"Wishing, like sipping a glass of punch, or pulling aside a bearskin rug in order to access a hidden trapdoor in the floor, is merely a quiet way to spend one's time before the candles are extinguished on one's birthday cake."
Lemony Snicket, Horseradish: Bitter Truths You Can't Avoid
There's candlelight on the floor.
It's golden, the only source of light in the room. Olaf's grip on the thick taper is relaxed despite the hot wax on his fingers, wild shadows leaping up the walls as he moves. He's fully dressed, even down to his shiny shoes, reclining in his bathtub. A bottle of wine rests, mostly empty, at his chest.
From his bedroom, he hears the distant sound of his record player marching towards the end of a song, the last before the needle would slip to the papery center, stopping. Tipsy, tortured, he raises the bottle in cheers as the song plays out. He takes one last sip as the silence settles, then upends it.
Red wine blooms like gunshot at his chest.
This is how Violet finds him.
He's humming to himself, burning the hair off his arms. She enters without knocking, nudges her way through the cracked door, arms full. She holds a plate of food (something delicious if his pass through the kitchen earlier had been anything to go by - ) and a decanter of red wine.
"Perfect," Olaf says as she passes through a flicker of light, vague as a shadow. "The little maid has come to fill my glass. Shouldn't you be in uniform?"
"You don't even have a glass." He hears the smile in her voice, sees the light catch in the wet shine of her teeth. "And this is my house, might I remind you."
"There you go, talking nonsense." He reaches out, fingers damp with wine and water. The hem of her dress is soft, just above the knee. He makes a fist in the fabric, tugs her forward even as she comes willingly.
She sets the plate of food and the decanter on a wooden stool near the floor. In the candlelight, he can just barely see the dark flint of her eyes, the bow of her lips, the soft slope of her throat. Even with only these features, she is achingly familiar to him. Olaf wonders what it would take for her to become someone foreign, apart, a stranger.
Time, he thinks, then stomps it out. He would know the core of her - her nastiness, bitterness, all the unlovely parts, just as wholly as he knows the good. The noble. As he would always know them. It makes his stomach lurch to consider.
Violet settles on the rim of the tub, next to his propped feet. Close as she is, he can finally see her dress - thin wispy thing, sleeveless, the color of a bruise, of her namesake. It's a common choice for her, not a favorite, so she only wears it when gardening or running about the house. He can smell the evening air coming off her like perfume - she must have just come inside. At her mouth, there's a gentle, endeared smile that's doing something helpless and maudlin to him.
Time, he thinks again, blaming it for the soft rot in his heart. The wine. The weather. The moon. Violet Baudelaire.
"I'll trade you," Olaf says suddenly, passing off the empty wine bottle. His voice goes low, like a heavy marble rolling across a wood floor.
"A worthy trade. Sunny made pasta with some sort of lemon-garlic sauce and lots of leftover greens from our last farmer's market trip." Violet takes the bottle from him and sets it gently on the floor. She grabs the plate from the stool and tries to hand it to him, but Olaf doesn't take it. "Vegetables, Olaf. Some of these are even from Sunny's little back garden. She made sure you got a bit of her homegrown zucchini. You should try it."
"Later," He says, ignoring the way his mouth waters exactly as it had earlier that evening, stepping through the front door and smelling that simmering garlic and the cool outside air. He could hear Sunny laughing, could see the glow from where she had the back door open to the sunset. The front hall had been golden with music and light. Olaf was only in the kitchen long enough to grab a bottle of red, not looking at the happy mess of dinner, before retreating upstairs. Sunny had let him go without a word and he tried his best not to be grateful for that.
Violet returns the plate of food, still somewhat steaming, to the stool. "It's there for when you want it then. How was rehearsal?"
"Fine. I don't want to talk about rehearsal," Olaf mutters, finally taking the decanter into his hands. The glass goes foggy with steam as he removes the stopper to take a swig. It's his favorite, and very cold. She must have had it cooling while he was out. On this very same summer evening last year it was waiting for him too, in the very same decanter. Part of him hates that he is so predictable in his demands. Another part doesn't care - as long as it keeps Violet Baudelaire smitten and plying him with wine.
