Rhys was in the water closet a long time. Francis was beginning to wonder if he drowned himself, when finally a beet red face peered out the door crack.
“Can I have, um, clothes?” He didn’t look at Francis directly, as though he were ashamed of being naked, despite having had sexual intercourse with Francis already.
Francis, having already dressed himself in his mint green silk nightshirt, scrambled to his feet. Of course, what was he thinking? Rhys’s clothes were somewhere, maybe in the room, maybe not, but in any case, it was his responsibility to keep his slave clothed.
He pulled a nightshirt out of the dresser drawer, as well as delicately picking up Rhys’s knickers. “Here. Tomorrow, we’ll get you some proper clothing.”
Rhys nodded, taking the clothes and disappearing back into the water closet. He was a while longer, and then he shuffled out, the neck hole showing too much of his collar bone. Francis was bigger than he was, if not all that much taller, and it showed.
“Are you feeling all right?” Francis inquired, sitting on his bed once again.
Rhys only nodded, once again, and reached under the bed. With a creak, and the sound of wood squeaking against wood, out came the trundle bed. It was customary for a personal slave such as Rhys to stay with the master, on a bed that pulled out from under the big bed.
Francis himself had never slept on such a bed, but he couldn’t help but notice how short it was. He hoped Rhys could get comfortable, even though he lacked the silken sheets and feather down blankets that Francis was accustomed to.
Sliding into bed, Francis watched Rhys turn out the lamps, slowly moving about in his nightshirt. He swore he could detect a tremble in Rhys’s fingers and knees, but he thought pointing it out would do no good. What was he supposed to say? It may have been his place to say whatever he wanted, but he couldn’t just unleash his tongue on Rhys. The slave was probably holding onto to what little dignity he had left with both fists.
With the light out, there was only the sound of cloth sliding against cloth, as Rhys climbed into the trundle bed. He lay absolutely still, and Francis wondered if he was even breathing.
“Rhys?” he asked, lifting himself onto his elbows in bed.
“Yes?” It was a soft sound, as if the speaker were afraid of exhaling too much. Francis frowned. He hoped that Rhys knew he had nothing to fear from him; he didn’t like the thought that he’d harmed him.
“I’ll wake you in the morning.” It might not sound like Francis was promising much, but he was offering Rhys the opportunity to sleep without fear of having to wake up on time. Francis knew the feeling from waking himself up every morning at five thirty, though he had considerably less pressure than a slave; most people depended on their personal slaves to do things like that.
“Yes, sir.” Rhys seemed to shift a bit in bed, before falling to silence again.
Francis sighed internally, and lay back. He had to figure out how to make this right; he had to find a way to make Rhys feel safe.
But that was a matter for the next morning, and so he tried to sleep.
***
Slumber refused to claim him. The evening’s events went around and around in his head, from Arthur’s cruel gift, to the fear in Rhys’s eyes, to the warm touch of his body. Guilt also sank heavy in his chest, making it hard to get comfortable. He couldn’t console himself with the thought that at least it wasn’t Rhys’s first time; he knew he’d still taken something that was important.
His first time had been ages ago; he was eighteen years old, and he’d met an enchantingly brash German. He’d been a curious individual, with white hair and red eyes; maybe that was one of the things that attracted him to him.
His name had been Gilbert Beilschmidt; he was an aristocrat as well. He’d introduced him to drinking and lying by the river, laughing and pointing out people who passed by; his pastime seemed to be deciding which of the seven deadly sins the person probably committed. A fat lady was gluttony; a woman with skirts hiked up so her ankles were showing, and bosoms practically spilling out of her dress, was pride. The man watching her was lust.
And so on. Gilbert always claimed he could tell things about people; that was why, after having relations with Francis, he told him his heart was too soft to be with him. He said conditions in Germany were too strict for Francis to handle, that the conditions of the slaves would break his heart.
Little did he know he did that by leaving.
Francis sighed, turning over in bed. He could hear Rhys’s gentle breathing; at least someone was sleeping.
He almost wouldn’t’ve heard the doorknob turning had he not been so painfully awake. The door opened, and Francis sat up in bed. Who would be sneaking into his room at this time of the night?
The shape was of a man, creeping forward in the dark. Francis tensed up, but whispered loudly, “Who’s there?”
“Relax,” came the gruff voice, “It’s Scott.” And now that Francis thought about it, the shape did indeed look familiar; there were the broad shoulders, there was the scruffy hair… the only difference from normal was the nightshirt.
