#swynsimba

TOULOUSE: His brother and father were staging an intervention. 

That was what this was, Toulouse knew it. He only agreed because he knew it would not work and because his father had threatened to kick him out of the house if he didn’t. Which wouldn’t be the worst thing, but Lou had been spending the last week or so, since returning from Swynlake, vindictively looking for an apartment to rent.

His applications kept getting denied even though he had plenty of funds and a clean record. It was obvious why this was happening, but Toulouse ignored it. He was determined. Eventually, someone would see sense and lease to him. 

Until then, he was trapped by his father’s whims. Which meant coming to this silly intervention disguised as a dinner to his favorite restaurant to celebrate Berlioz being in town. 

Very well, let it commence. 

Hector and Toulouse loitered outside, waiting for Berlioz and Simba to make an appearance. Hector kept checking his watch. Toulouse slowly puffed on the cigarette between his fingers. A nasty habit he’d picked up in the last few weeks to take the edge off the noise of the city and his father’s constant, thunderclap presence. 

“There they are,” Toulouse said, scenting them on the wind before ever laying eyes on them. He took one last drag of his cigarette as his brother came around the corner, before flicking it onto the ground and putting it out with the heel of his boot. 

“Bonjour!” Simba said in terrible French, overly sunny, all smiles. 

“Bonjour,” Hector replied evenly, fumbling over a smile and glance at his son before looking back at Simba.

Toulouse ignored Simba, his gaze falling on his brother instead, watching him carefully. “Salut,” he said to him, blowing out the last bit of cigarette smoke through his nostrils. 

“Come, we will be late for our reservation.” Hector led the way through the doors and up the red carpeted stairs. Simba followed a step behind. Lou fell into silent step alongside Berlioz, bringing up the rear. They made their way to the maitre’d, who murmured quietly with Hector for a moment before leading them back through the restaurant. Through the first dining room. Then the second. Toulouse glanced out one of the windows over his favourite seat in a splash of sunlight. 

They kept moving, until they were directed to the back salon. 

“I’ve rented the whole salon,” Hector said with a thin smile as he gestured. 

“Why?” 

“For privacy,” Hector replied too quickly, the answer prepared. 

Toulouse stared at his father for a moment before sighing out of his nose. He found the only table with a slip of sunlight in the dark, black painted room. He slid into his chair without a word.

“This looks great, merci,” Simba said, clapping Hector on the shoulder before sitting down across from the man, as if intent on making all of this as difficult as possible.

The table fell into uncomfortable silence. 

BERLIOZ: Ber actually didn’t think this was an intervention.

If it was, it was very er, intervention-lite. Ber figured he’d just get a feel for everything at this dinner, but talk to Lou privately later. But he was aware that Hector could have other ideas. This whole thing being his (ex) father’s idea didn’t really bode well considering how he and Ber had very very little contact…beyond shooting each other texts on obligatory holidays, like Easter and Bastille Day. But hey. Hector invited him. Hector seemed intent on pretending he hadn’t done anything wrong, and it was best not to talk about their issues. Berlioz was happy to hide in this delusion himself or at least spare himself the awkward conversation that would inevitably lead nowhere… or to Hector getting pissed again.

So yeah, if this was about Lou, Berlioz could handle that. He’d not be Hector’s pawn though. He’d do his best to keep conversation about uh, Lou’s… plan… relatively light. It’d come up. Well, Ber was here in France partially to drag Lou back too. He just wasn’t sure this dinner was gonna be the thing that fixed it. 

And if it was a disaster… so be it, eh! 

(That wasn’t how Berlioz actually felt. He dreaded the idea of Lou and Hector getting into another screaming match. If he thought too long about it, his stomach started to pretzel itself. The urge to smoke or reach for anti-anxiety meds skyrocketed. But what would make an argument like that worse, eh? Yeah, a panic attack. So Berlioz wasn’t gonna have one. It was all gonna be fine.

Walking into the restaurant still felt like a trap.)

He stuck close to Simba, who had heard all of Berlioz’s worries earlier when he rambled them all out loud. Right away, Simba did his job of…being the least uncomfortable person in this stuffy, weirdly decorated room. Ber did his best. He smiled too, glancing at Hector and getting that queasy feeling, but Hector at least met his eyes, even if his smile was stiff. 

They all sat down.

Hector cleared his throat after the six second awkward silence, which was a very fucking long time. “So! Er, have you two been enjoying France? What have you done?” 

Berlioz was perfectly capable of answering this question but for some reason his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. He glanced across the table to Lou– which was always his instinct when sitting with his father. Find Lou. Even with Simba right here, he was still looking at Lou. 

TOULOUSE: This intervention wasn’t going to be successful for several reasons. The most obvious one being that only Hector really had his heart set on it. Berlioz couldn’t even speak from the terror. Though, whether that was because of Toulouse or Hector, he wasn’t entirely sure. He felt his brother’s eyes on him and met his gaze searchingly.

He could hear Simba’s voice rising and falling in the cadence of someone giving a polite, basic itinerary of a trip they’d just been on. Toulouse did not really care. He was too busy trying to puzzle out what his brother wanted out of all of this. There was a reason he had come, of that, Toulouse was sure. Had he been sent as an envoy for Belle? Hades wouldn’t have sent him, he never would have thought of Berlioz. But Belle would have. Belle was conniving and resourceful and stubborn. Hades was all these things too, but Belle wasn’t also prideful. She would use whatever path to get him back. Even if it was indirect, delicate subterfuge. Hades didn’t have the patience for such delicate maneuvering. 

