As Red begins to get suspicious of William's strange errands, he is met with a surprise.

Chapter Text



"Narcissus" (Public Domain) by Bernard Spragg

Jonquil

‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth’ had become Red's motto after he started working for William. ‘Don’t bite the hand that feeds you’ was another he occasionally thought of. He wondered if it was about horses too. It would make sense; he didn’t think much of horses.

The jobs had not been too odd to start with: moving furniture, delivering letters, shopping—grunt work, mostly. Things he expected to have to do for someone upper-class.

Then he had to deliver thick stacks of handwritten documents sealed in wax, often paired with packages that ranged from smaller than his hand to so large they could hardly be carried. The deliveries were often to absurd villas that were full of displays of wealth, ridiculous for a city like Rome that was in the midst of rationing. He delivered a small statue of a bull to one apartment that had seemed refreshingly normal from the outside; but when the servant opened the door, the room was filled with peacocks. He couldn’t see the floor for the sheer number of them. They were huddled so close together that Red solemnly wondered whether they could move much at all. He felt sorry for them.

He wondered if he could sneak in and free them.

Then came the books. Red scoured small bookshops for peculiar old books that had been either kept in glass cases with absurd price tags or long-forgotten and used to prop up a wonky table. Red flipped through the books sometimes, the ‘spy’ theory still lingering in the back of his mind. The subjects of the ones that were in English ranged widely: religious poetry, a play about men competing for a woman’s heart, memoirs, one about the correct way to raise egrets. There were books of poetry, plays, and history in Italian, French, Spanish, and German as well. One was in a language he didn’t recognise, and included illustrations of hacksaws, corn, pottery, shrimp, and strange cats with pointy ears and short tails. None of the books had any suspicious markings or codes that Red could identify. If William was a spy, the code was utterly incomprehensible.

Red had apparently done well finding these things, because William started giving him more varied—and bizarre—shopping lists after that. Red didn’t ask why. That would be the ‘not biting’ part. He also wondered if this information could be useful to the United Nations one day; he bought a notebook and started recording what he bought, when, where and who from. He figured it couldn’t hurt; not biting the hand that feeds hardly applied if the hand belonged to a German spy, after all.

Red was glad he no longer needed to rely on the public kitchens that sold discounted meals; not only was his wage generous compared with what the hotel offered, but several of the houses he delivered to insisted he dine with them. He would be presented with elaborate meals and encouraged to eat as much as he could, while the masters of the house picked at their own portions and stared at him without blinking—if they bothered to join him at all. One time the lady of the house watched him from a balcony while he ate on the terrace. That had been especially odd.

William always seemed eager to hear about the details of the meals, wanting to know exactly what Red was served and in what order. He had started taking notes as soon as he was excused.

Red found the whole thing uncomfortable at first, but it seemed less strange after he had dinner with William and he did exactly the same thing. William had just sat and watched contentedly as Red worked his way through two glasses of wine, fresh tomatoes on small pieces of toast, soup, mushrooms filled with spiced polenta, beans, a salad, a plate of grapes and plums, a dessert of a dozen tiny cakes, a small glass of thick coffee, and a small glass of something that tasted like lemons and moonshine and made his throat burn.

He was definitely the strangest person Red had ever met; but he was always polite and friendly towards him. Red enjoyed the company—and he had developed that odd, heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach that made him not exactly hate being watched like that.

The hours were strange, too: William never had an audience with him before sunset, and seemed to be awake at all hours of the night without so much as a yawn or flutter of the eyes. Red didn’t want to ask. He was happy to allow William’s eccentricity, harmless as it was. Besides, his odd schedule was no doubt the reason William needed a valet in the first place.

He toyed with theories during the taxi rides and long walks that were part of the job. His favourite was that William and his strange friends were all acquainted through some religious sect. There were many religions that were superstitious about the movements of the heavens and encouraged their members to fast but to be generous to others. It was a more comforting version of events than that he was a spy; if he were with the United Nations, Red would be caught and charged with treason; and if he were with the Axis, Red was allying himself with monsters. Though, he reflected darkly, not monsters he hated enough to risk his life to fight.

He tried to push the second option out of his mind. If he had proof, he would leave, even if he didn’t want to, turn everything he had on William over to the army, and accept his punishment. Maybe it would assuage some of his guilt.

