it’s snorting something white off the ledge on the other side of the screen in confession and admitting “i had sex before marriage, but didn’t jesus fuck mary magdalene?” and -
no. it’s not.
it’s holding your mother up by the arm to make sure she doesn’t crumble to pieces on the way to the first mass after her husband’s death. it’s clawing at your tie on christmas. it’s asking where in the church the donkey is on easter.
isn’t it latching on too hard to the story of cain and abel?
how goddamn biblical. you think of that as you beat your brother to a pulp in the back of a bar.
you think you’ll wear cain’s mark on your knuckles until you’re laid to rest next to your father.
he was a good man, wasn’t he? he went to church, he helped his community, and, as sure as you’re going to burn in hell, he’d never raise a finger against his own kin.
but he had a weak heart, didn’t he? where was the parable about the kind father with the weak heart? where was the homily about living after your life source has been taken from you?
maybe you’re the prodigal son. maybe this time, the father doesn’t live. maybe this time, he dies and you’re left to return home to your brother who did all he could in the absence. because your mother has always been a kind, strong woman, but she has never been your brother’s guide.
the bible taught him to look to the men in his life for guidance. whether you all like it or not, that’s what the weekly sermons told him. and then they all left - to death or to france.
and it’s taken blood, sweat, and lies to stand next to him again in these pews that are too small. next to your mother who’s wearing too much old perfume.
you think, as you listen to the priest for the first time in years, that mary is lucky to have had only one son who thought they were destined to change the world. it’s very messy with two.
Arthur’s father worked overnights, so it was usually his car that the boys took for a spin, sometimes literally if they were feeling particularly in the mood for parking lot donuts.
It was Arthur’s dad’s car, but Olivier usually drove. All his friends knew that his dad had been taking him out for drives pretty much since he could see over a dashboard, and he sprouted up early. Some people thought that since he grew so tall so young, it meant he’d stop early. That had yet to be proven true, and his mother was usually buying him pants several inches too big that she would slowly let out over some months. And he outgrew them every year.
Something about the day made Olivier feel like he was full of sunshine, even though it was still a fairly cloudy day. Everyone in his house had been in such a good mood when he woke up - one of his dad’s favorite clients was coming in, his mother was trying out a fun new craft to share with her students, and his brother was bouncing off the walks with excitement about going to a museum with some friends. And though Olivier told his mother he was just going over to Arthur’s to hang out, he was aware that he wouldn’t actually step foot inside the other fifteen-year-old’s house but would immediately be given keys and they’d head off.
It seemed as if the whole world felt the same way he did. No one looked twice or even looked nastily at the car that was slowly getting filled up with teenagers, even when Olivier dared to drive down a street that was usually busy with people they all knew on the weekends. He liked to push his luck a little in areas where they could be recognized, and normally his friends pushed back, but today...it was as if everyone was walking on a cloud. And with the joyous feeling also came a bit more of a proclivity from the boys to act just a touch more reckless.
For hours they drove around, occasionally cutting through larger parking lots to attempt donuts or switch out drivers. Olivier was eager to get back behind the wheel, and barely waited for the doors to shut before he was flying off again. The boundless energy and good vibes of the day made him feel as though he was impervious to the law - speed limits weren’t important. Everyone else was traveling fast, too, so he was really just keeping up with the flow of traffic. When one of the boys seemed to calm down and grow more serious, he asked Olivier to slow down, but Olivier refused.
“Fuck off,” he insisted, words broken up by cheerful chuckles. By now, all the boys should’ve known he wasn’t a fan of being told what to do.
With a grin spreading from ear to ear, Olivier picked up the speed a little and whipped suddenly around a corner. The boys in the back all slid up against the window, instantly issuing complaints that the other needed to ‘get the fuck off, mate.’ Olivier glanced in the rearview mirror and laughed at the spectacle of the guys all trying to get themselves sitting back up right. When his eyes fell forward again, he recognized the bright green of a t-shirt before suddenly zooming by the figure wearing it.
Olivier slammed on the brakes, and everyone jerked forward. In the side mirrors he could see his brother sprinting down the sidewalk, most notably not wearing the jacket their mother insisted he leave with before heading out. With his eyes flicking between the rear view and side mirrors, Olivier put the car into reverse and started to speed backwards. An oncoming car going in the proper direction was set on a course to collide with them, but Olivier took his eyes off the mirrors once to ensure no one was in the opposite lane before twisting the wheel to travel backward there just long enough to get around the other car. He came to another abrupt stop next to where Thomas was about to pass.
“Hey!” he shouted out the already open window. “Why the fuck aren’t you at the museum?!”
