A/N: And so we close with some scenes set on this night exactly 100 years ago.

The soft clink of glasses, and a sad hint of a smile playing around Antoine's lips. "With any luck by next Christmas this whole war will be over and we'll be back here again, just you and I."

The words hang in the air, and Konstin leans in, kissing him gently. He tastes sharply of cognac, and Konstin pulls back, so that their lips are only barely touching, and whispers, "How long have we been wishing that for?"

Antoine's breath is warm. "Maybe this time it will be enough," and he leans back, takes another sip from his glass.

Konstin follows suit, but his is only a small sip. It is so long since he has been allowed to drink anything. Alcohol does not mix with morphine. Or laudanum. Or opium. It is a lesson he has learned so many times, and now that, finally, there is no morphine in his blood (has not been morphine in his blood in more than two weeks), the cognac seems sharper than ever it was before. It numbs his lips, and burns his throat, and he forces a smile that he does not feel at the thought of the war. "Maybe."

Antoine raises his glass, and Konstin lightly clinks his against it. And just as he is beginning to wonder what they are supposed to be toasting, Antoine swallows.

"To you being alive." His voice is barely more than a whisper, and Konstin's heart catches in his throat, expanding and expanding as if he will never be able to draw a full breath again, and he reaches out, and gently takes Antoine's hand in his own. Their rings glint in the soft light of the fire.

If he could take it back, turn back the clock so that he was never wounded, so that Antoine never had to see him like that, he would in a heartbeat. So many things he would take back, would change in an instant if he could, and that one is chief, top of the list.

"To you being here," he whispers, and raises Antoine's hand gently to his lips. A tear shines in Antoine's eye, and they clink their glasses again, and each take another sip.

This time Antoine leans in, and presses his lips to Konstin's. "To love," he breathes, and the words send a shiver through Konstin's bones.

"To us." To us, here and now, always together, and after he kisses Antoine's cheek he pulls back, and they clink their glasses and drink, and then he whispers, "To Mamma, and Raoul." All they have done for him, for both of them. They have been here, steadfast and stalwart, and it does not matter that they do not know, that he has never told them the truth of he and Antoine, because there is an ocean of understanding in Mamma's eyes when she looks at him, and Raoul nodded as much as to say that there is nothing left to be said.

"To Erik." And now the tears prickle Konstin's eyes, and one trickles down his cheek. Antoine reaches over, wipes it away gently. "I know, darling, I know." And he does know, he does, because Konstin has told him about that night, and Erik's words ring in his mind again, The boy cares for you very much…I dare say it is in you to love him too and we have never been normal, you or I.

Antoine presses his glass to Konstin's mouth, and Konstin sips it. "I think he was happy for us," Konstin murmurs, and Antoine smiles.

"He was." And then a gleam comes into his eye. "I know he was." The words hang in the air a moment, as if they are part of some secret sacred sacrament, and Konstin's heart swells, before Antoine sighs, and leans back. "To Anja and her Capitaine."

And a chuckle bubbles up inside of Konstin that he cannot suppress. He never could have expected that, and though it is months since Raoul first told him about them, the idea is something he is still adjusting to. But Anja has explained it to him, her hand wrapped loosely around his and her eyes soft and his little sister had never looked so happy before, and it is all very logical, and when De Courcy visited him in the hospital he was hesitant, as if he did not know how Konstin would react to hear that they are effectively courting.

How could Konstin ever stand in the way of two people who love each other? When one considers… And Antoine's lip twitches as if he knows just what Konstin is thinking.

But thinking of Anja and De Courcy only reminds him of Marguerite and Dupuis. Similar in so many ways, a nurse and a wounded soldier, but with a far different ending, and his heart twists painfully as he raises his glass again to tap Antoine's and whispers, "To Marguerite." And Dupuis. "May this year be kinder to her than the last." And Antoine nods, his face solemn.

More toasts follow, almost a host of them. "To Philippe and Sorelli."