Was that not giving his brother enough credit? Perhaps, but Toulouse did not think his brother necessarily wanted him back. His life was probably easier without his older brother constantly making it harder. Berlioz was a loyal friend. That was why he was here.

Toulouse raised his eyebrows briefly at Berlioz. It was brave of him to come, either way. He would be touched, if Berlioz had actually come for him. 

“When do you go back?” Lou cut across whatever it was his father was going to say, his gaze jumping towards Simba. 

“Sunday evening. We’ve school.” 

“The both of you?” That was Hector. 

“Yes, Berlioz is substituting for the music teacher at the secondary,” Lou replied easily. His gaze moved to his father. “You would know that, if you spoke to him.” 

“Toulouse.” Hector sucked in a deep breath, like a hurricane gathering wind. 

The door to the salon opened and the waiter hurried in to take their order. He looked nervous. Probably because he could sense the tension. More likely because one of his coworkers had told him Toulouse would bite him if he was unsatisfied with the choice of wine. They ordered an appetizer of caviar and their first courses. 

“You should see him in action, eh, Lou? You’d be mighty impressed,” Simba jumped in to break the tension. A clumsy bull in a china shop.

“I’ve seen Berlioz teach before.” 

“Ah, right.” 

“Is that your new career path, then, Berlioz?” Hector asked, his tone not betraying any judgment or approval. Something that Toulouse had learned from him. 

BERLIOZ: Jesus. 

Part of him, y’know, had been… hopeful? Just a tiny bit of hope, really, that this would not be a disaster, that it could be awkward, uncomfortable, tense, but that it wouldn’t explode into anything that would make him wanna hide under the table. Nothing had exploded yet, but Berlioz was hyper sensitive to the fact that it could– that it felt like Lou wanted it to, as he picked on Hector and prodded at their almost nonexistent relationship now. Personally, Ber would’ve let the whole school question go. He hadn’t told Hector. Wasn’t that as bad as Hector not asking? Ber knew relationships went both ways, y’know. He’d been fine leaving the line of communication dormant for months…

He was also fine letting this dinner be a tepid reopening. Even if Hector was primarily using him, that was no different than his relationship with him before, was it? And so it could be a return to normalcy, in which Ber and Hector agreed to never acknowledge the fact they weren’t related, and so they’d talk every few months, and have awkward dinners like this, and forgive each other for being so completely mismatched for each other’s lives.

Lou didn’t want that to happen.

Lou wanted a fight. Lou wanted Hector to try more, or to be punished for trying so little. And so Ber squirmed and prayed that this would be the worst of it. 

“Uh–” he swallowed. “Uh, not um– probably not, I’m just…doing it for now.” 

Hector’s eyebrows raised as he lifted his glass to his lips. “Until what point?”

“Uh– until– until we’re ready to move somewhere, probably,” Berlioz answered. 

Hector put his glass down, pursing his lips. “Oh? I didn’t realize you were looking to leave Swynlake.”

Berlioz shrugged his shoulders, heat on his neck. He actually felt guilty about it all still, even though he knew he shouldn’t and Simba understood. Either way, he didn’t want that private conversation to become a public one here and now. Didn’t want Hector commenting on it, that’s for sure. 

“Uh, how’s– France then for you, Lou?” Berlioz tried to pivot, badly. 

TOULOUSE: “You are leaving Swynlake?” Lou asked, ignoring Berlioz’s question. 

“Yeah, probably, in the next few years,” Simba answered easily, his hand moving to rest on the back of Ber’s chair. 

Toulouse’s gaze didn’t leave his brother’s face, searching it. He had always thought that Ber probably would not stay in Swynlake but…once he’d married Simba, Lou had thought that would change. After all, wasn’t Simba the darling of Swynlake or something? Did he not think, in his selfish, self-centered way, that Swynlake would collapse without him? 

“Where will you go?” Lou pressed.

“Dunno yet,” Simba replied for Berlioz again. “Still haven’t decided. It’s not for a while anyway.”

“You should come here,” Lou replied with a little nod before going back to his appetizer. It made perfect sense to him. In fact, he’d quite like it if Berlioz moved here. If he did, Marie would too, eventually, after growing bored of her shoppe. Or when it got big enough for a second to open. For a few moments, Lou lived in a blissful reality where his siblings moved to France with him and they had a nice little life, not unlike the one they’d all shared in Swynlake. He did not think about how living in Paris cut short the time he would spend with Berlioz. 

(Not that it mattered. This was the longest they’d spent in each other’s presence in several months.) 

“Ah, I dunno. Don’t really think Paris is on the list.” 

“Why not? Surely there are better opportunities here than…secondary education music teacher,” Hector said. 

BERLIOZ: Well, probably but– 

He’d never loved Paris the way that Lou loved Paris. There were lovely things about it, and about France in general, but his birthplace had never been warm to the people in Berlioz’s life– neither Lou nor Simba. In many ways, Simba’s skin and religion put him in an uncomfortable position here, despite the Lyons name. And honestly– Ber didn’t want to work at the studios here in Paris anyway. 

Ber could feel Lou’s mood in the air though. He didn’t want to set his brother off. Didn’t want to set Pere off either, to be honest. Simba and Berlioz hadn’t made any kinda decision either way– Berlioz had to apply to places to start, so maybe, who knows, early next year he would find a place in Paris… 

Probably not.

