Date: 2015-11-16 07:17 am (UTC)From: [personal profile] pro_patria_mortuus
pro_patria_mortuus: (to days gone by)
At the noise that isn't quite like a laugh, Enjolras reaches out to press his shoulder, in turn.

And then -- well.

"It was so strange, being in Valjean's body. His body! -- to be in Paris, and yet not myself, and reminded of it every step, every time anyone looked at me. In a way I suppose that helped."

"The door let me out into his garden, behind walls. Thank God it wasn't on a street corner. I don't know what anyone would have thought -- that the old man was having an attack of some sort, probably. But then there was work to be done. And I could do it."

There still is. Telling his friends; this conversation, right now. It's something to do that's worth something -- real work, even only a few days of it. Something to do, in Paris, for the cause, even if only in small ways. A burst of water, to sustain him in the drought of Milliways.

(His friends are water, too. They're only the reason Milliways isn't the hell it could be; the only reason he could tell his father in a dream, I'm very well, I swear it, and mean the words. But it isn't the same. Nothing like the same.)
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