Realistic or Modern An Invitation [lillymity]

[lillymity]

Adam followed at an easy pace, one hand in his coat pocket, the other brushing the edge of a table or doorway here and there — never nosy, just present. He watched Camille as much as he watched the rooms. Every new corner of this place was a clue, but she was more useful than decor. She was the kind of person who told you things without realizing it, as long as you looked like you were only half-listening.

He glanced around the parlor first. Etienne’s thumbprint was all over it, though a little smudged — like someone had tried to copy his taste and missed the mark by an inch or two. The liquor cabinet earned a lingering glance. Top-shelf. Expensive. Not dusted well. He clocked the knitting basket, too — so someone domestic used the room often, or wanted to appear that way.

“Not a terrible worker,” he said mildly as she self-deprecated, “just one who knows the real job’s more than folding napkins and refilling glasses. Most people forget the game doesn’t stop at the table.”

He didn’t sound flattering. He sounded like he’d seen it before and didn’t blame her.
As they reached the bedrooms and then the dining room, he paused at the threshold. His eyes took a slow, deliberate lap around the space. He didn’t move to enter, just stood there, arms loosely crossed. The room was sterile. Perfect. Unlike the chaos of Etienne’s mind, it was too neat to feel natural.

“Funny,” he murmured. “This room looks like it belongs to someone else. Or like it’s trying to impress a parent who doesn’t visit anymore.”

He glanced at Camille, as if asking whether she agreed, though his expression was unreadable.

Then, in a lower voice, half-conspiratorial: “Seems like this place has two faces. Maybe three.”

He left it hanging there — not a question, not quite a statement. Just enough to see what she’d offer if he sounded like someone worth confessing to.

 

[clostridium]

The estate was difficult to talk about for those that spent any great degree of time there. To anyone who had never been, such as Camille’s family and friends, chatter about the things she wanted to talk about would always fall on deaf ears, since Etienne courted controversy bombastically and without reserve. His parties, the company he kept, the fact that he had moved into the area at all, and, above all, the absurd conspicuity of his wealth: those were more interesting topics for the majority of people. Meanwhile, half of the estate was not the sort she could gossip with, since her chattiness was not welcomed by any of the older generation, and the other half was too afraid to get on Nelson or Rosalie’s bad side.

Camille’s voice lowered in turn, equally conspiratorial. Her eyes sparkled in the sunlight that streamed through the high windows. Someone walked along at the distant tree line, barely visible over the distance between the window and the edge of the woods. She did not seem to notice or care.

“Two faces - doesn’t everyone? I’m certain that you do. Monsieur Bernard, he has one for everyone with whom he speaks. I am trying to cultivate the same in myself.” Camille paused, and her fingers drummed against one of the high-backed chairs. For a moment, her lips pursed as she tried to decide how far across the line she should stretch her toes. “…This room, I think the décor is mostly here for Rose. She whinges, ah, the old house, ah, your father’s house, you know? Misses having things just so. Monsieur Bernard has his own way of thinking things must look. He plays all this formality off, you know, at soirées, as a joke. But it is not a joke to her. I would like to enjoy that sort of job security that she has - I swear to you, if she struck him in front of a crowd, she would not be let go!”

 

[lillymity]

He glanced toward the woods where the figure moved, clocked it without comment. Everything was worth noticing. Especially the things Camille didn’t care to.
He turned his eyes back to her, the flat gray of them briefly catching the light and revealing a glimmer that wasn’t entirely friendly.

“Everyone’s got two faces,” he agreed softly, like it was an old truth, maybe older than Camille. “Most just aren’t lucky enough to live somewhere that lets them wear both at once.”

He stepped into the dining room at last, but slowly, almost reverently, like he didn’t want to smudge the high polish. He rested one hand lightly on the back of the chair she’d tapped, mirroring her without quite mimicking her.

“Rose sounds like the backbone sort. Good for keeping things standing. Bad for keeping things quiet.” He tilted his head, considering her. “And you — you’d rather keep things…flexible, I’d guess.”

It wasn’t accusatory. It was...acknowledging. A little too accurate to be comfortable, but not cruel.

Then, almost idly:
“He ever strike you as scared of her?”
That one was a test, though he let it hang there like it was just small talk. Just curiosity. Just the kind of thing a lover might say while feeling out the fault lines in their new partner’s world.

