No one is really up for holiday festivities.

Cletus grabs plates for himself and Caro, bringing them back to Rachel's room for them to share. I grind my teeth at his presence. Estelle helps herself to a plate but takes it to the kitchen where she cleans up the cooking items. I stay in the dining room, sitting across from Stéphane at the table, eating in silence.

He gives me the barest of bones of what happened while I was with Spencer.

Caro locked herself in Rachel's bedroom and wouldn't come out. I don't know what the fuck Cletus got up to during that time, and frankly I don't care as long as he wasn't with her. According to Estelle who sat in the hall, he was in the bathroom for a bit, then the kitchen.

In my bedroom, Stéphane trapped Bastien inside. It proved easier than he expected, because after thirty seconds of Bastien begging to leave, he curled up on the floor and held himself. Stéphane was expecting physical resistance, or something, but Bastien just waited. Corralled. No crying, no explanations, nothing. Just silence.

Eating is too easy. My stomach hurts with every bite, but I can't stop. Otherwise, I'll start pacing and maybe I'll break down my own bedroom door. I don't like that Spencer is inside with Bastien. It's not Spencer's burden. It's my family.

At least the food tastes wonderful. Stéphane is not eating, pushing food around on his plate.

"How are you feeling?" I swallow food quickly after I ask the question. I hope it might help force down the lump in my throat.

Stéphane pushes his food around, "he got in a fight and you didn't tell me?"

"That's an observation, not an emotion," I point out, glancing up at him while trying to cut my slice of turkey into smaller and smaller pieces. "How are you feeling?"

Stéphane's shoulders tighten, "okay. I'm feel angry because he got into a fight and you didn't think to tell me."

"I don't report to you," I snap. "I know you're used to getting all sorts of reports about me from Estelle, but I'm not into your little whisper network, alright? If he was comfortable telling you, he would have."

Silence follows. I force more of the turkey in my mouth. I grab water off the table. It's the cup that was meant for Spencer, but it's been twenty minutes and he's not back yet.

"Arguing with you about this isn't productive," Stéphane decides.

For both of us. Without my input.

"You know, maybe he would come to you if you weren't so unilateral," I point out. "Who died and made you king?"

"Dad."

I grit my teeth, "I'm the only one Dad respected out of all of us, so I wouldn't go around touting his praises."

"You're being awfully cruel to the brother who didn't punch your boyfriend in the face," Stéphane coughs. He pulls at the collar of his shirt. "And I wouldn't go around sharing just how proud you are to be just like Dad. I know he liked you, but he terrorized the rest of us. Well, not Caro – but that's not the point. You set a good example for Bastien like Dad. Hide all your feelings, share nothing, and snap whenever someone pushes your buttons."

"Not my boyfriend," I spit.

"Right," Stéphane shakes his head. "That would require a level of emotional vulnerability that is impossible for you."

He picks up a fork, and that's when I notice his hands are shaking. He catches my glance too quickly, shoving them both under the table. He takes in a breath, one singular, too shallow.

I wait for his exhale. Luc Levesque on the floor of his basement, unable to breathe, lungs expended from shouting his testimony.

Stéphane coughs. Coughing means he is breathing. His face is bright red though, a colour I thought only Caro and I were capable of producing.

"Are you-"

"Fine," the word hisses out of his mouth, his teeth clamped together, and his lips only parted slightly for the words to escape. Say it all he wants, he isn't fine. I'm not an idiot.

"Are you really-"

"Not fine," he manages, coughing out each syllable in French so slowly. "Panic attack."

I get up from the table, my chair scraping against the floor. His hands raise up toward me, palms open, signaling me to stop. I try to step closer and he pushes at me, his hands not touching me but shoving the air. I obey. I stand there.

Stéphane ducks down. From my spot standing, I watch as he shoves his head between his knees. His twitching fingers knot themselves in his hair, pulling at the strands. Raspy, thin breaths huff out his mouth, air sucked in and grunted out. While I'm not going to leave the room, I don't approach him. Instead, I count each breath, making sure the space between them isn't increasing, or decreasing, or the breaths aren't getting heavier or shallower. There, I wait.

The song changes twice. Then, his hands stop shaking and his breathing is less strained. Slowly, my brother sits up, grabbing the table and pulling himself up with it. He grabs a glass of water and begins to chug it down. He looks at me, face beat red, but he doesn't say anything.

I sit back down. The food already was cold by the time I sat here, and now the mush looks unappetizing. I drink my water, lukewarm. I need an ice cube.

"They have been happening more," Stéphane coughs, not meeting my eyes. "It used to be once a month, max. Since they let him out though, at least twice a week. On bad weeks, every day."

Lacing my fingers, I tuck my hands in my lap. I don't have anything I could tell him except that I am sorry for this happening to him.

"Things have been so good, and I didn't want to tell you," he says. "You're finally doing well."

I inhale.

"Yeah," I agree. "I am."

Bastien blamed Stéphane for me being so fucked in the head, and in the moment, there was too much for me to think about. Now though, I'm upset all over again. Maybe I am, but I'm doing so well. I'm doing the best I have since I was fifteen years old, almost half my life ago. Where's the acknowledgement? Only from Stéphane, in a denial of allowing me to give a fuck about his health.

The door creaks open. I'm expecting Estelle's head, just her forehead or nose peaking in, but instead Spencer steps inside. I stand up. The table jolts.

He's definitely going to have a gnarly bruise, but his nose isn't swelling anymore. If he's lucky, he might not even have one black eye. Certainly he won't have two. His eyes are watery still. I step closer to him, so close that our chests are touching.

"How is he?" I whisper, wishing Spencer and I shared a language, just the two of us, so that Stéphane couldn't listen in.

Spencer's voice comes out at first like a squeak, "fine. Well, not good, but he's safe. I think he's really scared. He's military, right? Do you know if they have therapy as part of their benefits?"

I turn around, looking at Stéphane. He's leaning forward, hanging onto Spencer's every syllable. I check his hands to make sure his hands aren't shaking.

"I still haven't told him about my appointments," I speak in French, probably shouldn't, but just so Stéphane doesn't let it slip. "Do you think we could talk Bastien into going?"

Stéphane shakes his head, "he'd never agree."

A hand, warm and soft, cups my waist. I lean forward, letting my weight rest on Spencer's, if just for a second.

"He told me what happened," Spencer says loud enough that I know he's not trying to hide it from Stéphane. "The night Bastien came to your old apartment. He uh.... Well, I promised I wouldn't tell you if he told me. Bastien isn't in any sort of trouble now, after that night. It was a... well, he didn't instigate any fight, or do anything illegal. It's up to both of you and Caroline, but I wouldn't press him to explain himself."

Something bad happened to Bastien that night, and not the other way around. Stéphane looks at me, clearly as surprised as I am. If I could be relieved my brother didn't murder someone, I'm sure I would be, but all I feel now is dread. How many That Nights are we going to have as a family?

"Thank you," Stéphane nods. I watch his hands to make sure they aren't shaking.

With my head against Spencer's chest, I feel the response mumbled in his torso, "there's no need to thank me. Your brother is a good kid. He just needs some help, I think."

Most certainly he does. Not even because of whatever happened to him. Even because of what happened to me. I think instead of Bastien shooting the gun, telling me he had to be the tough one, and how Dad would never approve having a fairy in the home. Stéphane was enough of one without having two.

And I wonder if our Dad had lived if somehow things would be worse than they are now, and if we'd be in his living room and even before Bastien punched Spencer, if we would have been in a jolly mood.

~~~~~

I've not proof read this oop, but here it goes! What do you think happened to Bastien?