Possible Songs to Listen to (I won't be disappointed if you don't feel like listening to them though, or if you don't like every song; also they're ranked by order of priority of what I think would match best, but you can pick whatever):
(Beginning to the line "I, uh, wouldn't mind that.")
I don't have a song to recommend for this part because I couldn't find any that fit, but I do like the song Affection by Cigarettes After Sex, so… yeah. Doesn't really work, but it's something to listen to if nothing else.
("I, uh, wouldn't mind that." to "Nikolai didn't look at him.")
- Cherry Wine by Hozier
- Numbers by Pompeii
- Breathe Me by Sia
("Nikolai didn't look at him." to the end)
- Two by Sleeping At Last (highly, highly recommend for the end of this Part)
Section Two, Part Three
Before there was a world, there was a vast darkness. And before there was a rack of cooling cheesecake pies, there was a rack of piping hot cheesecake pies. Somewhere in between the two phases, one poor pie had ended up on the floor. Its demise was unfortunate; untimely; undeserving; and if anyone besides its creator had been in the kitchen when it occurred, they would’ve been devastated. The only place such a treat should end up, most would argue strongly, is in the mouth of one deserving. As beautiful as the tiling was, it was not deserving of anything more than being walked on—trampled on, usually, by those of the household that often came to grab snacks with open mouths and hands.
Kalila was not the first to enter the kitchen once Alastaros had finished his masterpieces. The double doors creaked open as he was scrubbing the last of the cream cheese from his heels, and an unfamiliar figure tumbled through. Naturally, the cook’s first instinct was not to offer up a hello. He tensed like an ice cube had been dropped down his shirt, accidentally banged his ankle into a cabinet, yelped, slipped, and tripped his way into a crumpled heap by the sink. Though he hadn’t been trying to be funny, the stranger couldn’t control their laughter. It was unlike anything Alastaros had ever heard before, an amusing cacophony of genuinely delighted cackles that erupted from somewhere in their chest.
“Sorry! Niko always warns me ‘bout knocking ’n stuff, but I’ve got a brain the size of a walnut, I swear.“ His accent was like the soft twanging of a guitar. “I’m Eko. You’ve gotta be the new guy, right? What’s your name again?”
“Uh, Alastaros,” he whispered back, wide-eyed. The stranger—Eko—was a lot to look at. His height bordered on what had to be six foot five, and he had a face that could put a model to shame. Sharp cheekbones rose up just under his dark blue eyes and ran down to his thin jawline. A large, silvery cut had been etched into the skin of his neck and chin, but it didn’t distract from his appearance. It—and his outfit, which consisted of a black shirt under a long black coat with a tremendous amount of spikes—made him seem quite rugged. If he’d been of dark hair and strong figure he’d have been almost overly intimidating, but with his fine features and silky, shoulder-length blonde hair, he was closer to fairylike.
“Lasta-what?”
“Alastaros.”
“Uh-las-tuh-ros,” he pronounced carefully, then smiled proudly. “Got it that time. ‘nyway, I really am sorry for barging in like that. I didn’t know you were up ‘nd moving. I just got back from the town a minute ago, ‘nd I smelled something nice, so I thought, you know, I’d come ‘nd see what was happening. Usually nobody actually cooks if I’m not here, ‘nd it never smells good if they do, so…”
“Yeah.” He awkwardly rolled himself back onto his feet and gestured at the desserts.
“Can I try one?”
“If you’d like.”
Eko lifted one of the rectangular pie bars up to his mouth, licked his lips, and sunk his teeth into its corner. Graham cracker crumbs fell into the wicked collar of his shirt as he took another bite.
“Wow,” he exclaimed, swallowing, “you haven’t been up a day ‘nd you’re putting me to shame.”
Pride swelled in his chest. Although he’d stopped to taste the recipe after several steps, he was still excessively relieved that they had turned out well. If he didn’t have his cooking, he didn’t have anything—or at least not anything impressive. His cleaning skills were lackluster, and though he could make a mean tea, there were always others that had a better instinct for it.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” Eko craned his head around. “Uh, there ‘nyone else in here with you?“
“No. Is that bad?”
“Nah, not really. Just seems lonely. Unless you wanted to be ‘lone, of course, in which case I’ll leave you be.”
“Oh, it’s alright. You can stay if you want—I’m just going to be cleaning up.”
“Here, let me.”
