#th:thomas

french catholicism.

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. 

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.

 ♡: you wonder how much i love you

Frérot,

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.

I’ll see you soon, just not tomorrow, 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.”

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.