One day, his shopping list included a deck of a specific type of playing cards, along with stone statues, special plant oils, and farm tools. It had taken the full day to find everything, and he didn’t think William would be happy with the quality of the corn knife he had found, but overall he felt he had done well. But he still didn’t understand why anyone would need a fancy corn knife: it was for harvesting corn; how fancy could you get?

When Red arrived at William’s room at eight o’clock sharp (even slowing down on the stairs to be sure), there was a mug of thick, hearty coffee waiting for him in front of one of the comfortable armchairs. He started drinking while William inspected the shopping.

“I did not think you would be able to find a corn knife.”

“It took some looking, but I managed.” Red felt calmer for the first time in a while; just a week ago, he would never have been comfortable sitting and drinking coffee while William stood and examined the shopping. Red had come to enjoy the way William inspected his shopping, the way the corners of his mouth curled upwards ever so slightly when he was satisfied. Noticing small things made Red more comfortable; he felt like he was finally getting used to William’s strange, relaxed etiquette. Maybe even starting to understand him. Red held the warm cup of coffee in both hands and watched as William picked up a bottle of sweet-smelling oil in his gloved hands, and smelled at the cork.

“Are you going to make perfume with that, or something?”

William smiled. “No, it is for a friend.”

“Is he going to make perfume?”

“She might, yes.” William placed the bottle back on the table with the acceptable items— on the rare occasions something had been rejected, it had been placed on the floor—and picked up the deck of cards. The box was old, the cardboard fraying at the edges. The cards themselves had once been colourful, but time had dirtied and faded them in places. One had even been torn almost halfway through. Red managed to bargain the price down by almost a quarter for that.

“Do you play?”

“Play what?” William asked, carefully opening the box and sliding a few of the cards out.

“Bridge?” Red paused, realising that there were only two of them and that he didn’t really know how to play bridge, anyway. “Pinochle, anything like that?”

William grinned, examining the cards. “I haven’t in quite some time, but yes, I can.” He noticed the torn card, and gave a small frown.

“Are you any good?”

“I was.” He gently placed the cards back into their tattered box.

Red paused, worried about being inappropriate. William was smiling again and had a gleam in his eye.

“Would you… like to play now?” Red asked.

“If you wish. They have cards at the front desk.”

Red nodded. He knew that the expensive, decades-old deck of cards had not been bought to play. “I’ll go get some.”

Four days later, Red had finished another of William’s strange errands. It had taken every single one of those days, tracking down all the items on the odd list that William had given him. This list had come with another purse full of so much money that Red was once again paranoid about pickpockets. When Red remarked on this earlier, just in passing, William had presented him with a stiletto that could be hidden in the sleeve of his shirt. Its handle alone looked like it was worth more than the contents of the purse it was meant for defending.

Each of the items had been carefully wrapped in sheets of thin paper and put carefully into the false bottom of a suitcase: a statue of a woman made from green stone, an idol of a long-forgotten god, a wooden cup lined with silver, the skin of a platypus, a basket woven from flax that adhered to William’s exacting requirements for thickness and colour, and a pendant with a stone that seemed to subtly change colour when handled.

It had taken days to track them all down, and it was with no small amount of pride that he realised he was actually quite good at it. Had a knack for it, even. It felt good to have a talent; there was nothing quite like the satisfaction of finding something after searching for hours.

“Shall I have someone take your bag, Signore Rossi?” asked Adelina as Red entered. Now he was officially a guest, she always offered. And he always refused.

“No, thank you. I’ve got it.” Red shook his head, holding the bag a little tighter on instinct. He went up the stairs, two at a time, and knocked on the door to William’s room.

“Good evening,” William said, motioning for Red to enter. He was wearing a dark blue three-piece suit with a white shirt, suspenders, and a red and white striped tie. This was well within his usual style, though it seemed to Red that he had never seen William wear the same article of clothing twice. He wondered where he kept it all.

“Good evening.” Red held up the suitcase. “I found everything you wanted.”

There was a perceptible pause. That was rare with William.

“Everything?”

“Yes. I hope they’re what you meant.” He took the list out of his pocket, trying once again not to look too pleased. The paper was creased and beginning to thin, the writing fading away in places from being unfolded and refolded many times. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be happy with the female figure I got, so there’s a second one in there, just in case.”

