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Generosity (Combeferre): March, 1827
Julien would be hurt if he knew what I was thinking yesterday. I was triumphant, I was joyous, I was overwhelmingly and surprisingly in love. I knew I cared for Aimery rather more than for the others -- more, and differently. It is not the same constellation of emotions that I feel for Julien, either. I love Julien with all my heart, but I would not be lost if he decided that he wanted to deny me physical affection. Today, I feel as though I deserve that sanction from him, not his continuing trust and love. He knew I was going to spend the night with Aimery, and I told him that I would not go if he would rather I didn't, but I still feel that I have betrayed him. I wouldn't worry so much, I think, if I enjoyed all of this as little as he seems to enjoy it. If I could muster that level of passionate involvement, that utter concentration, and feign his lack of emotion, then I would be as faithful to him as he is to me. What is the balance point of égalité if he is true to me, and I whisper words of love to another? I have offended against his faith in me, even if he doesn't say he's upset. It is not that Aimery will or could supersede Julien in my affections. They are such different men that neither could replace the other -- but I could not explain this to Julien well enough to justify it, not when Aimery joined our fraternité at my suggestion. I did not suggest it solely because I desired him, but if I admit to the depth of feeling I have for him, how credible is my protestation that he is wise as well as charming? I desire him, but it is a different sort of desire than that I feel for Julien. There is love in the way that Julien touches me, in his eyes and words when we are together. He is always careful, and so focused that I sometimes feel he must think about any pleasure, or he would not sense it at all. When we are together, there is nothing between us but the barrier of his thoughts and his ever-present restraint. For all that I love him, I sometimes suspect that he does not return that feeling, and no sweet endearments can convince me otherwise. He needs my love and he returns it as much as he is able, but he does not need, and probably does not want, a physical manifestation of that love. I have seen him manifest desire by sheer force of will often enough, in another's arms, that I can't quite credit his desire for me. He accepts my caresses as though they are gifts I would like to give him. He is sometimes disdainful, and infrequently amorous, but never abandoned. He is always a little detached, a little above me and a little out of reach. We love each other, inasmuch as he loves anyone, and we would trust each other with our lives, but I can't confide in him. I used to be able to confide in him, but he can't cope with knowing he's made me uncomfortable. When I am not entirely happy with him, I want to talk about it with someone, anyone I can trust. It has been a long time since I could speak to anyone about Julien. Aimery listens, and I believe he cares. He has advice from time to time, as anyone might, and it is all the more valuable because he understands Julien and me so well. He has known us nearly a year, though he is the newest member of our loving brotherhood, and he has known that Julien and I are in love for nearly as long as he has known us. And he loves me, as a friend, and as a lover. Aimery, mon Aimé, is far from stingy with his affection. He exhausts me and he delights me, this sweet boy with his maddening kisses and generous soul. He knows very well what other people need, and he is confident that he can give them whatever that is. It has only been a month since he swore to trust us all, and sealed that with his heart and body. He insisted on doing it correctly, as correctly as anything is correct in this coterie. He swore to Julien first, with the sincerity of any knight promising his sword to his liege; how feudal we have become in our search for liberté. I was present, at his request. He must have known even then how I cared about him. The next night, he teased me for my hesitation the night before, and said that he loved me, in the breathless, earnest way Aimery makes his promises. I lost something of myself in his embrace, in a way that I had never felt, not even with Julien. There is a freedom and careless joy in the way he makes love that stole my heart and frightened me. I feared that I had hurt him, at first, but he laughed again in a way that would have infuriated Julien. Julien hates for anyone to make light of a vow that could mean the difference between life and death. Aimery was not lessening the vow, nor the sanctity of what we had shared. I knew it at the time, and I knew that I wanted to hold him again. I drew away from him for weeks; I was afraid that I was going to offend Julien and somehow lose them both. Although I had said nothing, Aimery knew, and two nights ago he drew me aside at the end of a meeting. He told me that I would be more than welcome in his bed, and he kissed me. I told Julien almost all the truth -- what Aimery had done, and what he'd said, and what I wanted, but not how much I wanted it. He would have been hurt if I had told him how I ached to touch someone else, to confide in him, and to love someone who is more alive, more accessible than Julien wants to seem. Julien was a little doubtful, but he gave me permission to go. That was why I had told him. I could not have gone, leaving him in ignorance, knowing that he was waiting for me to come home. But he knew, and he did not stop me from leaving with Aimery, as somewhere behind me Jehan chuckled and murmured something to Bossuet. Daniel must despair of all of us, now, but I shan't restrain myself for the benefit of his sensibilities. I told Aimery the truth, as far as I could articulate it. He knows I want him, he knows I love him, and he knows that I will never love him more than I love Julien. I told him, in a few moments of boneless lassitude, what I would have liked to do on that first night, when he held my Julien in his arms. I don't suppose I could ever tell Julien such a thing. He would lose respect for me, and faith in me. Still -- I love them both, and I desire them both. Is it a natural extension of that affection to wish that we could share a bed, or is it greed? I don't know. Aimery was not averse to the idea, but I am coming to understand that there are few such ideas that he would dismiss out of hand. He knows now what I think of this brotherhood, on the face of it, but not the deeper truth. He knows that I love mes frères, that I sometimes despair of them, and that I have never shared a bed with any of them other than in the initiation. He does not know, yet, why they must be so close to each other. Would that they -- we -- were all as loving as Aimery, and took such pleasure in sharing our hearts and beds. Perhaps then this would be what I wanted: a bond of love and joy in life, something to ground the bright idealists in their romantic fancies and keep their eyes on what is and what will be, rather than the dream of what can be. I wish that Aimery could make Julien feel as I feel, today, so glad to be alive. I know I don't make him feel like this, and nothing short of a revolution could. Still, I have to hope. There must be someone in Paris who can bind him to the future that comes closer every day, not the visions he sees, as far away as the sun, and as dangerously bright. I couldn't tell Aimery that this is all to protect Julien from himself. He would have laughed at me, or been angry that I presume so much against my lover's liberté. I haven't told any of them, yet. They are dreamers, as he is, but I can help them see the joy in the moment, and the possibilities that are coming. I can teach them that they need not reach out to the future; it is coming as fast as it has ever travelled, and we have only to work toward it, not draw it nearer. If they all learn a little patience, perhaps they can -- between all of them -- teach Julien a little, or force him to exercise it whether he has learned it or not. If I could have made them vow to keep him safe, I would have done that. Aimery would swear that vow, if I asked, and share the burden of responsibility with me. I think that I shall share it with him, if he ever invites me home again.
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