RedemptionMoon : Sorry guys, but I predict this chapter may be a bit boring for you. But don't worry, this'll be the first and the last one of those – that I know of anyway. So feel free to tell me that it is as boring as hell, I wouldn't mind.
Chapter 10 : Routine in hell
Hot damn he was tired !
This was his first day spent under Crawford's wing and all he could say that it was tough shit.
Oh, he wasn't forced to carry crates or anything, but being around that ice cube with the stick up its shit-hole was aggravating, not to mention damned annoying. And the tension and the emotional stress drained him of every drop of his energy.
He'd been forced to discard his original battle plan of making Crawford's life hell because of ... well, stuff. Oh hell, he'd planned to spill boiling coffee – or tea or whatever - on the bastard's crotch to make him a eunuch for life or sabotage his breakfast with a little side dish of lizards and cockroaches and that kind of stuff.
But – he hadn't had time – nor the resources to do those things ... that and other reasons.
The truth was, for the first time in his entire life, he'd been intimidated by someone. Yes ! As embarrassing as it was to say, yes, God he had been fucking intimidated by the demonic bastard from hell !
But all in all he didn't hate the day too much or at least not enough to give him the urge to hurl himself off a cliff.
He probably should credit that to Crawford's total ignorance of him. It was like he was totally invisible – although that suited him quite well.
Damn. He had been gone two days and he was missing Schuldich already.
He wondered how long he was going to stay with Crawford. He just hoped he wouldn't be too long.
Collapsing on his bed, he recounted all the details of the day that had just passed.
† † †
4:30 a.m. that day
[Narrator favoring Ken's point of view]
He had finished dressing up in the pristine black uniform that the old butler had given him after a quick warm shower in the gleaming, opulently designed bathroom that practically screamed 'rich man's john !!!' or 'millionaire's piss room' or something of that sort that would probably leave the owner of the mansion quite aghast at the vulgar use of language.
He had then headed off to the servants' dining quarters, which suspected the old man had intentionally neglected to direct him to where its location was, and he had no choice but to devote around fifteen minutes of his precious time wandering around the dizzying labyrinth of corridors and hallways until he finally found where the damned dining room was.
He sighed inwardly at the wary and quite irate glares directed his way and settled down on the empty seat at the end of the long polished wood table where a plate was set. They were probably pissed to have another person under the roof.
He couldn't believe the number of servants under employment.
The servants, all twenty five of them – twenty six including him - who were promptly finishing off their breakfast of eggs and ham, blatantly ignored him with a fury and completely brushed off his request of passing food to him.
Pissed, he stood up and collected the plates he needed himself and started to eat ravenously, pausing only to sip hot cocoa, which he poured for himself, and return to his food. He hadn't eaten anything the day before after all – probably because he was unconscious the whole time – and his stomach kept on rigorously reminding him of that fact.
He was barely halfway through his food when the active clinking of spoons and forks against plates ceased and as if by synchronicity all uniformed employees, men and women alike, stood up with all the utensils, piled them over at the large stainless sink and dispersed, leaving only two servants in white, one male and the other female, to wash the dirty dishes.
Still annoyed at his apparent non-existence to his fellow comrades, he was about to stick another spoonful into his mouth when all of a sudden the old man, the butler who had appeared at his door that morning, appeared at his side and said " Master Crawford is awake. You shall have to bring him his breakfast at the main dining hall."
With that, the two in white appeared at his left and were suddenly collecting his half-full plate and unfinished steaming cocoa.
He gritted his teeth, his stomach still complaining, and picked up the silver tray mounted with a porcelain pot and matching teacup on a saucer, a peeled orange, some kind of weird flaky bread, some butter and a silver dome which he assumed was covering the plate and several sets of teaspoons, spoons, forks and a bread knife and a cutting knife.