Thomas seemed startled and relieved to see his brother, and there was just a touch of something else in his expression that Olivier couldn’t put his finger on because he’d never seen it. Thomas could barely get his words out as he panted. Olivier didn’t think he’d ever seen his brother run so fast.
Maman...called the Bissets before they left...Papa...hospital...heart...
The back door flew open and the boys were herding Thomas into the car. Olivier was still staring where his brother had just been standing, unable to comprehend fully what he’d just heard. Their father was working. He’d been standing in their kitchen smiling and laughing as he sneakily tried to steal the last piece of bacon before either of the boys could go for it.
A car was coming up behind them, blaring its horn. Olivier shifted into gear and started off toward the hospital his brother mentioned so fast he was shifting gears every couple seconds it seemed. He kept checking in the rear view mirror to see his brother’s expression, but there was nothing he could do while he was trying to race against a clock he wasn’t sure might be already out of time.
Olivier had no idea where to park so he followed an ambulance and tumbled out of the car, leaving the rest of the boys to deal with the problem. With Thomas on his heels, he sprinted into the hospital and demanded of anyone who looked at him where his mother and father were. It took several attempts until he was finally directed to where they needed to go, and he took off with no less haste than he’d been operating on since seeing Thomas on the sidewalk.
Their mother couldn’t possibly have heard them walk in, but she still looked back over her shoulder, with puffy red eyes, and immediately got up from her seat to approach the boys. Olivier’s heart sank into his stomach, and it suddenly felt like ice water was flowing through the veins in his wrist instead of blood. He could tell just from her face that he didn’t want to say the words that inevitably came out through sobs. Olivier was dumbstruck. It was impossible to believe. He was nearly completely frozen, emotionally and physically, aside from doing all he could to keep his mother standing.
A doctor arrived what might’ve been two or twenty minutes later. He couldn’t quite tell just how much time was passing.
I’m sorry...we did all we could...
There was on longer the weight of his mother in his arms. Suddenly his arms were free to swing as wildly as they could, and his knuckles were pounding into the doctor’s face, neck, shoulders, and chest. Staff tried to pull him away, but he hit them, too. Security was called. His mother was crying louder. The doctor’s face was covered in blood, and he didn’t know how much of the blood on his hands was the doctor’s or his own.
Firm hands gripped his arms and hauled him up. His arms ached as they were pulled behind his back and he was marched out of the room. He couldn’t bear to look at his mother and brother. Not out of shame, but because he didn’t want them to see the rage in his eyes. We did all we could. Well his father was dead, so apparently they fucking hadn’t.
Listen, we know you’re upset...
One guard was still restraining him and the other was talking to him, clearly trying to get him to calm down. All Olivier could really understand was the tone that was being used, like he was a child who’d thrown a tantrum over having to share a toy. Like he was just a kid. As of the moment the doctors declared his father dead, he was no longer a kid, he thought. His mother couldn’t afford all their expenses on her own, and Thomas was at an age where it was vital to keep him well-fed, well-dressed, and as far away from the seedier side of their borough as possible.
Olivier hadn’t moved in some time, and the guard slowly released the restraint on him. He shook his arms out a little bit and flinched as he ran his fingers lightly over the open wounds all along his knuckles.
It’s going to be okay, kid.
He didn’t hesitate. He punched the guard right in his fucking face.
olfontaine: My father was one of the hardest working men I knew, the kind of man who wouldn’t take a day out of work for his own broken bones and ailments. The moment my mother thought she was going into labor, though, the shop was shut and not to be opened until a week later. He had to be certain my mother, and then me, and then my brother were all looked after. I believe honest men have power in their names, and can’t wait for the day I have a son of my own to name after my father. Happy Father’s Day, Papa.
Whenever I have gone, it has never been because I don’t love you. It has always been because all I love you and want you to be safe. We never got the chance to say good-bye to Papa, but I promised him in a dream that I would keep you and Maman safe.
There were times when I may have lost some focus, but in the end I always remembered why I did the things I did. I was angry, furious, when I returned home to find that you were running with the people you were. I should’ve known what to expect when you nearly broke my jaw. It was the last memory I had of your for over ten years and I still cherished it. I suppose I should’ve known that Mama didn’t know the whole story of what you were up to. She didn’t know my whole story, either, and it was what paid for so much for so long.
The French saved me and our family, but for all I know, the Rutherfords saved you in a different way. It infuriates me that you should ever have been in such a dire position to join them and I wasn’t there. But I had a phone and a pen and paper, too, and I could’ve reached out more persistently. I could’ve visited London and sought you out. I could’ve done more.
I’m sorry I didn’t. Again, it was never lack of love. Just lack of wisdom. And fear my little brother would do something worse than just punch me. That he might just look right through me and ask what my name was.
