Operation Apron
Sept 29, 2009 16:22:26 GMT -5
Post by Adrien Baillon on Sept 29, 2009 16:22:26 GMT -5
Adrien had woken up before Adrian for probably the first time in his life, and after gently pulling himself out of Adrian's arms - for Adrian had been holding him very closely, and the imprint of Adrien's pyjama collar was plain against Adrian's bare chest - he was free to in astonishment gaze on Adrian Veidt, sleeping. It provoked a strong sense of affection, and, in an odd fashion, protectiveness. Adrian's hair, fallen from its Veidt coiffure, was just a lot of blond fringe hanging over his eyelids, and his mouth was so pink it looked like he'd been struck. Adrien cautiously bent and kissed him on the cheek, like a dutiful son might kiss his mother; and then, on second thought, on the forehead. Then he slipped out and changed quietly into today's outfit (t-shirt, belted slacks, and a lovely form-fitting brown knit sweater that was a little long in the sleeves) and took up something else he'd brought and continued on into the kitchen to make breakfast.
This was where confusion first settled in. There were things in the cupboards, yes. A few of them. None of them was remotely breakfast-like, and most of it, in fact, seemed to be oils or herbs or spices of some kind or another - things one could possibly prepare breakfast with, but not breakfast.
After a while of hunting, Adrien decided to do what the French did best and decided to go out to market instead. He was, the whole time, very concerned about what this meant about when Adrian ate his meals, if he did not eat very often here. Surely Adrian of all people knew the importance of steady, healthy meals?
This concern was not overly evident, however. Adrien never nagged. He was, in fact, enormously cheery by the time Adrian came downstairs, singing Bal Dans Ma Rue while buttering toast, the smell of eggs and vegetarian sausage to his mind quite heavenly - or, its opposite, beautifully mundane.
His back was to Adrian, however, even as he stepped aside to pour orange-mango juice. This meant that the only things clearly visible of his red-striped apron were the bow tied in the back and the little flounces at the shoulders.
As he stepped aside, the sound of high heels on linoleum was plain. It only added to the somehow congruent picture Adrien was creating of the bizarre blend of perfect housewife and shabby street urchin.
This was where confusion first settled in. There were things in the cupboards, yes. A few of them. None of them was remotely breakfast-like, and most of it, in fact, seemed to be oils or herbs or spices of some kind or another - things one could possibly prepare breakfast with, but not breakfast.
After a while of hunting, Adrien decided to do what the French did best and decided to go out to market instead. He was, the whole time, very concerned about what this meant about when Adrian ate his meals, if he did not eat very often here. Surely Adrian of all people knew the importance of steady, healthy meals?
This concern was not overly evident, however. Adrien never nagged. He was, in fact, enormously cheery by the time Adrian came downstairs, singing Bal Dans Ma Rue while buttering toast, the smell of eggs and vegetarian sausage to his mind quite heavenly - or, its opposite, beautifully mundane.
His back was to Adrian, however, even as he stepped aside to pour orange-mango juice. This meant that the only things clearly visible of his red-striped apron were the bow tied in the back and the little flounces at the shoulders.
As he stepped aside, the sound of high heels on linoleum was plain. It only added to the somehow congruent picture Adrien was creating of the bizarre blend of perfect housewife and shabby street urchin.