The war is over, but it doesn't matter anymore. Nothing matters.
He is one of the three who are standing in the midst of the cheering, elated crowd with grave expressions on their faces and the cold, rotting smell of death about their bodies.
Rebecca and Lucy can't seem to keep a handle on their emotions anymore and they end up bursting into tears, arms wrapping around each other, their heartbroken wailing lost under the cacophony of celebrating assassins, and he- he is without that sort of human interaction so he swallows the bile that is rising in his throat and leaves the room with fists clenched so hard that his blunt nails pierce the flesh of his palms and stain his skin crimson.
As soon as he exits the room, as soon as he is alone in the dark hallway, he doubles over and /vomits/, cursing the unfairness of the world and for the love of /God/, how /happy/ they all were, the selfish, ungrateful bastards.
Only when he is finished emptying his stomach of its contents does he give into the burning at the back of his tired, oh so very tired eyes, hands reaching up to pull off his glasses and throw them to the floor with the resultant sound of shattering glass, his body slowly inching down the wall. By the time he gets to the floor, he is crying, the occasional sounds of emotional pain (it could just as well be physical, because it hurts, it hurt so fucking bad) leaving his lips.
Shaun is dimly aware of the muffled noise of the others popping open champagne and /laughing/ so freely and so happily in the other room, as if the world hasn't just been knocked off its axis.
As if they didn't realize that Desmond Miles was never, ever coming back.