Archive of Our Own ^beta

They had been three since long before they had understood the value of this. Frank, Ernest, Dewey. They had been born on a Wednesday (“Wednesday’s child is full of woe,” Dewey had pronounced once)- late October, the trees still dying and the winds gusting into Hallowe’en. They had been raised in towering shelves, books stacked endlessly high and lime green light cast upon tables.

It was a faint memory that stalked them into adolescence- wood and the faint smell of ink, glamour and society and a fifth birthday party gone awry. Ernest had pleaded for silver balloons, Frank gold ones, and Dewey had been intrigued by a metallic green. Their parents knew that all three boys were stubborn- Denouements did not settle.

So walls were lined by silver, gold, and green, a lacy cake complementing the empty space. A curly number 5 lay at its top. It was the night before the celebration, excited boys clamouring for a word in and parents laughing mildly. And then they had been taken by VFD, which led them to believe they would be gone as their parents lived. It was a coincidence that the fire raged on just after they left home.

The night faded, all three boys agreed, to a seperate part of their minds where horrors lay and nightmares came from. Frank Denouement hated fire, he announced to his brothers in the back of a car the morning they turned five years old, and his brothers nodded solemnly.

Years later, Ernest had complained. “We were four years old. Four,” he said, his brothers recognizing a slightly wild look in his eye. “I mean, how many four year olds do you know that could understand their future? How many toddlers can grasp complexity?”

But they turned five, and at five, they were resilient and determined. They were raised by an organization with a peculiarly eye-like mark, circling from mountain headquarters to tunnels coated with obscure names and- later on in their lives- ashes coating the patches of ground underneath every opening (Baudelaire, Quagmire, Denouement- an endless array).

They had learned a poem upon recruitment, and one night they were sixteen, lying beside each other and discussing it.

“It’s about peace.”

“It’s about death.”

“It’s about nothing.”

“How?”

“Not that it means nothing. Just that it’s about nothingness. Quiet.”

“I think it’s about all three.”

“I think you’re right.”

“Death is peace. Death is nothingness. Peace is quiet. They’re all quiet.”

--

The years in between were filled with the comings and goings of various friends, more safehouses and balls. VFD was an experience, all three could agree, before the schism. Dewey could never be seen with both of his brothers, though.

When the boys had been about sixteen, a proposal had been brought to them. Dewey would become a secret, they would pretend he had died or was missing to the general public. They understood, to a degree, why this was valuable- or, Frank did.

“This way, Dewey can take one of our places when he needs to! Or he can be like a spy- no one would suspect him of anything, because he’s ‘died!’”

“Do you not see how fucked it is to pretend our brother is dead?”

Eventually, though, Ernest did come around. Usually after speaking with Dewey he was calmer and more prepared to face the problem- he consented to the plan, and a death date was etched into sets of paper.

They stayed in the Mortmain Mountains, still, and Dewey drifted and tended to the books and clocks.

--

Really, it wasn’t dramatic. There was no sudden fight, no exile, no disinheritance. It was just two sides of a schism, and three brothers scattered throughout.

“We’re still brothers,” Ernest had said calmly the day he planned to leave, “We exist outside of what side we say we’re on.”

“Ernest, please,” Frank had said, “Just… take a minute. Look around you. It’s us. It’s just us.”

“But is it? Is it just us?”

“What does that even mean?”

“We say Dewey doesn’t exist! We say he’s dead. That’s a hell of a lot of weight to carry, is it not?”

“It’s VFD, they’re here to help! They’re the good guys.”

“There are no good guys. That’s not how it works. There are people on both sides who made bad decisions. Frank, you have to understand- people aren’t defined by what side of this schism they say they’re on. People are complicated, maybe there’s more to them than that. Maybe I’m Ernest Denouement, maybe you two are my brothers, maybe there’s things none of us know. I’m not evil because of what side I’m on, evil comes from the choices I make. And I would never betray us. That’s not who I am. Maybe I’ll help with things you disapprove of, but I would never let myself drift away from you.”

