[for greta]

[pylades_drunk]

[dated to roughly the 20th or so of june? we can move it around, but maybe ~two weeks since neil left?]

There's a part of Grantaire that derides himself, has since the beginning, for not coping better with this. Another one is pretty damn certain the idea of coping well with your husband walking out is a fiction, if it even truly exists at all. He'd told Greta the day after it happened, in vagaries; let her know that Neil and they were taking some time apart and that right now he wasn't well fit to do the job and would need some time, he wasn't sure how much. He's not proud, but it's better that he hadn't tried to keep going. Or forgotten altogether to tell her, the way things have been.

At the time, he might have thought they were taking some time apart, that that was all. Now he knows better. He's not sure if he ruined any chance of that when he showed up at Marcus' house, or if Neil never really needed just space. Since then he's not sure it matters. If they were to try to reforge something, anything, something entirely different even, he's not sure he could trust Neil to stay. Not after not even saying anything to them, not even trying to talk through what was going on in his head. Or, he might believe Neil wanted to be with them, but he couldn't trust himself not to be thinking about it, not to question whether every word or action might be too much or not enough.

Even now, he catalogues it all, goes over every memory in search of something, some proof, the straw to the camel's back. Something to blame, something to carve or burn away so he can be rid of that part of himself, of the both of them. He can't find it, of course. So he drinks, and he fights; he paints and he destroys the paintings; he cries more than he'd like and he clings: all of it with and without Edgar, who weathers this in stormy silences and eruptions of emotion both, whose unstemmed grief makes Grantaire feel even more worthless.

This morning, he sits at the table and pours a shot of whiskey into his coffee, and stares. What just last night had hit him with a sadness somehow even more profound and gutwrenching than it'd been all the time before -- free of anger, full on loss -- has faded to a sort of apathetic, bleak melancholy that feels endless. It isn't a feeling Grantaire's never experienced before; it's just a new, nastier reason for the nothingness.

He passes a hand over his face. He's not sure how long he's been sitting when the knock comes at the door.

Comments

[andhiswife]

People grieve in their own ways. Greta knows that; anyone who lasts in Darrow will be given plenty of opportunities to practice. So when Grantaire explains what happens, and says he needs time, she gives him that without question.

It does gnaw at her, though. Part of it is the shocking mundanity of it all: that Neil didn't vanish into thin air but chose to walk out, leaving but not leaving. Given the usual flavor of Darrow's tragedies, the deliberateness of this one feels downright perverse, as if relationships have no business ending the old-fashioned way, anymore. Which is ridiculous, of course. But it's hard not to wonder if it's worse, this way, if only because after years of living in Darrow, you forget that relative mundanities might strike you, too.

Part of it is simply that she misses him, and that the children do, too. She explained things as best she could, but none of them are exactly comfortable in the odd limbo of waiting for him to return, and it's grown increasingly tricky to practice patience as one week turns to two with no word from him at all.

People grieve in their own ways, but two weeks without some sort of evolution seems... troubling.

Greta considers a call or a text before dismissing both as absurd: too small a gesture, too easy to ignore or brush aside. She wants to check in on him properly, and if he's in need of a nudge back towards some semblance of normalcy, better to deliver one in person. So she packs up an assortment of baked goods — the poor men probably haven't been eating that well — and heads over, chin stubbornly lifted as she raps against their door.

There's a dragging pause before she hears a bit of muffled movement, but then the latch turns and the door opens and Grantaire peers blearily out at her, looking... well, awful, but that's about what she expected, and she stubbornly refuses to wilt.

"Hello," she says, a slightly muted variation on the usual tone. She hoists her bag. "I've brought you something. May I come in?"

[pylades_drunk]

R isn't sure what to expect when he answers the door; he isn't, at any rate, expecting Greta, and his stomach twists in guilt as he realizes how long it must be since he's told her anything.

It's hard to measure time. Sometimes it feels as though it hasn't been long enough to know anything, that maybe, around the bend, is some respite; sometimes it feels like it's been years instead of two weeks. It doesn't help that sleeping is a vague, elusive thing in this place that has memories pressed into every surface. Either way, he swings between hating himself and feeling utterly justified in his reactions, indignant even.