 

[clostridium]

Camille’s brow furrowed for the space of a single instant as Adam spoke, and her lips pursed slightly. She shifted her weight to one hip and regarded him more carefully. It was clear in her eyes when her mind was chewing up a problem. Camille was clearly not unintelligent, but her mind was hampered greatly by the delusion that she was by far the smartest in any room. At his last statement, though, her expression brightened suddenly and she let out an unexpectedly genuine laugh.

“Him? No, I am afraid of her! He is…no, she is like his mother. You know, the very wealthy families, they hardly raise their own children. And his family was a bit strange, Thierry has told me. Rose was his governess when he was a child. So I suppose he might be afraid that she will scold him, but…no, no, I shall not bring everything down.” Camille shook her head, and her blonde ponytail swayed like a serpent preparing to strike. “She is a holy terror, though. You should certainly avoid her. She is not exactly fond of most of Monsieur Bernard’s…friends.”

Camille took one last look at the dining room and flounced back out into the hall. She had little interest in pressed linens and perfect place-settings; she preferred a more conspicuous type of wealth. Etienne perched precariously on the gap between old and new money, with a few of the benefits and most of the drawbacks of each. His staff seemed to hail from two different worlds, or as least two different time periods.

“Here, the library is just this way.”

 

[lillymity]

At her mention of Rose, he gave a soft, almost imperceptible hum of interest. The kind that didn’t interrupt but invited more. He didn’t press. That sort of dynamic — former governess, current tyrant — could mean a thousand things. He filed it away in the mental ledger.

As Camille flounced ahead, he offered a small, amused smile behind her back. Conspicuous wealth, loyalty divided across a strange, volatile little kingdom, a host with too many masks and not enough spine to hold them all up. It all fit together, even if the puzzle was still half-face down.
He caught up to her pace again as they turned the corner toward the library, then spoke lightly — so lightly it could almost be missed.

“Strange time, when someone like him takes ill, I’d imagine.”
He didn’t look at her just yet — kept his gaze on a vase they passed, his voice still casual. “Must’ve rattled the place. I heard it was serious. A few weeks back ?”

Now he looked at her. Not hard. Just present. Just enough interest to feel like a partner concerned about someone’s well-being. And yet — there was something precise in the phrasing. He was asking about the time. Not just the illness. Not just the man.

 

[clostridium]

Camille swished towards the library, also putting in quite the effort to look less interested than she was in what was being said. She chewed her bottom lip lightly, but didn’t look back until they reached the arched doorway into the library. It was a massive double-volume space, with vaulted ceilings high enough to require a rolling ladder, which rested unobtrusively in the corner. The shelves looked ancient, but many of the books looked new, covering a variety of interests, from identifying local plants and wildlife to debunked medical science. There was a book resting beside a chair by the side of the room, marked near the halfway point. In the center of the room, atop a deep red-and-teal-patterned Persian rug, Camille turned again.

“Strange indeed, yes. This is the library. I think it is a bit creepy in here, you know, with…as shadowy as it is.” She hesitated for a moment before continuing. “Yes, he has been better for the last…two weeks or so. He was ill for the few weeks before that. Rose - Miss Rosalie - she watched him like a hawk, I’m not sure she slept, or Nelson. It really was gruesome - worse than normal. He’s had the condition since he was a child, I’m told, but when it acts up he usually only takes a few days lying down. It did scare me, though. All of us, I think, but Thierry. Did you know he wasn’t even allowed in to visit? I think that’s why he’s been so upset, angry and all. Broody, this is the better word, wanting to take his meals alone.”

The lie had blended seamlessly with the rest of her words, intertwined like it belonged there. It came with no specific tell, nothing to set off a gut instinct - but the fact remained that Adam had already been told that Etienne was poisoned, not stricken with a reoccurrence of a chronic illness. Either Camille was an excellent liar or she was somehow out of the loop. She sounded far more nervous and evasive about the library itself than she had about her employer’s near-death.

 

[lillymity]

Adam took a few idle steps into the library, the heels of his shoes muffled by the Persian rug. He didn’t go far — just enough to take in the room, his gaze sweeping up toward the domed ceiling, then back down toward an open book on a table. He didn’t touch it. Instead, he slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket and tilted his head, faintly amused.

“Bit dark in here, yeah,” he echoed her sentiment, his voice dry and unbothered. “But I’ve always liked places like this. Rooms where people forget to pretend.”

He let that hang for a beat, then turned back toward her, brows lifted with a relaxed curiosity. Not a challenge. Not yet.

