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byebyelullabye · 2 years

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fifteen ~ b.b (part 2)

benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

During the summer of her fifteenth year, Y/n L/n realizes the nature of her affections for her best friend Benedict Bridgerton. All the while, the Bridgerton family continually grows exasperated with the pair’s stolen glances and longing stares.

masterlist

~ seven (part 1)

a/n: here she is!! sorry if she's a bit late huhuuu i went in a different direction than originally planned bc i saw the potential in friends to lovers also i wanted more of that mutual respect and admiration. and im a sucker for idiots yearning for each other. once again i experimented with writing styles. pls feel free to spew feedback :)

warnings: horrible ending (my apologies in advance, my English is not that great), annoyed family, agonizing amounts of mutual pining with no resolution (at least not yet), benedict bridgerton (his cuteness deserves its own warning, proceed with caution)

August 13, 1801

Dearest Benedict,

Oh, how I wish you could be here. The word beautiful would be an insult to such magnificence as this. My mother continues to describe Venice as lovely but I fear the English language has yet to create a word to encapsulate the awe I am feeling for every breath I take here. There is so much scenery for the eyes to feast on, I fear I may be blinded. No doubt that you, the incredible painter that you are, could spend an entire lifetime here and never stop. When I am not reading or strolling about the gardens and statues, I think of you. I think of how you would love it here. I think of how you would see it, through those artistic eyes of yours. How you would wax poetic about every single blade of grass. How I would still be enraptured by your words.

I do hope you never get bored of my rambling. I am buzzing with anticipation of every letter from you and news of Mayfair. As much as I love home, excitement flows through the air in Venice so I have much to tell you in the coming days. I send your family all my love. Send me any of your poetry, how I treasure them so.

With love,

Y/n

Every morning of the summer of his fifteenth year, Benedict Bridgerton awoke bright and early with one purpose in mind: to await the letters from his most cherished friend, Y/n L/n, whose family had decided to travel across Europe once more. And usually, everywhere Y/n went, Benedict followed like a lost puppy but as it was, his parents drew the line at following her all the way to Venice. Benedict had never been separated from her for such a long time before, and so, whenever he was not reading or awaiting her letters, he spent his time moping.

And every morning of the past two months, the thunderous rumbling of Benedict's shoes dashing down the stairs had served as the alarm for the awakening of his family. Not because they wanted to, mind you, but rather because every morning, Benedict eagerly sprinted down the stairs with no regard for the other occupants of the house. Every step he took boomed like an earthquake throughout the staircase. When he awoke, everyone else followed suit.

Upon landing on the first floor, Benedict inquired with the maids and footmen and upon realizing that no letters had been delivered yet, he sulked his way to the drawing-room and flung himself on the sofa, waiting in sour suspense.

The family consensus was that the sooner Y/n returned, the better. In the meantime, Benedict was not to be reminded of anything related to her, which proved to be no small task since Benedict spent every waking moment hopelessly pining for his dear friend. And while he always referred to her as his ‘dearest friend’, almost all of Mayfair knew he meant ‘queen of his heart’.

He brightened whenever she walked into a room but dimmed when she left. When Y/n spoke, Benedict listened with all his senses captivated by her. His eyes naturally gravitated toward her, finding her in every soiree and smiling when he did. He kept every little memento of their time together from flower pressings to books they read to each other. On top of all that, all of his sketchbooks were filled to the brim with drawings and sketches of Y/n’s features. Her eyes. Her smile. Her lips. Her hair. Her hands. Even more so now that she was gone since Benedict took irrational measures to ensure he would never forget her lovely face.

While she was there, his pining was only tiresome. The staring. The gazing. The sketching. But with Y/n gone, it became unbearable.

So when her latest letter arrived a few hours later during breakfast, the entire family breathed a humongous sigh of relief. For now, Benedict was satisfied. Lord and Lady Bridgerton share glances at each other, reminiscing their own lovestruck youth. Anthony and Colin sport matching looks of smug smirks, no doubt to tease their middle brother once they corner him after the meal. On the other hand, Daphne and Eloise search their older brother’s expression for a sign of what was on his mind. Would his pining grow worse? Would the sisters have to vacate the premises to escape him?

But all of his family's reactions fade away as he tears through the soft, creamy envelope that bore subtle hints of Y/n’s distinct floral scent. His eyes rapidly devoured the contents of the paper. With every word lovingly written in her handwriting, Benedict could hear her melodious voice speaking in his ear. So far, her family was touring Venice at the moment. He reread the letter three times before letting out a breath, tracing the closing words at the edge of the page.