But no harm in a little lie, now.

“I mean– yeah. I dunno, nothing’s set,” said Berlioz very nervously, shooting a glance Simba’s way which he hoped his husband would interpret correctly. The glance met: don’t contradict me. “So yeah, maybe. Probably looking at London more though. They’ve got some of the, er, larger companies there. Sony, Universal, that kind of thing.” 

There. Not quite a lie, but it left the door open, didn’t it? 

“You should keep me informed,” said Hector. “I am sure I could help find something suitable for you.” 

“Right…”

“There are more opportunities here than you think, that is all,” said Hector. “And you are a Bonfamille. Your name will go a long way.”

Except that he wasn’t, and Paris knew that because of Hector– because he’d had his bloody face posted on a shit ton of tabloids just a year ago.

 And despite not wanting to cause anything, Ber had to swallow down a cheeky remark about that, and growing irritation at Pere too. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to be having. It wasn’t why he’d come to Paris. Hector could play with whatever fantasies he wanted, regarding his relationship with Ber, regarding Ber’s future, but Ber didn’t want any part of them. 

Ber reached for a bread roll, tearing it in half. 

“What? Don’t you think so?” 

“Uh-huh,” uttered Ber. 

He felt Pere’s eyes on him. “Uh-huh,” Hector repeated. He snorted a little. “I am just trying to help.” 

“Thanks,” said Berlioz,  more sarcastically than he meant to sound. 

Hector sighed. “Perhaps Lou will convince you. You always listen to him more than me.” 

TOULOUSE: “I agree,” Lou said without missing a beat, feeling very pleased as he looked between his brother and father. 

This was what he wanted. When he’d first envisioned this lunch, he thought it would be about him. His brother and father ganging up against him to talk about his “behavior” and going back to Swynlake. He knew his father was already at his wits end and Lou was doing his best to find a place of his own (impossible, considering the circumstances) before they ripped each other’s heads off. In his mind this was going to end in a fight.

Instead, everyone was getting along as far as Lou saw it. Hector inviting Berlioz back into his life, back to Paris, the same way he had to Toulouse. It was not in a warm way, but Hector could never be warm. Lou had learned in his life to take the scraps of affection he was thrown and he knew that Ber was the same. They realized this was as close to an apology as Ber would ever get from Hector. And from Lou’s perspective, he couldn’t be happier about it.

In fact, this was the happiest he had felt in quite some time. The dream of Berlioz and Marie both moving back to Paris where they belonged blooming just a little bigger. 

“I think it would be perfect. You wouldn’t have to worry about work and Simba--your French is passable.” Quite a compliment. Not even entirely meant. Lou just did not want to miss the opportunity to be convincing. “You could get a job at any school you’d like.” Lou conveniently forgot about the other barriers his brother-in-law might face in France in preference to his delusion. 

“Er, yeah--I dunno. It’s quite a bit more complicated than that when it comes to teaching,” Simba replied, in broken French as if to prove a point.

Toulouse made a face but looked back at Pere. “You have that colleague in parliament whose wife works at Arion, oui? Not to mention Maman--she would have connections with just about any record label in Paris.” 

BERLIOZ: Oh come on. 

Maybe, yeah, Simba was right to shut it down when he had, even if it would cause more passive aggressive comments from the fuckin’ peanut gallery. Give Lou an inch and he was already packing up all of Ber’s things. For a moment, Ber just stared at Lou like he was a stranger. He wasn’t supposed to be this– this stupid, for lack of a better word. Since when had Berlioz ever expressed love for Paris? Even before Simba, he’d dreamed of distant lands across the oceans. Not Paris, but Los Angeles, New York City– Seoul, Tokyo, Berlin. Anywhere besides the two places that raised him, Paris and Swynlake. He didn’t want these places. Maybe Lou and Simba could commiserate over that, at least. 

But not tonight. Tonight, Ber could feel the night slipping, and he wanted dinner to be over. They hadn’t gotten to their main courses. The appetizer had just arrived. He had a long way to go, but his patience was as thin as the crackling autumn leaves he’d stepped on while on the way here. 

“Look, it’s– it’s too soon to talk about all this,” Berlioz broke in. His knee bounced. He wondered if this was how Simba felt usually– restless. Ready to move. “But neither of us are all that fond of the idea. It doesn’t suit us. Nothing personal.” 

Hector scoffed. “Well, with that attitude–” 

“What attitude?” Berlioz found himself lashing back. Should stop. Sort of proved the attitude comment. Didn’t feel like that. “I don’t have an attitude. I’m allowed to do things that you don’t like.” 

And now Hector snorted. “Don’t you think you’re getting too old for a rebellious streak, Berlioz?”

“I don’t have a rebellious streak, I just don’t like what you like,” he said again. 

He wondered, over the years, how many times he had said it. Probably not many, not out loud, but he knew he had said it over and over in his own head. He had said it while turning up his music and putting on his too-tight skinny jeans that Hector and Adelaide turned their noses up at, and while falling in love with Simba no matter how much Lou sneered, and when marrying him too. He liked what he liked and it had always been a bloody problem for everyone around him.

“I wonder why.” 

“Yeah, I wonder why,” Berlioz echoed, staring at his father as if in a dare to continue.

Hector put down his glass. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m the one who invited you to this dinner. You’ve not made any effort to reach out. But I looked past that, for Toulouse.” He said. “So let’s all behave ourselves.” 