"To Émile and to Guillaume, the brothers we could not live without."

"To Nadir."

"And to Darius."

"To the men at the lines."

"To the men behind the lines waiting to go up."

And it is Konstin who whispers, feeling only half-tethered as if he could float away, and he has not drunk so very much cognac, not really, "To the dead."

And Antoine replies, and does not fight the tears that trickle from his eyes, "To the wounded." And then they are reaching, holding onto each other, just holdingon, as if it will be enough to keep the world spinning around them.

A heavy frost blankets the land, gives the impression of snow though there is no snow. It glows faintly in the light of the moon, silver and freezing to the bone. The earth is a frozen tomb tonight, encasing Edouard's bones tight in its embrace.

(She tries not to think of him being bones. It makes her ill to think about, though she has gotten so much better.)

She is grateful that it is only frozen. Better the frost than having rain pelting down heavy on the rows and rows of graves.

Sighing, she curls tighter in on herself. Minette is still on the wards, taking the night shift on this night of all nights, and Amélie's breathing is soft from the other bed. Sometimes she can listen to that soft breathing, to each gentle inhale and exhale, and not have to think, not have to remember, or wonder.

Konstin has told her so very much about Edouard. Things she would never have known otherwise, and though her fingers ache to pull out the bundle of letters he has sent her, she does not wish to risk it. Pulling them out would mean lighting the lamp, and then that might disturb Amélie. There is not enough silvery light coming in the window to read by, though it is a bright night nonetheless.

(Sometimes, she is not certain if it is better for there to be a bright night or a dark night. A bright night makes it so much easier for bullets to find their marks out there on the killing fields.)

She does not need to read the letters though, not really. She has read them enough times that their words are etched in her memory.

…he always refused to leave a man behind if he thought he could be helped…

…he was the eldest son and his father was proud of having an officer in the family…

…his brother-in-law was in a cavalry regiment, killed in the early months…his nephew is only a young boy…I hate to think of him growing up uncle-less and father-less…

…I think he would have been happy that you were there with him. Even had you been a stranger, I think he would have been happy. His younger brother, Marcel, was killed in '15. Shot while laying telephone wires, and they got him to a dressing station, but he died in the ambulance on the way to the clearing station. Dupuis (and Dupuis is crossed out where Konstin corrected himself) Edouard always said that he would hate to die in an ambulance…

…there is an even younger brother, I forget his name. Younger even than Émile. Edouard was always worried he might decide to lie about his age and try to join up…

…I hope for everyone's sake he has more sense than that…

…I hope this thing ends before it ever comes to that…

…I try to understand it, try to figure out how we ended up in this mess. It all seemed so clear once. Now the more I think about it the less I fathom it…

…but you, Marguerite, you need to take of yourself. He would not want you neglecting yourself now. Take comfort from the fact that you made his last days a hundred, a thousand!, times better than they might have been. I know such thoughts can only be so much comfort, but you gave him something he would never have had, and wherever he is I am certain Edouard is smiling, and wishing only for your good health…

Snatches of so many letters, all written in Konstin's strong hand. She knows he has written to Edouard's family, knows that he wrote them only days after she told him what had happened. It is my duty as his Commanding Officer, he insisted, though his eyes were wandering with tiredness and morphine, and she sat with him as he wrote, for Edouard, and for the other men under his command, killed and wounded. He was not half strong enough to be writing letters, and certainly not so many of them, but the moment she suggested that fire blazed in his eyes, and she knew there was no use in arguing.

(She mentioned it to Christine, afterwards, half-hoping that his mother's intervention would dissuade him, but Christine only smiled sadly and said, "He gets that from his father.")

Dumas is having a small midnight service in the chapel. She has been so worn out these last days that she was not intending to attend, but with sleep refusing to come perhaps it is better that she does. Slowly, infinitely slowly, she withdraws her watch from the top of the bedside locker. Squinting in the silvery light, she makes out the ticking hands. Another two hours. She has plenty of time yet.