With love, Y/n

Her salutations always changed like the weather depending on the events of her day, the urgency of her writing, or the ardor of her spirit, but her farewell remained the same:

With love, Y/n

Benedict couldn’t help himself but let a giddy smile spread across his face. He brought his hand to cover up his face and looked down but with how wide he was grinning and how bright his eyes were shining, it was no use. Everyone around the table could see it. Who knows, Y/n could probably see it all the way in Venice (if she looked hard enough).

Without another word, Benedict rushes out of the room. His stomping shoes disrupt the quiet of the otherwise peaceful meal. Everyone, sans Colin who eyed his brother's half-eaten breakfast, followed Benedict with their eyes as he sprinted his way to his room. No one had to ask. They all knew what he was doing.

"Mother, what is that saying about love and how irrational one acts without it?", Daphne asks from the end of the table with a curious albeit teasing tone.

Eloise pipes up across her, "Oh, I know! I know! I am stupider without the other half of my brain"

A booming laugh erupts from Lord Bridgerton, who always appreciated Eloise's snark (no matter how much her mother disapproved).

"Eloise, we do not call other people stupid" Lady Bridgerton reprimands her daughter. After a second she adds as an afterthought, "No matter how irrational they may be acting"

Snickers and chuckles ripple through the table. Not necessarily directed at Benedict only, though all of the family could agree that he was nonsensical nowadays.

"But Mama, what is the saying?" Daphne asks once more.

Lord Bridgerton reaches for his wife's hand and looks into her eyes before answering, "The saying, darling Daphne, is that absence makes the heart grow fonder"

As he declared those words, upstairs, Benedict was rummaging for paper to pen his reply. The world fades out again as all he thinks of is seeing Y/n again. How will their reunion be? When will it be? Has she changed? Will their friendship change? Will they still be friends?

He brushed those thoughts away. All that matters now was the letter at hand. He writes as if at any moment he is to be struck by lightning, quick and frenzied, all the words pouring like water as he scrambles to collect his most important thoughts. I miss you, he writes twice. No matter how forward that may seem, it does not make it any less true. He misses her, with his heart and soul.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Oh, indeed.

Two days later and nearly a thousand miles away, Y/n L/n was pacing back and forth along one of the most breathtaking villas she’s ever seen. But her breathing came in shallow and ragged puffs of air. Her clip-clopping footsteps were short and hurried. Her eyesight was growing so blurry she could not even appreciate the view before her, too preoccupied with the scrambling thoughts buzzing in her head.

You see, five days earlier, Y/n had sent another letter to her friend Benedict Bridgerton and the consequences of her actions had finally caught up to her. Their correspondence may seem insignificant, perhaps mundane, but it is a given rule by the Ton that unmarried ladies cannot write to unmarried gentlemen.

And though neither of them was considered out in society yet, their letters may still be considered quite scandalous, especially coming from respectable families. Especially if her words were taken out of context.

Dearest Benedict,

With love, Y/n

If the Ton, or heaven forbid her mother, ever got ahold of her letters, both their families would be shunned from society. It would break her family’s heart to see her undone, all before she could be presented before the queen. And Y/n could never forgive herself if she were the cause of the tarnishing of the Bridgerton name.

But maybe she’s getting ahead of herself.

She breathes in, sitting down on a bench while she collects her bearings.

Benedict has proven time and time again that he can be trusted with her innermost thoughts and secrets. She’s sure that he would never let anyone read their private letters, seeing as they were written and read for their eyes only. He would never betray her like that.

She breathes out, but then new questions sprout into her mind.

What would the recipient himself think of the letters?

Was she too irritating? Too conceited? Was she too forward? How would Benedict see her then? If he thought of the letter as romantic? Would he be disgusted? Would he turn her away? Would he disregard their friendship?

But among all the loud booming voices of her anxieties, a little one in the back of her mind asked, what does it matter what he thinks?

Well, Y/n tried to reason to herself, Benedict was her friend. It is normal to seek approval from a friend. To know what they think of you, if they think of you with as high a regard as you do for them. It is also normal to miss your dear friend. To look at the stars outside your window and wonder if they are looking at the same ones. To recall the sound of their laughter, playing it in a loop in your head every night before you sleep. To yearn for a simple touch. To ponder their thoughts and to lament the distance between you. To ache for their words, so much so that you wake every dawn to await every letter. Like she had every day since her travel started.

That was normal, right?

She could miss her friends in Mayfair. She misses Eloise and her poorly concealed snorts of laughter. She misses Penelope and her shrewd eye. She misses Daphne and her devoted sensibility. But Benedict…

Her yearning for Benedict is different. Different in a way that she cannot describe yet. She set her eyes on the view before her, pondering how she could paint her feelings in words.

