Chapter Text
By the time Adrien had returned to his small studio, located in the quieter part of London (though, cities are, by nature, never truly silent), he had replayed the conversation over multiple times in his head. Something, he wasn’t quite sure what, but something regarding it was sitting…. Odd.
Adrien was, by nature, a quieter man. He didn’t seek out attention, not anymore at least, and was particularly wary of those who came bearing questions. Questions mostly regarding his time before he became the permanent fixture the Ton now knew him as. Before the quiet painter, before, before, before. But Benedict Bridgerton, it seemed, was different in that aspect. Adrien hummed curiously, unlocking his door and entering.
The studio itself was quaint. A simple two-floor building, the first floor an open space with plenty of windows for lighting. That empty space was, naturally, taken up by several canvases in various states of completion. Paintings, drawings, supplies, equipment spread out on the two tables pressed together. And notably, a canvas (or at least, one would assume) hung on the wall, covered by a fine cloth sheet, one which blocks the viewer from seeing what lay beneath. This was, naturally, Adrien’s Magnum Opus, and perhaps the work he was both least and most proud of.
If one were to continue past the unfinished work and clutter, a small set of wooden stairs would lead up to a set of rooms. One, a bedroom with a small wooden frame and flock mattress, the bedding itself rather unkept and certainly not properly made up. Adrien never cared for the obsession of making beds look as though they weren’t made to sleep in. A writing desk stood across from it. The other room acted as a sitting room, though it could be used for other things if the situation called for it.
In the back of the studio, a small kitchen area, one which also doubled as a place to launder his already beaten clothing if needed, contained a simple place to wash up, and a hearth for cooking.
Overall, the studio was small, and Adrien liked it that way.
Adrien set his sketchbook somewhat haphazardly on a stack of papers. Drawings, attempts, that lay piled and abandoned. He made his way up the stairs, untying his cravat with one hand as his mind raced. Ultimately, cravat shed, collar unbuttoned, battered blue jacket hung with the most care he’d shown anything that evening upon a peg in the bedroom, Adrien decided upon the reason. Artist recognized artist. He may not know each Bridgerton specifically, and though Adrien tended to steer clear of the idle gossip of the upper classes when he could, he was well aware of the family’s reputation, and the reputation of its individuals.
It certainly was new, and didn’t hurt Benedict’s rankings in ‘People Adrien is willing to socialize with’ that the man didn’t inquire into the locked basement of Adrien’s history. That, in particular, had been the fascination of the Ton, some twenty years prior. True, after it became increasingly obvious that Adrien would not be airing his secrets for another nation’s high society to spread, embellish, and ultimately make theirs, they stopped. Adrien did what he never had before, and melted into the background. Present, but not there.
Benedict Bridgerton however, asked about none of those things, and that intrigued the Frenchman. Curiosity is natural, yet curiosity without ulterior motive was much rarer.
Adrien pulled a stool up to his writing desk, fishing a piece of paper out, picking out a well worn quill, and uncapping the inkwell. Then he stopped, twisting the feathered writing utensil in his hand, as if deciding what to write. Or, perhaps, to whom. Instead of waiting any longer, he sits up, dips the quill into the pot, and puts it to paper.Dear Amelie,
I met somebody today.
He crosses the sentence out. Too ridiculous.
Dear Amelie,
There was a man at the ball today.
He paused. Better. Less conversational. She would hate it. Cross it out and try again. And again. And again.
By the time the moon was high and Luna's reflection filtered in through the window, there were several attempts at this, scrawled over the paper. Eventually, a hiss of air escaping, the quill returned to its drawer, and the paper tossed haphazardly to a pile on the side. ‘Dear Amelie’ falling gently atop several more of the same sort. Covering a multitude of ‘Dear Amelie’, ‘Dear Georges’, ‘Dear Louis-Antoine’. Possibly other names, and dates as well. Letters never sent, or perhaps never intended to be sent.
Adrien takes his spectacles, letting them drop to the desk, before standing, unbuttoning his waistcoat in preparation for sleep. Clearly, the conversation in the garden weighed on him more than he expected. This played in his mind throughout the rest of his nightly routine.
By the time Adrien had extinguished the lamp and gone to bed, he had reached the particularly inconvenient conclusion that Benedict Bridgerton was interesting. More inconvenient so was that he was interested in seeing whether the Bridgerton remained so.