The Medical Board will decide their respective fates. Konstin already knows that he will not be considered fit for any form of service yet, and the panel of experts will dictate that he remain in Paris to continue his convalescence. They will decide it based on the condition of his leg, and the fact that he is only recently out of hospital, and the fact that at times he still has trouble seeing through his left eye though it is much improved on what it was, though by the time the Board convenes to discuss him a month will have passed. He has no issue remaining in Paris, no issue at ill. Better here than having to trek up the lines again.

But Antoine. Antoine will have his Medical Board at the same time too, and Antoine has been out of hospital so much longer, has already returned to minor clerical service here. His wound has healed. They are almost guaranteed to send him back to the Front.

Konstin's stomach churns and he tries to push the certainty of it away. Antoine's arms tighten around him, his lips brushing his forehead, and Konstin knows that Antoine knows what his thinking. It is their common subject of thought these days.

Antoine will be ordered back up to the lines. And Konstin will be forced to remain here, wondering.

"It might not come to that," Antoine murmurs, his voice soft in the low light. "They might decide that I am not half fit enough yet, and insist on my remaining here for another couple of months."

"The odds of that are remarkably slim." There is a bite to Konstin's words, but he is not sorry for it. He is sick of these platitudes, of these vain attempts at reassurance. Why lie to him when he knows how it is going to turn out? If Antoine were an enlisted man, not an officer, he would likely have received his marching orders already, especially considering how well his wound has healed, cleanly and a minimum of scarring, and it was not very deep in the first place. "You will be sent back up there, and in the meantime, I'll be here until either this war ends or they realise that, oh, all of their officers are getting blown up and there's a shortage in the supply, and really my leg does not look so bad after all, no use in keeping me nice and safe in Paris, better give me a command again. It gives the men heart you know, to see a battered officer like me returning to lead them."

Antoine sighs, and audibly rolls his eyes, but does not speak

"You'll be off out there and I'll be here, suffering through endless charity balls and engagements, sitting in the corner and all of these dowagers coming up to me with their lovely caring daughters, and I have to smile and pretend as if the only person I could ever need in the world is not currently on the line somewhere east of Boscherville getting shot at by the Germans."

Antoine shifts their lying position so that they are eye to eye, and says, with precision aforethought, "Shut up, Konstin."

The tone says all that Konstin needs to know, and he purses his lips, cocks an eyebrow, and murmurs, "Make me."

The heat is already building in a knot beneath his navel when Antoine crushes their mouths together, and slips his tongue between Konstin's parted lips.

Soon they will need to leave to attend the midnight service, but not yet, not yet. They still have a little time, and with Raoul's arms warm around her it is as if that little time could spin out the world forever, keep them in this moment always. She leans into him, and sighs, her eyes closed against the dim light. It is their wedding dance playing low on the phonograph, the slow waltz that Konstin composed for them all of those years ago, and then recorded "so that you will always have it," he said, and smiled.

But they are not waltzing tonight, no. Christmas Eve is not a night to waltz. It is a night to hold each other close, and sway gently, and simply be thankful for this, for these arms, for this body pressed close. And Christine is grateful. Grateful for so many things; that Konstin is well again, that Anja is happy, that Marguerite has recovered enough to return to work in the hospital, that Guillaume is confirmed safe at sea another day, that Émile is still too young and has sworn never to lie about his age, that Philippe and Sorelli are relieved and together, that Konstin has Antoine and Antoine has Konstin, and tonight they are in Erik's old house beneath the opera, which Raoul helped Antoine get back into good repair in an effort to raise Konstin's spirits.

(They will not be back tonight, either of them. But she did not expect that they would.)

She is grateful for Capitaine de Courcy, grateful that he is so respectful of Anja's youth, understandable about her and Raoul's concerns for their daughter. Grateful, in a secret, selfish way, that he failed his Medical Board, and has been placed on permanent home duties here in Paris, and not sent away to some other base, not ordered back to the Front. She knows she could not bear seeing Anja anxious for him if he were sent back to the Front.

