She meets him at Black Cat Coffee, exactly at noon.
Olaf sees her looking perfect and prim and pretty in her pea-coat and feels, instantly, as if he deserves what's coming. Violet sits by the window, away from the other patrons to give them privacy, he's sure. She still has on her mittens and has ordered her star anise tea to go. Winter frosts the edges of the window, although he knows that's not what has him feeling so cold.
He sits silently before her, unsure of what embarrassing nonsense would spew from his mouth should he open it. Olaf knows it would be something like, "I never expected you to stay, but-" or, "Please, please, please, do not go-"
"Olaf," Violet says, her eyes tired and sad. "I am so sorry-"
He wonders if she can tell he's been drinking.
"Of course, orphan." He says, looking out to the busy street before them. His voice sounds gruff and unfamiliar with grief. "I never thought- You never said-"
He is Count Olaf, decidedly handsome and talented actor, yet he is stumbling over himself, groveling for words that might change Violet Baudelaire's mind.
"I didn't think I would change my mind, if it's any help." She says, knowing it is of no help at all, yet lost for proper condolences. She wonders, what do you say when love dies? What is carved on the headstone? What obituary burns in the minds of its participants? Here lies this relationship, gone up in smoke. "I didn't expect to- to-"
"To no longer want me." Olaf says, wounded, but he is smiling as if amused.
Violet blushes and looks away. He has seen this young woman blush hundreds of times throughout their years together, has seen embarrassed, aroused, delighted- but never has he seen her red with shame.
She nods, sipping her tea, and not looking at him.
Count Olaf has always pictured Violet as her floral namesake. As a tiny bruise-colored blossom in his mind, blooming deeper and fuller as she matured.
Now, she is turning him into an outsider.
Now, he will only be able to watch her bloom as if through a florist's window- distant, separate, never truly there.
Because he will curse himself if he never asks, he says, "Did you meet someone else?"
"No-" Violet barks, sputtering on her tea. She looks offended and it is the first time she looks at him with something other than careful detachment and sorrow. "No. I wouldn't do that."
He wonders if she is lying, but cannot be sure. If she is, it is probably for the best. He knows he would kill whoever had stolen her from him and he wanted no more blood on his hands.
"Okay." Olaf says, lost for words. "Fine."
"I am so sorry," Violet says, rising from her seat. "Olaf, truly, I loved-"
Hearing her say love one last time has something splitting in him, something irreparable and desperately howling.
"Leave, V." It is the only thing he can say, yet he cannot bring himself to flex through the rest of her name for fear that it would break him.
He watches her go through the frosted windows, the slim curve of her back disappearing into the smog and bustle of city life.
Later, he will read the Daily Punctilio's report of suspected arson and the total amount of damages the fire at Black Cat Coffee had amassed, and he will not feel a thing.
Black Cat Coffee was first mentioned in Lemony Snicket's Who Could That Be At This Hour?
This little fic was inspired by the song Blossom by Noah Gunderson.
Also, special shoutout to my friend Anne1998. You have been very kind and sweet and I appreciate you muchly.
Please let me know what you think!