Chapter Text
Félix Agreste had self-control. At least, he’d say that he did. Adrien was always going on about how he had no filter, and everything around him was absolute chaos because he couldn’t ever shut his mouth and keep quiet when one of the infinite snobby rich people he was forced to converse with said something abhorrently stupid. It wasn’t a bad trait to have, in his opinion.
So when Uncle Gabe called him in the middle of a delightful coq au vin, it took everything in him not to swear. That chicken was not waiting patiently for him to finish what could well be arduously long and boring so that he could return to it in its still-piping-hot state of wonder. Still, that didn’t stop him from gritting his teeth and scrunching up his perfectly-maintained facial features in an expression of utter hatred for whoever had the idiocy to stand between him and a hot meal.
“Bonjour, Uncle Gabe, how are you?” he asked, his patience already dripping down a deep dark hole with the rest of the sauce from the chicken.
“Bonjour, Félix,” his darling uncle replied, unaware of the agitation growing within Félix, who had to have a conversation with his uncle while staring at his steadily cooling lunch (Yes, he knew that it could easily be reheated, but he also knew that there was nothing better than a freshly made plate of something hot, and as soon as someone even so much as looked at a microwave, his scathing words were enough to make them look elsewhere).
“I’ve been thinking about your modelling career, what with Adrien being able to get plenty of easy photoshoots in a city like Paris, and I was wondering how your career’s going in such a remote place like Russia?” Oh no. This was not good. Fifty euros said Gabe was going to manipulate him into going somewhere stupid, like London or something where it was freezing cold and they didn’t have huge furs like they did in Moscow.
“Yes, Uncle, my career’s been going very well, I’ve had plenty of photoshoots here, and I’ve been modelling a few winter collections up here, it’s been very refreshing.” And frigid, he thought, but didn’t add that for fear of what Gabe would say next. As always, it would probably be something bad.
“I had an idea yesterday when Adrien mentioned that he was getting rather lonely in the house with hardly anybody around. How would you like to come and stay with us, in Paris? I know it would do wonders for your image, being with the family, not to mention the obvious benefits to myself and Adrien, being together as a family.” Shit. Shit. Code Red, somebody pull the freaking fire alarm, you’re doomed. He sat back in his chair, his mind pulled off the chicken in front of him completely.
“I don’t think that’s really necessa-”
“Nonsense,” Gabriel said, cutting him off. “I’ve already decided, and Natalie’s booked the flight for tomorrow afternoon. I think it would do some good, you and Adrien catching up again. I’ve organised for you to do a photoshoot or two, Natalie will send the schedule sometime this afternoon.” Click. He had hung up.
Félix was speechless. The only words he could think of saying were a few choice swears, but he decided against it in case there were any people in the rooms next to him because he was positive that if he were to say anything at that moment it would be with no small amount of volume. It was probably best not to annoy the neighbours.
So he vented out his shock and anger in the only non-aggressive, non-deafeningly loud way he could think of: pacing. He got up, leaving the lunch forgotten behind him, and picked up his temporary house keys on the kitchen table. Félix hardly blinked until he walked out the door and was faced with a barrage of snow, ice and generally unpleasant temperatures, which snapped him out of the trance he was in as he slammed the door shut, gasping (he was on the warm side of it).
He trudged back to the living room, sat on his couch and began to yell. Loudly. He yelled until his breath was hoarse, and then reflected on all the terrible, gory ways he currently wanted to murder his uncle. Then he thought of Adrien, and the I-told-you-so look he would totally give him if he were in the room with him, and how he would then give Félix a lecture on how he had no self-control and how he also had murderous instincts. So he breathed. In. And out. And in again. He thought about doing a yoga pose for an infinitesimal amount of time but decided against it because yoga poses were beneath him. So he began to pack. Organising things was his only other non-aggressive way of venting his anger (of which there was often a fair bit). He gathered all his clothes and found the suitcase that he’d used to pack for Moscow, then found the other three that he’d also used to pack for Moscow. An alert pinged from his phone when he was almost halfway finished with his second suitcase. Natalie. Well, she was nothing if not efficient.
He opened the link that she’d sent him, dropping his phone when he realized that Uncle Gabe (he was honestly more suited for Uncle Satan) had completely lied when he said that he’d organised “one or two photoshoots”. Bullshit. He had back-to-back photo shoots every other day of the week, all of which he’d be modelling with Adrien for. He loved his baby cousin, but four shoots a day was too much.
He picked his phone back up and scrolled through the rest of the week. At least he had Fridays off. That was... Something.
~~~~~~~~~~
Félix hated planes. Unless they were private jets, those were rather nice. It was the public ones that he hated. In the rush that Uncle Gabe had been in getting him to Paris, he’d had to book a public plane because there were no jets available on a Sunday. He found it rather distressing, but thought it would be prudent now to throw a fit in public about having to be shoved into some smelly old seat next to some portly rich fellow who wanted to converse and drink too much wine. Félix walked past the first row of the area marked ‘Business’ with misery. If he had to go to Paris, let it at least be with some degree of style. He almost glimpsed the other area. ‘Economy’. What a dreadful word. His right eye twitched slightly looking at the seats that they were all sitting in. It looked like a nightmare. He swerved, however, into the last row of the decent area, where some angel had left a drinks menu. He leaned back on the recliner and breathed a sigh of relief. He technically wasn’t legal yet, but his birthday was only in a few months and Russians were generally flexible about these things (he’d had an encounter in a bar a year or so ago where someone had challenged him to a drinking contest and the bartender hadn’t batted an eye). So he ordered a glass of Riesling and prayed that nobody was going to sit next to him so that he could have some peace and solitude for the rest of this godforsaken trip. And with that, he took out his novel and sipped from the glass, eliciting some pleasure from the good flavour. Money couldn't buy happiness, but it could certainly buy some decent alcohol. The plane engine started, jolting Félix and splashing a few droplets onto his book. He gritted his teeth and ordered more wine. He was going to need more alcohol to survive this.