“Right, for Lou,” said Ber. He’d said the quiet part out loud.

Hector blinked– realizing just that. “Yes, for Toulouse and– and, well, you know.” He cleared his throat. “Don’t be childish.” 

“For Lou,” said Ber, louder. And he really never raised his voice, did he? 

TOULOUSE: In just a moment, Toulouse’s vision of the future burned into nothing—so that all he could see was what was right in front of him. His brother, stony-eyed. His father stern and serious. They stared at each other across the table, Lou’s own name on their lips.

It was jarring, the way that coming out of a delusion was always jarring. Like missing a step on the stair, but worse: realizing the step wasn’t even there and instead you’re suddenly falling off a cliff. Like speaking a different language than everyone around you or finding out later in life  that you are actually colorblind and had never seen the world correctly.

It was like waking up and realizing you were underwater, having to find the right way up and gasp for air when you finally broke the surface.

They were talking about him like he was a problem. Shame burned through him at once, eating up any last bit of hope he might’ve had for a family that was happy. That all lived together in peace. That had once lived under the same roof, that might have even loved each other. That was a delusion, just as much as the rest.

It was confusing and disorienting and for a moment, Toulouse had to rearrange his thoughts with the facts. He reached out and touched his cool glass of water. He could hear the clinking of cutlery through the door. His breathing evened. There would be time later to mourn that future that Toulouse had created for himself. He could pick up the shattered pieces and maybe make something of it. Or perhaps he’d only cut himself on the jagged edges and leave a scar to remind him of the reality.

That his father didn’t care about his brother. That everyone only ever saw Toulouse as a problem to solve. They weren’t here to have a nice dinner. Hector was here because he wanted Ber to fix Lou. And Ber was here because he thought that he could.  

He wasn’t sure which one hurt more. Which one was more true.

All he knew was that his brother didn’t deserve to be put in the crossfire because of him. And no matter the situation, he would always  take his brother’s side. He would not suffer any slights against Ber in silence and, he especially, would not be blamed for his mistreatment.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Lou said, very quietly—looking first at Hector and then Berlioz. “I did not ask for this dinner or—for—for anything. I just wanted one fucking—”

“Language—” Hector cut in gruffly, as if he was embarrassed.

Toulouse’s gaze cut sharply back to his father. “—One fucking lunch where everything was—” he lost the word that he wanted. He didn’t know if there was a word for the kind of meal he wanted from his family.

“Toulouse, your brother and I—”

“Oh, please. Don’t start with that. You’ve never been on the same page with him about anything. You cannot even look at him! He’s your son,” Toulouse barked, his own voice climbing. “Neither of us appreciate being used as your pawns. You think that I am so out of control, but you cannot even take responsibility for your own actions.”

“Enough!” Hector barked, loud enough to cower him.

Except that Toulouse had already lost everything else. What did he have to be afraid of?

“You have treated Berlioz disgracefully and you’re treating me disgracefully too. Why are we back in this private room? Are you too ashamed of us?”

Hector stood up from his chair, throwing down his napkin. “How dare you speak to me that way!”

“How dare you speak to Berlioz that way!” Toulouse said, rising to his feet as well. “How dare you say it is his fault you have no relationship. You did that when you splashed his face all over the tabloids. When you didn’t give him a choice in his own life. When you refused to speak with him, to comfort. To give him anything. To give either of us anything. Ever. The only thing I ever learned from you was how to be cruel.”

BERLIOZ: There was a part of Ber who wanted to take it all back– that part of him that was above all else, Lou’s little brother. He should have remembered that Lou would stand up for him, no matter what. If Ber cried, Lou lashed out. Against Maman, against Pere– it had never been any other way. 

But he wasn’t just Lou’s little brother anymore. He was many new things. He was 25 years old, which felt real old to him now, especially when he walked these streets of Paris and remembered being a scared, frail thing, who cried at loud noises, who wouldn’t let go of Lou’s hand. He was a husband now too. He was a bloody teacher– not a good one, sure, but still, it was the most adult thing he’d ever really done. It was one thing to fall in love, another to look a kid in the eye and give them advice. 

He didn’t need Lou to stand up for him. And so he couldn’t really regret it, not wholly, though he winced as Hector began to yell. He winced, and looked down at his plate, and wondered if he should’ve remained in his shell a little longer, and if that would have made it easier for everyone. If he’d never grown up, if he never changed. 

Too late though. The fight had started. He couldn’t turn back time. 

“Lou–” he started, he tried. His voice wasn’t as loud as Hector’s (he was old now, but still soft-spoken). “It’s fine. It’s not– look, can we–” 

“How dare you!” shouted Hector, loud enough that now Ber could see the vein in his forehead. His face was turning redder by the moment. “After all I’ve done for you! You are only here because of me. The last few weeks, I have been constantly cleaning up every one of your messes, and you think you can lecture me on how to be a father–” 

TOULOUSE:

Toulouse heard his brother’s quiet prostrations. He would have heard them, even without the wolf-sense that allowed him to hear everything happening in the restaurant and down on the street beneath the window. He would have heard them, because he always listened out for Berlioz. Sometimes, he even listened to him.

Not usually. Not now.

Now, all he could hear was his father—throwing everything in Lou’s face. All his failures. His inability to be anything than a mess that other people needed to clean up, when once he had been the one cleaning messes for other people. He had wiped Marie’s tears and he had covered for Berlioz when he snuck in late. But now—he was the embarrassment. He was the mess. The shame burned so deeply that Lou worried if he breathed out, it might be all fire.

