Habit and routine are the enemies of freedom. Bryce has always firmly believed this, and he treasured his freedom over all else. As soon as he left home, he imposed a limit on the duration of his stay in any job, no matter how lucrative, or any place of residence, no matter how pleasant. The signs of when it was time to move on were unmistakable. The walls would start to close in; he would start to have trouble sleeping. Sites became dull with familiarity. This was the time for him to pull up any roots that have started to form, and move on. His mum always tried to force holiness into him through endless repetition, and her favorite saying was that the Lord is a shepherd. Bryce has never had the desire to be a sheep; when he would stay in one place too long, he would start to dream of flocks of dumb animals huddled together on the same hilltop, kept in place by the threat of blows from a crooked staff. And then he would leave.
He did not expect the job with Lara to be any different from the dabbling he had done up to that point. Taking it in the first place was not a question; good pay and free lodging for doing nothing more than the dilettante work he engaged in for fun anyway? If that were not incentive enough, Lara intrigued him; she was outspoken, brash, crass, and wore danger about her like a fashionable scarf. His plan was clear - earn enough money to support another year of nomadic traipsing, and run.
He met the second member of the household that evening, and mentally dismissed the man. Anal-retentive, finicky, poncy - a man dressed to the pointless end of neatness, one who can cook and knows the difference between fuchsia and mauve. The type who Bryce would disregard when busy, and annoy for entertainment when bored.
And yet, it was this same man who came to pose the most significant threat to that freedom Bryce held dearer than anything else in the world.
Bryce could only pretend for so long that his interest in Hillary was purely academic. After his initial evaluation of the man, every day found him re-evaluating that impression until it lay in tatters. The incongruous capabilities and sporadic flappability of the butler intrigued him, against his better judgment. Some part of him realized the danger, and he fully intended to pack up and leave before any moves were made on either side that might tie him down. He most definitely did not intend to toss his hand right out onto the table while trapped in a tomb and certain he was going to die. He could not undo what had been done, however, and he choked on his halfhearted attempts at denial. There is no way to hang the fruit back on the branch once you have already pulled it off and taken a bite. And so Bryce found himself tentatively nibbling at the rest of it.
xxxxxx
His old patterns of deliberate randomness fell away, and he could only note their passing with regret; he could not fight it. After his one disastrous attempt to fall back into old habits, get drunk and randy, and pick up some good-looking stranger at a bar, he instead took to walking to the manor when horny. He could pretend it was a matter of convenience, but what would be the point? He is neither stupid nor dishonest, and he would have to be either or both to tell himself that his fear of becoming attached was not well on its way to being realized. These days, he looked forward too much to the rare and surprisingly playful smile he could sometimes evoke on Hillary's normally implacable face, to their banal daily conversation, even to the mere quiet presence of the other man when Bryce was preoccupied with work.
Bryce was visited with another epiphany on one of those evenings when he gave in and made the walk to the manor. The first time he and Hillary had made love, he had wrenched off the butler's clothing and tossed it heedlessly away, leaving it a sticky and wrinkled mess when they were done. It had become clear that it had been a one-time-only indulgence, and from then on, Hillary undressed himself, swatting away Bryce's hands or pushing him back onto the bed if he tried to interfere. Getting frustrated did not help, and Bryce would eventually give up and lean back on the bed to enjoy the view. Hillary's movements were always deliberate and swift, even at such a trivial task. He would pull off his tie first, hanging it on the rack, and then shrug out of his coat and shrug it right back onto a hanger. The vest would follow; shoes toed off and nudged into a row with their fellows, and the pants hung up to preserve the crease. Shirt, undershirt, boxers and socks would be shunted into the hamper.
Bryce watched it all unfold in front of him - and realized that his observation of this act was now a routine. He was domesticated.
To his horror, all he felt was the urge to screw, not the urge to run. He yawned exaggeratedly and feigned boredom - which did not fool Hillary. Bryce's own clothes made a far less orderly exit.
xxxxxx
Hours later, Bryce lay in bed, uncomfortably awake in the silence that hangs over the early morning hours. He knew that if he fell asleep, he would not dream of sheep herded into a pack on a hill, but of one scrawny sheep lured to stay by an impish smile and the beckoning of a long-fingered hand.
He was free to leave. As free as he was to cut off his own arm.
Bryce sighed and closed his eyes.