“What are you here for?” Francis asked, starting to slip out from under the covers. Scott held a hand, as if he knew Francis would meet him partway across the room. Then he seemed to crouch a little, by the trundle bed.
“Did he do all right? Is he okay?”
Francis couldn’t say he was shocked that Scott cared; the look his eyes had said that he had some personal stake in Rhys. He nodded softly. “He’s a little shaken up, but I think he’s going to be all right.”
He prayed he was right; he couldn’t ruin a person, couldn’t have that extra guilt on top of everything else.
Rhys slept soundly, unaware as Scott stroked his hair. Scott murmured to Francis, “He’s a good man; a little soft-hearted, but good.” The unspoken words seemed to be, ‘don’t ruin him. Keep him safe.’
Francis wanted to ask what their connection was, what Rhys’s story was, but Scott straightened up without a word.
“Scott,” Francis started, but he could feel Scott’s eyes turn on him in the dark.
“Don’t tell anyone I was here.” Scott’s command was short and to the point, the somewhat tender tone gone. But there was an almost pleading note in his voice, and it made Francis intrigued.
He nodded, then, remembering that Scott may or may not have the night vision he did, he murmured, “Of course.” Scott turned to leave, but Francis asked quickly, “Are you brothers?”
There was a moment of silence. Then, Scott said softly, “In a manner of speaking.”
He gave no further explanation, instead slipping out of the room with one more reminder not to tell anyone.
Francis was left with questions that would not be answered any time soon. He turned and stared at where the intricate embroidery of his canopy would be, if he could see it.
What was going on? Something was telling him Rhys wasn’t the average slave. But that didn’t explain just what was happening with him. Scott knew, Rhys knew, and Arthur probably knew; it still left Francis in the dark.
Rhys suddenly began to move, a cry coming from him. “No!” It was a little slurred, and sleep-mumbled, but it was clear he was reliving something.
Francis reached down, stroking his hair like he’d seen Scott do. “Shh, shh…”
Rhys shot up, nearly hitting Francis in the head. “No!” He gasped, panting, looking around wildly like he didn’t remember where he was. Then he saw Francis, and immediately buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-“
“No, it’s okay. Don’t apologize,” Francis said, though he was immediately worried that this was a reaction to what he’d done, and was selfishly feeling bad for himself. “Is it… are you okay?”
Rhys continued to breathe a little heavily, in and out like he needed to calm himself down. “I just… I’m sorry, a nightmare…”
Francis was a tactile sort of person; he didn’t have the words to comfort Rhys, even though he wanted to. So he reached over and hugged him, murmuring, “It’s all right. Just calm down, it was only a dream.”
Rhys had stiffened at the unexpected contact, and his voice was unsure as he said, “I’ll sleep now; I won’t bother you again, I promise!”
And it hurt, that he’d feel that way. Francis surmised that he probably thought Francis was going to do something that would hurt him, and let him go. He straightened up in bed, saying, “Do you want to sleep up here? A warm body drives away nightmares.”
Seeming shy (or else scared), Rhys shook his head. “I’m content down here.”
“I promise I won’t hurt you; I won’t even touch you, if you don’t want to be touched,” Francis said, knowing there was more than enough room on the bed for that.
Rhys hesitated, then started climbing up on the bed. “You promise?”
“Yes.” Francis made room, pulling back the covers for Rhys to slip under. Rhys lied down, stiff as a washboard. Francis pulled the covers over him, taking care not to touch him. “Sleep well.”
Rhys nodded; Francis could hear his hair sliding against the silken pillowcase. Then, he drifted into his gentle sleeping breaths again.
Guilt a little bit assuaged, Francis finally fell asleep himself; working things out would have to wait til morning.
Brotherly affection, how sweet! This is getting better and better, I like how practical yet sensible your Francis is. Like the other anon in the previous comment, I'm very curious about the backstory.
I continue to be absolutely in love with this story. The characters' emotions and the conflicts they feel in this difficult situation are so wonderfully written. I love how there's little to no trust between Francis and Rhys yet and how Francis is so scared of what his new responsibilities mean and whether he'll treat Rhys right. And the way you portray Rhys and how he's dealing with the situation is wonderful.
I can't wait to find out what this unspoken secret seems to be. You're doing such a brilliant job with this story, anon! <3
Man... I just found this one. First I need to say that the prompt is really interesting, I can't help but to love these kind of stories... And I love the dynamics there. And thank you very much for filling this, A!A!