William gently opened the suitcase, silently slid out the false bottom—he never accidentally grated at the side like Red did when he opened it—and silently scrutinised each object in turn. He placed them on the writing desk, one by one. It took almost ten minutes, but Red stood patiently: there was no coffee waiting on the table for him this time, so he thought he might be asked to go out again.

“These will do quite nicely. Thank you.” William said, as he placed the last item in position.

“There’s about a third of the money left,” Red added, pulling the purse from the hidden pocket in the heavy material of his pants. He had sewn it in himself a few weeks earlier. The stiletto wasn’t the only precaution he took. “The idol didn't cost as much as I thought. He seemed happy to be rid of it.”

“Take half for yourself, and place the rest on the bedside table,” William murmured, taking a small step towards him.

“Oh. Thank you. That’s… very generous of you,” he said, purposely not meeting William's gaze. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, and the blood thudding in his temples, the way it always did whenever William stood that close to him.

“You have earned it. You’re very talented, Carlo.”

“Ha. Thank you.” Red enjoyed that William respected him and appreciated his hard work. It felt good, but also undeserved; he knew that the only reason he was working for William was because of his prior cowardice.

“I am lucky to have met you.”

“Because I’m good at finding strange knives?”

“That is not the only reason. I have enjoyed having you around.” William smiled, taking another step forward, still staring at Red. He was now definitely standing too close, but Red found that he didn’t feel as uncomfortable as would have expected. He didn’t know how to react. His cheeks were starting to burn. William was very close. Red could smell his cologne: lemon and lavender.

The heavy feeling was settling in his stomach again. He had gotten used to it, and realised it was not as unfamiliar as he had thought. It made him think of being fourteen, learning how to dance with the freckled girl in his class. He had noticed how she smelled then, too. Or being eighteen, kissing a different girl (also with freckles) on a dare at a party. The feeling was heavy, and warm, and uncomfortable, but not unpleasant.

It was the same feeling, yet slightly different. It had more substance now.

William took another small step closer, gently running his left hand down the length of Red’s right forearm. Red let go of the purse, letting it fall to the ground. He had no idea what was coming, what was expected from him. Was he supposed to go? Stay? Was William going to call for coffee? It was all happening so quickly, Red didn’t know how to react. William quickly moved his hand over to Red’s hip, watching for his reaction.

Red stood nervous, not quite sure if all this was really happening, as he felt his pulse thudding against the tense muscle of his throat. He leaned into William’s touch all the same, and with that, the tension seemed to ease.

That was all the encouragement William needed. He placed his right hand on the side of Red’s head, and moved them still closer together. Red’s hand moved to William’s waist, his rough calluses bunching on the smooth, soft material of William’s shirt. They were very close together, their noses almost touching, when—

William kissed him. It lasted for only a few seconds, but that was enough for Red to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was nothing in the world that he had never wanted anything more than to kiss him again.

William pulled back for a moment, studying Red’s expression, hoping that he wouldn't react badly to the advance. But there was no chance of that. Red moved to kiss him again, for longer this time, pushing his weight almost entirely against him.

Red had kissed people before—always girls. William’s face felt harder, more teeth behind his lips. Women had always gone slightly limp when he kissed them, following his lead on how to turn, how to kiss. Red would pull away often, check they still wanted to be there, hold back in fear of hurting them or making them uncomfortable.

But he had never kissed anyone like this. He didn’t have to check. He didn’t need to.

It was technically wrong in so many ways: he was his boss; he was a man. But kissing him felt good. Just as good. Better even. There was no pulling back, no checking if he still wanted to be there.

Kissing William was wonderful. It raised goosebumps up his arms. The smell of William filled him every time he pulled back for breath. William’s body was big and solid and strong in a way that was different and exciting and comforting and familiar all at once.

And then, just as quickly as it had started, William stopped him.

“It is late. You should return to your room,” he said, stroking Red’s cheek with his thumb.

Red shook his head. He didn’t know what to say or do, but he did not want this to stop.

William kissed Red’s forehead and broke the embrace, though he didn’t step away, still close, close enough to kiss again. “I am sure you did not expect this, Carlo.”

“No—I mean, I didn’t—but it was good.” The word was nowhere enough. He wanted to wrap his arms around him, to bring him in again, close what little gap there was. “You don’t want to?”

“I want you to think about this.”

Red stared at him, not understanding. “What’s there to think about?”