He's drained several gulps by the time he finally meets her eyes. Recognizing the pleading look to her face, uncomfortable dread clenches his stomach, exactly the feeling he had been hoping to avoid when secluding himself in the bathroom to drink away the night.
"Violet - " Olaf starts, yet she interrupts him anyway.
"Why not? Why not?" She demands, the closest to a whine he has ever heard from her. He scoffs, rolls his eyes so he doesn't have to look at her. Her hands clutch at his shoes, the only part of him she can reach. Against the dark shine of them, her hands look impossibly small.
"Do not whine at me. How old are you?" He goes to take another gulp of wine, but Violet reaches out and snatches the decanter from him.
"Twenty-one, as of this year," she says, as if he could have forgotten. "Which means I could supply the wine. You could drink as much as you wanted. Just - just let me - "
"No," Olaf says, final as a closing door.
Violet sighs. There are several moments of silence in which the only movement is the candle flame. He's about to say something, to give some excuse, when she scoots forward and slips into the bath, dress and all.
There's a splash, the water sways. His blot of faux gore on his chest is reduced, bleeding into the bathwater.
At his startled look, Violet grins and takes her own deep swig from the decanter. Shrugging, she says, "You made it look fun. Should I pour wine on my chest too?"
"Go ahead." He gives her an encouraging wave.
Slowly, so as not to waste much, Violet grips the decanter with two hands, tips it gently until a gush of red wine pours out, hits her cheek. Olaf watches it spill down her jaw, her throat, her chest. It gathers against the collar of her dress, blooms red as his.
This makes him uncomfortable at first, looks so much like blood that he has to shake himself from remembering nightmares in which he had succeeded in one of his many schemes, had finally truly hurt her. (He has those some nights. Violet dead at his feet, Violet devoured by leeches, Violet choking and withering against his hands at her throat - Violet, dead, rising, a ghost. As if asking forgiveness, he treats her more carefully the following mornings and she does not ask why - ) Yet her laughter, happy, delighted, wills these eager terrors away.
Violet sets the decanter on the rim of the tub, touches her cheek blushed with wine, giggling. It is not often that Olaf looks at Violet and considers her change in demeanor. No longer is she the fierce, formidable little orphan girl - all wide-eyed and terrified and far too clever.
She could be, he knows, because he's seen it. Certain moments in their lives have come up, little disasters in which a decision must be made in that very moment - Klaus learning to drive, his first minor car accident, or a careless grasp by Violet into a bucket of inventing materials resulting in a gash behind her knuckles which had needed several stitches - and the whole time how she had been reverted to her easy, old survival instincts. Always ready, should she need them. A weapon, a last resort, a welcome home into familiar territory.
And yet -
Violet smiles. Often enough that he no longer finds it an oddity. Several years without him at her back healed her. And the last two with him beside her have made her all the better. Olaf knows this.
He wants to give her what she wants. But there is only so much he can change.
"It's been two years," Violet reminds him, once her laughter has stopped and he is still trapped thinking in circles of hurting her, of disappointing her, of bleeding. The candle has burnt to a flickering stub and the bits of their clothes that are above the water are cold against their skin, but Violet shifts so her cheek is on his stained shirt and her hand is hot as a coal in his. "Two whole years we've lived together vol- "
She cuts herself off with a strangled, twisted sort of laugh. "Forgive me. Voluntarily. The least you can do is let us throw you a little party."
"No." His response is immediate, reflexive, gone plain with repetition. He has learned that simplicity is best when arguing with Violet. Any more words are weapons she, always smart, can turn against him. To twist him into promises. Twist him into letting himself appease her. Why wouldn't you want to -? and What could I do to -?
"No." He says again, though she did not ask.
Violet reaches out, brushes her fingers over the singed black hair at his arms. Soft, still, with a plea, she asks, "Why not let us celebrate? Finally?"
This he had prepared for. Olaf takes the decanter from the rim, gestures it as if in cheers. "No need. I'm celebrating right now."