All she knows is that… her longing(?) for his companionship runs deeper. Sadder. Lonelier. More than any longing she feels for anyone else at home.

Home

Benedict is home.

Now, where did that thought come from?

It is true though, the little voice in her head insists. When she thinks of home, she thinks of the green, green grass of the Bridgerton estate. The hustle and bustle of their home. How quiet her house is compared to theirs. How her eyes search for Benedict in every room only to find him staring and smiling back at her. She thinks of Benedict. Everything reminding her of home reminds her of him. His smile. His laugh. His eyes.

Now that kind of thinking… that is not so normal.

But that doesn’t have to mean anything, does it?

Unless…

Unless what? The little voice in her head will not quiet down.

Unless…

Oh.

Nearly two months later, Benedict found himself the past three days sitting in front of the windowsill as his eyes scanned every passing carriage, trying to discern every passenger. His razor-sharp focus distracted him from his repeatedly bouncing leg. A tic that was slowly driving everyone in the room insane. More insane than all of his hopeless pining.

Now, why has Benedict been situating himself to the window?

The answer to that lies folded in his hands. Three mornings ago, Y/n wrote to him with only seven words.

Dear Benedict,

I'm coming home.

Love, Y/n

Whump!

The sound made when Y/n ran into Benedict’s arms. He spun her around a few times with a smile on his face and his nose buried in her neck.

Thump!

The sound made when they tumbled to the ground.

In Y/n’s defense, what else do you expect her to do when she sees the object of her affections for the first time after a whole summer? And what else was Benedict supposed to do? Not welcome the girl- nay, woman- he loves with literal open arms?

Y/n laughs at the sudden fall. At least before she realizes that she is on top of Benedict. And before she realizes that he has been silently staring at her the whole time. Have his eyes always been this blue? Like the sea after the storm?

She looks into his eyes, lost in them, unable to say a word. Her tongue is tied because everything she wants to say cannot be said yet. It would not only be awkward but improper as well to say them at a time like this.

I miss you.

I’m sorry it took me eight years to realize I am in love with you.

Before the impromptu staring contest can continue, Benedict clears his throat and remembers where they are, breaking Y/n’s trance. She stands up and extends her hand to him and he takes it. When he finally stands up, he doesn’t let go. Instead, he brings it to his lips and plants a lingering kiss on her hand. All while looking at her with his piercing gaze.

Y/n grows warm with a mixture of giddiness and surprise. Benedict had never kissed her in any way before and her heart soared at the new show of affection. She wouldn’t have minded if he did it again at some point. She smiles dopily before directing her eyes to the ground, thankful that they weren’t in public but standing before the grand entryway of the Bridgerton House.

“I take it that you missed me, then?” Benedict asks coyly.

Did he read my mind? I-

“What gave me away?” Y/n answers much too quickly.

“Nothing really. I just guessed from the look on your face before you tackled me to the ground” He has the audacity to smirk. Oh, Lord.

"Wha- Tackle? I di- I-I did not tackle you to the ground." Y/n retorts, trying to maintain at least some of her dignity.

“Oh, really? What would you call it then?” He really is smug today, adorable bastard.

Y/n doesn’t resist utilizing some of her newfound knowledge, “Well, the Italians would call it a cadere or a tumble.”

Benedict slowly crosses his arms, “My, my, my. Are you showing off, dear Y/n? Didn’t know you had it in you. Your travels have changed you.”

She straightens her spine a little more and raises her chin, meeting his eyes with a determined gaze.

“Summer has changed me." She continues, "Though I will admit that the travels were a great contributing factor. Do you know how incredible it is to witness such beauty?” She asked sincerely, her eyes softening.

Looking at Y/n, with her hair illuminated by the sunlight filtering through the window, creating a halo around her head. With her small smile playing on her lips whenever she spoke to him, with her flushed cheeks from all the excitement, looking more like an angel every day. He smiled. I do know.

Just then, Lady Bridgerton came in.

“Ah, I thought I heard your voice! And I see that Benedict is already stealing all of your company away.”

“Mother, please do not spread lies like that. Daphne or Colin might hear you”

“But I did hear Y/n’s voice. And here she is. That is no lie, Benedict”, Lady Bridgerton is nothing but accustomed to any of her son’s shenanigans.

“What I meant was, I didn’t steal Y/n. I am the one she came to see anyway.” He smugly regains his composure while Y/n darts her eyes between mother and son frantically.

