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Distance (Enjolras): March, 1829
Prouvaire speaks of fraternité, Courfeyrac speaks of marriage, Joly speaks of all-encompassing love affairs. "I love you," they say to me, smiling across the table. "I would follow you anywhere," embracing me familiarly. "I trust you with my life," as they lean over to claim a kiss before I leave.
Why can't I feel any of it? Why don't I care for them as they seem to care for me and for each other? They are my friends. I have seen each one of them naked and trembling, kissed and caressed them, accepted and returned their vows, and it meant something extraordinary to them. I can see that much, shining in their eyes; I can hear it in their words. Why can't I feel it in my heart?
I can share their purpose and their dedication, but not the warmth that purpose fuels in them. I don't understand the half-mad determination in Feuilly's eyes when he speaks of what we will accomplish. I don't understand the tenderness that comes over rough-spoken Bahorel when he speaks of what we have already wrought. I don't understand Prouvaire and his habit of nestling against his neighbor's shoulder while we discuss kings and constitutions. Friends, allies, brothers, lovers: what Audric and I have done to them has made them impossibly close, impossibly full of hope.
And I feel nothing.
Even Audric sees more in it than I do; like the others, he speaks of love. They are my friends, but I love none of them, except him. He spends at least one night in a week in someone else's bed. I know that if I asked him to, he would refrain; but I have no right to do that, and I would scarcely deny him anything that brings him happiness.
Besides, I consented to all of this from the beginning. He suggested, and I agreed -- or perhaps I suggested, and he only took me at my word. I can hardly remember now; we think so nearly alike, so much of the time. Or we did, then.
Every now and then he seems to come to himself as though from a long dream. He takes me in his arms, vows his love for me anew. "Julien, mon adoré, I am yours--" and I never know how to answer him. I love him, yes, but I am not his, and he is not mine. We both belong to something greater.
If he were mine, he would not go from my arms to Aimery's. If I were his, I would never have kissed Jehan, never have pressed my body to his and bidden him in the name of the Republic to take his pants off.
Sometimes I despise myself.
And sometimes I want desperately to feel what they feel. I want the closeness, the delight, the passion that I see among them. I want to be able to see the joy in this, instead of only weariness and shame.
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