Chapter Text
Roksu waits where the adults had left him, glued to the edge of the seat by his anxiety as he tuned out their discussion. There’s a major blank in his memory, but from what he does remember, this wasn’t where he went to sleep and the adults around him are complete strangers. His mind is filled with jumbled noises and words, making it harder to try to understand what’s going on when he wants to tune back in. It’s the same though, the adults are the same. It’s happening again and he knows they’re going to get rid of him like some old, unwanted toy. His feet are dangling above the floor and he has to keep himself from swinging them out of the need to do anything to distract himself because adults hated when he did it.
Red blooms across his cheeks in mere seconds when the adults’ conversation screeches to a stop after hearing his stomach gurgle and growl. Roksu keeps his eyes trained on everyone’s shoes, his ears becoming hot at the silence that follows. How embarrassing… he’s usually better than this.
He jumps at the sight of polished shoes stopping right in front of him, a pair of slacks blocking everything else from his view. There’s cotton blooming in his ears this time, blocking out the world around him. Roksu has no idea what’s going on anymore. Suddenly, he’s face to face with an old man… whose smile is… terrifying. Not that he’ll ever voice his thoughts out loud. Roksu hated being put into situations like this because he just can’t figure out where to place his eyes. Adults don’t like it when he meets their gaze, accusing him of being defiant because he “has a look in his eyes.” But they don’t like when he doesn’t meet their gaze either, yelling at them for finding the situation “unimportant” and “boring". He doesn’t know what to do… so his eyes jump from meeting the old man’s to things around the room.
Back and forth, back and forth.
“Young master,” the man starts, there’s an air of patience surrounding him that sets Roksu on edge, “Why don’t you follow my son to the kitchen? My son, Vicross, can make you something good to eat.”
Oh! Roksu thinks he could do that. He’s been in kitchens before! He has to force himself to meet the man’s gaze one more time as he gives a small, but firm nod. Then, he hops down from the plush couch and trails after the tall man with the dark hair. This must be the son, Vicross.
The man isn’t doesn’t seem to enjoy talking much, his stoic face settled into something maybe two steps above a scowl. It’s okay though, he isn’t much of a talker either. The walk to the kitchen is silent, he’s counting his breaths, trying to keep his breathing in check as he jogs after the taller man. His footsteps must have been loud though because the man glances over his shoulder at him and then slows down. So nice!
Even when they arrive at the kitchen, the man still hasn’t said anything to him, so he stands at the doorway, unsure what he’s needed for. The kitchen is exceptionally clean… there doesn’t seem to be a single thing out of place. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to earn his food or what he was supposed to do here anymore.
Roksu inches his way into the room, eyes set on the rag he had spotted earlier, neatly folded on top of the counter. It’ll have to do. He takes it into his hand, admiring how soft it is against his skin compared to the itchy rags at home, and wets it in the sink. Now that there’s something he knows how to do, he makes his way back to the sitting area with more confidence. He drops to his hands and knees and begins to scrub at the pristine floor. The adults at home have always said that even if it looks clean, it’s never clean enough! So surely, this would be enough to earn his keep. He’s really good at cleaning now, so the chef will probably give him something good, right?
There’s a loud clattering behind him that causes him to startle. Whipping his head around, Roksu spots the man’s knife abandoned on the floor. The stoic look is wiped off of the man’s face and there’s an expression Roksu doesn’t know how to interpret taking its place. The chef’s face warps into a grimace, his jaw clenching so tightly that Roksu thinks he might just crack his teeth. His thick brows are drawn in close, squeezing his eyes down into a sharp glare, but the look in his eyes is something entirely different. He looks sad.
Was he mad at him? Did he do something wrong? Fear laces into his veins, threading deep into his muscles to freeze him in place as his heart begins to hammer in his chest.
(Damn it, damn it, damn it).
Vicross storms up to him, his hand already looming out towards him. Roksu fails to hold back the full body flinch that he knows adults hate. He’s messed up again hasn't he? Helplessly, he squeezes his eyes shut, ducking his head a little lower in hopes of hurting less.
Nothing comes. The pain never comes, only a warm hand landing on top of his dark, short hair instead. Slowly, he peeks at the chef, body still tense under the touch. There’s nothing, but hurt and anger swirling within the man’s eyes. Roksu couldn’t understand why the man would be sad.
