Original: La Confidence
Title: La Confidence
Series: Original (L'oiseau du Bonheur)
Characters/Pairings: Tristan, Adel
Rating: PG
Warnings: None except that Adel is a bit of a jerk all the time. :U
Summary: Sometimes you just gotta spill the beans to someone, even if the someone is your skeptical friend.
"Your English," says Adel, "has improved."
Tristan is pleased with himself. That's a good compliment coming from someone who is more or less a perfectionist monster, to put it lightly.
"I've been practicing," he informs proudly. "Every day, en fait." He pauses and goes to correct himself before his friend can. "Actually. Every day, actually."
Adel raises his eyebrows just slightly but says nothing.
But it's been a secret for too long, and the younger boy is becoming a bit desperate to just say it. He just wants to tell someone. He takes a deep breath. "I met a girl."
"Oh?" The pianist looks up from his reading material and they lock eyes, another thing that means a secret kind of interest. This is why they're best friends. They have an understanding. "She studies English as well, then."
"She doesn't speak French."
This is no minor revelation, given that Tristan has spent literally his entire life fighting tooth and nail against having to learn English in the first place, and Adel knows it. Whining and carrying on had eventually stopped working once he turned ten, but he had never lost hope that if he complained enough, his mother would completely cave in and they could go back to speaking only la belle langue.
"That's... very ambitious of you. Surely she's somewhat accommodating, I imagine."
"If you mean with my accent, then yes." That's been something of a sore spot for a long time, but Tristan has more or less given up on trying to fix it. Pronouncing 'h' might as well be impossible and he doesn't understand how anyone on earth can not roll their 'r's. "But she doesn't speak any French."
Adel's book closes completely. "I admit I'm now rather interested in this whole affair. It it something you've spoken to Uncle about?"
Tristan shakes his head. "No, he'll tell my mother and then I don't know what will happen! Imagine if Eleanor came over here and Mother started fussing over her! Aah! How embarrassing!"
He sits quietly after this terrible thought, then gets up from his seat determinedly and goes to his desk, returning with a single sheet of score paper. He holds it out to his friend--no mean feat for a regular person, given that the eye that will scrutinize it is renowned for being especially keen.
"Ah, I see you've been composing again."
'Composing' is a strong word, considering that his understanding of music theory is nowhere near the level it should be at in order to write the sorts of things he wants to and actually convey his thoughts properly.
"...It's for her."
"So this is quite serious." There is a ghost of a smile on the older boy's lips. His grey eyes flick down to the notes, then back to their composer, who is waiting with a sort of grim frown. "You've forgotten to change the key signature," he says immediately. "Just here. If you've got this many accidentals, you may as well change to the major key. And the tonic is unresolved, as usual. This bar line should be--hmmm."
He takes the pen from his pocket and goes to begin revisions.
"Stop, stop. I... I want to fix it myself. I know it will be broken, but it's better like this. I want her to know I love her enough to try."
"You're a strange boy." Adel holds the page out to him to take back. "But do what you think is best."
"If I wanted perfection," says Tristan, "I would commission you instead."
Adel gives the quiet "ha" that is the closest thing that ever passes for a laugh with him, but it means he's somewhat flattered, which is something of an accomplishment. "Music is forever, Tristan. You know that. Is that something you're ready to give to a lady?"
"Only real music is forever."
"And love?" The cynicism in his face is as plain as day to Tristan, but it's one of those millions of little things you can't 'just know' about Adel. He's a Very Serious Person, and a very confusing one, too.
Tristan does his French shrug and tries to roll his eyes because he's forgotten again that it doesn't really work anymore. "I don't know. Lots of fake love seems to be forever also."
"'Forever as well'."
"I know, I know." He sinks back into his chair and looks back at his amateurish score. "But it feels real. It's complicated, too, I guess, but I can't tell you about that yet."
"Very well." Adel puts his book on the side table, rises, and dusts off his black pants as though some kind of invisible dust has settled on him because he sat too long. "If you'll excuse me, however, I need to finish my proofs to send to the printer. It's been a long day."
Normally there would be a kind of thrill at knowing that Adel's score proofs were leaving for the printer from his house, of all places, but Tristan still feels a little discouraged at the prospect of being the imperfect pupil of such an perfect musician. Eleanor deserves better. "...Adel?"
"Yes?"
"If you didn't already think I was crazy, you're probably going to change your mind, but I promise I'm saying the truth."
"'Telling the truth'." He lingers in the door for a moment, looking a little too much like a younger version of his uncle. "That's good to hear. I'm difficult to lie to."
I couldn't make this up if I tried, Tristan thinks as Adel's footsteps fade down the hall.