She exclaims a bit louder than she intended, “Good morning, Lady Bridgerton! Forgive me for not greeting you sooner!” She curtsies a little too hurriedly that she stumbles but Benedict is there to hold her arms to steady her before she falls down again.

“Good morning to you too, Miss L/n. Will you join us for tea? Maybe regale us with tales of your travels? Benedict might benefit from it since he is yet to go on his Tour…” Lady Bridgerton is also nothing if not clever.

Y/n looked at Benedict standing beside her, a playful quirk emerging on the corner of her lips. “I would be honored to”, she answered, never taking her eyes off him.

“Now, was this before or after you fell into a lake?” Benedict asks before taking a sip of tea.

Y/n’s eyes widen as she turns her head, checking to see if anyone within the vicinity heard Benedict’s words. She slowly turns to look at him to find him hiding his smirk with a cup of tea. Somewhat infuriated, she grabs the side of his shirt to pull him close enough so she could whisper into his ear, “I wrote that to you in confidence.”

He continues sipping his tea with a smirk, “Y/n, there is no one here beside us. Thankfully, my mother took the hint that two friends should be allowed to catch up with supervision.”

Y/n shrugs and blinks at her teacup, tilting her head, then taking a sip. “I suppose that is fair.”

Benedict claps his hands twice to direct her attention to him again. “Well then, now that is out of the way. Continue with tales of your travels, dear Miss L/n. How does it feel to be a lady of culture?”

“Correction: a woman of culture”, she corrects him.

“Now that you are a woman of culture, do you still hold a love for Mayfair? For England?”, Benedict pouts.

Y/n looks at him affronted and starts passionately, “Why yes, as a matter of fact, I do. My family passed by the Lake District just about North of here and oh Benedict, it’s just-”

She sighs and closes her eyes, then snaps out of her trance and-

Gasp

Slightly mortified, Y/n continues, “Well, now that I think about it, maybe you should not go there”

She quickly becomes unusually quiet. Sipping her tea and taking dainty bites off the plate of biscuits, refusing to look Benedict in the eye.

“And why ever not? What could possibly taint your perspective? After all your praise in your letters?", Benedict asks.

Y/n sighs before continuing, “If you must know, it is because upon exploring, I found the lakes where all the poets went to die. And no scenery, no matter how exquisite, is worth you dying”

Benedict is stunned silent, his jaw hanging open. He closes and opens his mouth repeatedly to form words but nothing comes out until-

“You overestimate my abilities, dear Y/n. I am not nearly as great an artist as you think I am”, he says, trying to mask his insecure words with a small smile.

Y/n is having none of that. She faces him, finding his eyes and unabashedly staring into them to prove her point.

“And I think you do not believe in yourself, not nearly half as much as I do. Benedict, you have more creative talent in a single eyelash than I do in my entire body. Why can't you see tha-"

Benedict drops his cup down and takes her face into his warm hands so she cannot look away from his gaze. She represses a shiver, not that he notices.

“Now see, that is where I draw the line. Do not diminish yourself, Y/n. Not for anybody. Not for your mother, your father, and most certainly not for me”

She meets his gaze head-on with a steady stare of her own and holds onto his wrists. Both of them are stubborn and unwilling to concede. They remain that way for a while. With his hands on her face. Her hands around his wrists. Gazing into each other's eyes. Trying to harden their stare, instead finding the other's eyes softening. After God knows how long, it is Benedict who breaks the silence.

"Sit for me."

Whatever words Y/n was expecting, it was certainly not that.

"I beg your pardon?", she asks.

"If you truly, truly believe in my artistry-"

"I do"

"Then sit for a painting. My painting If you don't mind", he pleads.

"...But why me?"

"Why ever not you, Y/n, have you ever seen your face in a mirror?"

Y/n grows more and more flustered, but she refuses to let it show.

"Why me? Why not your sisters? Or your mother? Or any other beauty of Mayfair?", she rambles.

"You're the only beauty of Mayfair"

"Don't let Daphne hear you say that"

Benedict whines exasperated that she is not taking this seriously.

"I want to paint you. Just you, Y/n. Just you."

She stills and mulls it over, taken aback by his solemnity.

There's no harm to it really. All I have to do is sit still and look pretty. Maybe talk to him a bit. Talking to Benedict is always easy. Maybe watch him paint. See the cute little scrunch of his nose when he concentrates- Y/n, focus!

"I would be honored", she finally rewards him with a large grin.

He breathes out, a smile gracing his lips.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this"

“What on Earth do I do with my hands?”, Y/n asked as she fidgeted into her seat in front of the window.

