered in blood, the hot water bubbling forth endlessly. How he'd thought in a haze what Combeferre would think of these wonders, the speculation he would murmur about boilers and fuel and piping. At his ear there'd been only silence, then, and he'd had to force away the memory of Combeferre's face twisted as bayonets pierced him. Seven voices' worth of silence. It's a peculiar, disconnected feeling: the immediacy of memory, doubled with the reality of this room.
He steps forward, heedless of that reek and blood, to embrace Combeferre once more. It will be briefer, unless Combeferre wants otherwise.
"My dear friend. It's so very good to see your face."
no subject
"No; there's a bath and a basin in the little room there." With quite marvelous plumbing.
He remembers, with a sudden immediacy, his first night in this room. Exhausted, filthy, covered in blood, the hot water bubbling forth endlessly. How he'd thought in a haze what Combeferre would think of these wonders, the speculation he would murmur about boilers and fuel and piping. At his ear there'd been only silence, then, and he'd had to force away the memory of Combeferre's face twisted as bayonets pierced him. Seven voices' worth of silence. It's a peculiar, disconnected feeling: the immediacy of memory, doubled with the reality of this room.
He steps forward, heedless of that reek and blood, to embrace Combeferre once more. It will be briefer, unless Combeferre wants otherwise.
"My dear friend. It's so very good to see your face."
Even under the circumstances.