“Just promise you’ll see us, promise we can talk.”

“I would never let myself drift away, is what I said. I mean that.”

Dewey had stepped towards his brother, then, and said solemnly, “That no life lives forever, That dead men rise up never,”

Ernest chuckled slightly, finishing, “That even the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea.”

Both brothers gazed towards the third. Finally, Frank nodded once, still solemn, clapping Ernest on the shoulder. “Write us, sometime.”

--

It was almost a year before they saw Ernest again, almost a year before they stood proudly at the entrance of the newly refurbished Hotel Denouement. The ribbon cutting was tomorrow, once Dewey had safely taken up residence in the sub- library, and the three brothers looked up at the towering building now.

“I don’t agree with what you’ve been up to,” Frank said openly, “but you can admit that this will be good.”

“The schism can do what it wants, but this hotel will run and operate and be safe and we will know it better than anyone. This is ours.”

The schism didn’t conform to sides. Good and evil, right and wrong- there were blurs everywhere, and the fact remained that whoever struck first was not relevant. What was relevant was how they remained in the time in between.

This was what Dewey Denouement thought about as he set foot for the first time into a hall with lines of empty shelves, a mail chute, and privacy. Quiet. Solitude. Something he craved, something he feared, something he read about and tried to understand.

His brothers agreed not to enter the library. Dewey’s loyalties lay with the fire fighting side of VFD- all three of them knew this- but he had loyalties to the Denouements. Ernest and Frank did, too. Siblings are still siblings even if one of them is different than the other two.

He stepped inside the chamber, eyes widening with disbelief. He held a single notebook in his arms, a single fountain pen, and he sat at the single chair to gaze up at the pool that sent waves through the light of the deep. His story was that of his brothers, his story was fires and friends and a new home here, at an interminate time and for as long as it lasted. He touched his pen to the top of the page and began to write.

Even if the world was to go up in flames, even if he was burned with everything on the surface, even if the world ended tomorrow- even if everything stopped, this place would remain.

--

Dewey and Kit had known each other for years. When the schism began, they were both children. When Kit was recruited into VFD, they were the same age, he was almost sure. She hadn’t been scared, she walked with the courage of someone who never second guessed a choice. They had instantly been great friends, though Ernest and Kit did have some tension between them. Ernest was not as eager, from the start, to adopt the teachings. He protested back.

They had reconnected years later. The brothers remained in the hotel, and Dewey surfaced rarely. On one occasion, Frank had pulled him aside.

“I know you love your work, Dew, but… I don’t know, don’t you think there’s time in between? You’re down in the library all the time.”

“I have you. I have Ernest. I have all the things people send in to me- look, today alone I received a detailed account from Hal at the Library of Records about the newest patients at Heimlich Hospital! A very interesting read.”

“Look- I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to. Kit and Jacques are visiting this Saturday, though, it’ll be a nice dinner among old friends. They’ve been dying to see you. Ernest isn’t coming, due to… well.”

“Due to the fact that he insists on sticking to the other side of VFD, yes. I do not think he’d approve of what the Snickets are up to these days. Or vice versa.”

“Yes, but I made them promise not to heckle us over Ernest. It’ll just be a nice dinner- come. Please.”

And Dewey had looked at his brother, seen the same face that jumped over his bed the morning of their birthday every year, seen the pleading face as Ernest announced he could no longer work with VFD. He saw Frank, and he couldn’t say no.

He’d forgotten how Kit seemed to change an entire atmosphere. VFD had fallen on hard times, friends and acquaintances alike were dying, people were lost and loyalties were flipping. It could have been a solemn affair, but it never was with her. She told wild stories, prompting surprised laughter from the Denouements. She sat across from Dewey, and shot him sideways smiles throughout the meal, which simultaneously shocked him and made him blush.

