Chapter Text
Before we continue any further, we must look backwards on Adrien’s interpersonal relationships, to one Amelie de Montreuil.
Adrien had known Amelie de Montreuil longer than he could remember. First meeting? Lost to the cosmic sands of time. If you asked Adrien what his first memory of Amelie was, the best possible answer would have been a shrug and a ‘She showed up and never left’. If you asked their parents, the answer would have certainly been more concrete. The pair had been inseparable since the start, and that inseparable quality had proven both fortuitous for them, and troublesome for quite literally anyone else.
Amelie was, appearance-wise, the polar opposite of Adrien. Whereas he stuck out like a beacon, with his oxblood hair and gangly proportions, lanky in the way of youth not yet grown into, Amelie had the appearance of one who could easily slip into a crowd. Light brown hair, a fair complexion, the kind of smile that appears prim and proper, but hides a mischievous other. Her eyes, however, a light hazel, are her one Achilles Heel. If caught in the right light, well, the mastermind behind what fresh trouble has been caused is brought to light.
This friendship, deep and uncompromising, was partially what led to the Montfaucon and Montreuil heads next decision, one which the pair had learned about the year prior, that being the arrangement of the pair’s marriage, upon reaching a more suitable age.
Adrien will be the first to swear up and down that he did not audibly gag at the thought, thank you very much.
Oh no, what actually happened was arguably worse. Upon the pair being informed of their future matrimonial duties, Amelie, normally so poised and prim and proper, adopted the sort of expression one would have upon being served a decomposing rat and told it was a gourmet meal. Adrien, who had been standing next to the girl, had made an aggressive sound in the back of his throat, before turning away in a coughing fit brought on by inhaling air improperly. At least, that was the excuse given later. Most definitely not a gag.
Regardless, this announcement changed little in their friendship, beyond giving the pair something more to complain about in the drawing rooms of their respective family estates. Which brings us to the present. Adrien, brush in hand, focused on a painting, face scrunched up in concentration, while Amelie sat on the couch, watching him from over the book in her hands, occasionally offering unwanted advice, mostly in the form of correcting his creative liberties taken when painting himself. Nearby, every once in a while, one of the servants occasionally walked by, keeping a chaperoning eye on the pair.
Not, as was common of the time, necessarily to preserve the virtue of two young aristocrats, though that would certainly be the reasonable answer, but rather because this particular pair of young aristocrats had a habit of, if you, dear reader, will pardon a dip into modernity, some complete bullshit situations to go down, and neither the Montreuil nor Montfaucon families wanted to deal with whatever Bonnie-and-Clydeesque shenanigans the pair, left unsupervised, would get up to.
Which brings us back to now.
“Your face is not that symmetrical, Adrien.” Amelie, peering over her copy of ‘Paul et Virginie’, “It hasn’t been that symmetrical since your acquaintanceship with the ground in ‘87.”
Adrien, huffing, though arguably moreso at his work, seeing as this kind of commentary was par for the course, “And nobody besides you can tell, Amelie. Besides, self-portraiture is never fully accurate. Regular portraiture certainly isn’t.”
“Regular portraiture isn’t accurate because you wouldn’t pay someone for an accurate painting if your face is subpar. By being crooked, for example.”
Adrien turns ever so slightly, “My face is not crooked.”
“It has been crooked for three years, Adrien.”
“And yet you have continued to look at it for those three years, one might begin to wonder which of us has the poorer judgement.” He turns back to his painting, both children sporting small grins behind their respective activities.
The painting in question was something Adrien had been working on for the better part of the week. ‘The Little Jacobin’ featured Adrien himself, as is the way of self-portraits. Painting-Adrien facing a group of men, their backs turned towards him, hunched over a table, clearly deep in discussion on some topic of import. Painting-Adrien, watching the group from a distance, seated on a chair, sketchbook in hand.
The epithet itself had come from a handful of pamphleteers, but hadn’t yet caught on as much as certain titles would in the coming years. The pamphlets themselves glossed over Adrien’s current political contributions, most of which boiled down to unedited charcoal drawings of the commoner and the laborer, with the occasional satirical illustration for Révolutions de France et de Brabant engravers to adapt to print, and instead focused on the absurdity of the situation. Adrien, being a teenager and a menace to polite society, absolutely adored the title, even if he did still point out that, technically, he was not officially a member, having not sworn any oath or been given any official certificates showing membership. But, to be fair, the actual story, in any century, is oft less interesting than the embellished versions of the press.
Whilst Adrien continued to all but physically fight his canvas, Amelie flipped through her book, expression one of clear displeasure after reading a particularly frustrating paragraph. That face one makes when they’ve read too far to justify putting the book down, and now it’s just a case of getting through the rest of the book.
Adrien, sensing his companion’s growing ire towards whatever she had just read, turns, observes the scene, and asks “Who died?”
The response given was a muted hrumph, followed by the more understandable explanation of, “Nobody yet, but the great-aunt needs to, and Virginie is about to if she continues to abide by society’s rules.” a pause, broken only by the sound of the page turning, “And now Virginie is drowned.” Amelie snaps the book shut and sighs, slinking down the back of the couch into a slouch, literary despair clear on her face.
Adrien, fighting back a smile, offers up a simple, “Good book, then?”
Amelie levels her stare at him, unamused.
Going back to his work, “Right, point taken.” Adrien chuckles quietly, and, hearing the other let the book fall open, starting down the treacherous path of finishing a story that has taken a turn the reader does not agree with.
And so the afternoon continued, with one young aristocrat at war with a canvas, another at war with a novel, and their respective families blissfully unaware that these were, by far, the least troublesome wars either would fight.