Hi everyone! I am very excited to introduce the new chapter - as always, your reviews make my day. Thank you for all the new likes and follows :) Hope you enjoy!
The weekend drifted slowly through Number 127. The weather had turned clear and sunny, crisp and biting like only cloudless winter's days can be. In the house, everyone interpreted the sunlit chill as the perfect excuse to spend two days bundled in layers of pajamas, socks and blankets, while warming their hands on steaming mugs of hot chocolate or cider. With so many people in the house, the kitchen was in constant danger of imploding; every few seconds, someone would need to grab a snack or check on the oven, bumping into drawers and open cupboards. The scent of gingerbread and clove the washed the first floor of the home in the spirit of Christmas.
Upstairs, Blaine woke to the steady beat of a bustling house. When his eyes fluttered open, he wasn't startled by the scene of the bright-lit room, the cluttered bedside table, heaving under cups and candles, the tilted armchair and the draped blankets. Even the warm, gentle caress of his downy pillow didn't burn with its unexpected softness. He turned to his right and his lips twitched into a smile at the sight of the sunbathed street. The upturn of his lips crinkled his eyes. Was this home? He took a deep breath, washing his chest with the scent of earl grey and heating. He never thought he'd have the chance for any of this to feel right, and now, in mere days, what was unimaginable became familiar. The bright reflection of the winter sun off neighboring homes swam in his vision as a single tear welled in his eyes.
"Rise and shine!"
Lea's voice drifted from the hallway and Blaine pressed his cheek into the pillow to wipe away the tear track before rolling onto his other side. Greeting her with an unpracticed grin, Blaine propped himself up to the headboard, the movement jostling a wide yawn from the depth of his chest.
"Hey, sleeping beauty," Lea teased before setting down the breakfast tray, "brought you some brunch. Though it's looking like this weekend will be a non-stop eating fest. Here, brought you some tea – no surprise there, and some sugar cookies. Don't mind the sprinkles – James and Jordan had a little decorating war. The cookies were both casualties and battlegrounds."
It was so easy to let this dream wash over him, pull him under with its promise of safety, comfort, warmth, and gentle words. A stitch prickled his heart. It was the ease that scared him. Nothing was easy, and nothing was free.
The whole day, Blaine fought the growing sense of belonging. Lea had cautiously conceded that it may be time for B to start walking on his own, the frostbite having completely healed on his feet and leaving only slight scars on his hands. Secretly, Laura suspected that Lea would have stood her ground against the boy walking for a day or two more had the Dom not wanted to see him put on socks and shoes on for the first time in god-knows how long. When Lea tugged the slipper out from under the pile of B's belongings and set them on the floor with a pair of thick, fluffy, fleece socks, Laura caught a glimpse of her eyes, bright and focused on the task of dismantling every habit that brought the boy pain.
Blaine's hands shook as he tugged on the socks, fingertips sinking into the thickness of their fuzz. As he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, letting his feet brush over the tops of his slippers, his heart hammered and his ears echoed with the words "forbidden" and "punishment" and "whore" "whore" "whore". He curled his toes and edged his feet into the shoes, every inch an act of ownership and defiance. As the arches of his feet rested in the warmth of his slippers, Blaine took a deep breath and stood up.
For a moment, his legs shuddered and his knees wobbled, but in a second, Lea caught his elbow and let him rest into her side. With staggered steps, Lea led him through the house, patiently waiting as he placed one foot before the other and constantly narrating their space.
"That's the bathroom. Pretty sure you know what's that for. Bubbles are in the bottom drawer along with the candles. Here's the upstairs common space. No one's figured out how to use it so it's our designated 'limbo' for the things that don't quite belong. And the library. Great space unless you're allergic to dust. Avoid sitting in that far left desk - the heating vent under it has a direct line to hell and it will burn your socks off. Now the living room. That's the TV…pretty much it for this room. No one spends any time in here. And now the kitchen! Where everyone spends all their time. The epicenter of our humble home. Fridge, pantry, cupboards, food. It's all yours. Cups, bowls, plates in the cupboard over there, canned goods and nonperishables over there, fruit we forget to put in the fridge usually winds up in those bowls. If you want anything, or we run out of anything, we use this chalkboard. Jot it down and we'll include it in the next food run. Anything do you like? Something we should start stocking up?"
