Of course I would. Like he was being asked if he'd like to try a new cafe, or move apartments, or cover someone else's bets,of course. Because of course, because this is Bossuet.
There's no argument for it. It's completely unfair in a case like this. Joly looks away.
But he listens. And there's any number of arguments to the rest of it, he's had them with himself some nights while he was tweaking his transmitter's designs and checking history books for dates on communications breakthroughs, and he worked it through then, and--
"I know."
He still can't look at Bossuet. He looks at the sheets instead. "All of it. I know, I don't--" He waves one hand and then lets it fall back on the bed. "But I- I thought. If we could, if there were some way to just say something, to let them know we're all right, to know they're all right-- to know she's--"
His voice is back in his head again, too loud and too shaky, so he cuts it off and stares at the sheet he's twisting up.
Lesgle slides his hand over, almost diffidently, to take Joly's. "What would you say?"
(He is not going to say aloud, because it would be terrible and because Joly certainly already knows, that he doesn't miss Musichetta the way Joly does. He hopes it isn't a defect in him: certainly he'd liked and admired her. Loved her, if you want to put it that way. A most loveable person. But he hasn't lost any long nights' sleep over leaving her behind. Probably it is a defect in him.)
Joly stops twisting the sheet around and puts his other hand over Bossuet's. He opens and closes his mouth like he's priming a water pump.
"My parents-"
--that's not the question, but it's the first thing that comes out--
"I just want them to know. To know I'm all right, they don't have to worry, my soul isn't in eternal torment or anything,I have to--don't I have to try to tell them? And Musichetta--"
Which is the question. And he goes dry again for a moment. But now it's said.
"Musichetta, I don't know. I don't. Let her talk. I...we'd fought over it sometimes, you know?" He laughs, and it's shaky, but it's a real laugh. "Just give her the chance to say she'd told me so."
He runs his thumb across Bossuet's knuckles. There are so many other things he would say if he could, apologies and remembrances and wishes, but he can't think of how, or of any way that wouldn't twist into the very sort of cruelty Bossuet had mentioned, exactly what he doesn't want. "I just want to say goodbye, I suppose. So we both know that it is goodbye. That it's all right, to, to not worry, to not... consider us, our opinions. To be free."
He's not sure when he started crying. He laughs again anyway. "To not feel haunted."
He leans so that his shoulder touches Joly's. It's an awkward position, but he doesn't want to be any farther away than that. (He wants to tug Joly close, wrap an arm around him. But affection can be a terrible constraint on a man's speech.)
"Yes, I know. --Especially about letting her say she told you so. Not very gallant of us, taking the last word from her. Musichetta."
Oh, hell. Lesgle rubs his free hand across his own face, then touches Joly's hair lightly. "I suppose we could try."
Now Bossuet does pull him close, fiercely close, folding Joly up in his long arms.
Joly's right. They can't. It's one thing to try to strive, even after death, for France, for the people, for the future. Even a dead man may care about those things. But the individual people? They've gone beyond the grasp of the dead, unless the dead are terribly selfish.
(Which they are, in their way. Lesgle, selfishly, has been painfully happy with Joly's appearance here in the afterlife, has been jealously enjoying every moment and fearing that some conversation like this would separate them. Selfish, and he knows it.)
"She's a remarkable woman," he says finally. He doesn't know if Joly wants to talk about Musichetta, or not, but he should know that he can. "And you know I love your family."
It's much easier to cry when there's someone to hold on to who isn't clearly needing it to stop; and oddly, it's much easier to finish crying too. He's knows he'll go through this again, grief won't end in a night, but he's mostly through this squall, his breathing even again. Far enough along to laugh.
He tilts his head enough to talk. "My family liked you too. Good solid trustworthy sort that you are." His family's idea of Lesgle was always amusing, but Joly's not completely teasing in repeating it.
He laughs a little as well. "Yes, quite. A steady, level-headed law-student, a little older than you. Just the sort of person a father wants to see guiding his son around Paris."