His hand clenched into a fist at his side and he felt himself trembling. The world tilted slightly and he realized it was the wolf. The wolf who had wanted to break free for over a month now. Who hated the city, no matter how much Lou loved it. Who poisoned him against it. It had been a long time since Lou had jarred so drastically against the wolf’s wishes and now was the time it decided to pick a fight. His eyes flashed and there was a thought that flashed through his mind: violent and bright. He shook his head and took a stumbling step backwards, knocking his chair over.

Usually, when his father yelled, Toulouse became stone. He had learned how to do this from a young age. If he stood still and silent, Hector would eventually wear himself out. But now, Lou was angry too. He was angry that Hector couldn’t take one bit of responsibility. He hated him, because he looked into his eyes and saw himself. The man who had left his children. Who had let them be taken away. History, a circle that you could not escape.

The chair hit the ground—jarring the entire table.

Lou glared at his father. “If this is what Paris costs, I don’t want it,” he snarled and then shoved passed his father.

The door to the gallery slammed open, ricocheting off the wall, but Lou didn’t even look over his shoulder. He kept his eyes straight ahead, chin up, shoulders back as he hurried out of the restaurant. He did his best to ignore the stares and the people shrinking away as he passed. This would certainly be in the papers tomorrow.

Outside the restaurant, he grabbed his pack of cigarettes from his pocket with hands still trembling and crossed the busy street into the park beyond the restaurant. He found a bench across from a small pond and collapsed onto it, sucking smoke into his lungs and watching it drift off over the water.

When he heard footsteps approaching, he didn’t turn around, but he knew who it was. “You know,” he said, soft, contemplative, icy, “I think you might actually be the lucky one.”

BERLIOZ: Lou stormed out.

Ber winced when the chair hit the table. He winced again as Lou swept away, snarling– sounding more wolf than anything else. He could tell that it shocked Pere. His father was temporarily frozen in place, his eyes trailing after his son. Usually, Pere would not let anyone else have the last word. He would shout, he would break the glass on the table, or he would be the one to announce his own departure, strutting out and slamming a door to let everyone know the conversation was over.

Lou had stolen all his noise, rendering Pere more frail than Ber had ever seen him. He collapsed into his chair and cursed low, running his hands through his thinning, graying hair. 

Ber swallowed. This felt like his fault. 

Simba slipped his hand on Ber’s thigh, giving him a gentle, reassuring squeeze, like he could read Ber’s mind. 

Yeah. Yeah, that helped. It wasn’t his fault. This sort of thing was always going to happen. It had been in the air before Simba and Berlioz had even arrived. 

“I… I’m gonna go talk to him,” Berlioz uttered, hesitated, to see if Pere would stop him, or maybe have something to say to Ber. But Pere just shook his head and sighed, then reached for his wine to drink. 

Okay.

Ber’s chair scraped on the floor as he pushed it out, then again as he pushed it in. He moved like a shadow, as quickly and quietly as he could, especially as he crossed through the more crowded restaurant. He hadn’t waited long enough for anyone to think his departure was unrelated to Lou’s. Even if he had– they could see it in his face. Maybe he wasn’t a Bonfamille, but they’d seen that face before. Maybe he wasn’t a Bonfamille, but he– he was Lou’s brother. Find it the shape of his temples. Or in his longer frame. Whatever it was. It was still there, still obvious.

He found Lou a few minutes later. Berlioz approached cautiously, to give Lou a chance to bark at him to go away. But he didn’t, so he went to go sit next to him on the bench.

Lucky. 

“Maybe,” Ber replied with a shrug. “I guess that depends what you mean by that.” A beat. “If it’s about him– he raised me too so– don’t think I escaped anything, being unrelated to him.” 

TOULOUSE: “You don’t have his anger,” Lou said, more candidly than he had probably said anything in his entire life. He was too tired to pretend any differently. 

For a long time, Toulouse hadn’t understood how Berlioz had escaped that curse. It was a generational one, passed from Bonfamille man to Bonfamille man. It was in Lou’s bones. In his blood. He hated it. It was a part of him. It ruined everything.

Of course, Lou could not blame his father for that. For ruining everything. He knew there was no one, really, to blame for that but himself. 

Taking another drag of the cigarette, Lou leaned back on the bench. He did not look at his brother, but his arm stretched along the back, behind him, close enough that he felt the brush of Ber’s leather jacket against the sleeve of his suit. Sighing out, he watched the Parisian breeze snatch the smoke and dispel it. 

There were many things he wanted to say. That he made a mistake. That he wanted to go home. That home was not Paris. That Lou didn’t know where home was, or if he even had one any more. That he did not know himself; that he hated himself; that he felt like jumping into the Seine. He wanted to get down on his knees and beg for Berlioz--for anyone, really--to tell him who he was. To tell him what kind of person he should be and how to be it. 

I am lost, he wanted to say, but he could only barely admit that to himself. It was impossible not to anymore, considering he felt like a balloon that had escaped a small child’s grasp and was hurtling towards the atmosphere. Or a leaf that had fallen from a tree, swept away on a stream. 

When will it stop hurting? Toulouse wanted to ask that too, because it hurt to breathe. It hurt to get up in the morning, his body feeling as heavy as a stone but somehow as fragile as glass. If he stood up, he’d fall through the floor. He’d shatter into a million pieces. 

