Under Different Circumstances

Smoke Induced

This chapter. Nothing is safe for me anymore.

Welcome to the past. I hope you enjoy Vincent's thoughts; I know I did.

Disclaimer: The year is 1978, because I thought it was a cool year. I love character development.

Under Different Circumstances

Smoke Induced

1978

Vincent Lambert wasn't entirely sure why he came here, but at the same time, he knew. He forgot his favourite shirt at this place, last weekend, when his father tried to get the entire family together and he was rather fond of that shirt. Therefore, he drove all the way to this place, for that article of clothing.

He expected to get there, find the shirt and leave, but he didn't account for the fact that his older brother would be there. When he parked his car on the dirt road, he slammed the door shut and tried to think of the best way to go about this.

As he got closer to the entrance, he noticed his brother sitting on a chair, on the porch, and he looked as though he had been sitting there for the past week, smoking and drinking, if he judged by the amount of cigarette butts, beer cans and used matches that were on the floor. His brother's hair was longer than he remembered it being, his clothes stuck to him like a second skin and he just looked, in one word, dirty. Vincent cringed, as he finally got to the other's level and was better able to further assess the situation.

Jean-Pierre was alternating between cigarettes and marijuana and Vincent was glad he came on his cigarette blitz, even though he couldn't stand the smell of either or.

He stopped in front of his brother and stood there, as the two of them seized the other up. The silence between them stretched, until Jean-Pierre finally seemed to get out of his daze, momentarily, and smirked at him slowly, taking a long drag from his cigarette, before getting up slowly, walking over to him.

Vincent hated the smug look on Jean-Pierre's face and would have liked to slap it off, but he wanted his shirt. He stood there and took a further moment to observe his surroundings, or more like his brother.

Jean-Pierre was wearing a ratty pair of jeans that were tattered and dirty and a shirt, which he didn't bother buttoning, but troubled himself with rolling up his sleeves. He looked like he hadn't slept in about five months and not only were his eyes dilated and unfocused, but he was unshaven, un-kept, and Vincent noticed the new marks on Jean-Pierre's arms right away. He felt something in him boil.

He was going to open his mouth and lash out at his brother, but that would have been giving him power and reason. Most of all, it would have been giving him attention and that was something Vincent was not going to do. Not now and not until Jean-Pierre begged and pleaded for it. Maybe then, he would consider it. So instead, he just stood there and crinkled his nose in disgust.

However, Jean-Pierre seemed to be alert enough that he noticed his inner conflict and he only smirked wider, taking another drag and this time; he exhaled directly in Vincent's face, as slowly as possible. He stood at his tallest, looking at a point away from them, before bending down a bit, to be at his height.

Vincent sneered. There was a time when he was the tallest and he rubbed it in so many times, but lately, his brother was growing again. Damn him. Vincent had no idea whether it was because of the movement, the geography, or the greens he didn't eat at all this week, but it bothered him.

He thought he would have at least been the tallest, but apparently, it wouldn't be so. He waved the cloud of smoke away from his face and glared as best as he could to his brother.

"Ontario, toujours un plaisir de t'voir."/ "Ontario, always a pleasure to see you." The son of a bitch was fucking playing with him. He knew, Jean-Pierre knew how much he absolutely detested it when his brother did that. It was the only explanation, the only way really. Why else would the motherfucker smirk that way? And he was high too.

God, how he really hated the way Jean-Pierre drawled out his name with the stupid heavy accent of his. How he laughed when their grandfather didn't understand a word of what Jean-Pierre told him.

"Chavais pas qu't'étais dans l'coin. J'aurais pas fait l'effort d'm'changer d'ch'mise, si j'avais su."/ "I didn't know you were around. I wouldn't have made the effort to change shirt, had I known." Another drag, another cloud of smoke, more silence.

"I'm not here for long. I want my shirt back." Jean-Pierre smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. There was no happiness to it. Just hate, anger, disdain and… superiority?

"Ah, donc c'tait ça l'affaire laitte qu'j'ai utilisé pour torcher é bécosses hier? Tout s'explique."/ "Ah so that's the ugly thing I used to clean the bathroom yesterday? Everything makes sense." Vincent tried his best not to snap. He really did.