The paternal Joly may have been slightly mistaken about a few things, yes. "--God, I remember sitting with your father in the library, drinking hot coffee and talking about Combeferre with desperate earnestness. You had the sense to be sick in bed for a week..." Maybe it's not the time for reminiscence, but it's a fond memory.
It is, and Joly's actively giggling. "I was tragically ill and in the country to preserve my very life. Bahorel said so. What better proof do you need?" He misses Bahorel too, and Combeferre. But he finds missing them is still like missing someone away for a journey, with every expectation they'll return;something only a little sharper than pleasant anticipation.
"And Bahorel would know all about heading down to the country to preserve one's life." Lesgle's the same, when it comes to the rest of their friends: he's confident they'll be along sooner or later.
He scrubs his face again with a hand, extracts himself from their tangle to flop back down onto the bed, and tugs ever so gently on Joly's sleeve. That's enough semi-verticality for one hungover morning. "You were sitting in bed reading and drinking lemonade while I had to fall back on my most respectable memories of Meaux."
While he talks, languidly enough, he's watching Joly for any signs that the subject is too tender for conversation. They still aren't speaking of Musichetta, he notices: well, that's understandable.
Joly's grinning. "I still say I won that game on the carriage with-oh, damn. I'm sorry." He gets off the bed long enough to grab a glass of water from their tap (and it's still a delight to watch that, see a glass fill up so easily) and grab two of the tablets they'd gotten from the infirmary.
"Here--it's late enough for you to take these, now." He sets them both on the questionably gilted nightstand before flopping back down on the bed. "I am dreadful, I used your head as an excuse to leave Autor earlier and I still forgot. I don't know why you put up with me." It's said with the tone of one who knows he will, nonetheless,definitely be put up with, while he sprawls out on the aggressively blue sheets.
"I ask myself the same question; and yet, here I am, lying feebly under the gaze of cherubs of questionable taste..." He arranges a pillow more to his satisfaction and closes his eyes with a contented, cat-like smile. "Autor seems like a nice chap; I'm glad you've met him. Try his croissants some day."
Joly is terribly mistaken, of course; he only won that game in the carriage by inventing rules. And that doesn't count. He'll argue the point...some other time.
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merryeccentricities
no subject
Date: 24 Oct 2014 19:37 (UTC)There's no argument for it. It's completely unfair in a case like this. Joly looks away.
But he listens. And there's any number of arguments to the rest of it, he's had them with himself some nights while he was tweaking his transmitter's designs and checking history books for dates on communications breakthroughs, and he worked it through then, and--
"I know."
He still can't look at Bossuet. He looks at the sheets instead. "All of it. I know, I don't--" He waves one hand and then lets it fall back on the bed. "But I- I thought. If we could, if there were some way to just say something, to let them know we're all right, to know they're all right-- to know she's--"
His voice is back in his head again, too loud and too shaky, so he cuts it off and stares at the sheet he's twisting up.
no subject
Date: 24 Oct 2014 20:10 (UTC)(He is not going to say aloud, because it would be terrible and because Joly certainly already knows, that he doesn't miss Musichetta the way Joly does. He hopes it isn't a defect in him: certainly he'd liked and admired her. Loved her, if you want to put it that way. A most loveable person. But he hasn't lost any long nights' sleep over leaving her behind. Probably it is a defect in him.)
no subject
Date: 24 Oct 2014 20:58 (UTC)"My parents-"
--that's not the question, but it's the first thing that comes out--
"I just want them to know. To know I'm all right, they don't have to worry, my soul isn't in eternal torment or anything,I have to--don't I have to try to tell them? And Musichetta--"
Which is the question. And he goes dry again for a moment. But now it's said.
"Musichetta, I don't know. I don't. Let her talk. I...we'd fought over it sometimes, you know?" He laughs, and it's shaky, but it's a real laugh. "Just give her the chance to say she'd told me so."
