Y Kant Adrien Read
Aug 19, 2009 14:27:44 GMT -5
Post by Adrien Baillon on Aug 19, 2009 14:27:44 GMT -5
One evening, as like so many other evenings, an uninvited blond boy who worked for Micaela slipped into Veidt's room to lounge about and wait for him. Adrien threw himself on the bed - the sheets smelled of Nostalgia, which was beginning to be the scent Adrien's subconscious was made out of - and lay there for a while, buried in Veidt's pillow, before propping himself up on it. Sitting up, hair already mussed - there is a rule written somewhere, probably in an ancient Greek text, probably in an ancient Greek text Adrian Veidt had taken possession of and now kept in a glass case and pored over with a pair of special gloves, that in order to be a kept boy one must have easily-mussed hair in addition to all those other traits Adrien Baillon possessed in abundance - he started unbuttoning his vest and then let it hang on a bedpost. He tugged his tie off next, and then pushed himself off the sheets, leaving the tie on the pillowcase, and walked over to Adrian Veidt's desk.
Adrien had learned his lesson once about poking through Roger Marchetti's papers. Even though Roger Marchetti had been told, as basically everyone had been eventually, or had the thing implied to them, that Adrien couldn't read, he nonetheless was paranoid about Adrien maybe recognizing something well enough to tell police about it later, not that he ever had anything to fear from Adrien. Even if Adrien was terrified of Marchetti and had wanted to escape him for a couple of years, he remained loyal to the very end, ironically. However, Roger Marchetti was not Adrian Veidt, and he didn't leave large, glossy, interesting-looking books open on his desk.
Adrien tiptoed over carefully, leaning over the book with a hand lifted to his mouth, thumbnail pressed against his lower lip in great thought. His eyes flickered over the page, and even though there were numerous words he didn't get, of course, he didn't pull away. Nor did he bring himself to actually sit down, or pull the book towards him. He did not want it to look disturbed.
After a moment, after what to him seemed like an eternity of debating with himself, he tentatively reached a hand over to turn the page, very delicately, eyes following the words.
He did not realize his back was to nearly all of the doors in the room. When you're reading, after all, usually you stop noticing outside stimuli.
Adrien had learned his lesson once about poking through Roger Marchetti's papers. Even though Roger Marchetti had been told, as basically everyone had been eventually, or had the thing implied to them, that Adrien couldn't read, he nonetheless was paranoid about Adrien maybe recognizing something well enough to tell police about it later, not that he ever had anything to fear from Adrien. Even if Adrien was terrified of Marchetti and had wanted to escape him for a couple of years, he remained loyal to the very end, ironically. However, Roger Marchetti was not Adrian Veidt, and he didn't leave large, glossy, interesting-looking books open on his desk.
Adrien tiptoed over carefully, leaning over the book with a hand lifted to his mouth, thumbnail pressed against his lower lip in great thought. His eyes flickered over the page, and even though there were numerous words he didn't get, of course, he didn't pull away. Nor did he bring himself to actually sit down, or pull the book towards him. He did not want it to look disturbed.
After a moment, after what to him seemed like an eternity of debating with himself, he tentatively reached a hand over to turn the page, very delicately, eyes following the words.
He did not realize his back was to nearly all of the doors in the room. When you're reading, after all, usually you stop noticing outside stimuli.