Work Text:
“Considering your acceptance… How it was based on, well, you know…”
Benedict paced in his study, his mind racing and footsteps growing increasingly agitated as his mind echoed Rupert’s words to him from last night. While he knows that the man had good intentions behind his remarks, he can’t help but feel his world sliding out from underneath him.
Despite their shared drinks in awkward silence afterwards, his memory is painfully detailed. How Rupert expressed his genuine surprise that the second born would have any real, artistic talent. The way that Tessa attempted to stop him before he revealed that Anthony had essentially bought his place at the Academy, confirming how everybody knew except him. How all of his newfound friends had truly viewed him all this time. Even Tessa, who had to sneak into the lecture halls to practice drawing on her own, somehow knew that Benedict was, in fact, a fraud before he even knew it himself.
Fraud.
His hands shook as he reached for his flask. He took a quick swig, before throwing sensibility out the window and draining the remainder. Benedict just wanted reprieve, anything to distract him from the fact that his imposter syndrome was, in fact, a reality all along.
God, this just reminded him of Aubrey Hall. Trying to escape reality, this crushing anxiety that felt like it was consuming his very being. Only then, he was wracked with nerves as he awaited his acceptance. Finally finding the courage to discuss his dreams with his family, share what he thought was his talent. Oh, how joyous he was to receive that letter. Now, he wishes it never came at all.
He knew he was being dramatic. But was he really? Art was the only thing that was ever truly his. He is a Bridgerton, but the second born out of eight. His reputation is that of his family, not his own. Benedict felt his whole life had been spent lost, searching for a purpose, and just when he finally found it…
He eyed his latest portrait in progress, a still life. The painting seemed to mock him, perched on the easel with colors and proportions that just weren’t right. Everything he hoped for himself to accomplish lay just out of reach, and he would never find it.
His agitation grew to a peak and with a great yell of frustration, he struck the easel to the floor, sending his painting skittering across the floor of his study.
The great crashing sound must have alerted somebody, Benedict realized.
No sooner had the thought reached his mind when the very last person that Benedict wished to see came racing into the room. Anthony.
“Brother! Are you alright?” Anthony questioned, looking rather concerned for what was a very uncharacteristic fit of anger for the younger Bridgerton.
Rather than answer his question, Benedict swallowed and said, “I’ve decided to leave the Academy.”
“What? Whatever for?” Anthony responded with a look of genuine confusion.
“I know about your donation, brother,” he said quickly. “I understand it was your own misguided way of trying to help me, but really all you did was confirm what I’ve thought all along.”
“And what might that be?”
Driven by alcohol and his own misery, Benedict shouted, “That I’m not good enough! That I will never be good enough! Not for the Academy, not for this family, and certainly not for you. You speak nothing of duty and honor, does that include paying off the admitting council for me? You knew all along that it was nothing but fantasy that you decided to indulge me? Were you so ashamed at the thought of me tarnishing the Bridgerton name with a rejection that you made well to ensure an acceptance? Tell me, brother, why?!”
Anthony was growing increasingly alarmed at his sibling’s outburst. He glanced over at the toppled easel and canvas, then at the empty flask laying on the desk.
Wordlessly, he approached Benedict and grabbed his chin, looking at his eyes to confirm his suspicions.
Benedict felt a wash of shame come over him, remembering such a similar action his brother performed whilst he was partying at the Academy. The look of disappointment, how he sternly reminded him of his duties to the family.
After his father died, he’d never viewed Anthony as a father figure. Being only two years apart in age, he had always been his brother and friend. But not now. Looking into Anthony’s eyes, he sees only the disappointment of a father.
It’s all too much to bear. His heart races louder in his ears as he flees the room. Faintly, he hears Anthony call, “Benedict!” but he’s already raced down the stairs and left his brother behind.
The stables, is all his frantic mind can provide, looking for any means of escape. He races past the frazzled stable master, mounting his mare and setting off at breakneck speed. Benedict doesn’t even notice the raging storm until he’s in the midst of it.
Anthony cursed as Benedict fled from the study. He’d never seen his brother so overcome with emotion before, let alone shouting at him and destroying his art.
It caught him so off guard that he was more concerned about his brother’s state of intoxication than his mental condition. Belatedly, he realized this would only worsen Benedict’s mood and undermine his emotions, contributing them to alcohol and not that he was truly upset.
