Fandom: Les Misérables.
Author: Epigone.
Pairing: None.
Rating: PG.
Warnings: Language, present tense.
Archivists: Ask first.
Summary: Bahorel has a talk with his brother.
Date Written: August(?) 2002.
Author's Notes: Poor Bahorel. They cut him from the musical, and almost no one writes him fic. I'm immensely fond of him, so I set out to remedy the latter.
Feedback: Can be sent to kmaru1701 [AT] hotmail [DOT] com, and is much appreciated.
Brotherly Love
Alain Bahorel stalks through the lengthening shadows of the Rue de Grande Truanderie, his large hands thrust deep into his waistcoat pockets. His flint-sharp eyes look neither left nor right; as is inevitable, he finally misses his footing on a crack in the pavement, and, with an uncharacteristically undignified yelp, goes sprawling into a pile of steaming refuse.
For a moment, he thinks he may pass out from the smell, or at least reencounter his lavish breakfast. He overcomes both urges, though, and picks himself up. The starched coat is probably beyond help, but still he rakes off the more obvious muck with his fingernails. Grunting with disgust, he walks the remaining few yards to a nondescript door on his left.
A smart knuckle-rap on the wood provokes no response. Alain pauses a moment, irritated, and then draws back his fist and strikes the door with the heel of his hand.
"Olivier!" he hisses. "Olivier, I know you're home."
There is silence within for a moment, then--
"The hell!" as a sharp crash echoes from inside the room. Alain doesn't even crack a smile -- he merely stands, arms crossed, beneath the eves as the shuffling resolves itself into an unsteady tread. The door is flung open in the next instant; Alain catches it and maneuvers himself into a position ideal for glowering at the figure emerging from the gloom.
Olivier stands on the threshold, his ratty, vaguely crimson waistcoat shuddering about his frame in the rising breeze. He places a steadying hand on the doorjamb, for he seems slightly uncertain about the integrity of the ground. Disheveled, stubbled, and bleary-eyed, he is quite a disreputable sight, and Alain flushes.
"Olivier, I need to speak with you."
Oliver blinks owlishly and yawns at him.
"'S getting late, 'lain," he observes irritably. "It'll wait."
"It will not," insists Alain. "This may be a novel concept, but some of us have things to say so meaningful that they are not dispensable at a moment's not-"
"And some of us have time that is not expendable," Olivier interrupts. "Least not for your indispensable advice."
Alain ignores him and sweeps into the room. Finding a chair amid the rubbish, he sits, studiously avoiding contact with the rest of Olivier's possessions.
"Do come in," says Olivier drily, shutting the door behind him and rubbing at his aching temples. "Dieu, you smell. What is that?"
"Some of the filth off your street. Although" -- Alain looks about the dim room with a disdainful shudder -- "I daresay, judging from the state of your bedclothes, that you are quite intimate with such things. I would have thought you'd be immune to the stench by now."
Olivier, surprisingly, refuses to rise to the bait, just grins affably.
"No, I'd say you smell a sight worse than anything else around here."
Alain has been watching Olivier's twitching hands, his darting, bloodshot eyes.
"You've been drinking," he notes blandly. "I can smell it, too. Underneath the more... assertive odors."
"Don' see how that's any of your business," says Olivier, suddenly sullen. "Was there something you wanted to say, Alain?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact," replies Alain, with mock graciousness. "Zéphine and I have agreed upon something." Folding his hands in his lap, he elaborates. "Our first child is on the way, as you may or may not know. As things stand now, he will be born into a great misfortune. Zéphine -- Zéphine and I, that is -- we think it would be best if you changed your surname. When our child is born, then, he will not have the burden of sharing his surname with a cavorting connoisseur of... of cheap harlots-" There is almost, almost an apologetic note in this last bit, but Olivier cuts it off in a fine temper.
"My name?! You want me to change my name so your môme" -- the slang was perhaps going a little too far, Olivier thinks, seeing Alain's face harden, but it's too late now -- "can have a prettier lineage?"
"That is essentially the idea--"
"My name?! I have as much right to it as you!"
"Olivier, if Maman and Papá knew about all this," here he gestures expansively at the soiled sheets, the dusty curtains, the piles of musty clothing, "even they would have to disown you."
"How dare you?!" Olivier realizes that he is still more than a little tipsy, and therefore not quite rational, but his pulse is pounding and his battle rage is rising. "Dammit, Alain, I'll kill you for that--"
"Olivier," says Alain coldly. "You are so predictable, mon frère. Bluster, swagger, threaten -- it's all you know how to do. That's why you're with those friends of yours, isn't it? You absolutely adore the idea of toppling things -- regimes, if you're especially lucky."
Olivier digs his nails into his palms to keep from strangling the man.
"Don't be ridiculous. I like many things a great deal more than insurrection."
"Ah, really? Perhaps you prefer treason, then?" asks Alain smoothly.
Olivier just smiles unexpectedly, disarmingly.
"Alain. Alain, Alain. Listen to Locke -- treason? Not at all."
Alain sniffs.
"So you have learned something from that ragtag bunch." Olivier watches him, looking vaguely smug. Alain suddenly lowers his eyes. "Olivier, admit it. You're not one of them. What desire do you personally have for new government? What concrete need have you for anything at all? What do you want for?"
"What do any of them want for, excluding Adrian, and maybe the new boy?" counters Olivier. "The real question is, what inherent need have we? We have an inherent need to be free. Free from dictates about what we can say -- and free from want, Alain, free from fear. As a society."
"Say the Americans."
"Say progressive men anywhere."
"You're drunk, Olivier," Alain says finally. "You're drunk off your head. This rubbish -- what do you and I fear? What do we want? We have all we need."
"We don't have ourselves," insists Olivier, clutching hurriedly at words he's heard from the others. "And your son? -- Who knows? If you lose your fortune, if you die suddenly, if so many things, he is out on the street with the rest."
"And what do you care?" challenges Alain. "What do you, Olivier Bahorel, son of wealthy parents, bachelor hedonist, self-serving student, care for my child? Or for anyone?"
Olivier is silent.
"Olivier, why are you in this fight?"
Alain pants; Olivier is still motionless. After a time, Alain reaches into his breast pocket and draws out a sheaf of papers. Holding them out to Olivier, he rises tensely.
"These are the forms to be filled out if you decide to go along with our plans. If you refuse, I will go to our parents and we will have a long discussion about your misguided politics. How long do you expect to indulge in all of your favorite activities without an allowance?"
Olivier takes the papers mechanically, standing unresponsive and hard before his brother. Alain does not say another word -- he just turns quickly and leaves the premises.
Minutes pass, and finally Olivier sinks into the chair that Alain vacated. Quietly he flattens the forms out in his hand, but does not bother to read them. He only gazes intently at the opposite wall, as if expecting to find his answer there.
And maybe he does discover something, for all at once he lifts the sheaf and fiercely tears it to pieces that flutter down to the scuffed floor in a hazy shower. But once the last shreds have settled into the dust, he doubles over, puts his face in his hands, and trembles in the shadows.
~Fin~
[HOME] [BACK TO FANFICTION]