I can see Francis isn't exactly perfect here, but I think that's partly the point. Or so I'm guessing. After all, it's not like he asked for this or has any kind of experience dealing with a traumatized person. Especially if the society is as it is in this, I doubt they have courses on how to treat a rape victim.
I do hope he'd at least taken a little bit more time to talk with Rhys before the sex... that was just uncomfortable to read. But then again I dunno if it would have made it any easier.
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Gift 3a/?
(Anonymous) 2013-01-02 08:27 am (UTC)(link)“Can I have, um, clothes?” He didn’t look at Francis directly, as though he were ashamed of being naked, despite having had sexual intercourse with Francis already.
Francis, having already dressed himself in his mint green silk nightshirt, scrambled to his feet. Of course, what was he thinking? Rhys’s clothes were somewhere, maybe in the room, maybe not, but in any case, it was his responsibility to keep his slave clothed.
He pulled a nightshirt out of the dresser drawer, as well as delicately picking up Rhys’s knickers. “Here. Tomorrow, we’ll get you some proper clothing.”
Rhys nodded, taking the clothes and disappearing back into the water closet. He was a while longer, and then he shuffled out, the neck hole showing too much of his collar bone. Francis was bigger than he was, if not all that much taller, and it showed.
“Are you feeling all right?” Francis inquired, sitting on his bed once again.
Rhys only nodded, once again, and reached under the bed. With a creak, and the sound of wood squeaking against wood, out came the trundle bed. It was customary for a personal slave such as Rhys to stay with the master, on a bed that pulled out from under the big bed.
Francis himself had never slept on such a bed, but he couldn’t help but notice how short it was. He hoped Rhys could get comfortable, even though he lacked the silken sheets and feather down blankets that Francis was accustomed to.
Sliding into bed, Francis watched Rhys turn out the lamps, slowly moving about in his nightshirt. He swore he could detect a tremble in Rhys’s fingers and knees, but he thought pointing it out would do no good. What was he supposed to say? It may have been his place to say whatever he wanted, but he couldn’t just unleash his tongue on Rhys. The slave was probably holding onto to what little dignity he had left with both fists.
With the light out, there was only the sound of cloth sliding against cloth, as Rhys climbed into the trundle bed. He lay absolutely still, and Francis wondered if he was even breathing.
“Rhys?” he asked, lifting himself onto his elbows in bed.
“Yes?” It was a soft sound, as if the speaker were afraid of exhaling too much. Francis frowned. He hoped that Rhys knew he had nothing to fear from him; he didn’t like the thought that he’d harmed him.
“I’ll wake you in the morning.” It might not sound like Francis was promising much, but he was offering Rhys the opportunity to sleep without fear of having to wake up on time. Francis knew the feeling from waking himself up every morning at five thirty, though he had considerably less pressure than a slave; most people depended on their personal slaves to do things like that.
“Yes, sir.” Rhys seemed to shift a bit in bed, before falling to silence again.
Francis sighed internally, and lay back. He had to figure out how to make this right; he had to find a way to make Rhys feel safe.
But that was a matter for the next morning, and so he tried to sleep.
***
Slumber refused to claim him. The evening’s events went around and around in his head, from Arthur’s cruel gift, to the fear in Rhys’s eyes, to the warm touch of his body. Guilt also sank heavy in his chest, making it hard to get comfortable. He couldn’t console himself with the thought that at least it wasn’t Rhys’s first time; he knew he’d still taken something that was important.
His first time had been ages ago; he was eighteen years old, and he’d met an enchantingly brash German. He’d been a curious individual, with white hair and red eyes; maybe that was one of the things that attracted him to him.
His name had been Gilbert Beilschmidt; he was an aristocrat as well. He’d introduced him to drinking and lying by the river, laughing and pointing out people who passed by; his pastime seemed to be deciding which of the seven deadly sins the person probably committed. A fat lady was gluttony; a woman with skirts hiked up so her ankles were showing, and bosoms practically spilling out of her dress, was pride. The man watching her was lust.
Gift 3b/?
(Anonymous) 2013-01-02 08:56 am (UTC)(link)Little did he know he did that by leaving.
Francis sighed, turning over in bed. He could hear Rhys’s gentle breathing; at least someone was sleeping.
He almost wouldn’t’ve heard the doorknob turning had he not been so painfully awake. The door opened, and Francis sat up in bed. Who would be sneaking into his room at this time of the night?
The shape was of a man, creeping forward in the dark. Francis tensed up, but whispered loudly, “Who’s there?”
