"What did you do?" Enjolras' eyes were round and intent. "When you realized?"
They were standing in his cramped kitchenette, in his apartment. They'd have gone out— sitting in a restaurant would be more comfortable than hunching over his dining room table— but he was wary of the looks they would get. After all, if some passerby should overhear the conversation... Instead, he invited Enjolras to his apartment. It was a little bit safer.
Lips parted to answer, but then hesitated. It was mildly humiliating, the way he'd handled himself— or rather, his inability to handle himself. The memories came back to him rather late, when he was in his teens. He supposed they were always there. Perhaps they are what cause the confusion one has when first waking in the morning. It lingers for a moment, but as consciousness comes, quietly fades. On this particular day, for divine reasons unfathomable to him, they did not. He woke up and knew.
It filtered back to him slowly, and then all at once. He cried. First and foremost, he grieved the lives lost in the insurrection. They'd expected exceed the standards of 1830. Instead, they accomplished nothing. With the wisdom of hindsight, he began to analyze, realizing every small detail that had sealed their fate. Beyond that, he found himself immediately, inexplicably homesick. Combeferre, upon realizing himself, wanted to go back to the life he remembered. He yearned for a place— for a time— that no longer was.
Then, his tears became more in awe. Modern textbooks were thicker than the ones he'd had before. More questions had answers. More diseases had cures, or better, methods of prevention. He remembered Necker, remembered cholera, and each death sentence he'd given to pain-stricken mothers and children. Each time, he promised to do everything he could, but usually could only make the patient comfortable. Now, some of the things he'd been unable to battle, had ceased to exist. There were better, more widespread vaccines, stronger stitches, EEG and MRI…
That morning, in bed in his middle-class suburban home, he reveled in the technology the world had discovered. He was an old soul, awake in a new world, recalling the faith he used to have in the future of man. They had not disappointed him.
"I… When I got a grip on the situation… I did a lot of studying." He admitted, voice soft. Even then, he knew he could not ask anyone about his situation; he'd never be taken seriously. His family was Evangelical, and his private school teachers were not inclined to answer what they called his 'off-handed' inquiries. The libraries, however, and the Internet, were always there for him, and for nearly a decade he poured himself into his quest to understand. "There are thousands of cases out there of people claiming to have lived past lives."
It felt good to share his thoughts again. Once, the two of them had been like one, unified mind, each knowing the other as thoroughly as he knew himself. Perhaps that was why Combeferre had felt incomplete by himself so long. All this time, he'd been alone. And now, eleven years later— one hundred and eighty one years later— he stood face to face with Enjolras once again. He was no longer homesick. He was home. The ghost of a smile graced the hard lines of his face. "For the most part, there was nothing to do but wait."
Enjolras, who had remained pensive, frowned. "Oh, my friend, I—"
"Enjolras."
He fell silent, grimacing. Blue eyes flickered to Combeferre, who was staring pointedly. No more apologies. He nodded. "Yes."