Aimé & Augustin: backstory
Subject: Augustin wants to know exactly what the deal is with Aimé and his "arrangements." Where: The French court, two and a half(-ish?) years ago Who: Augustin Laurent Warnings: None as of yet, but there might be some potty-mouth from Augustin. Open to: Aimé Laurent
It would be a full century until Oscar Wilde penned the words, but even now they held true, for the coifed, perfumed, bejeweled creatures of court were rarely up by two, let alone visible by mid-afternoon. Even Augustin, during the first draining weeks here, had succumbed to this way of life -- but upon recognizing his increasing sloth, he'd disciplined himself, so that now, the servants who'd initially been confused by the sight of a dressed and entirely awake lordling as they unobtrusively went through their morning tasks, now ignored him as they worked, believing him to be somewhat eccentric.
And so it was that Augustin had been up for a couple of hours on this particular morning. As was their routine, the servants slipped in to dust, clean; and today, one had even come in with a tray piled with a beautiful arrangement of fresh fruit. Augustin, curled up on a sofa that was clearly designed for show rather than comfort, caught sight of it over the rim of the book he'd been thumbing through, and straightened, beckoning over the man who carried it.
"A present?" Augustin asked, curious, his expression darkening when the other uttered a name. "Give it to me. I'll take it to him."
"But my lord--"
Augustin had risen to his feet, book discarded on the sofa as he extended his hands to take the tray. "Enough, I'll take it." He gestured for the man to desist his protests, then thanked him, turning his back to him as the servant let himself out. Alone again, Augustin directed a narrow stare at the fruit, as though personally offended by the assorted berries and apples, and with a shake of his head, strode toward his youngest brother's room.
Aimé was still asleep, he knew, for not only had his brother adapted well to the way of life here, he'd also returned to the family's suite of rooms late last night -- and Augustin was certain he knew what he'd been up to. The thought of it brought him no pleasure, unlike certain other members of the family, but the distaste that so darkened his features did not cause him to slam loudly into his room. He was careful as he entered, nudging the door shut behind him with his foot before setting the tray down on a side-table, a bunch of strawberries in hand as he tugged open the curtains, then, uncaring that his boots were pressed against the fine silks and linens, lowered himself onto the mattress beside the sleeping Aimé.
"Aimé," he whispered, almost in a sing-song voice as he slid down to rest his head on a pillow. "Wake up, little brother. Aimé," he repeated, and flicked a strawberry against his brother's mouth.