"But you seem so sad." It's said simply, bare, unlike her.
This wipes his mind, gone vague with wine. He does not know what to say.
"Will you - " Violet leans up suddenly, away from him, and Olaf wonders if it has anything to do with the sudden, ashamed rapidity to his heart. She grabs the candle from where it had slumped against the spout, holds it like a gift in her cupped hands. "Will you at least make a wish? With me?"
His blank mind goes bright with terror. For a reason he could not have explained, he can only think of his prison cell with its little desk and little window and little bed - little pen with the bitten end scraping as he had scribbled her name like a curse. Baudelaire, -
Olaf falters. He cannot think of a single thing to wish for, to demand. Agitation rises in him, easier than the shame.
"What a stupid - " He hisses. "You can't expect me to - "
"I'll do it." Violet says, something in her voice merciful with understanding. "Let me."
She rises onto her knees, soaked dress floating just below her hips. Olaf sits watching, grimacing, as Violet sighs deeply, eyes fluttering closed in consideration. It takes her only a moment to decide. The only gift he'll let her give.
She blows out the candle with a smile, says, like a promise and a plea, "I wish you'd let us make you happy."
The room goes black. The decanter is empty by the time the smoke clears.
He falls asleep crooked across the bed. Violet kisses him (much too soft, like a hesitant, brand-new lover. She always does that when he's far too drunk. She kisses his cheek, his chin, his mouth as he slurs, demanding, "Stay. Stay -") Olaf is left in the dark with the smells of smoke and wine, her voice trailing like vapor into the hall as he drifts, "Wicked man. Wicked man. Happy birthday."
In his dream, Olaf is bleeding while the summer sun sets.
A wound from his mouth is gushing bright red, painless and gory. He clutches at his face uselessly with one hand, blood dripping in great, obnoxious spatters down his forearm and onto the Baudelaires' front stoop. He stands there for a moment, panting, feeling the sun burn the back of his neck even as the sky goes dark.
Unlike reality, the front of their home is white and prim and cheerful, far too sterile. There's none of the old-world look to it, no extra Victorian details, no warped twist to the window panes, no weeds in the front garden. It makes him think of Justice Strauss even as the door opens (even though he did not knock, even though he still wears his drab prison uniform, they open the door for him and it is so very wrong - ).
All three orphans stand in the doorway. They do not squint in the sunset, do not react in any way at all. Violet, Klaus, Sunny - all are there, all the same height, the same odd, indefinite adulthood to their faces.
They stare at Olaf as he bleeds onto their welcome mat. Then step away to let him inside. He passes through the doorway, out of the blaze, into cool dark. The scene changes. His eyes adjust.
Inside, the house is empty. There are new wooden floors, shiny with polish. Clean white walls. A smell, far back, of fresh laundry.
Olaf turns, only to find the three orphans have shrunk, changed, shifted. They stand right before him looking young and scared as they had the first day they met. In waking, he would not have been able to recall the clothes they had worn that day, yet in his dream they are the exact same without question.
They stare at each other for several moments. Olaf takes his bloody hand away from his face to announce very casually, "I live here now."
The children rush into his arms despite the gore on his uniform, laughing, affectionate, little hands squeezing him close as they can.
"Finally!" They shout, cheering, voices echoing in the empty home. The Baudelaire orphans cling to him, grinning, so happy they're nearly in tears. Even dreaming, he has not seen them since the day they put him behind bars. "Finally, finally!"
He hesitates -
then holds them close despite the blood on his hands.
When Olaf wakes, it is all at once, as if it had been a nightmare. Already he is trying to recall how things had happened in reality, how everything had come together. (He sees a prison cell, a stack of letters, his own bitter scrawl - Mostly I'm writing to you because picturing the look of panic and horror on your face when you open this letter really makes me smile.)
His bedroom is dark. Even before he sits up, he feels the familiar ache of a hangover throb in his body. His heart hammers against his ribs like an angry stranger at the door.
