~Per request, this fan fiction shall be updated very, very, frequently. D8 However, due to an amazingly horrid week, I didn't get this chapter out as soon as I would have liked.
I hope to improve my writing as time goes on, so forgive me for my rusty writing abilities. I haven't written anything seriously like this in...a year and a half I'd say.
(Except Roleplays. Lol.)
So enjoy! ~ Roxasnaminexx
II
Mello couldn't believe, as his brown eyes gazed down at the paper in front of him, the words he was reading. All coherent thought was lost, except the words repeating over and over again in his head. It was the fifth time he had read it, and still it held the same splendor for him.
"Mail Jeevas..." he repeated the words out loud, the name nearing godliness, "Mail Jeevas..."
It had been nearing two weeks since their encounter, him and that one with the bright red hair. He had thought nothing of the meeting in the street, good-looking men were decently easy to come by for Mello, but as he met Mail again, in the presence of his lady, he knew it was more than coincidence.
The letter had arrived that morning, and Mello, being the only one home, had all day to re-read the letter over and over, and ponder any sort of secret meaning the words held. Mello was too intelligent to believe such a crude notion as love-he had seen love shattered right before his eyes and learned it was foolish; but the words stuck with him somewhere. For Mihael Keehl to be reading something with such audacity was proof in itself that it meant something.
"Admiration" was something mentioned fondly in the letter, and Mello couldn't help but smirk; trying to avoid "love" he could tell.
He knew quite well there was nothing he could do about the letter at this moment-or ever, to be precise. His master, Miss Grace Mason, was marrying Mail Jeevas, and there was nothing he could do about it. Besides, he was just a lowly maid, lower than the filthiest scum of the Earth because of what he really was.
As he let his mind wander, one hand swept absent-minded over the rosary hidden around his neck under lace. The feeling of ivory against his warm hands was that of a satisfying one, despite it bringing the realization of what he was.
That he really was a sinner.
He stood up, his feet having difficulty finding their footing as they tried to avoid stacks of things long forgotten. His room was one thing forgotten: hidden within the Mason's attic, amongst the large amount of items left for another day. All that he could call his own was a bedside table and his bed, with a picture or two, and his outfit.
It was quite degrading, having to wear such an outfit for such a man like himself; he really wasn't that goody-two-shoes everyone thought he was, and what he would love would to be himself. More than anything, he'd like to be a man again, (in the physical sense, at least), to be who he was proudly and be well off.
But no: times were tough, and he had been left with a harsh decision. Live as a beggar. Or slowly climb up the ladder in a facade produced by his feminine capabilities.
He was much too proud to do the first, but the second seemed a tad less degrading; thus leaving him where he was today.
He scuttled around the room until finally making his way out the door and through the hallway. Mello's brown eyes surveyed the room in all its magnificence, pictures lining the decorated walls and the carpet smelling of foreigners. He nibbled lightly on his lip, hating the way the air in here felt. It had always been that way, stuffy and unloving. Many people lived here, his master, Grace, her father and mother, and their parents, and finally, Mello. Mello, their insignificant maid, Mello, who none of them gave a damn about.
A deep breath was released from the blonde's mouth in utter boredom, and he made his way to his master's room. He opened the door, it squeaking to its stopping point, and the grander of the room lie right before his eyes. The bed dripped with money, and light spawned into the room. Next to the bed sat an antique desk, with writing utensils and forgotten old letters sprinkled around. Mello tip-toed in, as if his master would be sleeping, and sat down in the chair.
He picked up a pen, and bit down on his lower lip before dipping it into ink; he retrieved from the desk a blank paper with designs going down the right hand side. He tapped the paper with the pen a few times, causing ink to dot the page in three subsequent spots. His mind was lost in thought, debating how he should approach such a correspondence letter.
Words ran through his mind at super-sonic speed, until finally, some came through that made coherent sense. He picked up his pen, twirling it around in his fingers, before finally writing down on the paper:
"Mr. Jeevas,
Frankly speaking, I was a bit surprised when I saw you again for the 2nd time, and knew you knew who I was. Keeping this in mind, I hope you realize that I am a man-a man, mind you. But that's beside the point, even if I were a woman you would have another problem concerning your feelings, the fact that you are engaged. How do you intend to keep this so called 'admiration' of yours intact when faced with two socially unacceptable things? Please keep this in mind next time you want to blurt out your innocent little feelings that life doesn't favor people like you and me, and it would be better for the two of us to keep our head down and forget about each other.
Mihael Mello Keehl."
Mello wasn't satisfied with this, and after dipping his pen into ink again, he added a few more words at the bottom:
"PS. Ms. Grace wishes to have dinner with you next Saturday. At our residence I believe: please be mindful that I will be there as well, and don't act in a way that you'll regret."
There. He was done. The young blonde folded up the letter twice, and scavenged for the decorated envelope that matched the letter. He placed it securely in the envelope, and sealed it with wax with the Mason family seal. From here, he would send the letter and pray that Ms. Mason didn't ask any questions about who it was to or why.
He stood up; the ruffles of his dress fluttering about his ankles as he cleaned everything up in the un-orderly manner it had been before he began. He went out the door and back up to his room, hiding the letter in between his mattress and pillow. He would send it out first thing tomorrow morning, before anyone else woke up.
He glanced outside his miniscule window, and saw that the sky had been cast in a red-yellow gleam, sun sprinkling the rooftops. His masters would be home soon, and they would expect him to be working; working on the tasks he had to accomplish every day. Dinner would be expected to be on the table-and with that he hurriedly left his attic bedroom, down the stairs and to the kitchen, where he, a single man, worked on the food he made for the people he despised.