```````
It takes weeks before a new opportunity arises for them to speak at length. Adel sets up concerts in Italy and is asked to play in the salons of the wealthy and frivolous along the way. Everything about him is appealing to artistocrats--his good upbringing, his perfect manners, his perfect playing.
Even when he returns to the Valois household afterward, he does not rest. He plays the piano for hours every morning and keeps up with his letters and compositions and reading.
"I'm ready to tell you," Tristan tells him one evening as Adel finishes his tea and his new repertoire list. "But we have to speak in my room and in French."
French is more or less taboo at home; Tristan's father is an anglophile, and the attitude of his parents and the steward is that he is never going to learn anything if he keeps defaulting to his first language. He knows his insistence upon it in this case will make it clear that it's important.
Adel does not finish his tea. He gets up silently and follows the younger boy up the grand staircase to his wing of the estate. They settle themselves in the study and Tristan closes the door. Isaac is a proper gentleman. He will not open it for any reason unless asked. Servants know better, too.
"Is this about your lady love?" Adel asks, sitting primly in the nearest armchair. The fireplace crackles warmly to his right.
"In French. We need to talk in French."
The pianist sighs, and it's like the sigh itself is the transition. He switches effortlessly. "I don't see that it will help, I'm afraid."
"It will help," Tristan says, grateful at suddenly not having to focus on speaking, "because Isaac speaks terrible French and he is the only one I have cause to fear."
"Very well."
"I haven't spoken much of her, but there's good reason." Ah, his Paris accent feels so good! English uses the wrong parts of his mouth, and it's amazing to feel the difference when he doesn't need to use them anymore. No more hard consonant sounds, no more stupid "th"s.
"Her name is Eleanor, as I recall?" They have not yet met, but Tristan has made sure his friend knows exactly how much of his time his girlfriend occupies and how much he likes her and the things they do together.
"It is. I love her, and that's why I'm telling you this, as my best friend."
"Go on." Adel isn't particularly sure what to expect. Tristan tends to be fairly sensible most of the time, in spite of things like not keeping his enthusiasm in check when he should. A part of him is a little concerned they'll be talking about something... inappropriate. Even though he's willing to bend most of the etiquette rules when they're alone together, Adel isn't completely sure they should be breaking that one. That's for him to talk with his father about.
Tristan takes a deep breath. "...Promise me you won't tell anyone."
"Don't be ridiculous. I wouldn't tell anyone something you're obviously going to great lengths to hide." Suspicions mounting. He is not completely prepared to have to shut down this conversation, but will do it if necessary. "What is it?"
"She's a vampire."
Adel's response is half-sigh and half 'oh'. He's relieved and annoyed at the same time. "Please. Tell me that isn't what you've called me up here for."
"I knew you were going to say that! Just listen to me for a minute." He sits down in the chair opposite Adel's, back straight, looking completely serious. "I know it sounds crazy, but it--"
His friend is looking at him with an expression that looks like it's as much pity and contempt as it is skepticism. "Has it even occurred to you that there are a number of reasons why a person might lie about their situation?"
"What could she possibly gain by pretending to be a vampire?" Tristan asks exasperatedly.
"Your pity, perhaps? Your protection?" Adel doesn't move from his position even though he knows in a moment his friend will probably react unfavorably. "Don't be foolish. Vampires are only as real as the rest of anyone's childhood nightmares."
"Why," insists Tristan, looking frustrated, "would she choose that particular avenue? Why not tell me--"
"That her parents were murdered? She already did. I'm telling you as your friend that you need to face the possibility that she's trying to pull the wool over your eyes. You can't honestly believe she's a shambling denizen of the underworld. You're too old for ghost stories."
Tristan slams both hands down on the arms of his chair and stands up. "I wouldn't be telling you this if it wasn't true! You're the one who insists you can't be lied to. Would I lie about this? And to you, of all people?"
"Perhaps you're confused."
"I'm not confused! This is half of why I asked that we speak French--so you couldn't try to call me foolish and diminish the meaning of my words. I know exactly what I'm saying!" He turns around and rakes a hand back through his black hair. Some of it has fallen loose around his face again, but he can't be bothered to retie it right now. He knows that behind him Adel is still sitting in complete composure. "I'm sorry. I'm upset. I know it sounds crazy, but it's true."
"Has she furnished any actual proof of this outrageous claim?"
Tristan wonders fleetingly what exactly someone would have to do to prove undeath to someone like Adel. He could probably poke holes in the logic of the most flawless set of evidence. His tireless cynicism is part of what makes him such an exceptional musician--his refusal to give over to things like insecurity and too much sentiment--but it's also what makes him frustrating to deal with in private matters. "She has fangs."
