Despite being unfinished, the fragment of a question sends a spark of fear down Gleb's spine, a worry that he's said too much, shown his hand. At the same time, it's hard not to think of an answer: всё. Just as soon as it occurs to him, he knows that, even if he thought she might be the least bit receptive to the way he catches himself thinking about her too often, to the feelings he knows there's no sense in trying to ignore, she wouldn't want to be considered everything any more than she would want to be someone's cause. It's an exaggeration, probably. She has, though, become something of a focal point, turned his whole damn world upside down, left all that he'd once believed and fought for called into question. To him, it would be close enough.
Even if she had asked, though, he couldn't have answered. If there was a moment between them, some quietly exchanged tenderness, that moment has passed, the abruptness with which she looks away and removes her hand from his arm making that clear enough. He looks away in turn, taking a deep breath, silently hoping that he hasn't made too much too apparent or made her uncomfortable. It may be impossible to fully ignore or set aside how he feels about her, but for her sake, he can let it not matter, still there but lying dormant. Just this — whatever she'll give him — is enough.
"We are," he agrees, watching as they pass familiar buildings, most of them darkened by now. "Strange, but lucky." Gleb isn't sure he manages to seem quite as convinced as he should, but he doesn't want to explain to her why that might be the case, that a part of him still remains certain that he should have had to go home to face what would have awaited him there. It's the same reason he knows he would never have run, though it would have been easy enough to, already being so far from Russia. Another train to another country, distance between himself and Paris, and he could have disappeared. There's too much of a sense of duty in him for that, though. Perhaps his loyalty has been shaken, but that much remains unchanged. "That much, I think, will always matter."
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Even if she had asked, though, he couldn't have answered. If there was a moment between them, some quietly exchanged tenderness, that moment has passed, the abruptness with which she looks away and removes her hand from his arm making that clear enough. He looks away in turn, taking a deep breath, silently hoping that he hasn't made too much too apparent or made her uncomfortable. It may be impossible to fully ignore or set aside how he feels about her, but for her sake, he can let it not matter, still there but lying dormant. Just this — whatever she'll give him — is enough.
"We are," he agrees, watching as they pass familiar buildings, most of them darkened by now. "Strange, but lucky." Gleb isn't sure he manages to seem quite as convinced as he should, but he doesn't want to explain to her why that might be the case, that a part of him still remains certain that he should have had to go home to face what would have awaited him there. It's the same reason he knows he would never have run, though it would have been easy enough to, already being so far from Russia. Another train to another country, distance between himself and Paris, and he could have disappeared. There's too much of a sense of duty in him for that, though. Perhaps his loyalty has been shaken, but that much remains unchanged. "That much, I think, will always matter."