“You say it was worse than usual,” he said, his voice softening slightly — like someone coaxing a horse not to spook. “And his brother wasn’t allowed to see him ?”

He let his tone do the work of the question — light, coaxing, but shaped to make her wonder how much he already knew. Not accusatory, not even truly suspicious. Just…attentive.

“You’d think they’d let the poor man see his brother, if it was only his old condition coming back around. Unless it wasn’t.”
He gave a small smile, one corner of his mouth lifting. A man who might’ve caught a detail by accident — or one who wanted you to think that.

He watched her now, closely, but with care. Like a man used to watching people twist themselves into knots without even realizing they'd started pulling the rope.

 

[clostridium]

“it is no great mystery,” Camille replied, with the corner of her lips quirking up in an indulgent smile. She tilted her slightly, looking at Adam with renewed interest. Her tone was smooth, easy, a little dismissive, like he was making a mountain out of a molehill but she would stop just short of saying so for the sake of social mercy. “He was not exactly kicking down the door to get in. He’s suspicious, you see, that Monsieur Bernard does things, at times…for attention. That he was never genuinely ill at all. Rose thought he really might die, so she did not want the stress of that sort of accusation around him. …He probably realized that it was grave, after the first few days, but got too stubborn to admit it. You know the sort of person. Really, it sounds awful, but it does make sense. If I were the eldest of my siblings and got nothing of my family estate - if there was a family estate to be had - and then one of them had a mansion such as this? I might be madly jealous as well, and believe all sorts of things.”

Camille walked over to the window and looked out toward the stone garden. Her eyes rested on the carefully manicured path. She clasped her hands together in front of her stomach, squeezing each one hard with the other. Seeming satisfied with what she had seen - or not seen - she turned back around to face Adam, then grinned. The way she threw her head back slightly and seemed to light up all at once seemed both familiar and a bit unnatural on her - it was a movement either picked up or lifted wholesale from Etienne.

 

[lillymity]

Adam didn’t press immediately. Instead, he walked over to one of the bookshelves and let his fingers ghost over the spines, reading a few titles — nothing more than a small show of distraction. He kept his posture loose, unthreatening, but his tone stayed deliberate when he spoke again, his eyes never really leaving her.

"Funny how that sort of thing brings out the worst in people. Family, I mean." His voice was quieter now, more conversational than investigative. "You can live a whole life thinking you’ve outrun something, and then someone gets sick or signs a deed, and suddenly everyone’s twelve years old again, fighting over who got the bigger slice of cake."

He plucked a small volume off the shelf and turned it in his hands absently. "You said Thierry thought Etienne was faking. That’s a hard thing to say about someone who nearly died. Or...is it just easier to believe than the alternative ?"
A pause, a small shrug.

"I get it, though. Watching someone younger, flimsier, softer…build this place, become this person — it’s not easy, if you’ve spent your life thinking they’re meant to stay behind you." Adam glanced toward her now, catching her eye with that same easy tone, casual but curious. "Was it always like that ? Between them? Thierry and Etienne?"

He replaced the book without looking down. "Or was there a turning point ?"

He smiled again — small, polite, patient. Letting her feel like she had the upper hand if she wanted it. Letting her decide whether she wanted to gossip…or confess.

 

[clostridium]

The light in Camille’s eyes brightened, and she flashed a foxlike smile. This was a joy to discuss. She came a few steps closer so she could lower her voice to a hushed whisper. She spent a single second considering propriety, but it could not stand up to the prospect of discussing one of her favorite subjects with someone who knew nothing at all about it.

“A turning point? Well…they were never close…but there certainly was. It was their father. He fell out with Thierry, and he made it very public when he changed his will, cutting him off completely. He got out of the draft, and he destroyed his own business - Thierry, that is. And their father - he all but disowned him, and treated Monsieur Bernard like he was golden in comparison, since he went into the service. Thierry did not want to speak with him, not for years. They are mostly cordial now, but… you know, you can still see it rippling under the surface. They argue on and off, but any sort of crack that Monsieur Bernard shows, the tension escalates for a while. The illness…frequently precipitates these arguments. But right now, I truly…well, I do not think ill of him for this, as I would do the same in his position, but Monsieur Bernard has to be toying with him, having the attorneys around to make amendments to his will. And it is working.”

 

[lillymity]

Just a subtle narrowing of the eyes, the kind people do when they’re trying to listen harder than they’re willing to admit. He didn't lean in, didn't mirror Camille’s conspiratorial whisper. Instead, he stood steady, hands loosely in his pockets, letting her get as close as she wanted. She clearly thrived on this — on knowing, on telling. Adam just made sure she felt heard.

