Chapter Text
The next day, upon meeting Benedict on Bridgerton Grounds, there was certainly a different feel in the air, though what in particular Adrien could not name. Perhaps it was simply the warmer weather of summer, perhaps the mild humidity left behind by an overnight rainstorm, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Of course, the answer of what’s changed is painfully obvious, but it is not an answer our dear Vicomte intends to consider.
Certainly, he was there to paint, and nothing more. Which was why in the time since arrival, he had done little more than start an outline, and instead spent the time staring unblinking at the other artist. Eventually, it got to a point where it could no longer be ignored.
“Something on your mind, Vicomte?” Benedict asked, voice light, but also very aware of his companions' unbroken gaze.
Adrien hummed, chin resting on his hand from where he sat, leaned against a trunk, outline on one knee. “Who are you, Benedict Bridgerton?” He eventually asks.
The question catches Benedict by surprise, “Pardon?”
“Who are you?” Adrien asks again, still staring, still resting his head on his fist, more like a curious schoolboy than the man he was.
“I don’t quite under-”
“I know who you are on paper. Public knowledge shared by the whole of the Ton. Farther perhaps. Artist. Second son. Unburdened by commitment to your station. But-” Here Adrien stands, stalking forward, and for a moment it seems the passive, eccentric Artist is gone, replaced by someone more calculating, more cunning, more alive. Panther-like. Pacing. He seems uninterested in the frankly bewildered expression painting Benedict’s face. “I can’t get you out of my head, and that, my dear, is just the problem.” And just as quickly, the Vicomte is back with a hum, and that other, whatever it was, is gone, and Adrien returns. He stops his pacing, “You are an enigma, Benedict Bridgerton, and you are an enigma I intend to demystify.” He lets himself sit back down with a thump, back against the tree.
Benedict is frozen. Frozen, flattered, a mite bit concerned because who was that because that wasn’t Adrien the Artist. But whatever it was, it was gone, and regular old Vicomte de Montfaucon had replaced it. Barring the staring, that was new. New, but not, perhaps, unwelcome.
Finally, after what felt like ages, but probably really was only a few minutes or so, Adrien breaks the silence, “When’s your birthday?”.
Tonal whiplash aside, it did surprise the other enough to knock him out of the stupor he’d been in for a good while. Benedict, blinking, brain finally processing the last ten to fifteen minutes, finally registered the question. Face mildly warm, he managed to stammer out a “Pardon?”.
“When is your birthday?” Adrien asked again, as if it were the most normal thing in the world after his…. Monologue…. twenty minutes prior.
Brain still not firing on all cylinders quite yet, Benedict manages to stammer out a quick, “June. 19th. 1787. And yours?”
“10 Therm-” Adrien stops himself, “July 28th, 1776.” he stumbles over the date ever so slightly, as if the Gregorian Calendar is not the one he is most experienced with.
“A week away, do you have plans?” Benedict asks, part of him still frazzled at the day’s conversation, but most of his senses regained.
Adrien hums for a moment before answering, “I do not celebrate it.” he waits a few seconds before, “At least, not since coming to England.”
“Why?”
“The date has an unpleasant history attached. A story for another time.” The last sentence is murmured, and Benedict wondered if Adrien had even realized he said it.
Benedict waited, giving Adrien ample time to continue, and when it became clear the Vicomte appeared lost in thought, likely in that unpleasant history, he spoke, “The only way to change the day’s connotation is to attach it to pleasant memories, so I vote that it’s high time you start celebrating again.” He smiles as if that’s the answer to all burning questions.
Adrien looks like he’s about to say something, pauses, and appears to switch gears. “Favorite book.” he asks, finally breaking the silence. As if playing whatever the regency equivalent of twenty questions would take away from the monologue half an hour prior. It doesn’t, but sometimes it’s kinder to let delusions sit.
Benedict thinks for a minute before responding, “Pride and Prejudice.”
Adrien hums, “Austen, good choice.” Neither of our two artists seemed to realize exactly how ironic that choice was, but if they had, well, this story would have been over long before this chapter, wouldn’t it?
Here, Benedict mirrors the question back, “You have my favorite book, now the same question, what’s yours?” He leans back against the tree across from where Adrien is perched, watching the other artist.
Adrien takes a moment, as if cycling through a number of possible answers. He hums, before, “I am particularly fond of Organt.”. He readjusts as he speaks, lacing his hands together and resting his chin on them.
“I… don’t believe I know that one.” Benedict’s expression takes on a quizzical expression.
This draws a warm chuckle from Adrien, “No, no, I can’t imagine you have.” a pause, “I knew the author, and I can’t say he was entirely too happy with teenage-Adrien’s choice of reading material.”
Here Adrien moves his laced hands behind his head, stretching out, and a genuine smile forming.
“You knew the author?” Benedict asks, sensing that there was more to that answer then meets the eye.
Adrien’s smile widened just a fraction, suddenly appearing more boyish, “Personally.”.
“Who was he?”
“Louis-Antoine Saint-Just.”
At this point, dear reader, it would not be unfair to liken Adrien to a man trying to hide from the past, yet constantly leaving a trail of breadcrumbs on the floor pointing to the words ‘Ask me!’, and then being surprised when he gets asked questions. Well, there is a reason that love is said to blind. Not that Adrien would know, because he is, in fact, very very blind regarding that.
Benedict’s brows raise. The name is familiar, though mostly in the way certain names from history were familiar, attached to books, newspapers, and discussions that had little bearing on the life of an English gentleman in 1816. “Saint-Just,” he repeats slowly. “You mean that Saint-Just?”
Adrien hums, seemingly pleased by the recognition, “There was only ever one.”
Benedict stares at him for another moment, then laughs softly, shaking his head. “I begin to suspect there is rather more to you than you let on.”
Adrien’s smile falters for the briefest moment. Then, just as quickly, it returns. “Perhaps.” And, mercifully, he does not elaborate. Benedict, however, is beginning to suspect that “perhaps” may be the closest thing the Vicomte possesses to a confession.