Having had its fill, the vampire tossed the middle-aged woman to the side. She stumbled, falling to the garden path with a small thump. She lay there, her fingers tracing patterns in the cobblestones as she let out a sigh of contentment.

“Don’t stop for politeness’ sake. I am sure that one has at least a pint of blood left,” Cassius quipped, sitting at a wrought iron table. His white-gloved hands gave gestured orders at the servants digging up flowers in the garden, who only watched out of the corner of their eyes.

“It has been a long time since I’ve killed someone else’s janissary, your majesty,” William muttered, the inch-long fangs shrinking back into his dentition. The woman stood, curtseyed deeply, and walked away. The two vampires ignored her.

“Let’s not be too formal with each other tonight. I’d prefer to speak plainly.”

“Why, exactly?” William sat in the chair opposite.

“I know what I want in exchange for that human, and I don’t want to be bogged down with niceties.” Cassius paused. “Have you killed him, yet?”

“I have not even fed from him.” William held his shoulders proudly.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“What other use would you have for him?”

“I have him go shopping.”

“Ah, I thought I might try him at that, after the opera, when the hotel wasn’t so busy.”

“He was very good at it. Better than any other I have seen.”

“Really?”

“He was able to find a flax basket that was suitable to present to a duke as amends for dispatching his janissary. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a human who can do that?”

“I wouldn’t know, I have never needed such a gift.” Cassius laughed, before pausing and taking on a serious tone of voice. “And here I was thinking you were going to woo him, after what we saw at the opera. You were saying it might be fashionable soon.”

“Even if it were, it would be a lot of work. And you know how conservative Queen Kalina is. If I were to bother, I don’t know if she’d be impressed by it; and nobody else worth talking about lives on the continent.” William shook his head. “No, I plan on having him do some shopping, using him to get any official documents I may need, and making him into a janissary.”

“And when you get bored?”

“What I do with my janissaries is my business,” William smiled. “Now, what did you want in exchange for him?”

“Do you have a duchy one of my progeny could rule?”

“I have plenty of land; it’s prey that’s the problem. Do they keep janissaries sustainably?”

“You’re one to judge!”

“My city of three hundred and fifty thousand is more than enough for my habits. However, the town I am thinking of has perhaps ten thousand.”

“That will be fine for a pup.”

“Why do you wish to move them, if I may ask?”

“Politics. The town you have in mind would be isolated from the rest of us?”

“Extremely.”

“Then it will be perfect.”

Red slept in small, fitful dozes that barely registered, between long bouts of staring at the ceiling, his mind running in circles. His bed, normally pleasantly soft, had been rolled about on so much the surface just felt damp and full of lumps. He couldn’t get comfortable.

That was the least of his worries.

William was a man. Red had never kissed a man. He hadn’t really entertained the notion. Kissing men. A man.

Red pressed his hands into his cheeks. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought about it. It had come and gone. Every now and then, the image, the curiosity, would crop up; but less often than he thought about women.

—maybe because you let yourself think about women more—

And overall he had thought about women more.

He knew there were men who were… with other men. He knew of it. But he considered his own thoughts of it in the same way as thoughts of jumping off bridges and whatnot: weird ideas from the back of his mind that he didn’t entertain. Everyone had those strange thoughts sometimes. And sometimes those thoughts were dreams. It was fine. It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t have to mean anything.

But kissing William had been terrific.

Terrific wasn’t a strong enough word.

He grinned at the ceiling, his chest feeling like it was fit to burst. He pressed his hands into his cheeks again, feeling the stubble under the heels of his palms. His hands tingled. Warmth ran up his spine in small electric shocks.

It was like kissing girls in high school. But different. Better. There was more of this feeling, whatever it was, this time. And he knew it wasn’t for any other men, not even the ones who had crossed his mind back home. Just William.

Red’s grin faded.

Who was a man.

And his boss.

And possibly a German spy.

He pushed that last thought aside. No. There was no way. He wouldn’t acknowledge it. Refused to. It was impossible. It was illegal. Had to be illegal in Germany, too. There was no way William could have kissed him like that and been a spy.

Red knew that. But it niggled at him. Like a tiny pebble in his shoe.

He went back to William’s room the next evening.

William answered the door, wearing his usual casual attire: pants, suspenders, and a long-sleeved shirt. Red noticed that he wasn’t wearing the gloves that usually went with it; but the thought only stayed with him a second, lost in the sea of nervous feelings that had consumed him the past day as he hoped and wondered what was going to happen next.