Ignoring the rambunctious clattering he made, he slowly made his way through the empty halls, the old man walking silently alongside him, and finally, after a minute or two, they emerged into a large spacious hall in which the first thing he noticed was a huge silver and crystal chandelier suspended on the vaulted and muraled ceiling (which was painted with angels and clouds among other things and which was, he later learned, a miniature reproduction of the beautiful ceiling of the Sistine Chapel) . Beautiful angels heralded in paintings on the walls, as if descending from the painted ceiling above and bronze and silver sculptures of various mythological gods and goddesses lined up on long mahogany pedestals made for the very purpose of showing these priceless works of art.
A large oak table decorated with silver candle holders and freshly picked orchids stood in the middle, an array of beautifully carved chairs lined up alongside for invisible guests as large glass windows at the far end of the huge room let in a generous amount of morning sunshine.
And finally, after recapturing his breath at the intense beauty and sheer magnificence of the room, his legs blindly stumbling one after the other, his eyes finally caught sight of the master of such opulence.
He was seated at the far end of the table dressed in an elegant white robe, his back towards the light from outside and was casually reading the newspaper as if quite unaware of the beauty that surrounded him.
He barely looked up to acknowledge their presence and they stopped when they reached the spot where he was and the butler motioned for Ken to put down the tray he was holding. " You are to address him as Master Crawford and show him respect at all times. His every command is to be obeyed to the letter, you understand ?" The old butler said in a polished undertone.
Smothering the urge to gag, Ken placed the tray down on the table, making a huge din in the process and proceeded to set all the items as discreetly instructed by the old man.
He was so busy putting all the things on the specified places on the table that he didn't notice the subtle gesture of dismissal and was vaguely alarmed when the old man departed without another word.
He hated the old geezer like constipation but he sure as hell preferred his presence to being alone with the frozen bastard.
He completed his task and prepared for a hasty retreat when the cobalt-eyed man raised his bespectacled eyes towards him in cold scrutiny.
" Stay there ." He said calmly.
Ken could tell that the man was used to authority and as much as he despised that, he had no choice. He was the one in debt after all. Keeping a shudder to himself, he let out a noisy breath and did as he was told.
So he stood there on the side, attempting to smother his impatience and amused himself by staring at the beautiful mural on the ceiling and the numerous paintings mounted on the white walls as the older man folded his newspaper and proceeded to meticulously prepare his meal.
First he took of the silver globe covering the plate and held it out to Ken who, clenching his fist with frustration, took it without a word and then he started to butter the bread (which was a freshly-baked croissant by the way) before stirring the tea and placing the teaspoon on the saucer.
Try as he may, Ken could not ignore the ritual and was drawn by the graceful and scrupulous manner it was completed. He didn't know there was so much to be done just to eat breakfast despite the fact that the whole thing was already prepared.
It was like watching a magician in action, the gentle and flowing manner in which the soft meat was cut, and the way his wrist was poised to stir the dark liquid in his cup. It was like poetry in motion.
'Too bad that smug-assed face had to go with it' Ken thought with derision as he caught sight of the expressionlessness of his so-call 'Master Crawford'.
He clutched at the silver tray tightly after that and he was forced to stand there for more than thirty minutes as the man leisurely ate his breakfast in between reading articles in the newspaper.
Ken was not used to standing for such a lengthy space of time and he could already feel his knees stiffening. He kicked out the kinks, he didn't fucking care if the man was bothered from his trance by the movement but continued to flail his legs one at a time and he could imagine himself looking funny doing that while he was in his smart uniform.
He had done several rounds of that when he noticed that the midnight-haired man was looking at him with an unreadable expression.
[Narrator : Favoring Crawford's point of view]
Crawford could tell that his new 'errand boy' as he knew his butler called the brunette when Crawford wasn't around, was feeling a bit tired from standing for – he glanced at his watch – more than forty minutes.
This was his first day with his duties and as far as Crawford could tell, he wasn't late in bringing his breakfast.
He tried to ignore the boy's kicking and flailing, which caught his peripheral vision, but that much commotion and the intent and half-annoyed expression it was done with was almost impossible to disregard.