Still, after all this time, he tried desperately to cling to the only thing he still was, the only thing he understood: an older brother. Even if he was a shite one. Even if his siblings probably wished he wasn’t their brother at all. Even though they probably felt that they needed to take care of him, instead of the other way around. He was still a brother, and so, he found something to say. 

“I am sorry if I made things worse for you. I just--I cannot understand how he treats you. I hate it.”

BERLIOZ: Ber wasn’t sure what to say to that. 

He’d gone through the whole torrid debate with himself. Nature vs nurture. What parts of him were his, what parts of him belonged to Hector and Adelaide for raising him, what parts were Steve’s– this bloke he barely knew? There had been plenty of sleepless nights and broody days where he’d been so deep in his own head, even Simba hadn’t been able to kiss him out of it. And at the end of those dark tunnels, Berlioz had come to no conclusion at all. He’d never know. He wasn’t supposed to know, probably, because it wasn’t like he was any smarter than the millions of scientists who had asked those questions before him.

And so these days, he was trying to focus less on what was making him different and more about the things he shared– with Steve, with Lou and Marie, and yeah– maybe even with Hector. Even if the answer to this last question was simply that he shared his childhood. He shared this city. He shared a family. 

Maybe that was enough though, too. There was still love for Pere, even if it was a complicated one, even if Pere didn’t deserve it. (But love wasn’t something that anyone had to deserve.) 

And so… to Lou, now? Berlioz shrugged. “I don’t think you did. I maybe made it harder for you. I just uh… I dunno, that’s probably just how we’ll be. It’s not actually all that different from before everything, y’know, if you really think about it.” 

Since when did Hector and Ber get along? Sure, maybe Ber hadn’t stood up for himself to Hector’s face, but he’d also never played the part Hector wanted him to play. 

“It’s um– is he– is it different for you?” 

TOULOUSE: For a moment, Toulouse did not know what Berlioz meant, for surely Berlioz knew that his relationship with Pere was much different than his own. Much of their childhood, Lou had spent his life equally in awe of and terrified of his father. He had wanted to grow as tall as him, to be as commanding as him, to be as smart and as respected. But he had never wanted to be as angry as him. As scary. 

Berlioz had never wanted these things and, therefore, he and Hector had never gotten along. Lou was good at taking the good with the bad when it came to their father, but that was because, for a very long time, Lou had simply been content with the scraps of affection he was given. The way his father’s name gave him prestige. His legacy gave Toulouse a legacy. 

But that had dried up now. And that was what Berlioz meant.

Was it different now? 

Lou wanted to deny it. He wanted to fight against it and he wasn’t even sure why. His father had never been warm. Had never been a good father. And Lou did not agree with his parenting choices now. His treatment of Berlioz. The way he manipulated--playing on Lou’s passions in a way that was brilliant and infuriating. 

So what loyalty was really left?

“I suppose. Mainly, he is afraid of me now.” Lou’s lip twitched in a sardonic smirk and he took another drag of the cigarette, the sound of it cracking in his ears as he inhaled. “He never was before.” Lou had seen it in his eyes, though, the way he had seen it in many people’s eyes. Including the people closest to him. Marie. Nounou. His mother. It felt different from Hector. Hector had never been afraid of anything.

“Not that it changes anything. It is not like it makes him listen.” 

BERLIOZ: Didn’t change anything? But it had to change something– it had to change the way Lou felt about Pere, didn’t it? 

Maybe Ber was projecting too much. After all, hadn’t he just said finding out Pere wasn’t his biological father hadn’t changed much for them? But then, it had to be different for Lou. Because Berlioz was aware of Lou’s relationship with Pere– all that they had that Ber and Hector never could. That had been one of the most difficult parts growing up. Berlioz would compare himself to Lou and wonder why he couldn’t just suck it up and be like his big brother. Why couldn’t he be as clever? Why couldn’t he dress like him? Why couldn’t he have those same conversations or feign interest? Why did doing those things get under Ber’s skin so bad? 

Still–Ber knew that if he had become frightened of Lou… it would have changed Lou and Berlioz’s relationship. Their brotherhood had already gone through plenty of rocky periods, but fear had never sat between them. Well, Ber had been scared for Lou…but never of him. 

And he knew one other thing too. 

Lou didn’t want to become something frightening. Like Pere. 

Wasn’t this sort of like his worst nightmare, then? 

Ber chewed on all this. He didn’t know if it was his place to say it. He’d come to Paris because he wanted to get away, and yes, to try to fix something with Lou. But now that he was here, he struggled to actually take action on that part of it. It was his same ol struggle as always. Why was it any of his business? Shouldn’t Lou be allowed to work out what he needed to work out? 

Yeah, went that worried little brother voice, but did he have to do it on his own? 

No. No he didn’t. And that was the real problem here– Lou runnin’ off like he was all alone, like no one wanted him, when that was the furthest thing from the truth. 

“Well you don’t deserve that,” Ber started from here. “Him being scared of you. You don’t– deserve anyone being scared of you. I wish you weren’t…putting yourself through that when you don’t have to. I know–I know you missed this place, and I know– I know things didn’t work with Hades and Belle but– you didn’t have to leave Swynlake.” 

TOULOUSE: “There was nothing there for me,” Lou said flatly. 

