Note: Mrs Amaro. 'Amaro' is Italian for 'bitter'.

0000

Blaine Anderson was bored. Simple as that. He was a very bored sixteen year old man. He was different from the others that lived within the mansion, in more ways than one. He made sure to always thank the servants and cooks, although most of them were bitter and never accepted his appreciation. His father was a very wealthy man, but he was also very strict with the servants. He knew that in society everybody had their places, everybody had their status, and everybody had their duties. Because he was sixteen his father was trying to make Blaine see that marriage was not such a bad thing. But, after witnessing his son's reluctance, he agreed that he would let him wait a few more years before trying to get him a partner. Cooper would inherit the family wealth after their father's death, providing them with financial security – but still, the boys had to marry at some point to increase their family's wealth and status further. It all felt ridiculous to Blaine, like he was born into the wrong century or something like that. It amused him that after growing up in this place he still managed to discover new rooms. He mused to himself that he had only entered some of them once and then neglected them, deeming them drab and far too pristine for his casual tastes. He pushed a door open and peaked in.

The room was large; it was most commonly used for some of the smaller dances that they sometimes hosted. It was daunting to think of how quiet this room now was, without the meaningless drivel that pretentious people spouted echoing off the walls. In the centre of the room, crouched on his knees beside a splintered bucket was a young man, who didn't seem as old as most of the servants at their mansion. His father had always said that training servants who were children or nearing the age of thirteen was a waste of time, they always got servants into their late twenties and older. Those who knew and accepted the harsh realities of life. So then why was a man so young hunched over, scrubbing the marble floor? Slowly Blaine entered the room further and closed the door softly, careful not to allow it to make a noise. He approached cautiously. The boy had light alabaster skin with brunette hair that defied gravity, swooping up attractively to one side. He was wearing a white buttoned up shirt that was evidently too big, with the sleeves rolled up, and black trousers that were torn at the knees. Blaine vaguely wondered what would have caused the rips on his trousers. The boy looked very tired indeed. His face had a slightly red tint, and his knuckles had gone white from scrubbing for so long. Bags stuck out under his eyes as though they were painted on. Speaking of eyes, Blaine had never seen such captivating blue eyes. He must have been staring, because soon enough the boy raised his head – locking those striking eyes onto him.

"Master Anderson," The boy started. His voice was light and soft, but sounded nice and calming. "Is there something I can do for you?" Blaine shook his head back into focus.

"Oh. Uhm, no, nothing at all. But thank you." He said. The boy nodded. Blaine almost had to ask how the boy had known who he was, but stopped himself when he realised how foolish it would sound. "I don't think I've seen you around before." He pointed out. The boy squeezed the sponge over the bucket.

"I have being working here for a year, sir. My father had fallen very ill, but the treatment he would need was quite expensive. I started to work here after your father found me on the street," He wiped his forehead of sweat with his arm before continuing. "But my father did not make it." Blaine noticed the pained look that crossed the boy's face. The deep anguish caused by the loss of a father who, Blaine guessed, meant more to him than anything else in the world. "I had nowhere else to go; our family was quite poor – my mother also died when I was eight. So your father kept me on here."

"I… I'm so sorry; I don't know what to say…" The boy just shrugged his shoulders, but his eyes were cast down at the floor. He paused a moment before he continued scrubbing. "My father usually does not take in young people to become servants." It was a statement, but clearly he was expecting this boy to answer regardless.

"Your father does not like to train new servants, Mr Anderson. Doing so would mean that they might mess up and make him, or the family, look bad. I have been a servant since I was six years old. I know exactly how to behave, and know my place." He squeezed the sponge into the bucket again and stood up, picking up the handle. Blaine was a little surprised to see the boy was only slightly taller than him.

"How old are you?" Blaine wondered. The servant looked at him and paused for a moment, as though trying to remember his age, which made Blaine feel a bit bad. He had heard of servants being so dehumanised that they would even forget their own ages.

"I'm seventeen, sir." The boy answered flatly, as though he simply did not care or see the relevance in discussing his age. Blaine didn't know how he felt about it. This boy was a year older than him, he had never spoken to another person his own age, or close to his age, before – well, aside from the people that his father tried to get him to consider marrying.

"And your name?" The boy tilted his head.

"Kurt Hummel, sir." Blaine almost winced at the amount of times this person was calling him 'sir', 'master', or 'Mr Anderson'. He liked the name though. Kurt. It was a nice name. Blaine smiled a little bit and held out his hand.

"Pleasure to meet you, Kurt. I am Blaine." Kurt glanced at Blaine's hand and shuffled his feet awkwardly. At first Blaine thought that Kurt was uncomfortable around him, but then he noticed something. Kurt's hands were red raw with a couple of cuts and bandages – undoubtedly caused by hard work.