Adel crosses his arms and arches his eyebrows, waiting for a continuation.
"Her eyes are amber like dawn, and she's always cold. It's a deep, dead cold. There is nothing like it. If you felt it yourself, you'd know that there was no other possible explanation." It sounds almost as horrific as it sounds crazy, saying it like that, like she's a monster. But she isn't, even in spite of all those things, and Tristan has never felt this much love for anything that wasn't music. She resonates in his heart like a perfect chord.
"That's all well and good for her little story, but to be dead you need a few other things--lack of a pulse being one that comes to mind."
"She doesn't have a pulse, either; doesn't breathe except to speak... I..." The boy sits down on the edge of the chair's armrest, still facing away. "I don't know what else I can tell you. She has never asked for anything from me."
They're both quiet for a long time.
"I'm sure you can understand my reservations in believing all this."
"I can. But will you at least accept the possibility that it's true?" Tristan looks over his shoulder in Adel's direction even though his peripheral vision doesn't extend far enough to that side to actually see him. It's the gesture that counts.
"I will come to my own conclusions when I've had more time with her, I imagine." No easy answers when it comes to Adel and The Massive Skepticism. "However, I'll consider your concerns. I must know though: what good does it do you to tell someone like me?"
"Haha..." Even after this much time together, Adel's attitude toward their friendship is sometimes amusing in its clumsiness. He can't just accept anything, even when it's clear, as long as sentiment is involved. "First of all, you're my friend, but secondly, you're the only one I trust to help me protect her. Don't question the things I tell Isaac or my parents. Please?"
The pianist sighs lightly, a kind of huff. "I suppose. You're not always a particularly good liar, though."
"I won't be lying. I'll just be... withholding a few details. You'll help me?"
"Fine, fine. But only because you seem so completely convinced of this whole charade." Adel stands up. "We've talked of this enough. Come and help me choose pieces for the benefit concert next month. It will take your mind off vampires."
"...Right. Thank you." Tristan gets up too, and walks out of the room ahead of him, feeling at least a bit more reassured of his ability to keep a handle on things.
For Adel, though, the word is still hanging in the air: vampire. He frowns silently. How absolutely preposterous. He would prove to Tristan that it was impossible if it took a list a mile long. Everything, he feels, everything can be explained, and this is no exception.
Series: Original (L'oiseau du Bonheur)
Characters/Pairings: Tristan, Adel
Rating: PG
Warnings: None except that Adel is a bit of a jerk all the time. :U
Summary: Sometimes you just gotta spill the beans to someone, even if the someone is your skeptical friend.
"Your English," says Adel, "has improved."
Tristan is pleased with himself. That's a good compliment coming from someone who is more or less a perfectionist monster, to put it lightly.
"I've been practicing," he informs proudly. "Every day, en fait." He pauses and goes to correct himself before his friend can. "Actually. Every day, actually."
Adel raises his eyebrows just slightly but says nothing.
But it's been a secret for too long, and the younger boy is becoming a bit desperate to just say it. He just wants to tell someone. He takes a deep breath. "I met a girl."
"Oh?" The pianist looks up from his reading material and they lock eyes, another thing that means a secret kind of interest. This is why they're best friends. They have an understanding. "She studies English as well, then."
"She doesn't speak French."
This is no minor revelation, given that Tristan has spent literally his entire life fighting tooth and nail against having to learn English in the first place, and Adel knows it. Whining and carrying on had eventually stopped working once he turned ten, but he had never lost hope that if he complained enough, his mother would completely cave in and they could go back to speaking only la belle langue.
"That's... very ambitious of you. Surely she's somewhat accommodating, I imagine."
"If you mean with my accent, then yes." That's been something of a sore spot for a long time, but Tristan has more or less given up on trying to fix it. Pronouncing 'h' might as well be impossible and he doesn't understand how anyone on earth can not roll their 'r's. "But she doesn't speak any French."
Adel's book closes completely. "I admit I'm now rather interested in this whole affair. It it something you've spoken to Uncle about?"
Tristan shakes his head. "No, he'll tell my mother and then I don't know what will happen! Imagine if Eleanor came over here and Mother started fussing over her! Aah! How embarrassing!"
He sits quietly after this terrible thought, then gets up from his seat determinedly and goes to his desk, returning with a single sheet of score paper. He holds it out to his friend--no mean feat for a regular person, given that the eye that will scrutinize it is renowned for being especially keen.
"Ah, I see you've been composing again."
'Composing' is a strong word, considering that his understanding of music theory is nowhere near the level it should be at in order to write the sorts of things he wants to and actually convey his thoughts properly.