Alastaros balked at the idea. “I can do it,” he said, taking a step forward to pick up the whisk he’d used. With his other arm, he nudged at the washing basin and turned on its nozzle. Lukewarm water gushed out of it into his palm. He twisted the knob forward until steam started to rise, retracted his hand, and, still feeling rather pleased with himself, shifted his focus back to the other man. His shoulders instantly dropped. The blonde’s brow was creased, and he was wearing a frown of empathy.
“You know you don’t have to do that, right? Niko told you what’s up with this place?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re free ‘nd stuff now, so you don’t have to do everything for yourself. Everyone kinda helps each other out here. ‘Nd since you cooked, I figured I could do the rest.”
“But-“ Something hot coiled in his stomach, sending choking waves of smoke into his throat that prevented him from speaking.
“But what?”
“I don’t know.”
Any hardness or suspicion—which, to be fair, wasn’t much at all—that’d been remaining in Eko’s face melted away. He approached his side, toyed with one of his earrings, and then, after a moment, met his eyes.
“Listen, I… nevermind.” He breathed out deeply. “If you want, you can do the dishes, but at least let me clean the counters ‘nd junk.”
“I guess that’s alright.”
Both of them—not friends, nor complete strangers any longer—went to work. Alastaros found a smooth bottle made of stone that contained dish soap. He pumped three shots of it onto everything he’d used in the past four or so hours and let his senses bask in the aroma of lemon that wafted upwards. Bubbles began to form mountains up to his elbows as he attacked the first set of cups and spoons. They popped satisfyingly whenever the main stream of water splashed into them, making the laborious chore of cleaning dishes more enjoyable. Eko seemed to think so, too. He hummed an old drinking song while sweeping sugar granules into his hand and wiping away stains of vanilla. Each of his ministrations were, despite his seemingly aloof way of talking, precise and delicate. Cheerful, too, although he didn’t notice that until he looked a little closer. His whole being was graced with a refreshing contentment with his situation that would make anybody jealous.
“You met my girl yet?”
Alastaros shook himself out of his thoughts. His shirt was soaking wet; he’d sprayed himself accidentally while daydreaming.
“Kalila?” he responded, tan nose crinkling in confusion.
“Nah. Lila’s nice, but we’re just friends. My girl’s Serafina.”
“I don’t think I have, then.”
“That’s a shame. She’s really-”
For the second time that afternoon, the double doors burst open. A blur of pale yellow and black raced towards Eko. He opened his arms wide and caught the culprit with a loud, surprised laugh, spinning halfway around in the process. The girl he was holding was a sight to see. She was no taller than five feet, and her thick, dark, curly hair was half as long as she. Her face was soft and plump, and, although Alastaros wasn’t really interested, her figure was considerably attractive in its fullness. Part of her cuteness came from her natural glow; the other came from her outfit, a pair of overalls stitched lovingly with patches of fabric that was layered over a flowy yellow top.
“Speak of the beauty!” Eko declared. He bent down to pepper kisses on her exposed collarbone. She giggled and squirmed so that she could snuggle into his neck. His face was flushed when he came back up. “Good-ness! Someone certainly missed me, didn’t they?” She squealed as he paused to sneak in another round of kisses, mumbling, “I swear you get prettier every time I see you, darling,” and, “I missed you too,” until her sepia skin was cherry red. Alastaros, feeling especially strange, turned away to start drying a pan. He hadn’t even used a pan in his baking, but since he’d finished most everything else, he had to resort to keeping himself busy with whatever he could find. That also included scrubbing at a puff of cinnamon that’d colored the bottom of his shirt. Cinnamon and lemon, he had to admit, was a strange combination of strong scents that he could’ve lived his life without having smelled. It soured his stomach and the afterglow of cooking that he’d been wallowing in.
Serafina was the first to break away from the embrace. She twirled herself up into a sitting position on the counter and poked her boyfriend in the shoulder, gesturing to the newest member of their household. He gave her a smile that was closer to a grimace, ran the cloth around the pan again, set it down neatly, and crossed his arms.
“You cook?” she asked through an incredibly strong, unfamiliar accent.
“Yes.”
She swung her legs eagerly and pointed at the sopapilla cheesecakes. “I can have?”
“Uh, sure.”