Jacques had brought his cab, and as the night aged it was time for the Snickets to leave- Jacques had a call to pick someone up, Kit was elusive as ever but evidently had someplace to be. Frank gestured wildly at her as she exited. Dewey stared at him, slightly blank.

“What? Frank, I don’t… I don’t know what that is, Frank! What is the gesturing?”

“You want to see her again, don’t you! Go after them!” Frank even looked pained.

“What?”

“Just tell her… oh my god, Dewey, you can be dense! Just tell her you’d like to see her again, and ask would she maybe want to drop by the hotel next week!”

Dewey looked at him in astonishment. How was he more in control of Dewey’s thoughts than Dewey himself?

“Dew! Go!”

And so he had, catching her on the front steps right before Jacques pulled away from the curb.

“Kit, it was… well, it was really nice catching up with you, I honestly have to say I’ve missed seeing you, and… well, I’m not… would you maybe want to drop by the hotel next week? Just so I could see you again, I could show you the library…”

“Dewey,” she said, smiling at him, “that would be lovely. But did Frank…”

“He thinks I should be more open,” Dewey smiled.

“Well, he’s right. I missed you,” she said, “I’ll see you Wednesday.”

Wednesday.

Frank looked much too excited, and even Ernest pulled a teasing face when Dewey brought up Kit’s visit. “My brother likes a girl? That’s new.”

“But Kit’s always been special,” Dewey said, rolling his eyes at Frank’s gaze.

“She hates me,” said Ernest, “but she loves you, Dew. Always has.”

--

Kit meant too much to him, he knew it was dangerous to be so enamored with a person, especially with his alliances. It was hard to pick and choose how to feel, though, and with Kit, it was impossible.

He did show her the library when she visited that Wednesday.

“I’m impressed, Denouement. Your life’s work is not boring, after all.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” He laughed.

“This and that. Both, neither. It’s hard to tell, isn’t it?”

“Can I just ask… why didn’t you visit before now?”

Her demeanor changed slightly. “It’s been hard,” she replied softly, “I mean, I know Lemony has been gone a while- a long while, really- but it doesn’t make it any easier. I’ve just been throwing myself into the work a little bit too much… I don’t know. It’s been hard.”

He knew he was gazing at her, knew she could tell. The silence took up a little bit too much time.

“Do you want some coffee?”

She looked at him in surprise, contemplating before she nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

She stayed the night, and they walked in and out of stacks of volumes and she kissed him in his library and he’d never met someone who could outdo anyone he knew in every possible way. Her skin looked blue under the reflection of the pool above.

They stayed together. Kit was everywhere and nowhere, but she always managed to find him. She liked to visit at odd times, knocking twice on his desk as he turned from the back room, always smiling a little wider. She even came, every once in a while, to look through some notes or books. He would point her towards a shelf, and they would spend the time curled on the couch, each reading and both stopping every so often to start mild conversation. Kit liked the fact that time with Dewey was always soft- he wasn’t brash and distracting, it was always nice. The intensity was there, but she never felt pushed. It was so much better.

They found out she was pregnant a few Februarys later, the ice setting upon glistening branches and Kit’s hesitant glance towards him burning. He smiles slowly, kisses her with all the excitement of his life, and she stays with him all night, light fading in from the pool feet above and his chest still beating out.

--

He’d been following the story of the Baudelaires since he received the first account of their guardians. The kind of idiot that would put children into the hands of Olaf was a rare one. Olaf, of all people. What was the world coming to?

The plan had been for Frank to leave his post as manager for a quick “break”- meaning, of course, that he would visit Montgomery Montgomery and explain the organization to Violet, Klaus, and Sunny with the help of the remaining members. And then, because this was how things always went, Monty was dead.

The story became more and more challenging to follow. They were at a Lumber Mill, a boarding school, somewhere in the Hinterlands… Dewey’s frantic research did not give any leads. Frank was still waiting.