With Greta greeting him tersely but not entirely unkindly, it feels easier to loathe.

"Greta," he says, and ruffles his hair, considering that he might be about to be fired along with whatever gift she might have. "Yes, I -- please, come in." He steps back out of the way. "It's a little bit of a mess. Everything is, I guess," he adds wryly.

[andhiswife]

The thing about grieving is that Greta doesn't know how Grantaire does it, and in the pause between him saying her name and his assent, the possibility that he might just shut the door in her face looms large. She knows that she's imposing, and that this might be a particularly bad time (if not a generally bad time). But then he steps back to admit her, and a little tension leaves her shoulders.

"I'd be surprised if it wasn't," she says, her tone softening. She might channel her anxiety into stress-cleaning, but that isn't necessarily the norm. She steps inside, looking around for a likely place to start unpacking her assorted offerings. "I wasn't sure how well you'd been feeding yourselves, given... well, everything, so I did a bit of baking," she adds. "Are you hungry?"

[pylades_drunk]

He manages a little wry smile at that; she sounds sympathetic, not angry, and as much as he might berate himself for how he's been coping (or the lack thereof), he doesn't think she's about to berate him. It curls into something more genuinely appreciative when she says she's been baking.

"You didn't have to do all that," he says, but he's already moving things off the counter. "I -- you know, I am," he admits. "I can't argue that we're neglecting things." Themselves, responsibilities; it runs together a little.

He ruffles his hair and, unable to restrain himself in the face of her kindness starts, "Greta, I'm sorry, I'm a disaster--"

[andhiswife]

She hums, more in acknowledgment than agreement. Baking may not be her livelihood anymore, but it's certainly no hardship, especially in service of her friends. So she sets the bag on the counter and starts pulling out offerings: a loaf of proper bread, half a dozen muffins, some biscuits, even some salad greens from her garden. "Well, this should get you started," she says, considering where best to begin before prying open the container of muffins. Those are smaller, easier to tackle.

And then Grantaire starts to blurt out an apology, and she immediately abandons the muffins. "No, it— goodness, you don't have to apologize," she insists, moving towards him. She rests her hands on his arms for a moment, as if to gauge receptiveness, and when he doesn't shake her off, she tsks softly and pulls him into a hug.

"It's all right," she says quietly. It isn't, really. But she won't have him thinking she's come here to scold him. "It's all right."

[pylades_drunk]

He blinks in bemusement at half a feast being unloaded onto his counter; sometimes he forgets, despite her name and how they met, that Greta was in fact a baker by occupation. The bread looks better than most things he's tasted since Paris, with a proper crust you could tear into: there are even fresh greens, which he doesn't always go to the trouble of getting for the house when things were well.

She turns, looking aghast, and he can almost feel his eyes start to sting when she puts her hands on his arms. He hasn't really gone to anyone for comfort, except to Edgar, and a bit to Jyn; even then, he doesn't want to ask for anything. When she tugs him into a -- surprisingly solid -- embrace, he finds himself holding on and folding down into her shoulder, for a moment letting his shoulders shake with tears that haven't made themselves known until this moment.

It's not all right; none of this is all right. It feels like a limb's been taken off. Abandoning her and the children isn't all right, either; none of who he is right now is. But it feels good to hear it like it might be someday.

After a long moment he takes a breath and looks back up, wiping embarrassedly and a little futilely at his eyes. "You'd have every right to be angry with me," he says. "Is -- come sit down. Are you all right?"

[andhiswife]

After all that awkward maneuvering, there's something beautifully simple about just pulling him in, one arm snug around his shoulders, her other hand rubbing his back. It's what she's wanted to do this whole bloody time, really, and it's a relief when he allows it, crumpling against her shoulder and letting himself weep. Goodness knows how they've been coping — if he's even allowed himself this before — but he can have it now. It's the least she can offer.

Greta loosens her hold as he starts to draw back, tsking again in response to any notion of her being angry with him. "Don't be silly," she says, giving his shoulders a gentle squeeze before releasing him.

