Closed Post: Epilogue

[futaille]

The latest round of mansion mischief had been... fine, really. Positively kind, as far as these things go. A few hiccups, but generally, what was necessary to be communicated was able to be communicated. Sometimes a bit too much, though. That unintentional and very unlikely echo of his own words, which he understood, as English had to be a magpie. Which he said he'd talk about later, when communication was easier. Which he hoped, just a bit, would be forgotten about, even as he knew it wouldn't.

No, it was fine. Just surprising, is all. As he'd said. A strange coincidence. He'd had it comparatively easy, after all. So it will be no trouble, whenever it comes, of course.

He's still not going to actually seek out that conversation, though. So he's having a nice lunch. A sandwich and wine. Perfect.

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[sagramore]

"Good morning," says that conversation, blithely, sliding into the chair across from him (Grantaire, you have got to stop picking tables with an empty chair available).

[futaille]

"Good morning," he says easily, because it's both close enough and Sagramore, so that's the optimal greeting at any time of day. "Only made one sandwich, sorry."

[sagramore]

"That's all right, I'd rather steal your wine. Thine, thy wine. Sorry, I got out of practice."

[futaille]

"Oh, feel free. That goes without saying." He pushes the bottle towards Sagramore. "Always happy to share."

[sagramore]

"You're well?" He takes a drink and passes it back.

[futaille]

"I have no complaints to speak of." He takes a drink of his own and sets the bottle between them for easy access.

[sagramore]

"I heard Laertes made you a cake. A-- funfetti?" somewhat skeptically.

[futaille]

And that's a laugh. "Yes! All of the whimsy of the original, but made with better ingredients. Quite delicious and still colorful."

[sagramore]

"Are they usually at odds? He brought me back the one with the syrup on top, the brunsviger, I thought that was quite good."

[futaille]

"Well, the original sacrificed flavor for festivity, more than I realized when I first tried it, but apparently most of the ingredients came out of a box. Honestly, I didn't have much quibble with any of the cakes at the party."

[sagramore]

"Nor should you," mock-stern (er, probably mock). "My husband made those cakes."

[futaille]

He holds up his hands in a conciliatory manner, although his smile doesn't dim. "I would never malign his skills. That would be true foolishness, and although I am a fool, I am not that much of one."

[sagramore]

"I know thou'rt not." He reaches for the bottle again, and when he sets it down, says, "Thou knowst already what I mean to ask thee."

[futaille]

He picks up the bottle himself and takes a drink. "I figured, yes." He shrugs. "What I said won't change much, though. I was just surprised.

[sagramore]

Sagramore props his chin in his hand. "Thou didst not say much at all. How didst thou die, my heart?"

[futaille]

Grantaire shrugs. "You have to understand, I was asleep for the fighting. I had a truly tremendous amount to drink before anything started, so I was asleep at a table for anything of note. No tumult, no battle. I woke when it was quiet again."

He takes another drink. "There was a firing squad. They had Enjolras cornered for execution. I decided to join him. And then I was here. So you see, not much to speak of."

[sagramore]

"Hmm," he says, in no particular tone.

[futaille]

"I know it's a bit of an anticlimax, but reality often is." He takes a bite of his sandwich.

[sagramore]

"Thou, on the eve of a battle thou didst surely know was coming, for a cause thou didst not find compelling, drank thyself senseless, and when thou didst wake, sacrificed thyself to death because thou sawst the man thou lovest still about to die. A death thou couldst have avoided thou chosest."

[futaille]

He hesitates slightly and shrugs. "Even odds they would have shot me anyway upon finding me alive amongst the dead. I spared them extra bullets."

[sagramore]

"Wouldst thou have lived without him?"

[futaille]

"Why would I let him die alone?"

[sagramore]

"What dost thou think thou art, in and of thyself?"

[futaille]

"I'm just... myself." He shrugs. "What is anyone, I suppose?"

[sagramore]

Sagramore takes the bottle back, and waits. There's part of him that wants to ask more irritating questions, and part of him that thinks that Grantaire is his own man, and can choose what he has to say -- and part of him that knows sometimes saying nothing will split the difference and get a recalcitrant man to talk to fill the silence.