“Relax,” came the gruff voice, “It’s Scott.” And now that Francis thought about it, the shape did indeed look familiar; there were the broad shoulders, there was the scruffy hair… the only difference from normal was the nightshirt.
“What are you here for?” Francis asked, starting to slip out from under the covers. Scott held a hand, as if he knew Francis would meet him partway across the room. Then he seemed to crouch a little, by the trundle bed.
“Did he do all right? Is he okay?”
Francis couldn’t say he was shocked that Scott cared; the look his eyes had said that he had some personal stake in Rhys. He nodded softly. “He’s a little shaken up, but I think he’s going to be all right.”
He prayed he was right; he couldn’t ruin a person, couldn’t have that extra guilt on top of everything else.
Rhys slept soundly, unaware as Scott stroked his hair. Scott murmured to Francis, “He’s a good man; a little soft-hearted, but good.” The unspoken words seemed to be, ‘don’t ruin him. Keep him safe.’
Francis wanted to ask what their connection was, what Rhys’s story was, but Scott straightened up without a word.
“Scott,” Francis started, but he could feel Scott’s eyes turn on him in the dark.
“Don’t tell anyone I was here.” Scott’s command was short and to the point, the somewhat tender tone gone. But there was an almost pleading note in his voice, and it made Francis intrigued.
He nodded, then, remembering that Scott may or may not have the night vision he did, he murmured, “Of course.” Scott turned to leave, but Francis asked quickly, “Are you brothers?”
There was a moment of silence. Then, Scott said softly, “In a manner of speaking.”
He gave no further explanation, instead slipping out of the room with one more reminder not to tell anyone.
Francis was left with questions that would not be answered any time soon. He turned and stared at where the intricate embroidery of his canopy would be, if he could see it.
What was going on? Something was telling him Rhys wasn’t the average slave. But that didn’t explain just what was happening with him. Scott knew, Rhys knew, and Arthur probably knew; it still left Francis in the dark.
Rhys suddenly began to move, a cry coming from him. “No!” It was a little slurred, and sleep-mumbled, but it was clear he was reliving something.
Francis reached down, stroking his hair like he’d seen Scott do. “Shh, shh…”
Rhys shot up, nearly hitting Francis in the head. “No!” He gasped, panting, looking around wildly like he didn’t remember where he was. Then he saw Francis, and immediately buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-“
“No, it’s okay. Don’t apologize,” Francis said, though he was immediately worried that this was a reaction to what he’d done, and was selfishly feeling bad for himself. “Is it… are you okay?”
Rhys continued to breathe a little heavily, in and out like he needed to calm himself down. “I just… I’m sorry, a nightmare…”
Gift 3c/?
(Anonymous) 2013-01-02 09:14 am (UTC)(link)Rhys had stiffened at the unexpected contact, and his voice was unsure as he said, “I’ll sleep now; I won’t bother you again, I promise!”
And it hurt, that he’d feel that way. Francis surmised that he probably thought Francis was going to do something that would hurt him, and let him go. He straightened up in bed, saying, “Do you want to sleep up here? A warm body drives away nightmares.”
Seeming shy (or else scared), Rhys shook his head. “I’m content down here.”
“I promise I won’t hurt you; I won’t even touch you, if you don’t want to be touched,” Francis said, knowing there was more than enough room on the bed for that.
Rhys hesitated, then started climbing up on the bed. “You promise?”
“Yes.” Francis made room, pulling back the covers for Rhys to slip under. Rhys lied down, stiff as a washboard. Francis pulled the covers over him, taking care not to touch him. “Sleep well.”
Rhys nodded; Francis could hear his hair sliding against the silken pillowcase. Then, he drifted into his gentle sleeping breaths again.
Guilt a little bit assuaged, Francis finally fell asleep himself; working things out would have to wait til morning.
Re: Gift 3c/?
(Anonymous) 2013-01-02 01:52 pm (UTC)(link)OP
(Anonymous) 2013-01-03 11:55 am (UTC)(link)I can't wait to find out what this unspoken secret seems to be. You're doing such a brilliant job with this story, anon! <3
Re: Gift 3c/?
(Anonymous) 2013-01-07 12:40 pm (UTC)(link)I can see Francis isn't exactly perfect here, but I think that's partly the point. Or so I'm guessing. After all, it's not like he asked for this or has any kind of experience dealing with a traumatized person. Especially if the society is as it is in this, I doubt they have courses on how to treat a rape victim.
I do hope he'd at least taken a little bit more time to talk with Rhys before the sex... that was just uncomfortable to read. But then again I dunno if it would have made it any easier.