As Feuilly watched them plan their next move in a flurry of sentence fragments and half-gestures, he wondered if they had any idea how lucky they were that they’d found each other. He imagined they must; Enjolras and Courfeyrac had only known each other for three years, and they had both only known Combeferre for two, so a time before they’d struck this almost impossible harmony was certainly not a distant memory. It wasn’t long ago at all that they’d been where Feuilly was now: constantly explaining themselves, never quite connecting, never quite trusting that they had been believed or understood. And now they communicated profundities with glances, they had their own ideas articulated to them when they couldn’t find the words themselves.
It was mesmerizing to watch, and so Feuilly often did. But it was also isolating, so he never stuck around for long.
“Just let me know what you three come up with, then,” he said, trying to laugh as he waved himself out of their airwaves.
They returned his wave in a fuzzy unison that was almost comical, unwilling to pull themselves out of the groove they’d slipped into.
Feuilly didn’t take this personally, because it wasn’t personal, and he knew that. It still twinged, though, to know that such relationships were possible and to know, with the same certainty, that he would never find one of his own.