Her glee was evident as she tore into one of the desserts. Eko neared him in the midst of her snacking, leaned close, and said, “Hey, just so you know, Sera’s nearly deaf. She’s very good ‘t reading lips, but she mostly uses sign language ‘cause she doesn’t really know our language that well.”
“Oh. I couldn’t tell.”
“Yeah. Like I said, she’s real good ‘t it—she’s been this way since she was little—but sometimes she needs some help.”
“You talk about me?” They both jumped as the girl in question came up right behind them with an eyebrow arched quizzically.
Her boyfriend’s smile was sheepish. “Yes, gorgeous. Nothing bad, though.”
“Mmhm. Hello,” she said, addressing Alastaros again, “you are good cook! Better than Eko.”
“Thank you.”
“You were- ah, were-“ She looked at her boyfriend urgently and did something with her hands. He nodded thoughtfully.
“She wants to know if you were with Niko’s cousin. That’s what she says she thought he said when you were still sleeping.”
Physical revolution rushed through him, but he managed a quiet, “Yes, that’s right.”
He glanced again at her frantically moving hands. “She says she’s sorry ‘nd that she hopes you’ll feel safer here.”
“Thank you.”
“She also says that she’d like to hug you, but she’ll understand if you say no.”
“I- uh, I wouldn’t mind that.”
She was so much smaller than him, but the moment her arms were around him he felt like he was three feet tall. It was too much. He was reminded of a night he hadn’t thought about in a long time—a night he’d forced out of his head—of being ordered into Eleanor’s bed. He’d been told to hold her until she’d fallen asleep, a process that took about two hours. Until then, she’d whispered to him about her insecurities like they were lovers; he’d actually felt, in those dark, star-studded moments, as if he was wanted, especially when she’d removed his shirt to trace patterns on his hip. Then morning had rolled around. She’d shoved him off the mattress with teary eyes, fuming that he was disgusting for having taken advantage of her. He’d shivered on the ground as she slapped him with the end of her cane with all the wrath of a crudely-rejected ex. The hitting he could withstand, but her derogatory remarks tore him to shreds. She’d ripped out pieces of his “greasy” hair, beat at his “disfiguring stretch marks”, rapped at his “huge thighs”. Worse still was the synonyms of his least favorite word that she’d flung at him like her brother’s darts. His sides were flabby, calves were fleshy, arms were chunky, and stomach was bloated. He was fat—no, more so, disgustingly so, bordering on morbidly obese.
Surely Serafina was sickened by him. How could she not be, with their bodies pressed so closely together? Did she pity him? Why wasn’t she pulling away? Was she like Eleanor? Was this a trick?
Why was everything so hard?
Saliva filled his mouth. He panicked and roughly pushed her away, clasping a hand over his lips, and raced to the sink. The world around him swayed like he was on a boat. But he wasn’t, not at all, he was stuck in the harsh, certainly judging gazes of two people he didn’t know, acting like he was insane. His elbows dropped onto the edge of the sink to support him. He lowered his head into his hands and rocked back and forth on his heels.
In the end, he threw up. There was no escaping it nor delaying it, not in the state he was in. All that came up, however, was bile, which made sense seeing as he hadn’t done more than lightly taste his food. Goosebumps rose on his arms and legs at the thought. Eating sounded a fate worse than death. He retched, spasmed, and dry heaved again and again as the night with Eleanor replayed in his head.
Cool fingertips brushed against his neck as he finished off his last round. He gave them no mind; there was plenty else to focus on. His tongue was dry and tasted bitter, his eyes burned, and his throat was terribly sore. Each and every breath he drew sent him deeper into his agony. Soft moans came from somewhere inside of him.
He wished he’d peeled off the bandages.
Someone was lowering him to ground. They left him for a good twenty seconds before returning with a damp cloth that they brushed against his clammy forehead. Unintentionally, his eyelids drooped. It wasn’t his fault; whoever it was had put a drop of lavender essence in the cloth as well, and it was successful in taking the erratic edge off his nerves. He leaned into their caresses needily, the rigidity of his stance draining, pulse easing, nausea subsiding. All that remained was the occasional jitter or jolt that racked through him like a nasty cough and the bad taste of his breath that led him to yearn to squeeze the perfumed rag out in his mouth.
Shuffling happened from his right, presumably, he pondered absently, someone sitting down. They didn’t say anything. Alastaros opened his eyes again to find that they’d turned the lights off. By his feet was a lit lantern that cast mellow light on the cabinets around them.
