Comforting Actions for Genevieve

[Benedict Bridgerton]

( reach ) : one muse reaches out to the other after they've withdrawn from everyone.

zora

[zora]

template by punki of adoxography

comforting actions

--- for Benedict Bridgerton

Ever since the fifth Bridgerton had found out about the extent on Genevieve’s involvement with the whole Lady Whistledown ordeal, Gen found herself being more involved with the Bridgerton family she had thought possible for months now. Especially with her and Ben’s relationship, or whatever it was, coming to a standstill and eventually falling apart… as she knew it should, but she still found herself unable, or even unwilling, to forget. He was still on her mind and so very stubbornly in her way as well – it seemed as though he was there whenever she walked the streets of London, whenever she visited Henry and Lucy, whenever she came over to the Bridgerton estate for an at home fitting. These were all places he often frequented, of course, but Gen wasn’t quite ready to confront herself with the fact that she might have been searching him out on purpose. Or that all those questions about him she bothered Eloise with were just a part of making polite conversation.

The feeling of one’s art being rejected was one Genevieve was sadly all too familiar with and when she learned about Ben’s unfortunate circumstances about getting into the academy she couldn’t help but seek him out again. Not on purpose, of course – she just happened to be at a fitting and just happened to walk past his wing. She just happened to knock on the door after she heard he had not come out for days. In the moments that passed as she waited for an answer it felt as though previous couple of months had never happened – as though her heart was his again and so it broke along with him. “Benedict. I’ve heard… I’m worried about you. It’s been a while, but…” The modiste was not often at a loss for words, but when it came to Ben, her world got turned upside down.

[Benedict Bridgerton]

Tag: zora

i' m    n o t    b o u n d    b y 

THE RULES OF SOCIETY

Benedict felt like an utter failure. There had been few moments in his life where he felt as if he had actually succeeded in something -- particularly where his hope as an artist lay. Henry's mentorship being a big one. Getting into the Royal Academy was another. Where Benedict had been so insecure about his work, this had been a huge source of excitement and acceptance for the second son. To know that he was good enough to be recognized and acknowledged. To know that he would gain the necessary tutelage to become even better. He had thought that the school believed in him. He had thought that he had done this own his own, based solely on his talents. Only to discover that . . . it was because of paid coin. It was because his brother had paid for it and they had accepted him. Once again, his privilege proved how little worth he was as a actual person. He was the brother of a viscount. The second son of the Bridgerton family. And, that was it. His own self identity shattered for . . . what other worth did he hold?

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Realization and forced acceptance of all this had caused him to withdraw. He did not want to be out among the ton; he did not even wish to be around his siblings. He had retreated into his own room and longed for the day the season truly drew to an end so that he could find solitude in My Cottage. Away from it all and just cope through whatever means necessary. Laying in bed, and staring at the nothingness in the ceiling, he heard a knock on the door. Not wishing to answer it but also not wanting to evoke pity from his family -- though he was fairly certain he had already done soo -- he begrudgingly made his way to the door. Out of all the people it could have been, he had not for a moment though it would be Genevieve. He had indeed missed her, though did not force his company onto her.

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She had made it clear she no longer wished to see him and so . . . seeing her now, was both a comfort and a painful reminder. "Genevieve," he practically breathed, not even considering the informality of using her first name. But then . . . she had used his. "It, has, yes." He was suddenly all to aware about the casual state of dress. An untucked shirt, no vest or coat atop, his pants absent of boots . . . and they were in -- or well she was still at the door -- of his bedroom. "I'm . . . I'm well." A blatant lie. "How are you?" He almost regretted the question as soon as it escaped his lips, and his features scrunched in the realization of how idiotic of a question it was.