“Young master,” Vicross’ voice comes out strained. Again, he’s getting addressed by that weird title.
Silently, he watches the chef try to string together words, his mouth opening and closing a few times. His own throat is too clogged up to ask what he had done wrong. He manages though.
“Why… why are you sad?” His words come out like small croaks. It’s getting hard to speak again, but adults don’t like it when he can’t speak, so he forces himself to. The words scrape against his throat, burning him on its way out.
Vicross’ eyes only fill with even more hurt, hurt, hurt as he stares at Roksu. He’s at a complete loss of words.
“Young master, why are you on the ground?” Vicross keeps his voice soft, his tone open and forgiving. It’s the same tone the nice librarian speaks to him in and it’s so safe.
So Roksu finds himself answering honestly.
“I didn’t know what else I could do,” he confesses like he’s sinned. He didn’t deserve the chef’s kindness, and he couldn’t bring himself to meet his eyes anymore.
Vicross brews silently, waiting for the boy to finish his thoughts. He doesn’t like where this was going.
“How else can I earn…” Roksu’s palms are sweaty where they’re clenched at his sides. His nails pressing little arcs into his palms with enough force that he knows he might start bleeding from.
No answer.
“I don’t deserve food yet,” Roksu’s words are firm and believing as he meets the man’s eyes, which tremble as he processes what Roksu had said.
(Vicross wants to skin whoever taught his young master this. They’ll be begging for the sweet release of death once he gets his hands on them because he’s going to make them regret everything they’ve done deeply. He’s going to leave them teetering on the edge of life and death).
He snaps out of his vicious thoughts, saving them for later. He’ll be telling the others about this, so they could all come up with the plans together.
“Young master,” Vicross hopes his words will reach the boy, “You deserve everything.”
He watches as the boy bites at his lip, holding it captive between his teeth, and how he’s pulling at the hems of his shirt as he tries to calm his breathing. He sees the way the child tries with all his might to blink away the tears that welled up in his eyes, but it’s doing nothing to stop the ones that have already escaped.
(It’s hard to believe him, but)
The chef leads him back to the counter with a warm hand on his back after he had begged to help, but all he’s handed is a small bowl of snacks. Vicross tells him that his job is to finish it all by the time he’s finished cooking.
(His heart is swelling with how happy and safe he’s feeling. Maybe he could trust just one adult).
-
After that, Vicross notices that he’s gained a little assistant in the kitchen.
Every morning, Vicross wakes up around 5 o’clock to start preparing the ingredients for the first meal. It’s a routine that he’s grown accustomed to over years of following it to a T. Wake up, wash up, get dressed, and then head down to the estate’s second kitchen. In all honesty, he enjoyed the early hours when the manor was empty with only a few servants bustling about. But today, he has company. His company comes in the form of a small, black haired boy who is still rubbing the remnants of sleep from his eyes. His short hair sticks out in tufts, fighting against the pull of gravity as he plods into the kitchen.
The young master, he learns, responds best to the name “Roksu,” instead of Cale or his title.
“Roksu… what are you doing up so early?” Vicross crouches down in front of Roksu. He found that the boy found it easier to talk to him if he was at the same level. He still has trouble, but it’s a great difference between how he reacts to anyone standing over him.
The corners of his lips curl up a smidge when Roksu opens his mouth to respond, but a yawn comes out instead. The boy was practically asleep on his feet, but he wanted to come to the kitchen for some reason.
“...help…” Roksu mumbles out.
“You need help with something?” Vicross raises a brow. Usually, Vicross would bask in silence, and only speak when needed, but something about the boy made words come easily.
(Maybe it was the way they both knew when to let the comfortable silence sway between them).
Roksu shakes his head shyly, his reddish brown eyes peeking out to look at him. They’re the same shade as young master cale’s eyes, leaving questions forming in the chef’s mind, but he doesn’t voice them. Roksu seemed just as lost as they were when he appeared.
“...want to help you,” Roksu answers meekly. His fingers are fiddling with the hem of his shirt again. Today he’s clumsily dressed in a loose, white top that has a collar that ties into a ribbon. It’s not tied though, so Vicross assumes that the boy had managed to sneak past his father to come here without telling anyone. His shirt isn’t tucked into the pair of gray slacks he’s chosen, and his feet are bare against the tile of the kitchen.