"...It's for her."
"So this is quite serious." There is a ghost of a smile on the older boy's lips. His grey eyes flick down to the notes, then back to their composer, who is waiting with a sort of grim frown. "You've forgotten to change the key signature," he says immediately. "Just here. If you've got this many accidentals, you may as well change to the major key. And the tonic is unresolved, as usual. This bar line should be--hmmm."
He takes the pen from his pocket and goes to begin revisions.
"Stop, stop. I... I want to fix it myself. I know it will be broken, but it's better like this. I want her to know I love her enough to try."
"You're a strange boy." Adel holds the page out to him to take back. "But do what you think is best."
"If I wanted perfection," says Tristan, "I would commission you instead."
Adel gives the quiet "ha" that is the closest thing that ever passes for a laugh with him, but it means he's somewhat flattered, which is something of an accomplishment. "Music is forever, Tristan. You know that. Is that something you're ready to give to a lady?"
"Only real music is forever."
"And love?" The cynicism in his face is as plain as day to Tristan, but it's one of those millions of little things you can't 'just know' about Adel. He's a Very Serious Person, and a very confusing one, too.
Tristan does his French shrug and tries to roll his eyes because he's forgotten again that it doesn't really work anymore. "I don't know. Lots of fake love seems to be forever also."
"'Forever as well'."
"I know, I know." He sinks back into his chair and looks back at his amateurish score. "But it feels real. It's complicated, too, I guess, but I can't tell you about that yet."
"Very well." Adel puts his book on the side table, rises, and dusts off his black pants as though some kind of invisible dust has settled on him because he sat too long. "If you'll excuse me, however, I need to finish my proofs to send to the printer. It's been a long day."
Normally there would be a kind of thrill at knowing that Adel's score proofs were leaving for the printer from his house, of all places, but Tristan still feels a little discouraged at the prospect of being the imperfect pupil of such an perfect musician. Eleanor deserves better. "...Adel?"
"Yes?"
"If you didn't already think I was crazy, you're probably going to change your mind, but I promise I'm saying the truth."
"'Telling the truth'." He lingers in the door for a moment, looking a little too much like a younger version of his uncle. "That's good to hear. I'm difficult to lie to."
I couldn't make this up if I tried, Tristan thinks as Adel's footsteps fade down the hall.
```````
It takes weeks before a new opportunity arises for them to speak at length. Adel sets up concerts in Italy and is asked to play in the salons of the wealthy and frivolous along the way. Everything about him is appealing to artistocrats--his good upbringing, his perfect manners, his perfect playing.
Even when he returns to the Valois household afterward, he does not rest. He plays the piano for hours every morning and keeps up with his letters and compositions and reading.
"I'm ready to tell you," Tristan tells him one evening as Adel finishes his tea and his new repertoire list. "But we have to speak in my room and in French."
French is more or less taboo at home; Tristan's father is an anglophile, and the attitude of his parents and the steward is that he is never going to learn anything if he keeps defaulting to his first language. He knows his insistence upon it in this case will make it clear that it's important.
Adel does not finish his tea. He gets up silently and follows the younger boy up the grand staircase to his wing of the estate. They settle themselves in the study and Tristan closes the door. Isaac is a proper gentleman. He will not open it for any reason unless asked. Servants know better, too.
"Is this about your lady love?" Adel asks, sitting primly in the nearest armchair. The fireplace crackles warmly to his right.
"In French. We need to talk in French."
The pianist sighs, and it's like the sigh itself is the transition. He switches effortlessly. "I don't see that it will help, I'm afraid."
"It will help," Tristan says, grateful at suddenly not having to focus on speaking, "because Isaac speaks terrible French and he is the only one I have cause to fear."
"Very well."
"I haven't spoken much of her, but there's good reason." Ah, his Paris accent feels so good! English uses the wrong parts of his mouth, and it's amazing to feel the difference when he doesn't need to use them anymore. No more hard consonant sounds, no more stupid "th"s.
"Her name is Eleanor, as I recall?" They have not yet met, but Tristan has made sure his friend knows exactly how much of his time his girlfriend occupies and how much he likes her and the things they do together.
"It is. I love her, and that's why I'm telling you this, as my best friend."
"Go on." Adel isn't particularly sure what to expect. Tristan tends to be fairly sensible most of the time, in spite of things like not keeping his enthusiasm in check when he should. A part of him is a little concerned they'll be talking about something... inappropriate. Even though he's willing to bend most of the etiquette rules when they're alone together, Adel isn't completely sure they should be breaking that one. That's for him to talk with his father about.
Tristan takes a deep breath. "...Promise me you won't tell anyone."