Nikolai didn’t look at him.
Eko and Serafina were nowhere to be seen. He’d probably scared them off. His eyes burned for a different reason. He wiped at them, sniffing, and breathed shakily.
“Do you still feel sick?” Nikolai murmured quietly. Alastaros shook his head no. “Good.”
“I don’t know why- I don’t know why I did that. Is she upset?”
“Who, Sera?” He waited patiently for another small nod. “No, she’s just worried. She said that you scared her. I’ve never seen her run so fast before. I think she probably thought your being sick had something to do with your wounds, but… I think we both know that’s not the case.”
“Mm.”
“You don’t have to talk about it, but, um, can I ask something?”
“Mm.”
“Was this because of… them? My cousins?”
“Mm.” He tried for a smile. It wavered. “Eleanor.”
“Goodness. Did- did- did-”
Alastaros looked at him oddly. Nikolai swallowed, still staring at his lap, then started over.
“Did she assault you? Se- goodness, I can barely say the word, isn’t that pathetic? I mean, in the way that Kalila’s old master did. Did she-”
“No, she didn’t. Not- it wasn’t like that, she never- she didn’t-”
“I understand.” He finally let their eyes meet. “I don’t know what she did, then, but I want you to know that I won't do the same. I promise a thousand times over that I’m never going to hurt you, Alastaros.”
“Not physically.”
“Not in any way.”
“I don’t hate you,” Alastaros blurted before he could stop himself.
Surprise flashed across his fair countenance before he could stop it. The corners of his mouth drew upwards slowly.
“I’m glad to hear that.” Soft was his voice, his eyes, the way his hands brushed his black hair to the side. Alastaros had compared him to marble earlier that day, but he realized that was wrong. He was a pearl. Creamy skin, all gentle, curving smiles and glowing sincerity.
Either he was a damn good actor, or he wasn’t lying.
“Would it be wrong to say that I feel that you’re still pretty on edge?”
“No, you’re- that’s right.” Alastaros bit his lip and scratched at his splotchy cheeks.
“Is there anything I could do to help? Make you some tea, perhaps? Peppermint can be good for the stomach.”
He thought back to what Kalila had said earlier. “Do you have a shower?”
“That I do,” he replied, laughing musically. “Many, actually. Would you prefer a bath, though? We have some very nice baths. I’m partial to them. One of my friends is a soapmaker, you see, and she always brings me such splendid things to put into the water. I forget exactly what she calls them, but some of them are rather neat. They can turn the bath gold or make it smell of mint. It’s one of the only indulgences I allow myself.”
“Aren’t you rich?”
“Hm? Oh, yes, spoiled if you ask Kalila, though she’s mostly joking. I just don’t like to waste my money on things I don’t need. Food, books, maintenance of our home, anything that all of you want—those are necessities. But opulent novelties and gaudy baubles? Trinkets, trifles, and treasures? Those are all pointless. I just keep those that my father had in case I need to put on a show for someone visiting from elsewhere—to upkeep my reputation—and occasionally buy something from traveling salesmen. My friends sometimes also provide me with donations. I’m not closely acquainted with anyone that disproves of my life choices, by the way, which means I am closely acquainted with the majority of those around us in Whikhash. Like I said earlier, forced servitude is illegal. And even if it wasn’t, I don’t think any of them would actually wish to keep servants. The lot of them are wonderful people.”
“Cyprus said your father did.”
“Yes, years and years ago, and almost everyone around here him for it. Back then it wasn’t illegal. He’s actually one of the reasons why it is. I’m not very distressed he passed, despite the fact that it wasn’t that long ago. He and I were never close for fairly obvious reasons.”
“Oh.”
“Never mind that. I didn’t mean to derail the conversation. You wished for a shower, correct?”
“Actually,” Alastaros said, “a bath doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”
“An excellent choice. Would you like me to show you the way to your room and bathroom once more? I wouldn’t blame you if you feel like the layout of the mansion is a bit confusing. Your first day has been long, but it is still just your first day.”
“That sounds good, thank you.”
“It’s not a problem at all. If you take my hand, I can help you up and show you the way. I’ll understand if you don’t want to, though.”
Weirdly enough, Alastaros wasn’t nervous anymore. He wrongly attributed that to the exhaustion of his lapse of sickness, accepted Nikolai’s hand, and let him guide him forward.
-End of Section Two-