It took Blaine a moment to recognize the question, still lost in the sound of "our", "yours" and "home". His eyes roved across the countertops laden with food, jars labeled sugar and flour, baskets of fruits and vegetables, greens, reds, and yellows bursting with their vibrancy, bubbling pots boiling on the stove and hissing skillets that sizzled and spat, kettles that hummed, and all around him sound, scent, and welcome. His chest constricted and breath caught in his throat. His legs trembled with the urge to fall to his knees, only the tight grip of his trembling fingers on the countertop keeping him upright.
"B? Sweetheart?"
Refocusing his blurry vision, Blaine met Lea's curious gaze.
"Anything you'd want us to stock up? Anything you like?" She repeated.
Blaine shook his head and answered as truthfully as he could, "I don't know."
The housemates took Blaine's confession as a challenge. The rest of the weekend was declared a "Tasting", and each person happily rushed to the fridge to check on ingredients for their favorite meals. When Blaine frantically shook his head and begged them to pay no attention, James leaned over the counter and asked "How can you know who you are if you don't know what you like?"
In a matter of minutes, Blaine had a mug of hot cider, a bowl of roast-pumpkin soup, and a plate of buttermilk scones with homemade whipped cream and raspberry puree. The chalkboard was wiped clean (after someone snapped a photo), and a seven-day table quickly grew full of suggested lunches, dinners, and desserts. With choreographed ease, the housemates split up in teams – some dug through the fridge, others cleared countertops of aimless dishes, while others debated the merits of roast beef over rack of lamb. When the counters were cleared, Lea stumbled into the room with a handful of books, binders, and journals. Recipes spilled across the countertop, and Blaine had to wonder how anyone could be so dedicated to food. Food was sustenance, just enough calories to get through the day. His nose scrunched up against the phantom smells of his old bowl, partially filled with dark brown pellets of dense nutrients and topped with grey mush. True, the soups he'd enjoyed in the past few days were heaven in comparison – nearly clear broths with vibrant carrots and opaque onion rings, but he cannot imagine filling a library of books devoted to broth.
Shame rushed into his heart. The weight of his ingratitude settled in his chest, making his lip tremble around a shaky breath. He ducked his face and hunched his shoulders, making himself as small as possible on the stool. Trying to regain composure, he toyed with the spoon to the roast pumpkin soup before plunging it into the bowl. The aroma of the soup filled his consciousness, the spices tickling his nose and plunging him to a world of pure flavor.
Tipping a spoon full of pureed roast-pumpkin onto his tongue, Blaine reconsidered; hopefully, there are whole libraries devoted to this pleasure.
Monday morning, or Hell Day, was always chaos at Stanley-Broeker&Associates. Ringing phones and urgent messages, stampeding interns and haggard first-years all painted a picture of utter madness.
Damien loved it. Stepping into the office was better than burying your feet in the sand of some exotic retreat – this was pure energy. He crossed the atrium in long, easy the strides, the polished leather of his new Cole Haan oxfords squeaking in its newness. A nod to the guards and a pleasant smile to the greeting girl brought him to the elevator lobby, with its myriad of steel doors each servicing a different portion of the floors. He could vaguely recall the sense of utter ineptitude and impending failure as he struggled to find the right floor on his first day of work. He could recall it, but tried very hard not to – it doesn't pay to remember weakness.
When the bell chimed and a pleasant voice read "Forty-sixth floor. Going down", Damien stepped off the elevator and checked his watch. Its gleaming face read 9:14AM. Perfect.