“Interesting,” he murmured, half under his breath, almost like he was saying it to himself.

He let a few heartbeats pass before he spoke again, his gaze briefly flicking toward the window where Camille had looked out earlier, then back to her. “That’s the thing about power, isn’t it ? People think it’s about wealth, property, public attention. But it’s this.” He tapped two fingers together, like flicking at tension. “This little thread that stretches between people when you know just how to make them wait. That sounds like him.”

He said it neutrally. It wasn’t praise, nor was it criticism — it was an observation, shaped like a compliment if she wanted it to be.

“But — if Thierry’s really sweating over a line in a will,” Adam continued, more softly now, “that means he thinks Etienne might not be long for this world. So either he 'believes the illness is real, despite what he says...or he knows something worse.”

That line hung in the air like smoke for a moment before Adam casually took a seat in the reading chair, resting one ankle over the opposite knee.

“Did Etienne mention what kinds of changes he was thinking of ?” he asked, running a fingertip absentmindedly along the armrest. “Or was it all just theater — pen and paper, no ink?”

His tone was still gentle. Still casual. But the questions were beginning to aim sharper.

 

[clostridium]

“Oh, he never said anything. Nothing at all, it was all very sudden. Just called for his attorneys so that he could amend his will, and said no more. I think that Thierry, with the…history of the phrase between the two of them, drew certain conclusions of his own. You know, you seem a bit of a grounding influence. Monsieur, he has been in a state for the last few days. Really awful, you see. All of us were concerned for him…he…well. He is far better now.” Camille shifted uncomfortably, and her smile turned meek. She glanced at her hands, then back to Adam.

“…You know, I could introduce you. He has likely returned to the guest house - he lives there, on the grounds. If you intend to stay here a while, you shall meet sooner or later. Unless you would like some time in the library to read or rest prior to dinner, but we tend to eat late, so it may be several hours, past dusk.”

Torn, Camille lingered. From her expression, it was clear she craved the drama of an interaction between the two men, who seemingly had little reason to like one another and plenty of cause for the alternative. She did not even seem to be trying to hide that fact. After all, why would she? She assumed that Adam would want an opportunity to shout at him, from the course of their conversation.

 

[lillymity]

Adam rose slowly from the chair, his movements unhurried but deliberate, like someone pulling themselves out of a thought that hadn’t quite finished unfolding. He didn’t smile, but his expression warmed just slightly — enough to suggest appreciation, not friendliness. He stepped closer to Camille, though not intrusively so, and tilted his head just a fraction.
“That would be…very helpful, actually. Thank you.” His voice was quiet but firm. “If he’s nearby, no reason to delay. Introductions don’t get easier the longer they hang.”

Then he paused — almost theatrically — but only just. “And it’s not that I want to shout at him,” he added, eyes still locked on hers. “I don’t think he’s worth that, if I’m being honest. But sometimes people tell you more by how they dodge a question than how they answer it. And I’d like to see what his idea of a fair brotherhood sounds like.”

There was no malice in his tone — just something pointed, something surgical. Adam was no stranger to watching tensions curdle, and he clearly suspected that whatever poison had hit Etienne hadn’t been poured by a stranger’s hand. Couldn’t be after what Etienne told him already.

He nodded toward the door. “Lead the way, if you’re still feeling brave. I won’t start any fires.”

Then, a final note, dry and perfectly pitched: “But I do tend to notice where the matches are kept.”

 

[clostridium]

Camille’s hesitancy fell away so quickly that it was as if it had never been present at all. Her sly, mischievous smile returned, barely concealed underneath a hastily-composed layer of outward deference. She was far more effective telling some lies than attempting others. She could not even pretend that this was not the ideal outcome. However it went, it would be something worth talking about. The ideal scenario was both men losing their tempers entirely, completely embarrassing themselves.

“But of course. You seem a perfect gentleman. I would expect nothing less.” Camille backed away the first few steps, keeping her glacially-pale eyes fixed on Adam, then turned on her heel and led him back through the darkened halls and to the ballroom, then out the front door. An old man in a tailored, dark suit stood on the stairs, watching them like a gargoyle, but Camille avoided eye contact and the two of them escaped into the streaming light of the day before either man could acknowledge the other. Outside, the clouds formed an unbroken wall, providing respite from the late afternoon sun, which made its presence known in a pinprick of light off west, hovering like a burning eye with its focus entirely on the two people crossing the lawn. Camille led the way down a path paved with rounded stones, which split in several directions. There were actually two outbuildings that looked to be small homes, one of which was stylishly appointed in finishes that approximated the glamour of the main house at a less grandiose scale, and one that was only visible once they were already halfway to the door, which was situated to the side and behind the main building and was much more rustic in appearance.