Black sky, he remembers. No blood, and cicadas screeching as he pounded like an angry stranger at the door - when downstairs voices prompt him to his feet. Scowling, Olaf wraps a blanket around his shoulders, wanders out his bedroom, around a corner, and to the top of the long staircase.
Instead of an empty house and clean white walls, his eyes find familiar signs of dirt and color and life - the blue persian runner on the stairs worn threadbare in the middle from their hurrying. A cluster of crooked, mismatched photographs on the landing, gilded frames glinting - a black and white snap of the three orphans on the stoop, Violet holding a little key like a trophy as they all cheer. Next to that, a small instant photo of Sunny, frameless, held on the wall by a piece of pink tape, grinning as she tied a too-large apron around her neck. There's still a smudge of dark liquid dried against the top banister, a leftover from Violet running around the house, jumping between projects with a rapidity he can hardly follow. Ink, Olaf decides, squinting at the dark blotch, wondering if she had been fiddling with the ribbon in her typewriter again.
Overall, the home is messy and lived-in and so very theirs.
Pained, gritting his mossy teeth, Olaf makes his way down the stairs. He stops on the landing as the voices grow closer.
Two young women appear in the entry hall, pausing in the bright glow of sun shining in from the glass front door. They're chatting, distracted, taking no immediate notice of him.
Violet wears a pretty pale sundress as she fiddles with Sunny's hair, pulling it into low pigtails. Sunny wears a romper (light blue, soft, he's never seen it before - ) and a pair of her sister's sunglasses which are far too large and keep slipping down her nose. She has a notepad and a glittery black gel pen in her hand, scribbling very seriously.
The sight of the pen nearly makes him snort. Per a gift from Klaus, they had become Sunny's latest obsession. Olaf finds them in odd places throughout their home - the refrigerator, the laundry, even in his shoes if he leaves them out too long. He was always plucking one from somewhere and setting it before her with a glare, or slipping it under her bedroom door for her to step on when she entered. A small wooden basket rests empty on the floor between them.
Klaus enters from the side hall, already talking, holding a stack of books against his side and explaining the local library hours to Violet who nods, frowning in concentration, a bobby pin in her mouth as she again tries to wrestle Sunny's loose, too-fine hair into shape.
"Of course we can go, it's on the way," she says, and even just her voice does something meek to Olaf, makes his heart thud hot and strong through his hangover. Then, to her sister, exasperated, "There, that will have to do. Your hair is so different than mine, Sunny, you'd think it would be easy but - Oh. Good morning."
Violet smiles up to him, amused. Olaf imagines how he must look, squinting, scowling, wrapped in a plush blanket, obviously hungover.
"Where are you three off to?" He grumbles.
"The farmer's market down the street, yet again. We need supplies and you drank all the wine. I'll see if that little black booth has restocked your favorite red." Violet gives Sunny's pigtail another cursory tug and grabs the basket, standing. Teasing, she smiles at him, says, "You're welcome to come along."
Olaf snorts and shakes his head, catching the way Klaus stiffens and casts Violet a begrudging look which she ignores.
"Not if you're bringing me back everything I need." He peers at Sunny sharply. "Don't let the baby eat the produce."
Despite Sunny being nearly nine years old, his nickname had stuck and grown along with her. She laughs, points her pen at him, shrieks, "Hey!"
"Someday he'll let you live that down, Sunny," Violet says with a false, put-upon sigh. "Great chunks of vegetables missing from every booth we passed. You'd take one bite and put it right back."
"So many disgruntled, endeared farmers," Klaus adds, looking only at Sunny who cringes slightly, embarrassed yet pleased at the attention.
"That was almost two years ago!" Sunny shouts, capping her pen with a snap and a smile. "Leave me alone!"
Grinning, Klaus reaches over her head to crack the front door, and Sunny is out like a shot, skipping onto the front lawn. Outside, Olaf can see a vast blue sky, their mailbox at the end of the lot. Violet lingers by the doorway once Klaus passes through.
"Happy birthday," she says, still as soft as the night before.
Olaf shrugs, says, "I'm hungover," as if it explains anything.