Finally, he angled his head to watch the boy discreetly as he stretched his legs and shrugged his shoulders in an attempt to ward of the cramps that had induced his discomfort.
Crawford noticed that he was gritting his teeth as if trying to keep himself from doing anything drastic and true enough, what he was doing at that moment very much caught Crawford's rare amusement – he in his starched black uniform and shoes. It was of course the same uniform as Farfarello's (which was different from all the others' because Farfarello was Crawford's personally aide and ought to look the part.)
Oh, he indeed looked neat. And for an urchin picked out of the streets, the uniform surprisingly fitted him. He looked like a well-bred young man – while he was not doing that peculiar exercise, that is.
Well, that was enough.
Crawford picked up a white napkin and wiped the corner of his lips before standing, he noticed the appalled look the boy shot his unfinished meal – perhaps years of living on the streets without having a sure source of food made him conscious of not wasting a single morsel.
Strangely enough, Crawford felt a satisfaction with assuring himself that the chestnut-haired boy would never feel that kind of hunger again.
Never again. He found himself saying silently.
He then stood up and walked through the intricate maze of hallways with Ken in tow, the brunette still clutching the silver tray in his hands.
When he reached the landing of the grand stairs, he told the hazel-haired boy to wait for him there.
He had no intention of showing Ken where his sleeping quarters were because he wouldn't put it past the young boy to strangle him in his sleep in his barely-veiled abhorrence of his new employer.
Not that the boy cared at all. As soon as he turned his back, Ken slumped on the top step and glared dejectedly at the floor several feet below him, unmindful of Crawford's presence at all.
It seemed as if he couldn't care less. And that suited Crawford just fine.
Walking swiftly, he disappeared into one of the hallways and vanished behind a white door.
Several minutes later, he was dressed in the usual white suite, everything fixed to perfection and he found the boy missing from his perch on the top step.
Where did he go ? Crawford mused as he turned his eyes searchingly without success.
He descended down the steps, preoccupied. The boy wouldn't try to escape from broad daylight, now would he ?
Crawford was under the impression that he wasn't quite that stupid.
He strode purposefully down the empty hallways in search of his missing guest and finally had the satisfaction of finding the young boy quite enthralled by the magnificent display in the receiving room where most of his expensive treasures were hung out for the entire world to see.
He found it quite strange for a boy with no breeding appreciating the great works of art as if he were a painter, or an art connoisseur like himself.
Ken was so enraptured by the display of beauty that he didn't hear the master of the house approach, nor did he feel the intense gaze probing his physique.
He traced the contours lovingly, wondering what it would be like to live in that painted world of theirs, surrounded by the beautiful fantasy of a painter's wonderful imagination, where no harm could ever come to him, nor could any hunger wrench his gut like a python's death grip.
It was enchanting for him who had never seen that much beauty ... oh he could remember vague memories of the past where he himself lived in a big house with paintings such as these – but those memories were painful, not at all fond. In those old paintings haunting his old house; the home of his childhood, the force of his parents lost to him in an early age came crashing down on him like a painful agonizing wave... these paintings were not like those.
He saw the beauty in them.
He saw the magic in those imaginary people's eyes like a kindling fire ... and he knew that had he gazed upon these wondrous treasures a mere month before, he would not see in them what he was seeing now ... because in that space of four weeks, he had been with the most beautiful thing in his life.
And he had lived a fairytale in a magical fortress where no one and nothing could ever hurt him ... and with someone who cared enough to protect him.
Schuldich...
Schuldich will find him ... he knew Schuldich will ...
He trusted Schuldich implicitly.
He traced the contours of the green-eyed angel's face and felt the ridges of paint under his fingertips.
Schuldich will definitely find him ... and he'd be waiting.
All the time this internal musing was happening, Crawford was watching the young boy and noted with something akin to jealousy – if he knew what the meant – the way the younger boy tenderly stroked the surface of the painting.
