[And that, right there, has Enjolras doing a bit more than simply sighing. Logically, he knows, and long ago made peace with the fact that they had come there of their own free will, but that does not stop the sharp stabbing at his chest as he considers the situation now, removed from it as he is. Each of their deaths is still a knife, and, for many of the earlier ones, he can remember everything. The thought of facing it again has him clenching his hands there as he sits.]

God...

Just when one considers they've found happiness of a sort, the possibility of losing it, then actually losing it occurs. I had hoped after Grantaire...

Well. Clearly that was not to be the case.

[And here, he's reaching out, to actually grasp Courfeyrac's hand.]

We cannot promise each other we will not be parted, and I know it. But we are here now, diminished as we are. Do you mind terribly if I make myself certain of it?