"Have you thought any more about what I said last night? Your wish?"
"Your wish. Forget - "
"Think on it." Violet insists. She blows him a kiss which he ignores, instead casting her a halfhearted wink through the pounding in his head. "We'll be back."
She closes the door. Olaf shucks the blanket like a second skin, leaves it pooled and bunched on the landing as he tumbles down the rest of the stairs, swings wide around the banister and into the kitchen.
It's dim, every surface tinted cool blue in shadow. There's still a shock of flour on the floor near the sink, clearly missed during clean up. The light in the oven is still on, there's a small pile of dishes in the sink, and a dirty rag is thrown haphazardly onto the countertop (though he's seen many worse things there in his time, plenty of messes to add to the clutter of cookbooks and utensils, candles and jars of herbs - a rusty bike chain, a collection of sidewalk chalks, muddy pairs of shoes just toed off from the garden -).
Like the rest of the Baudelaire home, it's messy and loved.
There are more instant photographs on the refrigerator which Olaf ignores as he peers inside. There's nothing out of sort, no preparations to suggest Violet planning a celebration. Relieved, he shuts the door with such force the magnetic calendar skews. Distracted, he glances it over, sees appointments for meetings and clubs. Violet tries to keep up with his ever-changing rehearsal schedule, crossing out various times and dates in exchange for others.
His gaze crawls down the days until he finds the box where his birthday should be. Instead, he's met with one of Sunny's stickers, so large it takes up the whole weekend. A bright pink birthday cake with a single flaming candle grins at him, says from a speech bubble covered in glitter: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!
Olaf frowns, familiar shame and disgust rising in him.
He turns, leaving the calendar at an angle, glancing to the wine rack on the floor before he remembers his consumption the previous night. Frustrated, feeling agitated and vulnerable and out of sorts (and still achingly hungover - ), Olaf turns to go back upstairs before his eyes pass once more around the kitchen and he is left frozen where he stands.
His breakfast is waiting ready on the kitchen table.
This is no great surprise. Usually he finds leftovers of some kind in the refrigerator or under glass atop the counter someplace, yet this is a plate wrapped carefully in cloth and atop it rests a card with his name written in black glittery gel pen under an unsteady, cursive hand.
Olaf sinks into his seat, slips the card onto the table, and yanks away the cloth. Carefully ignoring the glimmer of glitter in the sun, Olaf eats his breakfast of eggs, sausage, fruits, and toast, and wonders how to begin.
When remembering the moments that led up to his arrival at the Baudelaire's doorstep (not bleeding, he thinks, not hurt - ), Olaf cannot pinpoint a single moment. Perhaps, he thinks, it was his first letter to Violet after his imprisonment. Or her first response.
It could have been earlier, police dragging him away, a speedy trial that got him imprisoned on a laughably short list of crimes, yet long enough to seem like forever. He had spent years in prison, his only source to the outside world being the curt, typewritten responses of Violet. Write me as often as you can, he remembers reading. I like knowing you're where you're supposed to be.
His mind skips like a stone on water, skews farther back still, to three orphans showing up at his own doorstep, impossibly young and so very wealthy. ("Finally! Finally!" cry the dream-orphans, grinning - ) Olaf sees a mansion on fire, a box of poison darts, a tattoo.
He could go back farther still.
Instead, he settles on the day of his release, spitting the only name that came to mind as the taxi pulled off the curb and into the bustling city. Klaus had answered the door. There was momentary pleasure in seeing him go white, though Olaf had expected a scream. (Klaus, sixteen then, already trying to be a little man.)
"Your sister sent for me." Olaf had lied before Klaus slammed the door so hard the windows rattled. From inside, he could hear him call, warbling, terrified yet ready to fight, "Violet!"
She had put up with him for months, disappearing and reappearing at whim, demanding a meal, her time, her conversation. After months of faulty apartments and bad roommates and junk homes, Violet had snapped at him despite their tentative romance, said, "We have the room, Olaf. You can live with us. But it's not me you'll have to convince."
He had nowhere else to go. (Dream-Olaf pulls a bloody hand from his face, announces, "I live here now.")