Finally, he was sure of an exact location. The Heimlich Hospital was far from civilization, but near the Mortmain Mountains, and the children had apparently just arrived, so he went to call Frank a cab.

This was how he found out that Jacques Snicket was dead. It took him a moment for the news to penetrate the wall of denial. No, Jacques couldn’t be dead, this person he had known since he could barely read could not be gone. It wasn’t possible, it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. This had been taken far enough.

Then he thought of Kit. Kit, who had been on a mission for the past few weeks, taking up the rotating position of Madame Lulu. Kit, who had no more brothers. Kit, who was pregnant with his child, the love of his life- she was almost due, too, it was early October and the prediction was around the 20th. Kit, who didn’t necessarily need him, but whom he needed more than anyone ever before.

He tried to call the carnival phone and it didn’t go through. He tried to reach every safe place he could think of, sent a telegram to the Widdershins submarine, even- but Kit was probably off being a hero.

He’d settle for every so often visits as long as she was alright.
---
When Kit kissed him for the last time, it was in the hedges beside Hotel Denouement, upon the entrance of the Baudelaire children. He missed her when he wasn’t there, he couldn’t understand how watching someone walk away- even if it was just for a few days- could be physically painful.

That was the last time he saw her. That was the last time he saw their daughter. It was the first time he saw the Baudelaire children, the very same ones he had tracked and aimed to protect. It was only a matter of time.

Dewey Denouement died on a Wednesday, eyes filling with light and a blurry focus of silhouettes. Stitches of one’s life do not usually sew themselves, but as he looked through the empty faces (he couldn’t quite remember the names of these people, but there was a light in the distance that seemed to spell for itself), he saw balloons on his fifth birthday, Jaques and Kit at their dinner table (Kit’s eyes had looked so pretty in the candlelight, and she knew he had been staring at her the whole time). There was the fire he and Ernest and Frank had rode away from, mountains and phone calls and nights gone wrong. There was a life, a boy who watched his world crack and break down into a million pieces right before the light.

Frank and Ernest were not with him when he died. His last pronouncement did not fall on Denouement ears, the end of a story did not finish in three splits. Kit was not there, he could never again tell her he loved her. A true loss.

Dewey had spent his life reading. Certain things had seemed romantic, magical, mysterious. Secrets that died with a person. The idea of a life’s work. Shadows sprawled across answers to questions that would never see the light of day. Dewey had spent years perfecting his handwriting- a loopy scrawl that was legible enough to be used, confusing enough to keep him preserved. There was something glamorous about being a secret, he had always believed that.

There were many glamorous things in the world. Dark, yes, but mystic. Chalk outlines of sprawling bodies, deep nights that are not spoken of, deep greens that haunt memories. He hadn’t consciously thought about death, but he had considered the fact that if he were to die, it should be glamorous.

Perhaps he did die this way, figure sprawled in an outline over logs of his toil, screams through the night air, sparkling lights that reminded him of nights put to better use- friends he saw through ashen remains, champagne and masks and opera houses, marble staircases and empty threats. Perhaps the words that circled Dewey’s brain throughout his lifetime were true, perhaps he was a melodrama.

Kit. He would never get the chance to meet his child. He would never again see her face in the milky swirls of his coffee, never again feel the brush of her hand on his. Mornings did not run late with Kit, but the glow on the sunlight never failed to make him breathe a little quicker. There were three (four, soon) people in this world that he cared about more than anyone. And none of them stood beside him now.

Dewey Denouement hated fire, and as he watched the world slip away, he saw his brothers step towards him (or maybe they weren’t even there, the stars in his eyes were too bright now), the same way they had as their house was engulfed by reds and oranges, the same way he had always thought they would stay. Wednesdays, rules of three- brothers he never thought could be seperated. Perhaps in death, peace and dying and nothingness would merge until he vanished before the dawn.