FIC : the conclusion
[Title:] The Conclusion
[Setting:] AU. Modern day.
[Character(s):] Mireille and Marcel
[Summary:] Only the two of you.
[Author's Notes:] Inspired by the prompt, "language is our last refuge".
“Eat.”
“No.”
The plate of beef stew stands untouched on the bedside table, still - as it's done since he presented it to her around noon. Five hours ago. It's grown cold by now. Even if she harboured any desire to eat, she wouldn't. Not in its current state. Not in hers. A week has come and then gone, day by day, like this. Dish upon dish prepared and refused in succession. Marcel is a good cook; one of his few admirable skills and something she has benefited from over the past ten years, but she finally stopped feeling hungry two days ago and before that point, she lived on her stubbornness. Perseverance. In the meantime, she's had consultations with her doctor and her lawyer both. Certain matters definitely settled. How she will die within the next fortnight, if she continues in this manner which she's adopted. How she will leave everything to Lisa and CNL. As little to Marcel as possible. Recognising only a minimum of responsibility. Yet, not dismissing his share entirely, in contrast to how she treats his food and his questionable efforts.
“The apartment will pass into your possession. Along with the percentages of my property that I've inherited from Jean Louis.”
He just stares at her, expression unaltered. Stony, and not in marble. She, in turn, casts a glance at the empty glass next to the plate. She hasn't stopped her intake of liquids. Mostly in the form of water or tea. Nothing with too pronounced a flavour; Jean Louis' habit, having become hers afterwards. With a grunt, Marcel rises from the chair that, too, was Jean Louis' before, but is now his. Walks over to the bed and pours water into the void. Holds the contrasts out for her to accept. The obvious way in which he doesn't care; opposite the way in which he has. To. After all, she's never been blind to this, his... undoubtedly twisted understanding of loyalty, but loyalty nonetheless. It's a link she never requested, not in any other relation besides the one she chose herself. Consciously. The others - counting Mother first, Marcel next. Last. Fall into another, a different category. When she reaches out for the glass, he presses it against her palm, into her grip and doesn't return to the armchair. Instead nudging her shoulder to make her move. Uncaring. Neither of them truly nurses routines. They've shared her bed since her increasing lethargy began affecting her circadian rhythm. Unlike her, he sleeps very little. Ensures that she's fully awake as well, from early morning to midnight. As such, he sits down next to her, then reclines. In a sprawl, because he's messy by default, isn't he? Once the glass has been reduced to 'half-full', she puts it away. On his bedside table, side by side with his ever-growing stack of pornographic magazines. He holds out his hand. She hands him an issue. Silence descends.
“Just kick the bucket already, woman.” His voice is rough and he doesn't look up from the spread, in a multitude of senses, that he has proceeded to study.
“It would require that you procure me a bucket.” Her tone is neutral. Tired. She is, a majority of the time. Drained. Of everything.
There's no answer. Not immediately and with him, she can't presume that he actually understood the implied joke. Then he snorts, rendering her assumption redundant. Her unvoiced query, because she never inquires him about anything of significance. The magazine sinks to his lap. At least, he isn't hard.
“How the fuck did JL stand you?”
“Yes, one must wonder, isn't that so?”
It's been a decade, almost on date, since Jean Louis passed away. Which, everything considered, was an alleviation - in the end, he was all but coughing up his lungs. Clearly not reading her mind, but guessing with some accuracy, Marcel pulls a packet of cigarettes out his pocked, a lighter tugged in between nicotine and paper. He lights one, inhales, blows a smoke ring. Perfect in its symmetry. Even so, she wrinkles her nose, the smell suffocating. Thick in her throat. Clinging to the roof of her mouth. In response, she is granted a leer. Lazily. Sometimes, you have to question whether he doesn't find her more entertaining than porn and drugs combined. Another drag. Another smile. He's been unattractive for so long as they've been acquainted. At the age of 75, this hasn't changed, despite her renunciation of the idea that ageing in itself comprises decay. Perhaps he simply can't sink any lower. Perhaps she can't, either.
“Well, he wasn't right in the head. Guess I have to forgive him.” The magazine, in Russian - seeing how extensive language skills aren't necessary to interpret pictures of this kind, drops to the floor in favour of Vogue Paris. Uncommitted leafing from one woman in a distinct state of undress to another. Mireille hasn't had the figure to wear Yves Saint-Laurent for quite a while, but her subscription keeps her up to date with development; decline that isn't her own. A Gucci campaign makes him pause in order to scrutinize the model, albeit her breasts and lower body are covered in a hardly convincing show of decency. Altogether Gucci and altogether Italian, of course. Beautiful in their pretence.
The pages are thrust in her face. “That's Jean-Baptiste's girl, right?”
Without words to match his, Vogue soon joins the wrinkled porn on the floor. She expects a comment on the sexual appeal of the face and body that do, in fact, compose Jean-Baptiste Baer's daughter. Conclusions that would have earned him a lecture on the nature of fractions. They've played this game of mathematics often enough, haven't they? Rather, he gets up, leaving her to herself which should be a relief, surely... but isn't, is anything but. His crossing of the distance between the bed and the door followed by her gaze, unwaveringly.
She's dying, by choice certainly; and she doesn't want to do so alone. Jean Louis died in his sleep, with her by his side and although Marcel indisputably makes for the most pitiful substitute imaginable, he's the ultimate contradistinction to -- nothing. A fact of which he's well aware, too. He's a man and his ego has only expanded while he's grown older. Than her. Coming to a halt in the doorway, he turns around. She may not be any more capable of reading his mind than he is of reading hers, but the inquiry is self-evident and her need for closure likewise.
“Listen, if I make you a frickin' salmon salad, will you eat?”
“No.”