“Good evening.” William smiled, gesturing for Red to enter the room. William could sense there was something off about Red; the way he held his shoulders revealed a tension that had not been there last night.

“Evening,” Red replied, managing to force the word out as he stepped inside, his arms held stiffly at his sides.

“Would you like me to arrange some coffee?”

“That would be good, thank you.” Red fidgeted, clenching and unclenching his hands as William picked up the phone and made his request. The moment he hung up, Red was out with it. “I have to ask you something.”

“Of course.”

“Okay.” Red took a deep breath, thinking. He hesitated, opening his mouth and closing it again. “Will you be honest?” he said finally. It was barely a question, more a statement. He already trusted William more than he was willing to acknowledge.

“I will be honest, though there are some secrets I may yet keep.”

Red thought about it for a few moments, looking down at his clenched hands. “Will you tell me if you can’t tell me?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Red took another deep breath. “Are-you-a-spy-for-the-Germans?” he said, immediately cringing at himself. He wanted it to sound accusatory, strong, and powerful. Instead it came out like a child’s voice, rushed and tinged with hope and worry.

William shook his head. “Oh, goodness no. I am not involved with the war, on either side.”

Red visibly sagged with relief. He put a hand to his forehead. He felt like all the air had gone out of him. “But the letters, the packages… they’re nothing to do with the war?”

“No, they are not. Please, sit down.” He gestured for Red to sit in one of the chairs, the ones they had sat in when they first negotiated their working arrangement.

Red’s shoulders tightened again, but he sat all the same. The chair was firm and well-made, but didn’t make him any more comfortable. William sat in the chair opposite him, his movements calm, his posture straight, but relaxed.

“Is everything alright?” William asked.

“Yes. No.” He rubbed his forehead. He couldn’t stop touching his face. He wasn’t sure why. “Well. You being a spy would be… less than ideal.”

“I can imagine.” William gave another small smile, which faded as his voice became more serious. “I know I have put you in an uncomfortable position, and suspecting I was a spy must have made it all the more so.”

Red leaned forward in his chair, his hands on the arm rests. “No, you didn’t. You didn’t make me uncomfortable. Not like that, I mean.”

William opened his mouth to speak, but there was a harsh knock at the door. He sighed.

“Entra!” he called. Adelina entered the room, carrying a small tray of coffee. She gave Red the same mildly awkward smile many of his former coworkers had been furnishing him with since he started staying at the hotel. Red returned it with the same awkward wave he had been furnishing them with. He wondered if he’d ever get used to it.

“Metterli sul tavolo,” William instructed. Adelina obliged, placing one cup of thick, black coffee in front of each of them. She bowed, wished them a good evening, and left.

William picked up his mug and blew at the steam. He held it for a few moments and then placed it back down. Red gratefully picked up his own mug, and sipped at it, even though he couldn’t taste anything beneath the heat that burned his tongue. He needed something to do with his hands.

The pause started out comfortable, became awkward when it became clear neither of them was about to start talking, and then grew comfortable and familiar as the seconds ticked past.

“I regret what I did last night,” William said, finally, as Red started to take a second sip of his drink.

Red almost choked. “What?”

“It was unbecoming of a gentleman,” he said plainly. “One does not make advances on one’s employees.”

“Well, they could,” Red murmured, clearing his throat. “Depending on circumstances.” He took another shaky sip of his coffee. It had cooled enough that he could taste a hint of the rich bitterness through the overpowering heat.

“How do you mean?”

Red hesitated, trying to think of something witty. He gave up. “I liked kissing you.”

“I liked it, too.” He leaned forward. “But that does not make it appropriate.”

“I can handle inappropriate.” He rested his elbows on his knees, the coffee cup still in his hands. He hesitated. “As long as you’re definitely not a spy. I have standards.”

“I am not, but I don’t think you could trust a spy to answer honestly.” William picked up his coffee cup, placing it against his lips for a moment. He paused and placed it down again, leaning further forward.

Red considered this; the thought had occurred to him. “I guess not. But I trust you.” He wondered what to do with his cup.

William smiled. He let the pause endure for a few moments more than would be typical. “Is the coffee to your liking?”

“I want to kiss you again.” Red stared levelly into William’s eyes and placed his cup down. This time there was no cringing at his inability to keep his cool, though his rapid heartbeat seemed to fill his entire chest.

