Chapter Text
Adrien found himself that night seated in front of his writing desk. Quill in hand, fresh sheet of paper dated, pot set next to his hand, hand hovering over the paper, thoughts racing.
Dear Amelie,
No doubt were you here, you would be quite cross. Not because of anything being wrong, per se, in fact, things are more right than they have any right to be. More right than I deserve.
I can see your face, I know what you’re thinking. Be kinder to yourself, or something along those lines. I promise, the melancholia of my youth has long since departed.
I believe, after almost twenty-two years, I have fallen in love again. Please, spare me the suffering of your silent judgement. This time, at least, it seems reciprocal. My days of trailing after attractive men like a lost puppy ended the day I left you.
I know you would tell me to take a chance. Of all of those we, I, surrounded myself with, you would probably be the kindest in that regard. Maybe I shall finally heed the words he spoke to me, those decades ago, two days to the day. Maybe, my dear, I shall start to live.
I remain, as ever, your devoted friend,
Adrien
Adrien sat back, looking at the letter, and for once, felt genuinely lighter at the letter. Then, he picked it up and let it flutter to the ground, settling atop the pile of other unsent correspondence. Banished to below eye level, never to be sent. Then, he pulled a fresh sheet, dated it, and began to write.
Dear Camille,
You would, no doubt, find this entire situation impossibly amusing. I cannot agree, but I suppose that would not stop you. It didn’t stop you with him, and it wouldn’t stop you now. If I were younger, as I was then, I might be aggravated by it. Now, I think I find myself wishing that you were here, to tease and taunt, because, I suppose, that would mean you were still here.But you’re not, and I am at fault.
Adrien stopped, memory flooding in, before he put his quill down, forging on, doing his best to block out the last images he has of the other.But living in the past is productive for no one
He stops again, hissing out a breath, and all but shoves the paper off of the writing desk, letting it settle on the pile. Spectacles slid off his nose, tossed to the desk, hands rubbing his face.
Acceptance is hard. Acceptance after twenty-two years of denial is harder. But, perhaps, Adrien-Henri de Montfaucon had finally crossed the first hurdle, and now that living he spoke of? That living could begin.