He'd never seen anyone look at anything with such gentleness after his wife and ...
The spell was broken.
Suddenly, as if sensing his presence, Ken whirled around to look at him, surprise etched in his young face.
With that, Crawford's face seemed to freeze over and he strode purposefully past him towards the front door. He bit out only the necessary words as he glided past
" Get rid of that ."
He was pertaining to the silver tray. Obviously Ken had forgotten that it was in his possession and the flustered boy run off as fast as his nimble legs could carry him and returned within a few moments to the receiving room before he hurried outside to the waiting car where Farfarello was opening the back door to let in his employer.
Unsure of what to do, Ken merely gaped at them and moved reluctantly into action when the silver-haired chauffeur/bodyguard gestured to the passenger seat.
Damn ! He hadn't thought that he'd have to tag along with them.
Later that same day
He didn't know if his so-called 'Master Crawford' ever stopped working.
All he ever did that whole day was tag along like a smitten puppy behind him, supposedly ready to do his every bidding. It was one meeting after another and he was learning to appreciate the king of man that tolerated that day after day.
He suppressed a weary sigh. He'd been standing for such long periods of time that he didn't know if his normally sturdy legs could survive without breaking off. He had nothing better to do – nor had he been instructed to do otherwise but stand at attention doing nothing in the background while a meeting was being conducted and Ken hated nothing worse than doing nothing.
He'd been observer to at least four or five meetings before lunch time that he already knew the gist of what happened in one and what they usually discussed ... not that he understood what they meant – he knew he was too undereducated in that aspect to fully grasp business talk but he was smart enough to get by.
His mouth felt like stale cheese after not talking so long – but then again, he'd been used to habitual silence until this past month when he was usually locked in a verbal battle against a certain redheaded surgeon.
He glanced impatiently at the wall clock and noted in dismay that it was 2:00 in the afternoon and there was no sign of the meetings tapering off for them to have lunch.
He wondered briefly where Farfarello was – if that was his real name at all – probably, the golden-eyed chauffeur was still waiting by the car, listening to music and watching the hustle and bustle of the busy city street, sated and full from a hearty lunch – which was more than he could say for himself.
His stomach grumbled at the memory of the interrupted breakfast and it was all he could do to grimace at the thought. After all, a month of having full meals at regular intervals had made his stomach used to having a twelve o'clock lunch. Schuldich, though he didn't seem so, was extremely strict with mealtimes when he was concerned and Ken secretly thought that the redhead wanted to establish a regular and healthy diet for him – which was fine with him.
Hallelujah ! He grinned to himself in triumph as the boss of the entire company stood up from his seat at the head of the conference table and walked past his now-dismissed employees without even a gesture of farewell and strode past Ken who took it as a sign to leave his post against the far wall and retreat into the lobby after Crawford.
When they arrived at the entrance, Farfarello was already waiting with the car and they soon drove to an expensive-looking restaurant where Crawford was greeted with unusual warmth by the headwaiter who seemed vaguely surprised that Crawford was actually accompanied by another aside from his personal bodyguard. And the man hurried before them to make the necessary arrangements and adjustments.
Ken didn't at all expect to be invited inside. Instead, he was waiting for Farfarello to direct him to any place where the food was cheap.
He was wrong. Crawford's voice was chilly – it was so subzero that Ken was sure it would beat the temperatures at the Antarctic. " What are you waiting for, boy ?"
Ken snapped his head up and caught the glare. Gritting his teeth, he trailed after his employer while they were led to a table set aside at the far end of the room so tastefully and inconspicuously cordoned-off – he assumed for Crawford's exclusive use.
He was motioned to sit down at the small table that would be just right for one but would be acceptable for two.
No words were exchanged.
Within moments, food was set on the table. Food that Ken had never seen nor tasted but his mouth watered at the smell and sight of it.
He had no idea that the man seated across him was watching him from veiled eyes.
Crawford picked up his spoon and fork and started to eat and Ken assumed that he wasn't expected to eat until Crawford was finished or something and that he was merely there to keep the man company.
