He does not, in many ways, understand him at all. (In fairness, he's fairly certain it's mutual.)
For example: is this the kind of huddle of deep poetic feelings in which he would prefer to be left alone, or the kind of huddle of deep poetic feelings in which he would prefer company? A glance at Bahorel is no help. Bahorel is watching the sunset, neither looking at Prouvaire nor giving anybody else any cues.
Well. The tree is only a few strides away. Enjolras crosses to it quietly (and he is glad to be back in his own familiar body again, all his balance exactly where he expects it to be and all his muscles doing precisely what he asks, under the familiar weight of decent wool and linen), and presses a silent hand to that hunched shoulder.
He'll leave again in a moment, and go speak to Combeferre and Bahorel or merely stand with them, if Prouvaire wants. Or he'll stay, if that's what Prouvaire wants instead.
no subject
He does not, in many ways, understand him at all. (In fairness, he's fairly certain it's mutual.)
For example: is this the kind of huddle of deep poetic feelings in which he would prefer to be left alone, or the kind of huddle of deep poetic feelings in which he would prefer company? A glance at Bahorel is no help. Bahorel is watching the sunset, neither looking at Prouvaire nor giving anybody else any cues.
Well. The tree is only a few strides away. Enjolras crosses to it quietly (and he is glad to be back in his own familiar body again, all his balance exactly where he expects it to be and all his muscles doing precisely what he asks, under the familiar weight of decent wool and linen), and presses a silent hand to that hunched shoulder.
He'll leave again in a moment, and go speak to Combeferre and Bahorel or merely stand with them, if Prouvaire wants. Or he'll stay, if that's what Prouvaire wants instead.