Apologies
Jonai
("He" as it is put, is Grantaire. And the person speaking is Enjolras. I figured that might be important for you to know.)
I never did like the rain. It put a chill in the air and the darkened sky heralded an oncoming trial. There was rain on the day of June the eighth. Cold droplets sliding down the cheeks of the sky and landing in miniature pools on the gravel. One could almost see the world crying for his death.
As for me, I could shed no tears. Even after the world I had once controlled had fallen to oblivion, my eyes remained dry until I had escaped to the comfort of my flat. The marble stature he had so avidly worshiped crumbled then, and I wept until dawn.
During the funeral, I felt more alone than any other time. His sisters stood before the casket, wrapped in what little they owned. One of the little ones had attempted to "wake him up." The eldest quietly reprimanded her, and I had caught a glimpse of red, swollen eyes and tearstained cheeks.
I recognized very few of the people present, and was a bit more at ease when Joly entered with Bossuet and Musichetta. Their usually bubbly female companion was sobbing on Bossuet's shoulder. Joly had approached me, gray eyes no longer filled with laughter.
"You came?"
"Of course I came!" I had snapped. His comment had stung me like a slap. Why wouldn't I attend my own lover's funeral? But Joly had no way of knowing, he couldn't understand.
Then, I gathered up any strength I possessed and walked to the open casket. I was terrified of what I might end up seeing.
When I reached the accursed place, I could not bear in my breast the pain of what I saw. He lay there, so quietly as if to wake at any moment, smile, and kiss me as he was accustomed to doing. I may have cried then, at such a tranquil expression. His coffin was beautiful, made of cedar wood and brass. I had paid for the flowers, for the coffin, for everything. The small amount of money his sisters had been able to provide couldn't even pay for the burial.
I reached into my coat pocket, and quickly found what I was looking for. A note, so carefully written, and re-written, and re-written over again, along with a small, meager little rose. I knew it wasn't much. I had brought flowers for the funeral that was the appropriate thing, right? Besides, he liked that flower over all the others. He had once, in a burst of eloquence, compared me to one. I must admit that I had turned a shade redder when he had said it. I took the delicate flower, and dropped it gently onto his chest. Then, I looked at the note. It was just an apology. It was an apology written too late for acting like such a fool. It was perhaps everything I had ever thought in my brain, but couldn't bring myself to repeat out loud.
I was a pompous bastard, and I knew it. I just couldn't understand why he couldn't see that.
Taking the paper gently into my hands, I had tucked it into his breast pocket. I could feel the tears stinging at my eyes, but they were scrubbed back automatically by the cuff of my sleeve. With a shiver, I leaned in and kissed him, knowing fully that he wasn't going to wake up. Knowing fully that my meager attempts at reconciliation weren't going to reach him. His skin was cold, he was cold, his eyes were shut forever.
"I'm sorry Francois." I had murmured half into his lips hoarsely, before quickly standing up, and rushing as fast as I could out of the building. In the distance I thought I could hear Joly calling my name, but I was deaf to it, as to everything else around me.
Every day I visited his grave, faithfully kneeling in silent prayer before leaving something there, anything to remind his spirit that I still thought of him in the darkest hours of the night, and the earliest of the morning. I sat there, and hoped that one way or another he heard me. And after a while, I believe he must have, because somehow, I knew I was forgiven.
Jonai
("He" as it is put, is Grantaire. And the person speaking is Enjolras. I figured that might be important for you to know.)
I never did like the rain. It put a chill in the air and the darkened sky heralded an oncoming trial. There was rain on the day of June the eighth. Cold droplets sliding down the cheeks of the sky and landing in miniature pools on the gravel. One could almost see the world crying for his death.
As for me, I could shed no tears. Even after the world I had once controlled had fallen to oblivion, my eyes remained dry until I had escaped to the comfort of my flat. The marble stature he had so avidly worshiped crumbled then, and I wept until dawn.
During the funeral, I felt more alone than any other time. His sisters stood before the casket, wrapped in what little they owned. One of the little ones had attempted to "wake him up." The eldest quietly reprimanded her, and I had caught a glimpse of red, swollen eyes and tearstained cheeks.
I recognized very few of the people present, and was a bit more at ease when Joly entered with Bossuet and Musichetta. Their usually bubbly female companion was sobbing on Bossuet's shoulder. Joly had approached me, gray eyes no longer filled with laughter.
"You came?"
"Of course I came!" I had snapped. His comment had stung me like a slap. Why wouldn't I attend my own lover's funeral? But Joly had no way of knowing, he couldn't understand.
Then, I gathered up any strength I possessed and walked to the open casket. I was terrified of what I might end up seeing.
When I reached the accursed place, I could not bear in my breast the pain of what I saw. He lay there, so quietly as if to wake at any moment, smile, and kiss me as he was accustomed to doing. I may have cried then, at such a tranquil expression. His coffin was beautiful, made of cedar wood and brass. I had paid for the flowers, for the coffin, for everything. The small amount of money his sisters had been able to provide couldn't even pay for the burial.
I reached into my coat pocket, and quickly found what I was looking for. A note, so carefully written, and re-written, and re-written over again, along with a small, meager little rose. I knew it wasn't much. I had brought flowers for the funeral that was the appropriate thing, right? Besides, he liked that flower over all the others. He had once, in a burst of eloquence, compared me to one. I must admit that I had turned a shade redder when he had said it. I took the delicate flower, and dropped it gently onto his chest. Then, I looked at the note. It was just an apology. It was an apology written too late for acting like such a fool. It was perhaps everything I had ever thought in my brain, but couldn't bring myself to repeat out loud.
I was a pompous bastard, and I knew it. I just couldn't understand why he couldn't see that.
Taking the paper gently into my hands, I had tucked it into his breast pocket. I could feel the tears stinging at my eyes, but they were scrubbed back automatically by the cuff of my sleeve. With a shiver, I leaned in and kissed him, knowing fully that he wasn't going to wake up. Knowing fully that my meager attempts at reconciliation weren't going to reach him. His skin was cold, he was cold, his eyes were shut forever.
"I'm sorry Francois." I had murmured half into his lips hoarsely, before quickly standing up, and rushing as fast as I could out of the building. In the distance I thought I could hear Joly calling my name, but I was deaf to it, as to everything else around me.
Every day I visited his grave, faithfully kneeling in silent prayer before leaving something there, anything to remind his spirit that I still thought of him in the darkest hours of the night, and the earliest of the morning. I sat there, and hoped that one way or another he heard me. And after a while, I believe he must have, because somehow, I knew I was forgiven.