Just moments ago, she walked around the room in frantic steps with all her hair flying about. Her eyes were wild with panic and slight anxiousness. Her hands trembled as she adjusted her dress, minute to minute. To anyone looking at her and only her, she might have appeared as somewhat of a mad woman. But to Benedict, he saw the love of his life his best friend being herself.

“Well, I would suggest folding them in your lap but I know that you cannot sit still for a single minute without moving”, Benedict really shouldn’t be looking that pleasing pleased while wearing a smirk.

“Would you rather I wring your neck with my hands around it?!”

Then, he starts laughing.

Laughing.

This bastard-

“Benedict!”

He chuckles, wheezing, before answering, “Am I wrong though?”

“Christ, Benedict, do you want your painting or not?”, she asks, trying to hide a smile.

“Well, I do, but I still want my muse to be comfortable”

Y/n’s cheeks grow warm at the words muse.

“What do you suggest I do then? About my hands?”, for emphasis she flails her arms a little too madly, nearly causing Benedict to burst into fits of laughter again. She smiles widely at the little amused shake of his head.

“Do whatever feels natural, Y/n”, he sits less formally. “Even if it means you look like a confused flamingo”

She gasps, affronted. “Aren’t your subjects supposed to stay still for you to= I don’t know- capture their features clearly?”

“Oh please, Y/n, you need not worry about that. I know your features quite well, I’ve been staring at them for the past eight years”

How on Earth is he saying these things so casually? He’s been staring at me?

Wait, that’s normal for friends. Don’t get ahead of yourself, you goose.

“.....Y/n?”, Benedict asks after she’s been too quiet for long.

“Hmm?”, she shakes her head out of her trance.

“As I said, what would feel comfortable for you?”, he leans back on his chair and grabs his paintbrush.

“Benedict, you need me to sit still and I want your painting to be good and quite frankly it is taking everything in me right now not to pace back and forth but how can you paint me if I move about?”

“...Would you like to take a walk?”

Y/n smiles, “I love to walk”

“I know you do”

“Mother, we have to do something. This is agonizing”, said Colin, as the rest of the Bridgerton clan watched Benedict paint Y/n after their equally nauseating walk.

“Agonizing? My, my, Colin, how you exaggerate”, replied Lady Bridgerton to her third son as she exchanged glances with her husband.

“Oh no, Mother, for once I agree with my brother on this one. You should have seen them when they first saw each other this morning. It was pure agony”, Eloise piped in, standing next to Colin.

“You were watching them, El?”, asked Anthony with a teasing tone.

“No, I was not! I just caught Ben staring at Y/n with hearts in his eyes. It makes me want to vomit just looking at them, my god!”

Daphne quips from the piano, “At least Y/n is discreet about her affection.”

“Y/n? Discreet? HA! Look at them right now!”, Anthony exclaims.

All of their heads turned to the scene before them: Benedict carefully painting Y/n’s hands as she scribbled at her notebook and Y/n sneaking little glances at the little scrunch of Benedict’s nose and smiling to herself.

“Does Benedict truly not notice?”, Colin asks.

Eloise answers, “He is too caught up in his painting of her and I quote, ‘pretty hands’”

“He really said that?”, Daphne asks.

Anthony sighs and rolls his eyes, “We’ve all seen his sketchbook. If he didn’t say it, we know he’s thinking it.”

Colin questions, “Does Y/n know about the sketchbook?”

“If she did, they would be engaged by now”, Daphne replies.

“I beg your pardon, Daph, but I don’t think so. Y/n would never interpret the sketchbook as ‘affection’”, Anthony quips.

“Well, what would she interpret as his affection?”

Anthony answers, “Nothing unless he drops to his knee and proposes”

Colin rolls his eyes, “God, she’s oblivious”

“I’m starting to wonder if she’s blind. I mean, no woman is this dense”, Eloise exclaims.

“And I’m wondering what dramatics have taken over my children this fine morning!” Lord Bridgerton asks the room, causing his family to turn to him.

Anthony starts, “Father, do not tell me that you can stomach more of this hopeless pining from both of them-”

“When we could end it right now!”, continues Eloise.

“I’m sorry, children, but this is a moment that the pair must realize on their own”, Lord Bridgerton calmly replies.

“But this is torture!”, exclaims Colin.

Lady Bridgerton speaks up, “One day, we will laugh at all this. Maybe at their wedding even, but until then, you are not to say a word about either party’s feelings for each other, understood?”

…

Reluctantly, all siblings reply, “Yes, Mother.”

“Thank you, and who knows? Maybe Y/n and Benedict will experience this torture when one of you starts their season”

Collective groans ensue.

TAGLIST (everyone who requested a part 2):

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