Chapter Text
The day had started out just like any other, with Adrien showing up bright and early at the Jacobin Club, holding a handful of conversations, and ultimately finding himself tucked away in his corner, Camille present, Adrien peering over his shoulder at the pages in front of the Journalist, sketching out his visualization of the contents of the page. Little did he, nor anyone else present, know that history was about to be made. Not, perhaps, the sort of history that would find its way into the official records of the Republic, but history nonetheless, for Adrien-Henri de Montfaucon was about to meet a man who would make an absolute catastrophe of his heart for the next twenty years.
Godspeed.
To be fair, the whole scene leading up to this made sense to Adrien. He was to read what Camille wrote, take an artist’s hand to the prose, and come out with a suitably satirical illustration that can be adapted into an engraving. Really, it only makes sense to be hovering aggressively over the man’s shoulder in an attempt to get an idea for exactly what he should be illustrating.
At least, it would, if said article was more than halfway penned and what was written wasn’t in a constant state of revision and rewriting. In that case, it would have been more logical to wait for the completed product. But Adrien’s never been one to subscribe to such niceties as logic and reason when something interesting is happening. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be at the Club to begin with.
“I will not write any faster with you hovering like a parrot over my shoulder, Adrien. Perhaps you should sit?” The tone is light enough to convey the amusement in Camille’s voice, but also holds a genuine suggestion behind the humor dripping out.
Adrien, ever the poet, just hums a response before, “I can read from here. I need to know what you’re writing if I am to accurately portray it on paper.”
“And you also need the full story before that happens, which will decidedly not happen with you lurking as you are.”
Conceding that particular point, Adrien sat down in the chair opposite Camille with a thump, though this just changed the parrot-hovering from behind to before the older man. And also made it so that what writing was on the page was upside down for Adrien, which tends not to be conducive to reading, but I digress.
Adrien sat quietly for all of thirty seconds, went to open his mouth, and then the door opened.
Any commentary that Adrien was going to put forth subsequently vanishes the moment he turns around to see the new arrival. A man, visibly younger than the majority of the club’s current occupants, save for Adrien himself. A face framed by chestnut locks, full and free of the weathering of time. A presence that demanded attention, but not in the boisterous way Adrien had come to know from his peers. Rather, it was as if a Seraphim had come down from on high, taken human form. Pale skin contrasted with his dark blue coat, his cravat a perfect bow, restrained, tied snugly against his throat.
Needless to say, the sound that came out of Adrien's mouth was less words, and moreso an aggressive cough or choke. Perhaps a wheeze.
Adrien turned back to Camille, clearing his throat, and pointedly not mentioning his immediate respiratory troubles. He also, notably, ignored the look the older man was giving him. And things would have continued on mostly as normal, had luck, God, or whatever omniscient being was charting his fate, been kind. Fate, however, was not kind.
“Montfaucon! There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” Robespierre’s voice broke through the chatter, and upon standing to go to the man, it took all the sense and propriety in Adrien not to plant his head firmly upon the table in mild, teenage horror.
That Seraphim-made-flesh just so happened to be the man Robespierre intended to introduce. Truly, fate was a malicious mistress.
Upon taking the six or so strides over, very aware of himself for once, Adrien came to a stop before the pair. Being closer to the man was decidedly not helpful, and Adrien was pretty sure the tips of his ears were close enough to the color of his hair, if the heat was anything to go by. At least his hair was shaggy enough to hide that. Small mercies.
“Monsieur de Montfaucon, allow me to introduce Monsieur Saint-Just.” The introduction is completely normal, so why on earth did it feel like Adrien had just swallowed a field of cotton, or perhaps a frog. Maybe both.
Forcing his brain to function, Adrien offers a scratchy, “The honor is mine, Monsieur.” Work, brain, work. Betrayal. Why so formal? Why so- Anyways.
“The pleasure is mine, Monsieur de Montfaucon.” is the response. Perfectly polite, correct in the situation. So why on earth did it feel like a swarm of bees had started to stir in the back of his mind.
Questions for another time.
Though this entire interaction took maybe a total of two minutes at most, if that, it felt much, much longer. Adrien, caught up in saying the right words at the right time and notably nothing else, missed the slightly cocked eyebrow from Robespierre, who looked between the two. He also missed Camille’s amused expression.
As if taking pity on the poor lad, Robespierre interjected, “I believe you are missed.” He glances over at the chair Adrien had vacated, giving him an out. A blessing very much not in disguise. Adrien made a strangled hum of agreement, stiffly turned on his heel, and returned, thumping down into the chair in front of Camille.
For once, the journalist didn’t have a quip in the wings, or at least had the decency not to lambast the poor boy. Yet. He just gave Adrien a knowing look, and went back to his writing.
Somewhere, miles away from the Jacobin Club, Amelie de Montreuil felt a shift in the weather. Not literally, of course. But internally, she absolutely knew that her technically fiance was back on his bullshit. If only it were that simple.