"I'll leave then." His brother laughed. He had to close his eyes hard not to think of why that laugh could be pleasant.

"J'te niaise l'frère. Ostie qu'té dont ben d'mauvaise humeur toé. Pourtant, a' s'maine passé t'avais d'l'air ben content…"/ "I'm just messing with you. Christ, you're in a bad mood. Last week you seemed happy though…" Vincent froze on the spot. Last week… he didn't want to think back to last week. He just wanted his stupid shirt. He hadn't counted on his jackass of a brother to be here, or for said brother to even remember last week.

"Ouais, me semblais aussi… Té pas vraiment v'nu icitte pour le chandail. Allez, sois franc, Ontario, avoue le donc."/ "Yeah, I thought so too… You didn't really come here for the shirt. Come on, be frank, Ontario, admit it." If Jean-Pierre said it, if he dared, he wouldn't be responsible. He stood perfectly still, as the older man took a step forward, smirk ever so present and started walking around him, just like a lion stalked his prey. He was no one's fucking prey; let alone Jean-Pierre "Vive le Québec libre" Tremblay's.

"Je sais qu'tu m'veux."/ "I know you want me." Came the whispered words in his ear. He spun around quickly and tried to punch Jean-Pierre, but missed. His brother laughed loudly, while he tried to control himself. It didn't help he now had the fucker's scent imprinted on his shirt. He could smell the smoke, the weed, the booze, the sweat and everything else that was particularly and uniquely Jean-Pierre, on the right side of his shirt.

"In your demented dreams maybe." He spat out. He knew Jean-Pierre didn't believe him.

"Té dont ben défensif… donc c'est vrai? Té dont ben fucké toé là."/ "You're defensive… so it's true? You're fucked up, man." Another laugh, another drag and no shag.

"Look at yourself. Who would even want to be seen in public with you? Never mind that, who would want to see you in private?" He replied coldly. He had done a good job and allowed himself a smug smile.

"Toi apparemment… tout l'monde l'sais…"/ "You apparently… everyone knows…" More smoke in his face. He was going to lose it for real.

"It meant nothing, Christ! Now either you give me my fucking shirt of I'll get it myself, just move." He tried to push Jean-Pierre away, but the older man did not budge.

"T'avais l'air de ben aimer ça, par contre."/ "You looked like you were enjoying it, though." He had ground his teeth together and clasped his mouth shut, in order not to scream out.

"J'veux dire, t'étais ben en train de t'masturber a'c mon chandail sul dos. Mais bon, si t'as une explication, ch's'rais ben heureux d'l'entendre. Allez, go, parle, explique nous ça là."/ "I mean, you were masturbating with my shirt on your back. But, if you have an explanation, I'd be happy to hear it. C'mon, talk, explain this to us."

Vincent hated him. He hated his brother, as much as he hated himself for having developed feelings for Jean-Pierre. He had been young when he came to realise he felt that way. His brother always made him miserable. Always. From the moment they first met, Jean-Pierre caused him nothing but trouble.

First, he outshined him in everything. Second, his actions put more pressure on him as a province. Third, because of Jean-Pierre's idiocies, he always got everyone's attention and Vincent was pushed aside.

Somehow, he came to be attracted to those piercing, blue eyes, that laugh, those strong arms and Jean-Pierre as a person; not as a province. Nevertheless, he still felt confused, hated him, and had feelings for him. Everything was so complicated.

The incident to which Jean-Pierre was referring to really happened. Last weekend, the entire family gathered here for a get together. It was his father's idea, since he didn't see his children as often. There were also some conflicts and whatnot going on within the country. The idea was a good one, but the execution was lousy.

For starters, the chalet was small. They were cramped together and that only helped them start even more fights. On the other hand, the reunion took place during the summer and Québec was having a very hot, humid summer so far. Being thirteen in one room when it was close to forty degrees Celsius outside did not help.