After flicking his badge against the reader, Damien breached the last layer of glass separating him from the hubbub of the busy law office. Instantly, he was greeted from all sides.
"Morning, Mr. Johnson."
"Morning!"
"Good morning, Mr. Johnson. Have a pleasant weekend?"
"The best!"
"Mr. Johnson, sorry to bother you, but there was a request-"
"I'll look it over as soon as I reach my desk."
"Hey! Hey, Johnson!"
Damien paused long enough to let the short, round form of Mitchel Highthorn catch up to him from the break room. As always, the man was eating, a long drip of cream oozing down his chin as he chewed on a donut.
"Mitch." Damien greeted.
"So, I hear there's talk. You know, around the water cooler." Mitch tried to smirk around his mouthful, but his cheeks were just too stuffed.
"No, I don't know." It was hard not to scowl. Mitch Highthorn was a repulsive creature that justified every lawyer joke ever written. He was a gossiping, lying, ruthless man who filled his life and personality with only the dirties secrets and more destructive rumors. He lived off destroying reputations and enjoyed dancing on the carcasses of his fallen victims. His only talents was listening to whispers, which made the water-cooler his primary zone of operation. Damien hated him. He was Damien's boss.
"Old Stanley may not be up for it much longer, if you know what I mean."
Damien threw his boss a quick glance before straightening to full height and picking up pace. Their height difference put over a foot of space between them and challenged Mitch to keep up.
Trying to wrap up the conversation, Damien responded, "Well, I don't put much stock in rumor. Old Stanley seemed just fine to me when he signed that acquisition last month. I wouldn't start measuring his office for furniture just yet."
"No, no!" Mitch enthuses in a stage whisper. He wheezed before tugging on Damien's coat and coming to a stop. His face was flushed and his eyes gleamed as he motioned his report to lean closer. "I mean, the old man is not keeping it up. One of his secretaries just got fired for letting it spill than the old fart has a little stash of Viagra in his desk-side drawer."
Damien clenched his jaw and took a deep breath. And his Monday had started so well…
"So what?"
"So what!" Mitch recoiled from the stupidity of the question. "So what? Johnson, my god. Law is politics, and you ask 'so what'? You may be one of the youngest associates in the history of this company, but damn you have so much to learn."
He huffed and turned back in the direction of the break room, chuckling and mumbling under his breath, "So what…my god, so what. It was Viagra my man! Viagra!"
Grateful for the sight of his boss's retreating back, Damien slowly unclenched his fists. Checking his watch again (9:18AM), Damien turned on his heel and tried clearing his head before reaching his office.
Rounding the corner, he nearly ran into his assistant.
"Mr. Johnson! Oh, good, I thought you'd gotten lost."
"Good morning, Mary."
"It would have been better if you'd have been here three minutes ago. Your coffee's going cold."
"I'm sure it's fine." Damien couldn't help the broad smile that tugged at his cheeks at the sight of his sassy assistant – she really was a sight for sore eyes after Mitch's bullshit.
"Your presentation is on the desk, and the report from Tax is in your inbox. The speech for tomorrow's conference is prepared but needs your final notes. Your lunch meeting was moved to two, and your dinner meeting is now at six-thirty, the car will pick you up at six-oh-seven and I will pick up your dry-cleaning in time for you to change. Oh, and your intern. He wants something."
"Which one?" He caught her just as she was rounding the door.
"The cute one." She yelled over her shoulder.
Damien shrugged off his coat, draping the cashmere, Burberry trench over the armchair and tugging on the cufflinks of his shirt.
Now, his day could finally begin.
By six o'clock, Damien's office was lightly lit by glow of his computer screens and the lone table lamp he'd flicked on when his eyes grew tried of squinting at depositions. The only sounds in the room for the past hour had been tap-tap-tap of the keyboard of the gentle swoosh of the highlighter as he steadily made his way through his "incoming" stack. So, understandably, he was a little bit startled when the doors to his office burst open with a pop.