“Are you sure? It would be most inappropriate.” William grinned, meeting Red’s gaze, and leaned in further, placing his hand on Red’s upper arm just for a moment, as though he was brushing a piece of dust away. They both knew he wasn’t.

“I’ll live.” Red hesitated for a moment, wanting to lean further forward, but realising with frustration that the coffee table was in his way. His face was so close to William’s; there seemed to be only six inches between them. Red’s cheeks felt flushed, his throat dry. All he could think was how stupid he had been last month when he placed the coffee table between the armchairs.

William sat there, the grin still on his face, as though he wasn’t acutely aware of Red’s predicament with the table; or perhaps he was amused by it.

Frustrated, Red stood up, leaning forward and down to bridge the gap and kiss him, their lips meeting across the coffee table. Red pressed his mouth hungrily against William’s, wanting to enjoy the moment while he still had that first burst of courage in him. William leaned into the kiss, putting his hand gently on the back of Red’s head, firmly, but without the force of Red’s.

Red pulled at William’s shirt, urging him into a standing position as the kiss grew less frantic and more passionate, deeper. William stood, and Red shuffled himself closer to William; but, in doing so, Red bumped his shin on the coffee table. The pain of the bump meant nothing, but the high, hollow sound of the table sliding along the floorboards made Red’s skin crawl. He broke the kiss, just for a moment; but that was enough for him to see his coffee cup wobbling dangerously out of the corner of his eye.

The cup tipped over with a small thud, spilling the thick, dark liquid all over the table.

“Should we… do something about that?” Red breathed, that burst of courage almost gone.

William smiled. “No. A spill never hurt anybody.”

It had surprised Red that William hadn’t known how to play poker; but perhaps it wasn’t popular in Australia.

He had learned quickly, and proved to be a worthy opponent: his countenance was often inscrutable, but sometimes Red would recognise the barest twitch of his mouth when he drew good cards. Red knew he had tells of his own, but that was fine: it made for a competitive game, one where they could share stories, discussions growing deeper and more intimate than they had been back before they had kissed, back when they were still playing pinochle.

Over the next week, they talked about everything: men, women, travelling, regional alcohol quality, and Red’s day-to-day struggles at the steel mill from before he had been drafted—though Red carefully avoided any mention of the army. William revealed that he dealt in antiques, and confided that he occasionally smuggled them, which was a good enough explanation for the shopping trips, packages, and strange codes to relieve the weight in Red’s chest. Not legal, but not treason.

Despite the new closeness in their relationship, William kept his quirks: he didn’t like Red visiting before eight o’clock, and sent him back to his room in the early hours of the morning. Red was so used to this that it didn’t occur to him to ask about it.

They played cards. They lay on the bed and listened to the radio. They even took walks around town—though Red didn’t like those as much, for he was too scared to touch William. And he wanted to touch William, to feel safe and warm and wanted the way William’s arms and lips and body made him feel when they had their private moments together.

Their relationship didn’t move beyond kisses, fond words, and long embraces. One evening William had gently moved his hands down the back of Red’s trousers, but Red had flinched, and William had moved his hand back to Red’s hip, whispering an apology. He never made an advance like that again. Red was glad for it: it was all so new, and wonderful, but there were things he wasn’t ready for. Things that weren't ready to be pushed. Not yet.

Red lay there, on his side, his forehead touching William’s, for what felt like hours, as the melodious sounds of Italian music played on the radio. He dozed. He didn’t want to move. On some level he still felt this was too good to be true, and he didn’t want to think about anything else.

His stomach growled. He ignored it, trying to enjoy the feeling for a little longer. But it was too late: he’d entertained the thought of food, so the pain that dug diagonally into his belly grew sharper. William had clearly heard his stomach, too, for he moved, pulling away from Red. Red’s fingers impulsively grabbed at William’s shirt as he moved.

“Well, I suppose it is time we get you something to eat,” he said softly, running his hand up Red’s neck with feather-light fingers.

“You’re not hungry yet, are you?” Red asked, forcing his hands to relax. He didn’t want to get up. He didn’t want William to get up, either.

“I won’t be. I ate before you arrived.”