Since they stayed over for the weekend, they paired up for sleeping arrangements. Somehow or other, he found himself in the same room as Jean-Pierre, Samuel and Rupert. Everything went more or less okay, up until the middle of the night, when he woke up with a little problem in his pants. This wasn't the first time and as he got out of bed to head to the bathroom to take care of things, he took Jean-Pierre's discarded shirt, as opposed to his glasses. What made him do it? He did not know, but he had.

He figured he would have gone in, taken care of the problem and then returned to bed and he had been doing just that, and had been close to release when Jean-Pierre walked into the bathroom, which he forgot to lock. It was quite embarrassing, when he climaxed all over his hand, when his brother cleared his throat, and he saw Jean-Pierre.

An awkward silence followed his moment of release and the two just stood there, staring at each other, before that stupid, smug, shit-eating grin came to Jean-Pierre's face and he nodded. Vincent would have liked him not to say anything, but then Jean-Pierre turned around and was about to leave, when he said "beau chandail."

Vincent froze on the spot and then Jean-Pierre left. He hoped he wouldn't mention any of this ever again, but the following morning, his brother made sure to make as many comments and snide remarks about it as possible. The others didn't pick up on exactly what happened, thank God, but Sam gave him side glances and Jean-Pierre's smirk haunted him all week long.

"I don't need to explain anything to you. Especially not to you." He was glad he sounded convincing, because he knew it was a lie and it was evident Jean-Pierre wasn't entirely convinced, but he left it at that, for now.

"Ben oui, c'est vrai, té trop important pour parler à du monde comme moi. Dans c'cas, va dont l'chercher ton chandail… Si tu peux l'trouver."/ "Of course, it's true, you're too important to talk to people like me. In that case, go look for your shirt… if you can find it." He threw at him. He didn't move out of his way and Vincent had to push him aside in order to get inside. He could hear his brother laugh to himself, as he lit up another cigarette.

When he opened the door, he was assaulted with a thick and heavy cloud of smoke, which hung above his head, like a blanket. He coughed a couple of times, before bringing his arm to his face and buried his nose in the fold of his arm.

He wanted to crack a window open, but it was so hot and muggy outside it wouldn't make that much of a difference. In the week he was last here, he could notice a great difference with the place. There were dirty dishes stalked high and the trash was overflowing. He almost felt bad for his father, not his brother. Almost.

Hewent to the place where he last saw his shirt, which happened to be the bedroom, and he found it, not on the chair where he left it, but crumpled on the bed. He didn't bother questioning it and simply picked it up and headed back out. Jean-Pierre was now leaning against the pillar and was facing him, still smoking. Sometimes, he wondered if he'd ever find his brother dead, from some smoke related disease.

He walked past his brother, down the three porch steps and started heading for his car. He had wasted enough time and he wanted to be back home, where he had more control on things. He was about three meters away from the building, his brother, when Jean-Pierre called him back.

"Aille, Tata." He stopped and waited to hear what else his brother had to say. He would then judge whether it was worth to turn around.

"Bientôt tu vas pas avoir l'choix d'me respecter."/ "Pretty soon you won't have a choice to respect me." That piqued his interest.

"What do you mean?"

"J'm'en vais."/ "I'm leaving." He raised an eyebrow and walked back slowly to the front porch. Jean-Pierre smirked.

"Ça va pas être long là. J'vais finalement faire le vote pis décâlisser mon camp d'icitte pour de bon. Ça devrait t'rendre heureux; tu vas être l'plus vieux d'la famille."/ "Won't be long now. I'm finally going to do the vote and get the hell out of here for real. It should make you happy; you'll be the eldest of the family." Vincent could feel his anger boiling over, all his pent up rage towards everything overflowing. He snapped.

He took four long strides to his brother and his hand was on Jean-Pierre's throat before his back even connected with the wall. He remembered when he fought with his brother, when they were younger; it had always been violent and his brother was never passive, but he didn't fight back this time, he simply laughed, mocking him, calling him weak without uttering the words.

He was not weak. He would never be weak. Not when this bastard was involved. At least he worked for what he had. It wasn't just handed to him on a silver platter to destroy; unlike what his brother was doing.