He runs his thumb across Bossuet's knuckles. There are so many other things he would say if he could, apologies and remembrances and wishes, but he can't think of how, or of any way that wouldn't twist into the very sort of cruelty Bossuet had mentioned, exactly what he doesn't want. "I just want to say goodbye, I suppose. So we both know that it is goodbye. That it's all right, to, to not worry, to not... consider us, our opinions. To be free."
He's not sure when he started crying. He laughs again anyway. "To not feel haunted."
no subject
Date: 24 Oct 2014 21:22 (UTC)He leans so that his shoulder touches Joly's. It's an awkward position, but he doesn't want to be any farther away than that. (He wants to tug Joly close, wrap an arm around him. But affection can be a terrible constraint on a man's speech.)
"Yes, I know. --Especially about letting her say she told you so. Not very gallant of us, taking the last word from her. Musichetta."
Oh, hell. Lesgle rubs his free hand across his own face, then touches Joly's hair lightly. "I suppose we could try."
no subject
Date: 24 Oct 2014 21:48 (UTC)...But it's been weeks in their world. Months, from the reports he's heard. Pontmercy's fiancee, how long must that have taken to arrange?
And their bodies have surely been claimed, and buried, and all the eulogies said, and time and time...
It would not be a kindness.
Even with Bossuet's hand in his, he can't stop his own from shaking. "No." There's no eulogy for the living. Even if they're gone. "No. I can't."
He doesn't have anything else to say, so he stops trying to do that, either.
goodbye, goodbye.
no subject
Date: 24 Oct 2014 22:35 (UTC)Joly's right. They can't. It's one thing to try to strive, even after death, for France, for the people, for the future. Even a dead man may care about those things. But the individual people? They've gone beyond the grasp of the dead, unless the dead are terribly selfish.
(Which they are, in their way. Lesgle, selfishly, has been painfully happy with Joly's appearance here in the afterlife, has been jealously enjoying every moment and fearing that some conversation like this would separate them. Selfish, and he knows it.)
"She's a remarkable woman," he says finally. He doesn't know if Joly wants to talk about Musichetta, or not, but he should know that he can. "And you know I love your family."
no subject
Date: 24 Oct 2014 23:57 (UTC)He tilts his head enough to talk. "My family liked you too. Good solid trustworthy sort that you are." His family's idea of Lesgle was always amusing, but Joly's not completely teasing in repeating it.
no subject
Date: 25 Oct 2014 00:21 (UTC)The paternal Joly may have been slightly mistaken about a few things, yes. "--God, I remember sitting with your father in the library, drinking hot coffee and talking about Combeferre with desperate earnestness. You had the sense to be sick in bed for a week..." Maybe it's not the time for reminiscence, but it's a fond memory.
no subject
Date: 25 Oct 2014 00:36 (UTC)no subject
Date: 25 Oct 2014 01:06 (UTC)He scrubs his face again with a hand, extracts himself from their tangle to flop back down onto the bed, and tugs ever so gently on Joly's sleeve. That's enough semi-verticality for one hungover morning. "You were sitting in bed reading and drinking lemonade while I had to fall back on my most respectable memories of Meaux."
While he talks, languidly enough, he's watching Joly for any signs that the subject is too tender for conversation. They still aren't speaking of Musichetta, he notices: well, that's understandable.
no subject
Date: 25 Oct 2014 01:21 (UTC)"Here--it's late enough for you to take these, now." He sets them both on the questionably gilted nightstand before flopping back down on the bed. "I am dreadful, I used your head as an excuse to leave Autor earlier and I still forgot. I don't know why you put up with me." It's said with the tone of one who knows he will, nonetheless,definitely be put up with, while he sprawls out on the aggressively blue sheets.
no subject
Date: 25 Oct 2014 12:32 (UTC)Joly is terribly mistaken, of course; he only won that game in the carriage by inventing rules. And that doesn't count. He'll argue the point...some other time.