But God ! He could hardly contain himself from lunging at the food – he was so frigging starved that he could eat a mustang.
He heard a clink, silver utensils connecting with expensive china and looked up to see Crawford observing at him. " You're not hungry ?" He heard the cultured voice asking him without the usual trace of vehemence (in his opinion) that he usually exhibited.
Ken stared back, frozen and unsure of what to do before nodding. Hell, he didn't know what the hell prompted the man to actually eat with him or rather, for him to allow Ken to actually eat with him (which, by common sense is an entirely different thing altogether); in a restaurant that looked like they had million-dollar chefs under employment; at a table that he obviously regularly sat alone at.
The graceful fingers made a tiny gesture and Ken burst into action, eating the delicate meal served in front of him.
He ate with fervor, his own utensils making ridiculous sounds that were often the butt of Schuldich's jokes on mealtimes. Schuldich often told him that he sounded like a percussion quartet on a frenzy.
And man, he'd never tasted anything so heavenly. He had to concede that even his cooking was nothing like this.
He was so absorbed with his meal that he didn't note the wan smile tugging at the corner of Crawford's thin lips for a fraction of a second.
As usual, the man took his sweet time eating. Ken finished wolfing down his food in something like ten minutes.
Crawford took – about something over thirty minutes to barely finish his sparsely-furnished plate.
After eating, they were once more driven to the building where the meetings resumed until five in the afternoon.
After that, most of the employees went home. But Crawford was left in his office.
Alone.
With Ken.
And his paperwork.
And between him and the wall, Ken knew that the man cared more for those flimsy pieces of paper than he care for him if he dropped down dead even that moment.
Sighing aggravated to himself, Ken was once more left to dabble at his thoughts for lack of anything better to do while Crawford sat at his large desk his spectacles perched on his nose as he silently read pages and pages of filed white paper while the sky dimmed outside.
† † †
He hadn't realized that he had actually dozed off.
He had only roused when he felt a hand gently shaking his shoulder and looked up in surprise that Crawford had actually deigned to touch him, much less shake his shoulder with a considerate gentleness that Ken didn't know he possessed.
The man's eyes were almost luminous in the dark and yet, they were completely unreadable.
Crawford could probably kill him right then and there if he wanted to and no one would bother to investigate his death.
Drowsy, he stood up and wobbled on his feet, still trying to get oriented and stumbled slightly – onto the shoulder of the taller man.
He expected to be shoved off – but to his astonishment, he felt a warm steadying hand on his elbow.
Flustered, he righted himself as he bowed his head in an attempt to disguise the flush in his cheeks – and stumbled again when the man let go of his elbow without warning.
Fuming, he followed the older man out and realized that there was no one else in the building.
Absolutely no one else, save for the occasional roaming guard or one or two janitors.
It sucks having this Big Man's office at the top level. Ken thought.
He hated elevators and could only tolerate a few short moments of the disorienting feeling while riding one.
He licked his lips and tried to fight his dizziness.
When they arrived at the lobby, they, or rather Crawford, was greeted courteously by the head guard as they were escorted outside to the car where Farfarello was waiting.
When they arrived, Ken had yet to serve Crawford his dinner before he himself, once more starving, was finally allowed to have dinner by himself.
After dinner, he was sent back to his room which was, unlike the other servants, at the second floor.
He never gave the difference any thought. But all the other servants thought about it.
And they thought about it well. He was sure to get a lot of grievances for just that.
He fell asleep with nothing in mind but dreams of a certain redhead.
And thus ended the first day of what was to be his daily routine for days to come.
† † †
RedemptionMoon : Sorry, I didn't and don't have much time to type this up and I can't reply to all your beautiful reviews for the last chapter. Yep, you know who you are you wonderful people. Thanks for the reviews, they keep me writing despite this hellish schedule I am and will be living for the rest of the summer. TT So please continue your support – I'll be counting on it. YY