"Ohhh, petit Ontario est fâché, dommage."/ "Oh, little Ontario is angry, too bad." He glared at him, but knew that no matter what he said or did, it wouldn't change anything. He could tell by the way his brother's eyes were unfocused and the way he laughed. To him, this was all a joke, it had always been. Jean-Pierre was like that; he took everything too seriously, or he didn't. There were no such things as middle grounds. Always diametrically opposed extremes.

"Just shut up already! As much as I would fucking love to never have to call you "brother" again, d'you even realise what would happen to the rest of us? No, no you don't. Why? Because you always think about yourself. Always. It's always been that way, ever since we were kids. Me this, me that, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me! Christ! There's more beyond your fucking nose!

But that's too fucking much for your little narrow minded French brain to grasp. Because it's all about "la langue française" and "la séparation". But you don't even bother to go beyond that! You just fucking stop there, end of the line, not even thinking about what happens after that. D'you think Dad and I will foot the bill when you come begging for even more money? Well, I won't.

If you leave, you can be damn fucking sure I won't bother with you anymore. I don't know about Dad though, he'd probably be too worried about his precious first born to think straight, again… wouldn't want you to get a hangnail now, oh no!" He looked away for a moment and his hand slackened ever so slowly.

"Té jaloux que j'ai un avenir pis qu'toé t'en n'a po."/ "You're jealous I have a future and you don't." This time he squeezed harder and kneed his brother in the gut.

"You're the one who doesn't have a fucking future! Look at you! You already had two chances to put yourself out there and what have you done with that? Nothing! You're a lame and pitiful excuse of life! You've just spent all your fucking money on dope and booze; again. What the fuck are you going to do as a fucking country? Who would want to even live in you?!

You know what? I hope you do get your own fucking beloved referendum; that way your people will come to me, you'll bring yourself into bigger debt, until you get sick and then either of two things will happen. Uncle Alfred will try to buy you off, and that would be ironic, you would be under English rule yet again, or on the other end, you might die.

That would be fucking brilliant. First, you would ruin us all, give me more fucking work than I could possibly need, make Dad's stomach ulcer get worse and impair him for life and then you would just disappear. Cease to exist. I wonder who would come to your funeral. I wouldn't. I'd visit your grave afterwards and vandalize it; just like with everything you've done." He paused for another moment to catch his breath. Jean-Pierre's face remained the same throughout his outburst and it angered him further. He wanted a reaction, anything.

"Autre chose?"/ "Anything else?" Jean-Pierre somehow managed to blow even more smoke into his face. He punched his brother one more time, simply to release some tension and then let him go. He was pleased to notice Jean-Pierre had a lovely, red, hand shaped mark around his neck and that he was clutching his lower abdomen, cigarette dropped. He would have liked to mark him further, but it would have to do for now.

Vincent didn't give him the satisfaction of answering him and kicked him in the shins instead; he was really getting on his nerves. He then picked up his shirt, which he dropped earlier on, and headed back the way he arrived.

"Tata!" He didn't know why he stopped again, why he even bothered to associate himself with that name, but he did. He slowly turned around once more when Jean-Pierre didn't go on.

"What?"

"Fais d'beaux rêves."/ "Sweet dreams." Jean-Pierre smiled and waved at him in that condescending way that made Vincent want to throttle him again and pin him against a wall. He turned on his heels and went for his car.

"Pis vas donc t'occuper d'ton p'tit problème!"/ "And go take care of your little problem!" His brother's laughter followed him all the way back home and when he finally got back to his own place, he took a long shower instead, just to prove a point. He'd be damned if he satisfied himself to his brother ever again.

OWARI 29

Vincent… such a reserved boy, who hides and masks his emotions well. What else do you hide from us?

The two events mentioned were of course the 1967 Montreal Expo and the 1976 summer Olympics.

I do accept anonymous reviews.

Started writing: January 16th 2011, 8:20pm

Finished writing: January 18th 2011, 3:36pm

Started typing: January 19th 2011, 5:02pm

Finished typing: January 19th 2011, 8:41pm