You are a smart boy man who made your own decisions, just as I made mine. You may have made them for different reasons, but you are also more stubborn than me and less likely to lose hold of those reasons. I know you would never quite something you started.
So I’m quitting. We may never have crossed paths until the other’s funeral, and I refuse to see my brother again only when he’d laid to rest. For a while I’ll have to stay far away, but I’ll be back. I’ll never help you with anything relating to the people you associate yourself with now, but this is the only way to end ties with my associates and ensure you will never come at the other end of my gun. In doing this I might risk that the next time you see me is when I’m lying in a coffin, but for the chance to sit and have dinner with you and Maman again in ten, twenty, even thirty years if I must wait, I will do it.
Whelve (v) to bury something deep, to hide. The Rutherfords (or Lara), The French (or Delphine), or the younger brother.
Olivier still had cuts and bruises on his knuckles from the attack on the doctor. Now, looking down at them, his cheeks flushed red with shame and his eyes welled with tears as he remembered the words that sparked his outrage. He blinked, tears catching on his eyelashes, and caught Thomas in his periphery.
So he quietly cleared his throat, sat up a little straighter, and stared straight ahead until his emotions were in check. Thomas was younger, he needed more support right now than Olivier. And their mother....Jesus Christ, their poor mother. With a mortgage due in two weeks for a home missing a piece and an autoshop below missing its mechanic. Missing. It sounded too temporary.
The funeral ended, the procession began again. This time to the burial site. Another prayer was said. None of it really registered, time seemed to be moving too fast as Olivier stared at the casket. Somehow, this was more painful than even learning his father died. He at least knew then he’d see his father again, even if he would never hear his boisterous laugh again or hear him tell someone to pay him “when they could afford it.” The moment that casket was beneath the ground, he’d never even see his father’s face again no matter how lifeless. All he’d had to rely on were pictures and memories, but that wasn’t the same.
He was shaking by the time the casket was lowered down. Everyone but him, his brother, and his mother dispersed. Terrified, suddenly, for inexplicable reasons he stumbled forward to the edge of the grave. His skin was hot and his tie far too tight. He tore it off, letting it fall onto the casket below. Tears welled up again, and this time he didn’t have the strength to stop them. Everything blurred, but a stream of black floated across his sight and he knew it was his brother’s tie floating down over the casket. Then, his mother’s scarf.
They clung to each other as they pulled themselves back up. The driver took a long route to the reception to give them time to compose themselves, wipe away their tears, and muster up the strength to laugh the way Fontaines were meant to laugh.
At the reception, some uncles and aunts slipped Olivier a few beers. He found himself talking to a man whose cars his father fixed for years. And he found himself telling the man he was already applying for jobs, to help his mother. But the minimum pay for most of the jobs was ridiculous, and with school, it’d be tough to work enough ours, and, and...
The man had an idea. He could help Olivier, get him a job that he’d probably actually like. Whether he saw the bruises on Olivier’s knuckles or not still remains to be known, and maybe that was why he offered a fifteen year old such a chance. All Olivier felt in that moment, after waves of nothing but despair and sadness, was relief.
“Thank you, Avraham.”
And he had a feeling then, as he looked over at his mother with a reassuring smile, that he was about to start lying to her a whole lot more.
☢️- For a controversy or scandal they have been able to keep mostly under wraps
THOMASSSSSSS.
So, how I see it is that people who are close to him emotionally and just physically on the day to day - i.e. Delphine, Évelyne, etc. - are aware that his brother is currently working with the Rutherfords. As it hasn’t been determined yet what Thomas’s role with the Rutherfords is quite yet, the extent to which Thomas might be known outside of the British mob’s lower ranks hasn’t been disclosed. This could be a headcanon that’s flexible and easy to change, but the current assumption is that Olivier has been able to keep it a secret from the higher ranks - i.e. Laurent, Aurélie - that his own flesh and blood is fighting for the opposing side.
Again, this is something that could easily be changed depending on what Thomas does for the Rutherfords and how much public exposure he has.
I like you // I love you // You’re one of my best friends // You’re like family // You are family // I dislike you // I hate you // I’d kill you if I got the chance // I want you to like me // I’m scared of you // I would adopt you // I’d date you // I’d sleep with you // I’d marry you // I’m worried about you // You confuse me // You’re annoying // I pity you // I respect you // I trust you // I feel protective of you // I’d invite you with me to parties // I’d lend you my money // I’d borrow your money // You’re good-looking // I’m suspicious of you // I’m hiding something from you // You’re fun // You’re boring // I’m upset with you // You’re nice // You’re mean // I’m envious of you // You’re smart // You’re stupid // I look up to you // I think you’re a better person than me // I think I’m a better person than you // I want to apologize to you // I wish I’d never met you // I never want to forget you // I want to get to know you better