The guest house, like the rest of the estate, was trimmed with an immaculately planted garden, and it looked spotless from the outside. The windows were all dark, like no one was present within, but Camille hammered on the front door all the same. With a darting glance back to Adam, she backed up. About thirty seconds of silence later, the heavy oak door swung open. Evidently, the household took the health of its hinges very seriously; the doors all glided open without a sound. Framed in the doorway was Thierry, whose befuddled expression upon seeing Camille gave way to open irritation when he laid eyes on Adam.

“I am giving Monsieur the grand tour,” she announced, “since he shall be staying with us. I have been telling him about this place, and he was most eager to speak with you.”

“Was he now?” Thierry drawled. His disinterest was palpable, and he made to shut the door.

“Well, I was telling him of your business with Foster and Holloway, and he admitted that he was not himself familiar with any large-scale trade in shares.” Again, Camille’s lie was completely seamless. At that, Thierry paused. Still wary, he kept the door where it was.

“…Well. If you are interested in speaking with me about something reasonable, I suppose that I can spare the time. And Camille?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“You are not invited.”

Leaving her staring a burning hole in his forehead, Thierry LeBlanc stepped aside to allow Adam to enter the home.

Inside, it was decorated more subtly than the main house, but nearly as expensively. Thierry’s clothing looked to be bespoke, and his watch was either worth as much as a midline automobile or a very clever counterfeit. He shared his brother’s languorous, above-it-all manner of seemingly drifting from place to place rather than walking, as if he were simply too wealthy to be caught dead touching the floor. Also like Etienne, worry deepened the lines around his eyes, and there was a subtle tension to the set of his jaw. As soon as the other man entered, he shut the door, unwilling to hear Camille’s grumbled protest.

“Thierry LeBlanc. A pleasure to meet you, I hope,” he said, extending his hand.

 

[lillymity]

Adam stepped inside with calm precision, his footfalls light but intentional, as if crossing a threshold that demanded a certain kind of awareness. He took in the guest house with a single sweep of the eyes, cataloguing the expensive restraint of the decor, the quiet hum of money trying not to shout. Then he turned toward Thierry, taking the offered hand — but slowly, deliberately, with no rush to please or ingratiate.
“Adam,” he replied. No surname. No title. Just the name, like he assumed Thierry would either already know it or that it didn’t matter.

The handshake was firm, dry, brief. Adam didn’t linger or squeeze to prove a point, but neither did he defer.

“Thanks for agreeing to see me,” he said, tone even but watchful. “I know I’m not exactly what you were expecting. I imagine your brother didn’t mention much.” He gave a small, cool smile, just enough to keep things civil. “He’s been—” a pause, like choosing the right word was a matter of surgery, “—private.”

Adam’s eyes lingered on Thierry for a second longer, then flicked to the side, taking in a polished end table and the neat stack of mail resting on it. His gaze drifted back, but his posture had changed slightly — no longer the guest being shown in, but a man settling into a room he meant to understand.

“I’ll be honest with you,” he continued, calmly. “I didn’t come here to talk about the market.” A faint, almost apologetic shrug. “That was a 'kindness on Camille’s part. I came here because I’ve heard your brother’s side of the story, and I’d like to understand the rest. The way people move around him lately, it feels like everyone’s trying to avoid saying something out loud.”
Adam watched Thierry’s face as he said it — nothing aggressive, just calmly attentive, the way a seasoned interrogator lets silence do the heavy lifting.

He stepped further into the room without waiting for an invitation, letting the weight of his presence settle.

 

[clostridium]

Thierry’s features settled into a scowl that seemed at home there. His brows set in a straight line, and he let out a long sigh through his nose. The friendliness that he had summoned on the off chance of a potential investor was replaced with a wall of stone. He shut his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. Without a word, he turned and put the kettle on. He did not intend to make an offer of hospitality. This was not his guest, or, in his view, much of a guest at all. His height and athletic physique were at odds with the way he moved like a shadow through the low light of the room.

