Chapter Text
The first meeting was quite memorable. Whether or not it could be considered a first meeting was a good question, but Frank didn't think about it at the time. He had recently been transferred to the main department, and this was an improvement over being at the bottom. It's hard to do manual labor, especially when you're not in good health. It's much easier to help out in the kitchen by serving food — and, of course, keeping your mouth shut.
Two officers came in the middle of the day and demanded that he follow them. Little did he know, they were leading him straight to the warlord. He was led into an office that smelled of coffee and tobacco smoke with a faint hint of leather. It was the kind of place that never smelled of blood—it was on the owners' hands, which is why they wore gloves. Mr. Way wore gloves, too, for good reason. They called him a dictator behind his back, and judging from the servants' talk, Mr. Way was more than satisfied with it. To lead so many people, you had to be charismatic and confident, not worried about rumors and blurb, and Frank understood that. “Dictator” suited him just fine. It was a nickname that struck fear into the hearts of those who disobeyed. It was what the military said behind their bosses' backs.
Frank was disobeyed, too, even if he tried to appear devoted. It was all just a lie, a sweet-looking candy wrapper, nothing more. He'd only ended up as a local servant because of his attentiveness and what his mother had taught him when he was a child. Iero was pretty good with a knife and knew how to make chowder for the whole horde from nothing — because that was how you had to survive, and there were never many cooks. “This is just another last extreme measure,” he thought to himself.
Standing in front of the warlord was also a survival of last resort.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” Iero asked, hiding his gaze. His palms were sweating under the stare, and he prayed that he wasn't there for a fatal reason.
Iero stood straight by the table, looking anywhere but at the man in the chair. Mr. Way gave a slight tilt of his head, his mouth curving slightly into a half-smile. With a swift gesture, the officers, their hands concealed by leather gloves, quietly exited the room, closing the door behind them without making a sound. Being alone with the dictator was even more frightening than he had thought. A lump in his throat was squeezing his voice, and his heart was pounding in his ears. Standing in front of such an important figure was unbearable. His muscles were stiff with tension and his head was spinning with thoughts.
“Hello, Frank,” the warlord said softly, watching him. His voice was pleasant and deceptively soothing. Iero wondered frantically if he had messed up in the kitchen or misspoken during a conversation. “I've been looking forward to our meeting. Have a seat.”
Why? What had Frank done to be summoned directly to the warlord? Swallowing, Frank dared to have his eyes raised and the gaze of green eyes met. The warlord was looking at him differently at the soldiers and people, and Frank felt a chill run down his spine, yet he couldn't look away. He wanted to, but he couldn't. The shadow-darkened gaze was hypnotizing, frightening, and mesmerizing. There was no longer any boredom or irritation, only a look of barely concealed curiosity and interest.
With a gesture, Mr. Way indicated the table where two cups were sitting. The drink smelled like coffee, and Frank would be lying if he said he didn't want to taste it. He had smelled it in the halls before and caught a whiff of it in the kitchen while they were preparing baked goods for receptions. Now, the warlord was offering him a personal taste of such a scarce beverage. It was a surprising and suspicious generosity. Iero raised an eyebrow and swallowed his saliva soundlessly. Perhaps he wanted someone to test the drink for poison.
“Don't keep me waiting,” Mr. Way said, still smiling softly. Frank had to force his stiff muscles to sit down in the chair across from him.
The porcelain trembled in his grimy hands, his fingers stung, and the tangy smell of it hit his nose, tantalizing and enchanting. Just like the attentive gaze of eyes across the table that literally absorbed every emotion. Frank sucked in the aroma loudly with his nose and sipped it carefully. Warmth spilled down his throat, but the bitterness remained on his tongue, causing Iero to frown, trying to banish the unpleasant residue with saliva.
“Did you not like it?” He was being mocked and laughed at. Frank's cheeks burned with the embarrassment of his own ignorance. “You could try adding sugar.”
“You called me here to mock me?”
The chuckle caused waves of indignation, breaking the tension. He doesn't like this fancy, scarce coffee. The chuckle caused waves of indignation, breaking the tension. He doesn't like this fancy, scarce coffee.
“With all due respect, sir, I think my presence is needed in the kitchen. I thought you might need something.”
The man leaned back, his eyes closed, his body relaxed. Mr. Way looked imposing, not to be feared for nothing, with his hair framing his pale face and his eyes settled deep, staring at his interlocutor and reading every emotion. Like a serpent, damn it. Frank's shoulders appeared to rise as the final words left his mouth. While he might have been perceived as somewhat bold, Frank was not one to allow others to make fun of him.
“I didn't mean to offend,” he said, folding his hands on the table and resting his face on them. “I just wanted to see you up close, not the usual way.”
Something rippled fearfully in his chest. Had he been watched before? He was just a servant. How could such a high-ranking man have paid attention to him? Where? At receptions? He hadn't spent much time in the kitchen, so there weren't many options. He'd be in trouble with his superiors if he didn't get his job back on track. He should have bowed out and left.