It was true enough. He didn’t have any friends. His mother was hardly ever there. Berlioz had Simba, Ashlee, Jenny--his own family that had nothing to do with Toulouse. They hadn’t even been speaking before today. And Lou didn’t know if they would speak after this. This was a crisis, Ber forced to talk to him because he probably thought Lou would kill himself if he didn’t. Marie had her shoppe, with his ex-girlfriend--whom if not hated, strongly disliked him. She never talked to him anymore anyway. She was also afraid of him. In fact, she was probably the most afraid of him out of anyone. 

Nounou might be the only person who cared about Lou being gone. Who was something for Lou to go back to. 

But what was there here? Migraines? Stigma? The fairweather friends he’d had once did not even want to be that. He was barred from galleries. If he left, he may never be allowed back. And where else would Lou go? The ocean? They all knew how that would end. 

Lou dropped his cigarette to the ground, putting it out with the toe of his expensive leather shoe. 

“There is nothing for me anywhere, I think.”

BERLIOZ: “Jesus– that’s not true,” said Ber– and he couldn’t help but sound a little hurt. 

Like, sure, he hadn’t talked to Lou that much lately, and they hadn’t hung out. But it wasn’t like Ber hadn’t sort of tried. He’d invited Lou to that er, trivia night, a while back. Lou was the one who didn’t show up. And he’d texted the family about Jenny. He wasn’t hiding anything, it was Lou treating Berlioz like he’d done something wrong. Sure, maybe Ber could have reached out more, but two way street, Toulouse. What about him? What about him, reaching out to Berlioz? 

This was not what Ber needed to focus on.

Throwing a fit right here would probably make it all the worse. But it was– it was sort of what he’d done with Hades and Belle, Ber realized, recalling his conversation with her. He didn’t say shit, he just took all his pain and internalized it and internalized it. He invented more problems and materialized them into real life. He never gave anyone a fair fucking shot to fix things with him. 

Also, he didn’t fucking listen. 

Well– well, maybe that was just how Berlioz felt. 

He took a breath, trying not to snap more, like he’d just done with Pere. “I just– that’s just dumb, sorry. You got me and Marie, I know Marie was glad you came to her boutique opening. And just because I’m mad at you sometimes doesn’t mean you’re not my brother. You haven’t texted me in forever, y’know. You could text me. You could tell me you’re upset. You could talk to me instead of runnin’ off here and making me chase you. I will chase you, but you shouldn’t make me. You’re the big brother anyway.” 

TOULOUSE: You’re the big brother anyway.

Lou was prepared to fight back, until Berlioz said that. It would be easy to refute the rest. That, of course Marie was happy he was at the boutique opening, but she didn’t really care about him. That Berlioz hadn’t texted him either. That he was already replacing them. That he did not ask anyone to chase him. (Even if he wanted them to.) 

“Do you think I want this? That this is who I want to be?” Lou snapped back, finally looking over at his brother. “Do you think I want to be someone that everyone worries about all of the time? Someone who forces people to chase them? It’s pathetic. It’s shameful. And I cannot stop it. I cannot take it back. And I don’t--” 

The words stopped, as if a heavy gate had slammed shut. The portcullis around Lou’s heart that always kept it so well protected. That guarded it from the exact things he was saying: shame and embarrassment, the deep, deep self-loathing that he had. 

I don’t know how to fix it. 

He wished that he didn’t care. That Berlioz’s words had absolutely no effect on him. He wished that no one cared. Maybe that was why he pushed everyone away. If no one cared, it would make all of this so much easier. 

Make what easier? Life? Letting go of it? That was the question, the one that always lingered in the back of his mind. If it would just be easier to give it all up. To stop hurting people with just one final hurt. To stop embarrassing himself. Making himself and everyone around him miserable. 

“I am not a good big brother. I am not a good partner. I am not a good person.” 

BERLIOZ: “Okay, so?” 

It just sorta came out. But listening to Lou self-deprecate and doom spiral was getting under Ber’s skin. It was like he was completely blind to all the things he did have– to the good that he had done. For him, the bad memories were so much bigger. But that’s because it was all he focused on, much like how Berlioz had once only focused on the disasters in his life– the ones that had happened but more often than not, the ones that hadn’t, the nightmares that loomed as horrible what ifs.

He still thought of them now. He would always see them, as if he were a psychic and that was his power: seeing bad things, all the time.

But he saw the good now too. He looked away from the bad thing, told himself it wasn’t all there was. Lou could learn to do that too. He was far smarter and tougher than Ber ever was. 

“No one’s a good– any of those things at first. No one’s good all the time in general. People fuck up. You just always give up,” Ber said. “You cut out way too early all the time, Lou. With Peri, with Alana– with me too. That’s what I’m saying. Just because someone is mad at you doesn’t mean things have to explode. So stop exploding them and try something else.” 

TOULOUSE: Berlioz made it sound so easy, but Toulouse had never been like that.

He had always cared. His feelings ricocheted inside his chest, until his heart was made up of compressed shrapnel. They felt too big and too messy. He had cared about being the best brother, the best son. The best artist. The best at everything, because that was what he had been told his entire life. His self-worth was made of these promises. 

So what was he without them? 

“I was once. I was good at all of these things,” Lou said. 

“I have tried. Hades and Belle--they didn’t…I told them how I felt and they didn’t care. I wasn’t going to allow myself to be treated like some--second class citizen. A nanny. And you--” he turned his gaze sharply on his brother. “I tried. I was there for you. I told you that I didn’t care, that it didn’t matter to me who your father was. I told you I would be in your corner. I told Pere to go fuck himself and you still--it didn’t matter to you, because you only see me as the same monster as everyone else.