“Private. My life would be much improved if he kept his personal life private, rather than sending it like a battering ram to my doorstep.” Thierry turned to face Adam, gazing down his nose at him with a simmering anger that was barely concealed. Each word he selected had a tension behind it, like it was being forced into place in a puzzle that did not accommodate its shape. “What tired old dramatics has he asked you to rehash? No, no, not asked. That would be trite. Too obvious by far. What tired old dramatics has he just barely alluded to enough to keep you interested, acting wounded whenever the subject is broached, so that when you puff up your chest and march down to confront me you do so with complete confidence that the idea was yours all along? Hm?”

The kettle whistled, and Thierry whipped around and snatched it off the heat so quickly that it sloshed, nearly escaping the spout. He forced his arm to still and began the slow, delicate process of pouring the water over his filter to let it bloom. Evidently, he had begun the process already when he had been interrupted by the knock, as everything had been prepared ahead of time, including two delicate porcelain cups that sat side by side. He added a scant few grains of brown sugar to one, and returned the other to the cabinet, then focused his attention on adding more water, bit by bit, and watching it drip. He did not return his eyes to his unwanted guest.

 

[lillymity]

The blonde didn’t flinch. He didn’t break eye contact when Thierry delivered his monologue, and he didn’t look away when the man turned his back to pour the water. He stood still, a quiet weight in the room, letting the tension settle like dust that he had no intention of brushing away. His silence wasn’t a retreat — it was deliberate, and the air between them began to feel like the coiling stillness before a storm breaks.

When he finally spoke, it was with a low, even voice that neither pushed nor yielded.
“He didn’t ask me to come here. You can believe that or not, but I’m not in the habit of being sent. And I’m certainly not in the habit of playing white knight for men I barely know.” Adam crossed his arms loosely, not defensive — but a tad provocative.

“I’m here because something’s wrong. Because your brother nearly died and no one seems interested in asking why — not seriously. And because when a man suddenly starts calling in lawyers and locking his doors, it means something. That much, I do know.”

His eyes drifted to the cup Thierry had set aside and returned to the cabinet — an action that hadn’t gone unnoticed. A small, dry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m not marching anywhere. And I’m not here to pick a side, because frankly, from what I’ve seen so far, neither of you seems particularly interested in being defended.”
He stepped forward slightly — not aggressive, but assertive enough to make it clear he wasn’t going to be dismissed out of hand.

“But I am interested in the truth. You don’t have to like me, not a lot of people do. But I think you’ve been waiting for someone to actually ask, no ? You’re just waiting for someone who wants to hear your part, your suffering.”

He let the last sentence hang in the air, not filling the silence that followed, just letting it stretch like a challenge dressed up as an invitation.

 

[clostridium]

Thierry did not turn back around until his coffee finished dripping into the cup. He stirred it carefully, then drew it to his lips for a sip. When he turned, it was slow and deliberate, and his eyes were stony. His jaw was clenched in place. Although his teeth were not gritted together, the muscles of his lower jaw still worked in place, tense beneath the skin. He was just as bemused as he was annoyed at the latest slight.

“Well you’re certainly trying a new tactic. Marginally less pathetic than pretending at love. We’ll see how long it takes before he gets bored of you.” Thierry took a contemplative sip, mastering the sneering curl of his lip before it could twitch into too obvious an expression. “The truth? My brother’s near-death experience? There is no great question of why. He sips laudanum to calm down enough to smoke opium, and he never misses a toast. I’ve said it to his face, and I shall say it to yours, and anyone who will listen. He got sick because he made himself sick. This paranoid fantasy of his that you’ve got yourself wrapped up in, well - call the wheel. Red for paranoid delusion, and black for desperately seeking attention. You, sir, are welcome to make your own bets. All of it is the same to me. Anyone who so chooses may enlist himself in the madhouse. I will remain in touch with the basic tenets of reality.”

 

[lillymity]

Adam didn’t blink at the insult. He let it land without reaction, without bristling, without flinching. Thierry’s sneer, his bitter precision, the venom wrapped up in the idea of love being used like a weapon — it was all a defense, and not a subtle one. Adam had seen men like this before: proud, angry, afraid to admit they’d been wounded in ways they couldn’t control.

“I’m not here to be part of anyone’s act,” Adam said simply, voice even. “And I’m not here for him.”

He took a slow step forward, closing the space to match Thierry’s intensity. His tone shifted slightly, not softer, but quieter, more incisive. A scalpel rather than a hammer.