He will accompany her to the New Year's Eve gala at the Garnier, in the knowledge that her whole family, including Konstin, and Émile, and Philippe and Sorelli, and Antoine, will also be in attendance. The only ones missing will be Guillaume and Marguerite, detained at their own duties.

(She herself is bound to sing, only three songs and one of them is an aria of Erik's. It will be her first time back on that stage since her marriage to Raoul, and she thinks of it with anxious flutters in her stomach, but excitement too. It will be wonderful to be back, even if only for one night.)

But for all of the things Christine is grateful for, all of the many things, tonight she is most grateful that Konstin is alive, and that she has Raoul, here, beside her always, to hold her, to kiss her, to love her, for her to hold, and kiss, and love, for the length of both of their lives. She has loved him for more than thirty years, loved him even as she loved Erik, and still loves Erik, and if she could hold Erik once more, and kiss him once more, she would, and she knows that Raoul would understand.

Raoul has always understood.

The music comes to an end, the last sweet note holding for the space of several heartbeats, fading out. And she opens her eyes, and smiles up at Raoul, and he smiles back down at her, his eyes soft, and creased, the silver hair at his temples blurring with the golden blond that she has loved so well, and he bows his head as she reaches up, and in a moment they are kissing, kissing, his lips moving gently against hers the way they always have, and she leans into him, presses a little harder, until he pulls back and murmurs, his breath warm against her mouth,

"May next Christmas fall on a world at peace."

And Christine nods, and sighs, "Amen," and when their lips meet again their prayer is sealed.

Antoine sighs, and nuzzles into Konstin's throat, his fingers lightly tracing the scar on his abdomen. Konstin shivers beneath his touch, his hand curling tighter around Antoine's hip.

"Do you think we are heathens?" Antoine murmurs, his voice heavy with sleep and the bone-deep satisfaction from their recent carnal activities. "For not attending the midnight service?"

Konstin chuckles, a deep tired chuckle that seems to fill Antoine's chest just to hear. "I rather think, in light of our pleasures, we are heathens whether or not we attend the midnight service. One more count—" He whimpers, his words breaking off as Antoine's fingers ghost the trail of hair beneath his navel and gently, gently, smooth down to stroke his inner thigh. There are no scars here, only the smooth delicate skin, and Konstin sighs, and shifts so that his hips are closer to Antoine's own.

Antoine nips the skin of his throat lightly, and Konstin yelps as he kisses back over the slight mark of his teeth, breathing "True," kiss, "I mean," kiss, "missing midnight service," kiss, "is hardly the worst," kiss, "thing we've ever done." Kiss, kiss, kiss, so many little kisses pressed down the column of Konstin's throat to the smooth line of his clavicle.

"I think you must be some sort of a demon," Konstin breathes as Antoine licks the stray freckle just beneath his collarbone, and Antoine grins, and raises his head so that he can meet Konstin's gaze.

"Oh? Why?"

"Because," Konstin pulls him closer, so that their faces are level again, and kisses him on the corner of the mouth, "you were clearly sent to torment me."

And when he kisses Antoine's throat, all thoughts of heathens and demons are banished.

It is later, much later, and Konstin is sleeping, his breaths soft against Antoine's ear. Though sleep tugs heavy at Antoine's own eyelids, he will not give in, not yet. He must savour this as long as he can, his arms full of sleeping Konstin, and he carefully traces each of the many scars on Konstin's chest and abdomen. So many small little shrapnel scars, and any one of them (and especially the one beneath his heart) could have been enough to end him, could have heralded his death, and Antoine would not be lying here now, warm and heavy and sated, pressed against him, and the thought of there ever being a possibility of his not having Konstin beside him is unbearable.