“Alright,” He gives in easily. Vicross has to hold back a click of the tongue at the thought of the boy’s feet against the dirty floor. With careful hands, he slowly moves to tie the collar into a bow. He holds his arms out after that, beckoning the boy to come closer, before carefully lifting him up into his arms.
Roksu makes a small, startled noise, but doesn’t fight him when he’s picked up, so Vicross gets to work. With one hand, he smears some butter into a warmed pan, letting it melt for a few seconds before cracking an egg on top of it. The clear egg whites slowly turn white under the steady heat of the flame, its yolk breaking as he moves it around with a wooden spatula. Soon enough, he scoops the scrambled egg onto a plate with ease, the child in his arms doing nothing to hinder him. It’s adorable how Roksu’s avid curiosity has won over his timid demeanor. Vicross has a firm hold on him to make sure he won’t fall even with how he leans out to watch the pan on the stove, his tiny arm is also loosely wrapped around his neck.
(He’s going to feed this kid whatever he wants to eat).
But eventually, the early hours seem to catch up to the boy because his head comes down to rest on Vicross’ shoulder. The soothing movements of the chef stepping back and forth akin to being rocked, so he can’t help but feel sleepy again. The heat from the stove is making being held even more cozy.
“Tired?” His question comes out as a soft murmur as he lays down two slices of bread onto the butter coated pan.
“...No,” Roksoo breathes out. Another yawn follows it, outing his lie entirely.
(Roksu bounces lightly with the chef’s small huff of laughter. It’s a tickling feeling, oozing with a warmth that’s unfamiliar to him. Unfamiliar, but all the more comfortable).
“Sure,” Vicross lowers the heat so that the bread will take longer to brown. Roksu could use a few minutes, and he finds himself enjoying the boy’s company as well.
Roksu dozes off to the warmth of both Vicross and the stove, and the delicious scent of butter and bread.
(“Hoh,” His father leans against the doorframe, a teasing smirk on his lips, “So this is where he ran off to?”
Vicross shoots his father a glare, but there’s barely any heat behind it. His ears heat up because he’s been caught, Roksu napping in his arms with the fabric of his sleeve clutched in the boy’s hand.
“Not a word,” he hisses.
This draws a stifled laugh from his father).
Roksu is roused from his sleep by a warm hand patting his back, it shakes his shoulder, but it was just too much of a good sleep. He nestles his face into the crook of the chef’s neck, his mind too clouded with sleep to feel embarrassed by his actions.
“Roksu,” Vicross says, “You have to wake up now.”
With a whine, Roksu raises his head from where it was resting, his eyes pinched shut as he turned towards the voice. He can tell they’re moving somewhere from the steady stride and the clacking of shoes against tile. A hand moves to steady him, shifting him until he’s dangling in the air again before he’s placed onto a hard surface. When he opens his eyes, Roksu is sitting in front of a plate full of scrambled eggs, two slices of toast, and a few strips of bacon.
He makes a questioning noise as he looks up at the chef who only makes a gesture for him to start eating in return. Roksu squints at the man, making another questioning noise.
“I think he wants you to eat with him, son,” Comes the voice of the old man from the day before. Roksu jolts in his seat, the grogginess completely leaving his body from the shock. When did the old man arrive?
Hesitantly, he nods. The old man was right, that was exactly what he wanted.
“I’ll eat in a bit,” Vicross replied, turning back to the counter to start prepping more food. Roksu refuses to budge even when his stomach begins to rumble, crying out at the delicious aroma of the food in front of him.
Vicross stares at the boy, who suddenly has the gall to stare back.
“Fine,” He sighs, moving to grab a slice of toast to smear jam on. Vicross spots the way Roksu glances at his father next and spreads jam on another piece.
The boy looks content when he joins him at the table, finally digging into the cooling meal. Although, he does look nervous in the presence of his father. His cheeks round out as he scoops a spoonful of egg into his mouth, there’s crumbs sticking to his face, and Vicross holds back the urge to clean them off. His father’s teasing would be relentless.
(He ends up getting teased anyways because apparently his hands twitched and they didn’t escape his father’s keen eyes).