“But you talk about reality like it’s fixed. Like it’s 'obvious. You think Etienne’s trying to drag you into some fantasy. But you don’t strike me as the type who’d be here — still — if you really didn’t care about what happened and what will happen if he does lose to his fantasy. If you truly believed he was just sick by his own hand, again, and again, and again, you wouldn’t be angry. You’d be exhausted. You’d be done.”

He paused there, not for drama, but to let the truth settle into the silence between them.

“You’re not done. You’re furious.”
Adam’s voice dipped low.

“Which makes me think that maybe this time 'was different. And if it was ? Then everything you just said is posturing.”
He let that sit for a beat, and then leaned slightly to the side, glancing at the porcelain cup still steaming in Thierry’s hand.

 

[clostridium]

“I cannot be done,” he snapped. “It is a luxury you will surely avail yourself of, when it all becomes tragic rather than charming. Do you want me to say it aloud? Yes - I am exhausted with his behavior. I am angry with him because he chooses to continue, over and over. And I am furious with people like you, because you have forgotten your place. Somehow, you arrive here as one in a line of temporary amusements for a man who won’t remember your name this time next year, and you march around like you’re the king of the castle, prying into family business. It is no business of yours if I care whether my brother lives or dies. Clearly, sir, you think a lot of your own intelligence. Perhaps use some of it, and posit that there is more at play here than an outsider would understand.”

The control in Thierry’s voice wavered. For a moment, just a flicker of a second, he sounded more upset than angry. His free hand clenched into a fist, and he drained his coffee, drinking it far too quickly to appreciate the quality that he clearly took very seriously - or to allow it to cool down. With a painfully slow breath, he set his cup on the counter. The porcelain clinked softly. Thierry’s eyes burned with indignation, and they rested, unblinking, on Adam.

“Why have you deemed it necessary - or appropriate- to come here? Has Etienne decided that I’ve poisoned him, is that his new stroke of genius? You can tell my brother that his little ploy is a waste of effort. I know that he does not intend to give me a cent of his hard-earned fortune. The theatrics, they are insulting. Perhaps I shall poison him. Then, just for one damnable moment in his life, he can have the pleasure of not being a liar.”

 

[lillymity]

Adam tilted his head just slightly, watching Thierry with a level, almost curious stare — not tense, not overtly confrontational, but with that kind of measured scrutiny that tended to make people uncomfortable if they had something to hide.

“Mm,” he said, nodding thoughtfully, “so the 'official story is vice and self-infliction. Laudanum and opium and whatever else the eccentric aristocrat’s palate demands.” He took a slow step toward the edge of the kitchen counter, not touching anything — just placing himself with deliberate casualness inside Thierry’s orbit. “It’s convenient. Neat. A little too neat.”

Then he motioned subtly toward the delicate coffee cup Thierry had just poured. “Poisoning’s an old story, isn’t it? But it always begins with something everyone was already drinking.”

There was no accusation in his tone, only implication. The kind of suggestion that was all shadow and no shape. Adam let the sentence hang, then gestured airily toward the cup.

“Careful with that. I’d hate for you to end up feeling exactly like your brother.” His brow lifted. “Though I imagine you’d just call it a bad roast.”

His smile sharpened just slightly, polite but not warm. There was something more cutting in it now. “You speak about him like someone who’s already written the eulogy. Which makes me wonder whether you’re mourning, or waiting.”

Then, with one last, deliberate glance at the coffee — at the careful hands, the curated ritual, the faint stain of tension under Thierry’s calm — Adam added lightly:
“Funny, isn’t it? For all your talk of staying in touch with reality, you brew your morning like a man who doesn’t trust the world to keep turning unless he stirs it himself.”

 

[clostridium]

“Who do you think you are?” Thierry snarled. He took a step forward, but aborted the motion, refusing to draw too close to Adam. He was careful to stay just far enough away that neither of them could lash out and get a hit in with no warning - a sign that he had exploded at someone in the past, or that he was used to others lashing out at him suddenly and without warning. Everything in his mannerisms spoke to someone who was acquainted with, and expected, violence. “…You have no right. Behaving as if I would actually harm my own brother - like I want him dead. How dare you? Your naïveté is matched only by your ready cruelty. Tell my brother this - he’s not to let his new dog off the lead until it is better trained. Leave my home. Now. I have nothing more to say to you.”