Days turned to months which turned to years.
He takes the birthday card to his bedroom.
Olaf falls asleep across the bed again, eyes blurry from his hangover and staring too long at Sunny's mess of stickers and hearts and each color of pen she owned writing Happy Birthday! endlessly. Her little cursive signature is smeared at the bottom corner. He stares at it, feeling a strange and unpleasant combination of bitter affection and rage, before finally dozing off.
Distantly, he hears the Baudelaires come home. Hears the jangle of keys and kicked-off shoes and happy voices.
Olaf sleeps.
Much later, once he has finally woken with the sunset, Sunny is sent to summon him for dinner. She knocks on his bedroom door and keeps knocking until he yanks it open. Above the romper, she's wearing her favorite apron. It's dark blue with a yellow star at the chest, STAR BAKER stitched red inside.
"Dinner's ready," Sunny says, holding her arms out to him. "Can I get on your back?"
Olaf had just shrugged into a clean shirt, leaving the wine-stained one on the floor. Pain still throbs in his head, in his teeth, behind his eyes, yet the hangover has lessened with rest. He takes a moment to consider this, glares down at Sunny as if she doesn't know his answer.
"What's in it for me?"
"Dinner," Sunny tells him. "Duh. Now let me - Yes!"
He kneels as if being knighted, as if begging salvation. Sunny scrambles onto his back, hooks her legs around his waist and her arms about his neck.
She squeals until his ears start ringing as he swings her throughout the house, making up animated reasons why he must spin or jump or leap down the staircase two at a time.
"I think I heard the doorbell!" Olaf cries, gripping tight to Sunny's feet around his waist as he jumps down the last two stairs and out the front door, intent on spinning in circles until they both grow far too dizzy.
"Dinner!" Sunny eventually shouts against his back, one of her pigtails having finally slipped out of place. "It's time for dinner!"
Out of breath, he piggybacks her into the kitchen.
What first tips him off is the silence. Whenever he has the inclination to put Sunny on his back he's always met with worries from Klaus. "Don't drop her!" and "Be careful!" to which he usually responds, "Nobody listens to bookworms!" and bends forward until Sunny is shrieking.
Instead, Klaus is waiting at the empty dinner table, an open book under his elbow. Sunny slips to the floor and tugs on Olaf's hair until he's seated and grumbling, "Dinner isn't ready, you just wanted a ride on my back didn't you? Little - "
He only realizes they have set him up once Violet rounds the corner, a tall cake in her hands.
"You're going to stay right there," she tells him, trying to look stern through an excited grin. "Tonight it's dessert before dinner so you can't run away."
Despite Sunny's weak attempts at restraining him with the straps of her apron, Olaf doesn't move. Violet sets the cake before him, covered in so many candles it's obnoxious, and fat raspberries (Sunny, blabbering, "fresh from the farmer's market - " and "We spent all afternoon baking it for you - ") and little black sprinkles shaped like hearts. Olaf sputters, shakes his head, tries to resist it, realizing only then what he had lacked the words to explain before.
"I don't deserve it," he almost says. "Not from you to me."
But Violet is lighting every candle and Sunny's hands are gripping his arm and Klaus, across the table, is smiling with amusement he has never before directed at Olaf, saying, "All these candles. I figured you'd like the fire."
They do not give him time to protest. Violet brushes a hand over his shoulder, says, "Happy birthday, Olaf! Make a wish!"
This, he thinks, glancing to the smiling orphans gathered close.
(He hears Violet, "I wish you'd let us make you happy.")
"A big pile of money," he drolls. "Fame and fortune. Endless wine."
Nothing but this.
Olaf blows out his birthday candles. Violet takes a swipe of icing and smears it on his cheek. Sunny forces a plate into his hands. Klaus plucks the candles from the cake, grinning.
From outside, a breeze blows in, sends the smoke scattering. Violet goes to shut the door and against the glass, their four smiling faces shine back at them (A family, Olaf thinks, nearly wincing - ) reflected bright and shining against an endless summer sky.