"Don't be ridiculous. I wouldn't tell anyone something you're obviously going to great lengths to hide." Suspicions mounting. He is not completely prepared to have to shut down this conversation, but will do it if necessary. "What is it?"
"She's a vampire."
Adel's response is half-sigh and half 'oh'. He's relieved and annoyed at the same time. "Please. Tell me that isn't what you've called me up here for."
"I knew you were going to say that! Just listen to me for a minute." He sits down in the chair opposite Adel's, back straight, looking completely serious. "I know it sounds crazy, but it--"
His friend is looking at him with an expression that looks like it's as much pity and contempt as it is skepticism. "Has it even occurred to you that there are a number of reasons why a person might lie about their situation?"
"What could she possibly gain by pretending to be a vampire?" Tristan asks exasperatedly.
"Your pity, perhaps? Your protection?" Adel doesn't move from his position even though he knows in a moment his friend will probably react unfavorably. "Don't be foolish. Vampires are only as real as the rest of anyone's childhood nightmares."
"Why," insists Tristan, looking frustrated, "would she choose that particular avenue? Why not tell me--"
"That her parents were murdered? She already did. I'm telling you as your friend that you need to face the possibility that she's trying to pull the wool over your eyes. You can't honestly believe she's a shambling denizen of the underworld. You're too old for ghost stories."
Tristan slams both hands down on the arms of his chair and stands up. "I wouldn't be telling you this if it wasn't true! You're the one who insists you can't be lied to. Would I lie about this? And to you, of all people?"
"Perhaps you're confused."
"I'm not confused! This is half of why I asked that we speak French--so you couldn't try to call me foolish and diminish the meaning of my words. I know exactly what I'm saying!" He turns around and rakes a hand back through his black hair. Some of it has fallen loose around his face again, but he can't be bothered to retie it right now. He knows that behind him Adel is still sitting in complete composure. "I'm sorry. I'm upset. I know it sounds crazy, but it's true."
"Has she furnished any actual proof of this outrageous claim?"
Tristan wonders fleetingly what exactly someone would have to do to prove undeath to someone like Adel. He could probably poke holes in the logic of the most flawless set of evidence. His tireless cynicism is part of what makes him such an exceptional musician--his refusal to give over to things like insecurity and too much sentiment--but it's also what makes him frustrating to deal with in private matters. "She has fangs."
Adel crosses his arms and arches his eyebrows, waiting for a continuation.
"Her eyes are amber like dawn, and she's always cold. It's a deep, dead cold. There is nothing like it. If you felt it yourself, you'd know that there was no other possible explanation." It sounds almost as horrific as it sounds crazy, saying it like that, like she's a monster. But she isn't, even in spite of all those things, and Tristan has never felt this much love for anything that wasn't music. She resonates in his heart like a perfect chord.
"That's all well and good for her little story, but to be dead you need a few other things--lack of a pulse being one that comes to mind."
"She doesn't have a pulse, either; doesn't breathe except to speak... I..." The boy sits down on the edge of the chair's armrest, still facing away. "I don't know what else I can tell you. She has never asked for anything from me."
They're both quiet for a long time.
"I'm sure you can understand my reservations in believing all this."
"I can. But will you at least accept the possibility that it's true?" Tristan looks over his shoulder in Adel's direction even though his peripheral vision doesn't extend far enough to that side to actually see him. It's the gesture that counts.
"I will come to my own conclusions when I've had more time with her, I imagine." No easy answers when it comes to Adel and The Massive Skepticism. "However, I'll consider your concerns. I must know though: what good does it do you to tell someone like me?"
"Haha..." Even after this much time together, Adel's attitude toward their friendship is sometimes amusing in its clumsiness. He can't just accept anything, even when it's clear, as long as sentiment is involved. "First of all, you're my friend, but secondly, you're the only one I trust to help me protect her. Don't question the things I tell Isaac or my parents. Please?"
The pianist sighs lightly, a kind of huff. "I suppose. You're not always a particularly good liar, though."
"I won't be lying. I'll just be... withholding a few details. You'll help me?"
"Fine, fine. But only because you seem so completely convinced of this whole charade." Adel stands up. "We've talked of this enough. Come and help me choose pieces for the benefit concert next month. It will take your mind off vampires."
"...Right. Thank you." Tristan gets up too, and walks out of the room ahead of him, feeling at least a bit more reassured of his ability to keep a handle on things.
For Adel, though, the word is still hanging in the air: vampire. He frowns silently. How absolutely preposterous. He would prove to Tristan that it was impossible if it took a list a mile long. Everything, he feels, everything can be explained, and this is no exception.