Anthony shook his head clear of these thoughts, he had no time to stand around and regret his decisions. He ran to follow the younger Bridgerton when he came to the stables.
The stables? He is going to ride in this weather?
Anthony frantically mounted the closest mare and followed the disappearing silhouette of his brother. Spurring the horse onward, he called out for him.
Benedict, upon hearing his name, only urged his horse faster. Ever the Viscount, dutifully chasing his wayward brother, he thought bitterly. At the same time, it was exhilarating, never before had he ridden at such a pace, with the rain pelting him and wind howling in his ears. The chaos felt like a welcome distraction to his mental turmoil.
Ahead was a brook that crossed his path, perhaps at one point it would have been easily crossable but was now raging with the storm. Benedict, however, spurred his mount quicker. He knew that he would otherwise have to turn around and face Anthony. It was not as though he could avoid him forever, but he was absolutely not ready to see the disappointment in his eyes once again. He had no other choice but to cross.
Anthony realized that Benedict was not slowing down, and shouted his name again in hopes that he would see reason and stop. His cries were for naught, however.
As though in slow motion, he watched Benedict’s horse balk and rear up on its hind legs, causing its rider to fall. Even with the rain, Anthony still heard the sickening sound of his brother’s head striking a large rock as he landed on the marshy ground.
“Brother!” he cried, practically jumping off his horse and racing towards his fallen sibling.
“No, no, no, no,” Anthony murmured as he saw Benedict’s eyes were closed, his face slack and body limp. Anthony hurriedly patted his cheek.
“Come on, Brother, wake up!” He urged.
His heart dropped as he moved his hand from behind his brother’s head and found the slick feeling not to be the rain, but blood.
“Benedict! No, no no, you can’t do this to me, not after father. It was supposed to be me, dammit! Don’t you do this to me!” he despaired. After the anguish of his father’s death, he had never expected to hold the limp body of another Bridgerton again in his lifetime.
“I’m sorry, brother,” he sobbed, pulling Benedict closer to him and holding his ear to his brother’s chest. It took far too long for the sound of his own racing pulse and the sound of the rain and wind to clear before Anthony heard it, a heartbeat. His brother was alive!
With a cry of relief, he gathered his brother upright, slinging his limp arm over Anthony’s shoulders. Benedict’s head lolled sickeningly as he was trudged awkwardly down the muddy path.
“Stay with me. Come on, now. It’s all going to be alright,” he kept repeating, like a manta. Though whether for his unconscious brother’s ears or his own, he did not know.
He didn’t know how long he’d been walking when he noticed a carriage coming towards him. Luckily, inside was a kind soul who quickly made room for the two Bridgertons inside. Anthony placed his brother’s head on his lap, noting how the bleeding hadn’t seemed to lessen at all despite the time that had passed. They quickly made for the Bridgerton family home.
After the chaos of six worried Bridgerton siblings and one very concerned mama upon their arrival, Anthony finally had a moment to speak with the physician that had looked over Benedict.
“It is quite difficult to say, my lord, when he may awaken. Injuries to the head can be quite unpredictable,” the physician said.
“And what of the bleeding?” Anthony demanded.
“Yes, I was able to make it cease, my lord. Wounds of the head when mixed with alcohol do tend to cause quite significant bleeding,” he replied.
Anthony looked at the pale visage of his brother laying on the bed. Whether this state was due to the loss of blood or from the storm, he did not know.
As though reading his mind, the physician noted, “The storm certainly did not help matters. I’ve brought a powder that should improve his countenance, but if there are any negative changes, please alert me at once, my lord.”
Anthony thanked and dismissed him. Once the physician had left, however, he was bombarded with many questions.
“Oh brother! Is he going to be alright?” Hyacinth asked with tears in her eyes.
“When will he wake?” Gregory questioned, holding the limp hand of his older brother.
“How could such a thing have happened? It is so unlike Benedict to go riding in such weather,” Eloise commented, keen as always.
Anthony looked to Colin, who immediately understood and ushered the siblings out. It felt quite foreign, as often it was Benedict himself who took it upon himself to clear the room. He realized that after his father’s death, while Anthony’s duty was to the estate, Benedict’s was to the family. Not in a monetary sense, but in an emotional one. He was always quick to listen and knew exactly what it was that each sibling needed to hear. Truly, it was he who supported the rest of the siblings after tragedy struck and their mother was overcome with grief.