But it almost came to pass, almost. And sometimes those days in the hospital still feel as if they were a dream, a walking nightmare. Those days when he could barely stay awake himself, though every fibre of him was aware that Konstin was in danger, that Konstin was ill, that Konstin needed him. So very long ago, but only three months. Three months have brought them to this, back around to where they were always meant to be, held safe in each other's arms.

To think they almost lost this.

To think he almost lost this wonderful, beautiful, brilliant man.

Tears prickle his eyes, and gently he kisses Konstin's forehead. Konstin snuffles in his sleep, presses in closer to Antoine, and Antoine kisses his forehead again, and the scar over his left eye. Sometimes he still sees the blood that coated Konstin's face. Sometimes he still sees him, crumpled in that shell crater, feels his breath against his throat as he lay over him to keep him safe from the strafe, the weight of him heavy on his back as he mindlessly followed the ghost of Erik through No Man's Land.

He has relived that day so many nights, and the ones that followed when he thought he would lose Konstin, the night he sat beside him, cradling his hand and praying and whispering in Persian, anything he could think of to keep him, to hold him. And it has come to this. And Konstin is safe, and well.

Safe, and well. And sometimes it is easy to forget the nightmares that still plague him, the terrible things he sees as if he is forever back in the trenches, trapped there and condemned to watch. But Konstin will not have nightmares tonight, of that Antoine is certain.

Marguerite confided in him, the night before she boarded the train to return to the hospital, that she knows about he and Konstin. "I realised it when you were so anxious over the Saint Anthony, and the wedding band," she whispered, and Antoine barely remembers that but he remembers the clawing nausea and the thought that if Konstin did not have his chains then he would surely die. "And it took me a little bit of getting used to. I was sitting with—with Edouard when it came to me, but I think—I think if you love him, and he loves you, then it can only be a good thing." And her voice grew very soft, and very low, and she breathed, "I do not think he would have lived, if it were not for the way you love each other."

And tears filled Antoine's eyes as he embraced his little sister, because he has often wondered the same thing himself, if his love helped Konstin to cling to life, and Marguerite whispered into his ear, "I promise I will keep your secret."

Antoine looks down, now, at Konstin, at his peaceful face slack with sleep, his barely parted lips, and his heart is so full of where they came from, what they went through. So very full, and he brushes his fingertips lightly over Konstin's eyes, and bows his head, and kisses his cheek. "I love you," he whispers, "I love you more than anything else in this world, and I know I could not live without you. I love you, Konstin. I love you." And he kisses histemple, and smiles. "Merry Christmas, my love. Merry Christmas."

A/N: This is a fic that I never actually intended to write. It just sort of happened, and next thing I knew I was in too deep. It also sets the record as the longest thing I have ever written, which is impressive considering that I only started work on it in June, and then took July off from any writing. It's been quite the adventure, and quite the emotional rollercoaster, but I hope you have all enjoyed it, and especially have enjoyed this closing chapter.

It's now time to turn my attention to other things, one of which is another Pharoga fic set in the same 'verse as 'Flashes of a Lifetime Together'. Another, of course, is the Composer AU. However, this is not the end of this 'verse. I've become too attached to Konstin and the others to stop writing about them, and I have many thoughts for other, smaller pieces starring them. I also have many headcanons for what happens after this fic and, indeed, after the war, but odds are I'll never write them. If you're curious, hit me up on my Tumblr, littlelonghairedoutlaw, and ask me about them!

(And let's not forget that there's another war which comes after this one, and which is very, very different.)

Thank you to everyone who has read this, has followed and faved it, and especially to those of you who have reviewed it. A particular thanks to those of you who have reviewed every chapter! And a most special thanks to Riene who has regularly made it her business to push me into writing, has given me many new things to think about (including a fic or two!), and who I know I have made cry more than once.

There are a couple of things which I hope to get to in the month of January involving these characters (including a possible happy AU ending for Marguerite), but for now, good night and thank you!