Still tensed to spring, Thierry forced his knees to bend. He walked stiffly to the door, passing Adam quickly, and held it open. His face was livid, in every sense of the word, but there was something underneath it - a severe discomfort, verging on nausea. His fluidity of motion had hardened into something jagged, and his body was like that of an automaton. He refused to look at Adam. Instead, his eyes fixed on the wall beyond him, looking insistent all the same.

 

[lillymity]

The blonde didn’t move right away. He stood exactly where he was, hands in his coat pockets, expression inscrutably calm. Thierry’s outburst had not shaken him; if anything, it seemed to solidify something. His gaze lingered on Thierry’s face for a beat too long to be polite — like he was cataloguing, filing something away.
When he finally spoke, his tone was quieter than before. Not conciliatory, but quieter. More deliberate.

“Touch a nerve, did I ?” He didn’t smirk, but the words had the weight of one beneath them. “Funny thing — people only get this angry when they’ve been accused of something they’ve already imagined doing.”
He stepped once toward the door, but only one step — still too far for Thierry to shut it behind him without either confrontation or retreat.

“You don’t want him dead. That’s not what I said.” Adam tilted his head slightly, tone now like someone carefully outlining a distinction in an academic debate. “But want and need don’t always travel together. Sometimes people act out of fear. Or spite. Or pride. Or just…impatience. It’s not about hating your brother. You just can’t stand the idea of living in his shadow.”

He took one last look around the guest house, his eyes catching on the curated restraint of the space — tasteful, dignified, distant. Then back to Thierry.

“You’re not nearly as private as you think. All that calm, all this control, anyone who rehearses this hard is dying to slip.”

And still — still — he didn’t leave. His eyes dropped briefly to the floor, as if he were deciding something, then met Thierry’s again. “You hold that door open much longer, people might think you’re being hospitable.” His smug grin just screaming Do it, if you’re brave enough! and Thierry knew exactly what.

 

[clostridium]

Blood was rushing in Thierry’s ears. His eyes locked on Adam’s, and an internal war was made plain on his face. Two things became abundantly clear in the exact same moment: he was terrified of the prospect of physical violence, and he was going to lash out regardless. He may not have inherited any part of the family fortune, and he escaped the weight of the surname long ago, but his self-control was a perfect carbon copy of Etienne’s, a gift that he had not been able to refuse, no matter how little he wanted it. All at once, he was a terrified child and a dog with its hackles raised, baring its teeth and snarling.

Both his hands rose at once. One gripped Adam’s collar, and the other thudded into his jaw hard, a vicious uppercut that revealed he was a little bit better-practiced at fighting than befitted a gentleman of his station. He shoved hard with the other hand to sent him stumbling backward toward the front steps. His expression spasmed, and he slammed the door between them, latching it quickly, he turned away, breathing heavily, trying to swallow his heart before it beat out of his throat. He crossed back quickly into the kitchen and stood before the sink, first washing his cup, then cleaning each element of his pour-over set until he couldn’t take it any more and began to scrub his face instead, washing away the tears he hadn’t realized were flowing freely down his cheeks. He scoured with the dishcloth until his face was red and patchy in places, but he could not wills away his resemblance to his father.

 

[lillymity]

The hit landed cleanly — cleaner than Adam would have guessed, with the practiced power of someone who’d thrown punches not just in anger, but in desperation. His head snapped back with the blow, his collar yanked hard in the same moment, and the heel of Thierry’s palm shoved him like an accusation. He staggered back, the steps catching his feet unevenly, breath gone for a beat and eyes blinking fast, as though the air had been knocked out of the scene itself.

And yet — when the door slammed shut and the bolt fell into place — the blonde didn’t call out, didn’t curse, didn’t even move right away. He straightened slowly on the front steps, pressing his thumb to the corner of his mouth where the taste of copper bloomed. He looked at it, red smeared across skin. Then smiled, not out of joy, but something colder. Confirming.

He stepped off the stoop and took a few paces toward the gravel path, flexing his jaw once, twice. It ached. He welcomed it. Pain like that didn’t lie. Pain like that meant something.

Adam turned and looked back toward the house — not with rage, but with that same unflinching calm he’d carried into the room. The wind shifted and lifted the hem of his coat. The blonde exhaled slowly and murmured to himself, “Not paranoia, then. Not entirely.” His eyes drifted toward the side of the guest house.

Then he turned and walked — measured, steady — toward the path back to the main house, holding his hand under his nose like a little cup to not ruin his entire outfit with the blood that came flowing out like a river. Worth it, though. Even if he didn’t expect Etienne’s brother to lash out this quickly, he was just being nice.