She does sit, mostly because she knows the value of fussing over someone else when you're the one truly struggling. "I'm all right," she replies. "We all miss you, of course, but we're muddling along."

They could keep muddling along, too, though she's hesitant to say as much when part of her motivation for coming here was to try and coax him back to work, for his sake as much as theirs. "What about you?" she asks carefully. "And Edgar?"

[pylades_drunk]

"Good," he says, ruffling his hair and sitting down. "Good." There's a large part of him that thinks they might be muddling along better without him, especially in this state, but he also feels terrible for not being there, and it's hard to blame onesself in both ways at once. He gives her a small, self-aware smile, admitting, "I miss you and the children, too, really."

"Well," he says with a brave attempt at a smile. "We've been better." Grantaire rests both hands on his neck and looks up at her. "Honestly? We're foundering," he admits. "I'm drinking, Edgar's just -- so angry, and he's never done well with being rational when he's hurting, either. It's been five years, nearly, with Neil, you know? Neither of us know how to be without him. We're only our worst parts. Not to each other --" he hastens. "But it's hard to just go on as normal, when what is that, really? I don't know how to help, even; that's the worst bit."

He sighs. "I'm sorry. That's a lot to just -- put in your lap."

[andhiswife]

Greta frowns, though it's not much worse than she'd anticipated, really. If they were doing well, even relatively, this visit wouldn't have been necessary.

"You needn't apologize," she insists, gentle but firm. "It's..." she pauses, lips pursed as she chooses her words. "We've all lost people, and it's hard enough when it's just Darrow's doing. When it's deliberate...?" She shakes her head slowly, as if such a thing ought to be unheard of. There might be some silver lining, she supposes — having Neil still in the city, particularly if his home isn't one worth returning to, could provide some small relief. But for the most part, she can only assume it just hurts, knowing all this pain and upheaval comes down to a choice that someone made and not some force beyond anyone's reckoning.

But she didn't come here to dwell on that, or to encourage Grantaire to dwell, either, and she sits up a bit straighter. "Anyway. Erm. I know that normal is going to take some finding, but I'd like to help, if I can. Beyond just... throwing food at you," she adds with a sheepish gesture towards the counter.

[pylades_drunk]

He purses his own lips wryly, nodding. Jyn had said something to the same effect, and having done both, Grantaire knows, logically, that it's not necessarily reasonable to expect every relationship, every friendship to go on forever -- and also, feels bitter about it. At least with Tunny and the girls, he had had the choice to imagine that -- had things gone completely differently, had they both remained on the Island -- they would have been perfectly happy. It'd been a future he'd grieved, but one he'd been able to be angry at the island for, not Tunny.

Of course, he doesn't want that future anymore; he wouldn't change ending up here, even now. "I wouldn't wish him gone, not -- not with the life he had back at his home," he says, painfully. "But it is hard, knowing that he chose to leave. I just end up cataloguing everything, wondering at what point we should have gone back to to make it end up right..."

He trails off, and when Greta interrupts herself and him with Anyway, it's probably for the best. He smiles a little. "The food's more than you should have done to begin with. But -- I'll be damned if I know how to start making my way back towards normal, even. If you've a map to being all right, or some hastily penned directions, I'll take all the help I can get."

[andhiswife]

She gives Grantaire a quelling look when he insists the food is more than she owes him. While she's technically his employer, she likes to think they're on friendlier terms than being mere colleagues would suggest. The thought of just leaving him to his grief without any acknowledgment seems intolerably cruel to her, and food is an easy, natural thing to provide, not too much.

But her mild indignation doesn't last long. She hadn't expected him to welcome guidance quite so readily, and she blinks at him for half a moment before recovering herself. "I think... well, in my experience, anyway, it helps to have a routine. And an excuse to leave the house, so you're not just... dwelling." A certain amount of raw grieving is necessary, she thinks, but the line between that and wallowing can be a thin one — and hard to make out, especially if you're not giving your mind anything else to contend with.

"You might come back to the Gardens," she gently suggests. "We all miss you, as I said, but it would also just be something else to do."