"What are you sitting in the dark for?" Mark chastised and flicked on the main switch. The room flooded with artificial light, highlighting the dark night beyond the windows.
Damien blinked to adjust to the sudden brightness and squinted at the corner of his screen for the time. Six-oh-three.
"Goodness! You're still not dressed! What have you been doing for the past two hours?" Outraged, Mary rushed to the closet, where Damien's clothes still hung in their dry-cleaning bags. "What did I tell you! You need to get downstairs in four minutes!"
"Right, right…" Massaging his forehead, Damien tried to chase off the sense of exhaustion that had overtaken him in a matter of seconds. How mandatory was this dinner? Could he have fallen ill, or broken a leg, or been hit by a bus?
"Get up and get dressed. I'm your secretaty, not your mother. Really! A fully grown man…"
Damien stumbled to his feet and tried to breathe out the temptation to blow this whole thing off. It didn't work. Switching to auto-pilot, Damien shrugged off his jacket and took out the cufflinks, reaching for the top buttons of his shirt.
"Mr. Johnson?"
"Hmmm?"
Damien glanced at to the door and let a lazy smile tug at his features.
"Kurt! Good to see you! How've you been? I've been hearing good things – keep up the good work."
It wasn't strictly true – quite the opposite in fact. Kurt was too soft, too gentle, and too principled for a place like this. His peers and managers expected ruthless ambition, while Kurt seemed like someone who actually gave a shit about who he sunk on his way to the top. That's what made Damien like him. Unlike all the shadows who worked in this place, transforming moment to moment into whoever they needed to be, Kurt stood his ground – some called him "inflexible", others complained that he wasn't "opportunistic". But every complaint reassured Damien that he read the boy right; he was someone Damien could trust, and that came along rarely in this field.
"Thank you, I'm glad to hear it." The tone of Kurt's voice suggested that he interpreted the compliment for what it was – a pleasant lie. "But that's not what I needed to discuss. I believe I asked Mary for a moment of your time."
"Yes, yes, I'm sorry." Damien mumbled as he fumbled to get the buttons into the newly starched shirt. "Today was just a little…fuck it, are these buttons meant to fit these holes?"
His frustration made no impact on Mary, who simply dead-panned, "You'd like me to dress you? That requires a raise."
Growling, Damien went back to the buttons, starting from the top this time.
"Let's reschedule to Wednesday." He offered before Mary chimed in.
"No. Don't you remember – you have an offsite most of the day, and then that meeting with Roger."
"Right, maybe-"
"Sir, we need to talk now. It can't be delayed."
Damien abandoned the button half-done and glanced at his intern. Kurt's face was set, eyes hard and lips pressed as he were trying his best to concentrate all his courage and let none escape. His brows furrowed as he took in Kurt's battle-stance – what the hell? Kurt looked…., Damien searched for the right word, but the only one on his mind was "violent." Every muscle of Kurt's body was tense, whether in preparation for attack or defense, Damien couldn't quite tell.
"And it can't wait?"
"No, sir. It can't."
"Well that's just too bad!" Mary exclaimed, "You" – pocking Damien in his arm, "were supposed to be on your way to DeLaurenti's two minutes ago. So, unless you plan on taking your intern with you…"
Kurt's voice broke though Mary's babble, "It's about the sub. The one you asked me to find on Friday."
Damien's hands fell to his side.
"Mary, cancel the dinner."
"What! No-what? Damien, this is-"
"Mary, please. Just do it. And close the door on your way out."
Mary stared at her boss in utter confusion until she gather her wits and, spluttering, went out the door. Silence hung in the office as the two men regarded each other across the space. A deep sense of foreboding settled in Damien's chest, making him feel like the distance was the only thing keeping him safe.
Slowly, he made his way to his desk, careful to avoid turning his back. He settled into his chair and put his hands flat on the desk.
"Yes?"
"I found him."
Reviews? Maybe? Please? It would be nice :)
