adonis abadeer, district seven ♠ finished

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

— A D O N I S —

Adonis Edward Abadeer III.

Seventeen.

District Seven.

The Ninth Games.

♠

“his eyes are quite green,
as if from too much looking at the wood.
there are some eyes that can eat you.”
— angela carter

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

— A D O N I S —

Adonis Edward Abadeer III is always the first to class. Granted, this is due in part to his family's manor being only a short walk away from the esteemed Abadeer Institute where he studies, but there is always a good thing to be said about punctuality.

The academy has been standing for decades now, both before and following the Dark Days — then, and forevermore, a respectful private school for only the most privileged of Seven's sons. Many parents of the middle and upper classes would sacrifice the majority of their savings to assure at least the eldest of their children would receive an unrivaled education at the estate, but Adonis could count himself fortunate enough to trace his roots back to a breed of man who had never, and perhaps would never, understand the struggle of having limited resources.

The Abadeer vault has glittered with a vast horde of treasures for centuries now. There are those who jest that the family crest should be that of a dragon, and not the stag they center so proudly on their coat of arms. Flush with shades of green and gold, they dance to a melody of envy and greed.

Adonis sits by the window in the early hours, hooded gaze scanning the clean pages of a book carefully as his long fingers dance along the leather spine. The drumming is as nervous as the restless beat of his heart, but the melancholy of his thoughts is betrayed by the steady calm of his expression. Jaw finely chiseled, skin clean and smooth.

The way he folds himself is a thing of grace, a paper flower in permanent bloom. He holds his posture straight and has his school uniform ironed each morning while he eats his breakfast. The smell of sandalwood and mint seems to waft from him, the faintest breath of lavender oil clinging to his temples and caught in the dark chocolate curls of his thick hair. There is a canvas somewhere in Seven where only the outline of his silhouette remains.

To be so fine of face and abundant of wealth, it is not rare to assume upon the first meeting that this boy will be cruel, or entitled. It is easy to go into a conversation wanting to hate him, but the real struggle is the way his gaze never seems to look down, but through. A polite, active listener, trained in the same elegance of conversation as his father and grandfather before him. He knows how to catch attention in the palm of his hand like a bee to a flower, his touch as gentle as the early dawn painting a halo around his head.

It is hard to walk away from an interaction not feeling the warmth of him, the telltale tingle in your ears from a voice that speaks clearly, intentionally, and profoundly. Even caught in the midst of reading a thesis on the anatomy of amphibians, he does this with a kind of grace he claims so naturally. He turns to greet whoever should approach him, closing his book and sealing himself off from all distractions, blue-green eyes as enticing as they are piercing. "And how do you find yourself on this fine morning, my friend?"

There is a tinge of purple flesh beneath his gaze, a sleepy languidness to his movements, but his attention is sharp and focused. He does not consider himself a performer so much that he considers himself a boy born of privilege and luck. He has never known hunger, fear of being without water or electricity, he has never seen a thing he has wanted and not been able to pick up immediately from the shelf. Perhaps his greatest downfall is his inability to truly understand the lives of his fellow citizens, so separated from the Abadeers and their position of good fortune.

But he has learned in time that no amount of gold could purchase love, or peace of mind. The joy of owning a thing is only temporary, and then it is simply a thing in your grasp, waiting for you to set it aside. A father saying he is proud of his son is a rarer treasure, if you asked Adonis about the matter. Walking freely without the weight of generations of power and influence pressing down on your shoulders. There are easier ways to breathe than receiving the things you crave. He would give away all earthly possessions for quiet, resounding calm.

Sadly, he knows the brain and its dark devices all too well. He knows that he will always stand on the other side of a sheer sheet of glass, a taxidermied creature on display to be studied, and coveted. A rare breed, indeed. It is true that he will never understand the sorrow of the common folk, the fear and the hunger and the devastation that sweeps through the edges of his district like a wildfire that cannot be contained. For eight years now, his people have watched two of their own die like clockwork.

The tragedy here feels as living as any ancient oak. "Walk with me," his low, steady tone could lull even the fiercest heart to cease its thundering. He exists like a bronzed statue, ever poised and illuminated by the sun. "And try to tell me about something I don't know, if you think you're able. I do aim to learn at least one new fact a day." There are maps taped to his bedroom walls that lead to places he knows he might never see, but longs so desperately to visit in his lifetime.

And yet, how lucky is he to know they exist, and should be mourned?

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

white man audacity 🫢