Don’t deny it. You’re just as afraid of me as everyone else is. You didn’t tell me about Jenny because you were afraid. And maybe you were right to be but…I cannot fix that. It has already happened. You are already afraid. Marie is already afraid. You will never tell me things again. We will never be close again. It is already broken.” Lou’s eyes stung but he refused to cry. He had not cried in front of his brother since that time on the beach and he refused to do it now. If there was one scrap of dignity he had left, let it be that. 

“You are leaving,” he reminded Berlioz. 

BERLIOZ: “No. That’s not true,” Ber said– and for once, he was stern and firm, but not loud, a voice he’d only really used a few times in his life– a voice that reminded him the most of Simba.

He could get truly pissed and get up right now and tell Lou– okay, fuck it then, fuck you. If that was the story he was determined to tell himself, then that was the story. Who was Ber to tell Lou otherwise? 

But it wasn’t the truth. If it was his mental health disorder, or something else– whatever it was– someone needed to tell Lou that it was not true. He had made up a story in which he was both victim and villain. He had done that to hurt himself. But no one else wanted the story to go that way. 

Ber took a breath. 

“Look, that might be what it feels like to you, but you’ve got it wrong. I told you. And I’ll say it again. I didn’t tell you about Jenny or Steve or any of it because I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing or what I wanted. I didn’t want to make things complicated until I was sure– until I figured out if I liked them or wanted to get to know them or whatever. It had nothing to do with you. Maybe that hurts your feelings, maybe it was a mistake, but it’s true– I was just figuring it out.  I can’t talk about the rest of all that, but that part– the only person calling you a monster is you. And,” he added, and here, he looked away from Lou and back across the street. “I’m not leaving. Least, not yet.”  

He watched the cars as they rolled down the street. He watched the people pass, left to right.

“You’re the one who left first,” he said. “You came here.” 

TOULOUSE: For a long time, it was silent. 

He just didn’t have the energy to fight anymore. No one was ever going to understand. He was always going to feel trapped in his own mind and in his mistakes. He didn’t believe Ber that people did not see him as a monster. Maybe they did not call him one, but that did not mean they didn’t feel that way. His father, his little sister, Belle and Hades. 

This conversation was going in circles. He didn’t know if he would ever believe Ber about his family. He knew that everything was broken and that he had broken it. Ber would always be disappointed in him. He would always be disappointed in himself.

Lou was too dizzy, too tired, to refute Ber. 

“I wanted to come here. I have been exiled for four years.”

BERLIOZ: Berlioz also wasn’t sure what to say. He was probably not the person that Lou actually needed to speak with. Lou needed– some kind of professional, someone who could help him see that the way he was living was not the only way. It might feel like he was out of control of himself, but he wasn’t. It might feel like he didn’t have choices, but he did. But no one could force Lou to go back to therapy or back on meds or… whatever else would actually help. Ber could only sit here. Ber could only chase him. It was bloody exhausting, and yeah, sometimes Ber did want to give up, especially when it felt like there was no real point. But still, here he was. 

“I know,” said Ber. “Not what I meant by that. I meant– all this talk about moving here. It’s good to come back but…why would you actually stay, Lou? With the way Pere and Paris treats you?” Ber sighed. “Going back to Swynlake doesn’t have to mean going back to Hades and Belle, if that’s what you’re worried about. Just– come back home. Figure it out from there.” 

TOULOUSE: It wasn’t what Lou was worried about--going back to Swynlake meaning going back to Hades and Belle. In fact, it was quite the opposite. It was that Lou didn’t know if he could be around Hades and Belle. He knew that he had ruined it officially. Hades would hate him. Belle would no longer trust him. There was nothing left to that relationship…but that was what made it so hard to think about running into them. About seeing them. About living in the same town as them. 

Lou ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t want to tell his brother yes. Or no. Because Lou was tired of making promises and breaking them.

“I will think about it,” he told him. 

And he would. Tonight, after a silent drive back to the house with Pere. Tomorrow, when Pere did not apologize, but spoke to Lou in a way that told him that he wanted to. When Lou would look his father in the face and see himself reflected there. And feel disgust and shame and pity. 

For right now, though, Lou was just tired. He wanted to slink away somewhere to lick his wounds. 

So, he shook out another cigarette and offered one to Berlioz. “One before we go back?” he asked. 

BERLIOZ: I will think about it. 

It wasn’t a yes and it wasn’t a no and it wasn’t a victory, but it felt like one. Ber hoped it meant something else. He hoped it meant Lou was saying I am listening to you. I hear you. I trust you. Maybe that was too optimistic. Lou could do all those things, sure, but he had to get out of his own way first. He had to quiet the thunder in his own head. That’s how Ber imagined it was. Loud and frightening, chasing Lou from place to place. 

Maybe, just maybe, Ber had said something that got through, though. 

Though what happened next was the real victory– a cigarette extended Ber’s way.

He glanced at Lou and smiled. The tension released itself from his shoulders. He plucked the cigarette, knowing he should turn it away (Simba would scowl at him later) but there were a few things you never outgrew. It was like they were kids again, and this was one of those times where Lou was sharing his toys. It would make the cigarette taste all the better, comin’ from Lou, smokin’ it with him. That’s just how it was with a big brother. 

“Thanks,” he said. He lit the tip and sucked in, let the smoke fill his lungs. But despite the ash, it felt like the first breath of air he’d taken since sitting down next to Lou.