"I know your name, sir."

"No, I mean, you can call me Blaine." He slowly lowered his hand when he realised that the contact might irritate Kurt's hand. The boy shook his head.

"It would not be proper of me," He started. "I am your servant, I am beneath you." Blaine stared at him. This was why he felt like he was in the wrong century. He didn't agree that one person could be valued more than another simply because of how much money they had. It was ridiculous. If Kurt were to grow ill and pass away it was horrifying to think that nobody would really care that much. He would be taken off the earth as though he had never been on it. The thought made him sad.

"Don't say that," Blaine started. "No-one is worth less than another person. I'm younger than you, for goodness sake." He was getting frustrated. Kurt looked at him in surprise, though confusion was definitely evident on his face too. The only kindness he had been shown while at the mansion was simply the fact that he had a roof over his head – even if that roof was not a home to him.

"Master, please relax," Kurt said, holding up his free hand in an attempt to calm him. "This is simply how things are." Blaine, in a very ungentlemanly like fashion, threw up his hands in frustration.

"I don't like things the way they are!" Kurt watched him, unsure of what he was supposed to do in this situation. The doors opened then, and Mr Anderson stepped into the room. He was a cleanly shaven man with dark hair and piercing eyes. Blaine's father took in the scene and approached them.

"Is there a problem here?" He asked his son. Blaine shook his head.

"No, I just met Kurt." Blaine said, gesturing to the servant. Mr Anderson nodded and directed his attention to Kurt, who – Blaine noticed – shrank back ever so slightly.

"Hummel, did you finish your work?" He asked. Kurt nodded and glanced down at the floor. Mr Anderson nodded. "Really? Because I believe that in addition I also asked you to empty the chamber pots. But because you were not around Mrs Amaro was forced to do it herself. She is far from pleased. What do you have to say for yourself?" Recognition appeared in Kurt's slightly widened eyes. He felt himself growing slightly paler, making the bags under his eyes all that more clear.

"I'm sorry, sir, I was so preoccupied that I didn't-" A push. A gasp. That was all it took. Mr Anderson had shoved Kurt roughly in the chest. Under normal circumstances it would have amounted to nothing more than a show of aggression. But as it was, Kurt's body had been weakened by hard labour. He stumbled back in surprise, the bucket flying out of his hand and spilling all over him as he hit the floor. He squeezed his eyes closed as he banged his head on the floor. He groaned softly and brought a hand to the back of his head, sitting up.

"Now look at what you have done. Clear up this mess and get back to work. You're needed out in the garden, and because you have been messing around, you do not have time to change into dry clothes." Blaine stared at his father, he really wanted to say something but he was too shocked to form a coherent sentence. When his father left the room he knelt by Kurt's side, not caring about the spilled water. Kurt was shivering already. Blaine touched the boy's arm, recoiling by just how cold the water really was.

"My goodness, you are freezing," Blaine hurriedly took off his expensive black coat, but as he moved to put it on Kurt's shoulders, he was surprised when the boy raised a hand to stop him. "Kurt?"

"Sir, I appreciate the kindness, but I cannot." It suddenly dawned on Blaine that the tears in Kurt's jeans must have been caused by aggressive mistreatment inflicted by his – Blaine's- father.

"You shall freeze to death if you do not take this." Blaine insisted, but still Kurt turned his head away. He knew that Kurt probably was dying to ask for help right now, desperate for sleep or anything that would be less of a burden on his aching and tired body. But Blaine suspected that it was either pride, or fear that prevented Kurt from asking for help. "Please, Kurt."

"You are the first person here to call me by my first name," Kurt commented quietly, his tone seemed indifferent. Blaine couldn't depict how Kurt was feeling when he made that comment. "Usually it is simply 'Hummel' or merely degrading terms of address." He did wonder what other people called Kurt if they didn't call him 'Hummel'.

"Well, with your permission, I would like to call you by your name." Blaine spoke kindly, gently moving Kurt's hand aside and draping his coat over the shaking boy's shoulders. Kurt's head remained turned away for a short moment, processing everything. Then he realised that he had yet to clean up the mess.

"If you will excuse me, sir, I must clean this up. Dinner will be served shortly, so you should meet with your parents in the dining room." Blaine looked at him.

"Are you giving me an order?" Kurt's eyes widened slightly but all Blaine did was chuckle softly. "I am kidding, Kurt, do not look so worried around me. We are friends, right?" Kurt sucked in a breath.

"Sir, it would not appro-" He started.

"Oh, I was not asking. We are friends. You are an interesting person, Kurt. I do hope to learn your story." He smiled gently at him. As he turned away he was almost certain that he heard a flicker of a chuckle coming from the less fortunate boy. But because it was so faint and distant, it could have been mistaken for nothing at all.