“Anthony, dear, you must tell me what happened,” Violet said, now that it was only the two of them left in the room with Benedict.
His breathing quickened as all he could think of was his brother lying deathly still, contrasting his usual expressive faces and gestures. The sounds of his mother talking grew quieter as the room grew fuzzy, his pulse racing in his ears.
“It’s all my fault,” Anthony murmured. He vaguely felt her hands on his before he tore himself away and left the room.
Emotions flooded him that he thought he had buried away a long time ago. Ones he had hoped to never revisit. Like one big wave crashing over him, he barely made it to his study before he fell to the floor and wept over his brother.
“It’s all my fault.”
Awareness came very slowly. Benedict could feel the pull of consciousness, drifting in and out. He kept catching clips of conversation but never enough to make any sense. Finally, he came to awareness with the gentle sensation of his mother’s thumb sweeping back and forth against the back of his hand.
Letting out a groan, his mother quickly placed her hands on his face, and said, “Benedict? Are you with me, dear?”
Slowly, he opened his eyes and squinted against the bright light of the morning.
“Mother?”
“Oh, my boy. Benedict, you gave us all an awful fright. You’ve been asleep for days. Are you feeling alright?” Violet asked.
He started to nod when he felt a sharp pain in the back of his head and gasped. Reaching for the source, he found the area bandaged tightly.
“You seemed to have struck your head while you were out in the storm, dear. Do you remember?”
He looked at her with confusion, before remembering the events that unfolded before. His outburst at Anthony, fleeing on horseback, feeling a moment of fear as he fell backwards off his horse, before… nothing.
“I do,” he said quickly.
“I do not know what transpired between you and Anthony. He will not speak a word of it to me. But he must know that you have awoken, I will go and fetch him,” Violet said, as she exited the room.
Panic struck Benedict as he thought of seeing Anthony again. What would he say? How disappointed would Anthony be after getting himself injured on top of everything else?
“Mother, wait!”
Without thinking, Benedict surged out of bed and tried to go after her. But as soon as he was upright, his vision dimmed and his ears started ringing. The next thing he knew, he was leaning against his bed from the floor and Anthony’s concerned face swam into view.
“Brother, I-” Benedict attempted to say, but was interrupted by his sibling.
“Hush now, Benedict,” Anthony helped him upright and guided him back to the bed.
“You need to rest, for you have not yet fully recovered. And I need you to listen to what I have to say,” he said as he sat next to the bedpost, taking Benedict’s hand in his.
Benedict mentally prepared himself for the admonishment that Anthony was surely about to give him. He supposed he deserved it, after such a foolish course of events.
“Brother, I am sorry. Truly from the depths of my heart, my intentions were never to hurt you. That donation was not intended as a bribery for your acceptance, but as a sign of my acceptance for your passions. I wanted you to know that I want you to be happy and pursue your talents. I am certain that my donation was not necessary for your acceptance considering your talent,” the eldest Bridgerton started.
“Anthony-”
“I’m not yet finished. Art is but one of your many talents. Chief among them is your natural gift for seeing what others need, even if they cannot see it for themselves. It is a gift that has taken me far too long to recognize, along with the fact that you have been using this gift ever since our father died. Perhaps it is not even fair for me to call it a natural gift when you were forced into the position of caretaker for our siblings so suddenly. I know that mama was struck with grief and I was so overwhelmed with my duties as Viscount-”
“-Was?” Benedict questioned, his eyebrow arching upwards.
Anthony sighed. “At least I know your brains are still intact. But yes, I still am overwhelmed with my duties. But I could never have done them without you. You have gone unrecognized for far too long, and for that I am sorry, brother.”
Benedict didn’t know what to think. He still felt dazed, though he was unsure if from his head injury or if he was really hearing such heartfelt compliments from his stern older brother. However, his eyes began to droop against his will as his exhaustion set in.
“Anthony, thank you,” he murmured. “I am sorry for the trouble to have caused you these past few days.”
“You should focus on resting now, brother. And nonsense, you didn’t cause trouble. Above all else, you are my brother and it is my duty to look out for you,” Anthony said gently.
Benedict tiredly closed his eyes, ready to give into the call of sleep, but not before remarking, “There you go again brother, always talking of duty.”
Anthony said nothing, but even with Benedict’s eyes shut, he could sense the eye roll in his direction.
He drifted off to sleep with his mouth quirked into the faintest of smiles.