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Escapism (Combeferre): May, 1832
Another night of trying to forget what the words "gun" and "ammunition" and "death" sound like in Julien's voice; another night with Aimery, wishing that sweat would wash me clean of the sins I commit in his arms. Sometimes I hate him for not caring, for smiling and laughing at revolutions that seem all too real and frightening to me. But I need him too much to hate him, really, and if I let myself be angry at him, that is the beginning of it, and I will end on the street, walking away from everyone I know and love. Everyone. Better to kiss him and let him change the subject from war to love. Better by far to let him take off my pants and smile at me than to ask him hard questions. Arguments will bring me nothing but pain. I don't have to hurt with his hands, his lips on my body. My dreams have been growing uglier of late, but when I wake in the night he is there and real. At some point he must have woken, for he is clean now, and so am I. Only my thoughts are dingy and dark with hopelessness, but I bury my face in his hair. He smells alive; he smells like love. I can sleep in his arms. In the morning, I wake in a daze of pleasure. Perhaps he knew I had had nightmares; perhaps he is only being kind. Whatever the reason, he laughs when I open my eyes and speeds up his hand as he moves to kiss me. He will not accept the same in return, which seems odd at first, but less so when I find that I am falling asleep again. We eat lunch together, talking of things that don't matter, and then I go home. I thought -- I thought that Julien had tired of playing games, as he has tired of laughing and tired of smiling and tired, these last months, of making love. Perhaps he has only tired of giving me these things, and has decided to share them with Daniel. I would accuse him of it, but I am too angry to see. If I stay, I will shout, or I will hurt him. I want to do both. The anger does not fade until I have walked the streets until my feet ache. I go home, then, and we resume the argument. It is not a debate. Nothing is solved, but nothing is ever solved between us, only pushed away so that we can continue. But when he lets himself forget that he is upset, his lips are as soft as ever as they move against mine, and his body almost as familiar, almost as anxious for reassurance as my own. There are no marks on his neck or shoulders, nothing to say that he has made love to someone else but a green smudge on the pillowcase and the burning memory of fury in my heart. I am not that gentle; the golden light of evening slants through the window and touches the beginnings of a livid bruise on his neck, low enough to hide under his collar. The light red lines on his shoulders will fade sooner than the mark on his hip, but even when that is gone I will remember how angry I was, and I will remember my reckless promise not to leave him. If he talks of battles, I must forget that, or I will shout at him. I cannot shout at him; I love him. I swear under my breath as we dress. There is a tender place that will be purple by morning, just under my cravat. For this war, whenever it comes, he is mine, but I am his as well. It might have been more sensible to have left when he told me to go, but I want him, I need him too much to go. To sleep in my own bed, too far from him to hear him breathing -- I would rather march into battle and be shot as it begins. Which is just as well, as it seems more likely with each passing day.
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