“One day I’ll actually get to see you eat,” Red murmured, propping himself on one elbow to kiss William’s cheek. Reluctantly, he got out of the bed. It had taken him more than a week to be comfortable getting out of bed, rather than holding onto William as though he had to savour every moment like he wasn’t going to get more. “I need something big. Something filling,” he added, as he adjusted his belt.

“Do you want lasagne again?” William asked, getting out of bed with the same care and precision he gave to everything.

“That’ll work,” Red said, moving over to kiss him again, at the edge of his eye. “And if you change your mind, I can share. I was raised right, you know—great at sharing.”

“Of that I am sure,” he agreed, making for the phone while Red grinned. William picked up the receiver and spoke to the concierge in Italian. Red didn’t bother trying to eavesdrop. He didn’t have the energy for it. William started undoing the buttons of his long-sleeved shirt. He often changed shirts two or three times a night, claiming they were dirty, even though this shirt was still whiter than anything Red had ever owned.

William hung up the receiver and went to his wardrobe to pick out a clean shirt from the dozens that hung there—this one bright yellow. “Your meal will arrive in five minutes. I told them I was rather hungry.” He shrugged his white shirt off, gently folding it and placing it into a basket at the foot of the wardrobe.

Red’s first thought was to say something sentimental and cheesy, but he thought better of it. “Thank you,” he said instead. It wouldn’t have come out right anyway. “You’re spoiling me, you know. My mother wouldn’t approve.”

William gave a small chuckle as he pulled on the yellow shirt. “Mothers never do,” he replied, moving forward to where Red was standing, placing his hands at Red’s side to give him a short kiss. As he was about to break it to put his shoes on, Red grabbed his collar, pulling him closer, embracing him with a kind of unbridled joy he wasn’t sure he had ever felt before he’d met William. When Red was finished, he released him, sitting on the bed to watch him finish getting ready: shoes, vests, coats, and ties felt excessively fancy for him, but seemed a necessity for William. There was a comfortable pause as William buttoned the yellow shirt, and then proceeded with his strange habit of removing the laces from his shoes and then putting them back on.

“Could I ask you something?”

“Always,” he replied, pulling on his socks.

“Do I still work for you?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light, even though the question had been at the edge of his mind for days. “I’m still happy to do things for you, but am I still under your employ? With… this?” He gestured vaguely to the bed, to the deck of cards on the table, to William, to the room in general.

“What would you prefer?” He tied the laces on his left shoe.

“Oh. Well.” He rubbed the back of his neck. Red wasn’t sure what answer he had expected, but that certainly wasn’t it. “I’m… not entirely sure. I think being with you and working for you is… strange. This is new to me. I mean, not…being with someone. I’ve had girlfriends, but…not with a man. Not an employer. I mean, obviously.” He hesitated, then gave a small, frustrated sigh. “Sorry. I’m not that good at this.”

“This, whatever it is, is rare. I doubt anybody is experienced enough to be good at it.”

Red scoffed, smiling again. “You are.”

William smiled. “Thank you.” He paused and pulled on his right shoe, carefully tying the lace into a bow. “I am experienced enough to be concerned for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember when I told you that one does not make advances on one’s employees?”

“Well, yes?”

“In making advances on you, I may have put you in a position where you felt you needed to reciprocate, lest you find yourself without a job.”

Red looked about to argue, then stopped. “Well. That makes sense, I guess. I mean, in general.

“Which is why I wanted you to think about it, that first night. I should have… been clearer, that I didn’t expect anything from you.”

“What, not anything?” Red grinned, unsure of what to say, and attempting to lighten William’s seriousness.

He smiled, walking over to Red, sitting beside him on the bed. He placed a hand on Red’s knee, squeezing it as he spoke. “All I expect is to know you are spending time with me because you want to, not because you are afraid you will be back on the streets if you refuse me.”

“I am,” Red murmured, his hands encircling William’s wrists. “The first part. I mean. The ‘wanting to spend time with you’ part.”

He smiled, rubbing the underside of Red’s wrists. “Then, to answer your question, I don’t think you’ve worked for me for a little while.” He paused, pulling a hand free to gesture at his new trunk. “I will be honest. I will still ask for your help on occasion. But you are welcome to ask anything you like of me in return. But it will be out of good will, not obligation.”

“I’d love that.”

“Excellent,” he said, moving to give Red another firm kiss. Red pulled his head towards him, forcing their faces as close together as he could manage. They sat entwined like that until the knock at the door forced them to separate much sooner than either of them would have liked.