Chapter Text
The awkwardness of that particular meeting did not stop them from happening again in the future. Adrien would arrive, set up somewhere on the grounds, and paint the day away with Benedict. Mostly uninterrupted, Adrien had seen neither hide nor hair of Colin, nor any other Bridgerton besides Benedict and Violet, since the first meeting. Regardless, there was no sense of unwelcomeness present, and Adrien found himself looking forward to these weekly, sometimes more often than that, meetings. Rarely were words spoken beyond those relating to art, and never did those words relate to years gone by. This in particular, was something Adrien found particularly pleasant about the younger man.
This was, of course, how Adrien found himself attending the next of Society’s little soirees.
Adrien, in his studio, stood in front of the mirror in the sitting room. Blue worn waistcoat swapped out for a brown one, new, or at least made within the last few years. Slate cravat tied deftly, the linen wrapped around his neck before the ends were arranged in a restrained bow. It was a style heavily favoured by those he surrounded himself with in his youth, though Adrien himself had never been one for propriety, even then. His shirt, ironed and free of creases, the ivory coloring not burdened by paint stains or whatnaught. Shoes shining with more than a base wipedown with a rag. An oxblood jacket, the same color as his hair, still older in style but much less worn, compared to the blue one, completes the outfit.
It was, perhaps, worth noting that Adrien had not tied his cravat like this in years. It was also perhaps worth noting that Benedict Bridgerton was the reason he was attending the ball at all. Adrien, naturally, noted neither.
Adrien stares. He hasn’t looked this put together in years. A hand drifts up, brushing the bow-tied cravat, ghosting over the fabric. The last time he had worn it like this, it was his 18th birthday, and hands that were not his own were solemnly tying it. One last parting gift before eternal separation. The memory surfaces, and is immediately Adrien pushes it away. Pushes away the memory of men long dead.
Adrien hesitated before the mirror. His hair, normally left to do as it pleased, was another matter entirely. He dipped his fingers into the small pot of pomatum and worked it through the unruly strands, combing them neatly back and to one side. The result was almost unnervingly orderly. The familiar wildness was gone, replaced by something that looked considerably more like the young man who had once moved through Paris and beyond. He did what he could to not think about the silver starting to peek through at his temples.
It was odd, seeing this version of himself again. This version, which he had tried so hard to tamp down, to forget. He gazed at his reflection critically, a small frown forming. The hair was neat, the cravat tied accordingly, the clothes clean and pressed and prim. He looked, by all accounts, completely presentable. This was, naturally, the desired outcome. Why it was the desired outcome, however, was a question Adrien had decided not to investigate.
Adrien sighed, turned, and made his way out to the street.
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Society, upon seeing the eccentric Vicomte de Montfaucon enter the ballroom, collectively experienced what could only be described as confusion of the highest caliber. Vicomte de Montfaucon was present. He was interacting with those who greeted him. He was well dressed. Vicomte de Montfaucon was here. And most alarming of all? The Vicomte de Montfaucon appeared to be actively looking for someone.
There was a noticeable pause, though quickly remedied, from those in sight of the entrance upon Adrien’s arrival. Adrien, for his part, either did not notice or did not care enough to address it. He beelined for a glass, some light champagne that did little more than wet the lips, if beeline can be the correct term, while avoiding the many bodies crowding the hall. Then he, from his vantage in the corner, scanned the room, eyes settling on his target.
Benedict stood surrounded by, seemingly, about half the complete force of Bridgertons. His mother, Violet, was there, standing next to a woman Adrien assumed Eloise, if Benedict’s descriptions were anything to go by. Beside Benedict, Colin, and one more of the Bridgerton men. Based on the third being clearly older than Benedict, Adrien assumed (correctly) that this must be Anthony.
Adrien locked eyes with Benedict, who had, up until this point, been speaking with his family rather animatedly. This ended abruptly, and Benedict’s mouth hung open for just a second before he regained control of his expression.
Adrien took this as a cue. He approached, moving with a purpose, rather than meandering as if he did not know exactly who he intended to speak with. He approaches the group, inclining his head to the men, half bowing, hand at his waist, to the women, “Mesdames, Messuiers.” His accent came thicker than usual as he turned to Benedict, "Monsieur Bridgerton. Might I borrow you?”
It was a perfectly respectable request. There was no reason whatsoever for anyone to interpret it otherwise. Several members of the Bridgerton family, unfortunately, possessed eyes.
Benedict, not gracing his family with a response to their questioning, or in some cases teasing, glances, he responds with a simple, “Of course, Vicomte.”
Adrien offered a small smile, with Benedict following almost in an instant. Towards the outside, away from prying eyes and listening ears and the majority of high society. And more specifically, towards that very same pond that the two had made their first meeting a few weeks prior.
Though the two have been walking in silence for the majority of the trek, Benedict, looking Adrien up and down, taking in the more put-together appearance, breaks it, “You dressed nice.” he offers out.
Adrien, facing away as he was a few steps ahead of the other, answers simply, “The occasion called for it.” he pauses, “It was only proper.”
“Proper- I would not expect you to care for propriety.” Benedict's tone in light, and the statement, though not inherently funny, brings a genuine chuckle from the other man.
“Just because I do not enjoy the tripes and contrivances and rules of our station, does not mean I cannot follow them when the situation demands.” A pause follows, “And when the situation demands, well, I would be a fool to ignore such calls.” he finishes, just as the pair reach the pond where they had made each other’s acquaintance.
The scene was unchanged, except perhaps a few more flowers were in bloom, and there was the faint scent of moss mixed in. The moon hung overhead, her reflecting rays shining bright off the pond’s silver surface, and bathing the entire scene in just enough light to see. The faint sound of music floating over the silent air.
“We appear to be missing the dancing.” Benedict notes, and Adrien cocks his head to listen to the faint sound of instruments drifting over the wind.
“I have never been the fondest of dancing.” Adrien responded, ear still tilted to the wind.
“Why?”
Adrien hums before responding, as if thinking about the answer before, “Too many people knew my reputation, and that was far more alluring than anything the man underneath could provide.”
Benedict pauses for a second before, in what can only be described as a fit of foolish bravery, extends his hand to Adrien and says, “Well then, to the man underneath?”.
And, against all good sense, Adrien put his hand in the other’s.
And they danced. Slowly, swaying under the moonlight.
Neither of our intrepid artists, naturally, noticed the significance of this. This was fortunate, for had they possessed the good sense to recognize it, this story might have progressed considerably faster. Here’s to the oblivious pair.