But instead, Frank's foul mouth kept sassing him.
“What's the big deal about an ordinary servant?” With care, he placed the tea service on the table. His fingers had stained the white porcelain, and now there were greasy marks on it. “Or do you call all the waiters to your carpet?”
His heart pounded in his chest, thudding with the tension hanging over. His cheeks burned with the rush of blood and the sight of someone whose face he would never have wanted to see up close. From afar, Warlord Way seemed even slightly cordial and well willed. But the rising fear did not let him fool himself. Right in front of Iero, he seemed terribly placating. It was only a forced measure of survival, Frank reassured himself.
“No, just you,” Mr. Way grinned. His cordiality was unsettling. “I liked you right away. There's something… catchy about you.”
There was such a gulf between them. How could a military man like Frank be attracted to a servant like him? It sounded phony, and Frank could hardly guess what was expected of him. Espionage, perhaps? Maybe something impressive, like poisoning, since he served food to the top brass in the main department. Either way, he should have retreated to the kitchen as soon as possible. He could hardly get away with speaking so carelessly to the dictator. Frank would have to pray hard that he wouldn't be whipped after this conversation. Iero pushed back his chair and stood up, intent on ending this farce.
“I'm afraid there's nothing about me that would interest you.”
A high-pitched chuckle came from across the room again. A sly grin stretched across thin lips, revealing an even row of small teeth.
“Not at all. You don't know much about yourself, Frank.”
Not espionage, then? Poison, maybe?
“I'm just a regular man,” Iero said, barely furrowing his brow.
“And I'm just a man, too.”
“You're the warlord.”
It came out faster than Frank thought it would. Maybe lashing with rods wouldn't be enough. Goosebumps rose on my back with phantom pain. I wanted to snicker at the calmness on the other side of the table. It was a hurricane of feelings, not the most pleasant ones. The gaze was deceptively inviting, but behind it, one could see a dark maelstrom lurking in the blurred iris. Frank is just a rat, surviving as best he can. There are too many extreme measures, and an audacity toward one of the most powerful men in this country is not one of them. It's an impulse that has lurked in his soul his whole life due to all the injustice he has witnessed. The cause of his family's poverty was right there, rising measuredly from his seat.
Frank froze, standing by the chair. His eyes followed the man's smooth movements as he floated toward Frank. His precise uniform sat at his waist, the gray wool contrasting with the lad's poor apron and worn shirt. There was an infinite gulf between them, one that had been there since birth and that nothing could fill. The difference was instantly apparent. As soon as Mr. Way was within inches of him, the warlord's breath tickled Frank's swarthy skin.
“We are alike. I'm made up of the same organs as an ordinary person and I need food and drink like one too. There isn't much difference between us, you know?”
With a shy nod, Frank kept his eyes fixed on the dictator's unwavering stare. He didn't understand a thing, but pretended to, feeling his heart beat in his throat again. It was the kind of stare that made you freeze, like prey at gunpoint. It wasn't hunting, but why did it feel like he'd fall through the ground if he looked away?
“Let me ask you something. How old are you?” The warlord lowered his voice. Frank answered smoothly, as if his heart weren't in his mouth.
“I suppose you already know.”
“Yes, I know,” he nodded hastily. “But I want to hear it from you.”
He had told a lot of lies in his life. Less often telling the truth, because nobody liked it. He worked his way up from farm laborer to servant in the main department. The only thing he was proud of was never having to hold a gun.
“Twenty-eight,” Frank exhaled. The man smiled contentedly, his wrinkles blurring with tenderness at the corners of his eyes.
“What a wonderful age!” He exclaimed. His leather-wrapped fingers were suddenly on Frank's stained shirt at his stomach, crawling along his ribs and causing him to inhale raggedly.
The touch was weightless, yet it felt a hundred times brighter than a poke or a slap. It stung and sent shivers down his arms. It warmed him better than hot coffee. The touch burned through his skin, making his stomach tingle. His eyes followed the blush slyly. Mr. Way's index finger traveled down his chest and circled the starched collar of his cheap shirt while his voice murmured thoughtfully.
“Don't be afraid to mature. You're in the prime of your life. After all, thirty is the new twenty.”
Frank swallowed recklessly before another insolence.
“Well, except for the trees,” he said quietly, and then added in a shaky voice: “Sir.”
For a second, it seemed as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room, and Iero didn't dare breathe in that position, but a moment later Mr. Way shook with a giggle that was completely inappropriate for his image, his shoulders shaking with laughter and tears welling up in his eyes. Iero's lips trembled, and he didn't know why. Was it from fear, or from the strange intimacy between the rat and the porcelain dictator with pale, wrinkled skin?
The man looked at Iero again, barely concealing his crooked half-smirk. Frank was amused by this behavior, even though he shouldn't have shown it.
“You're funny.”
Suddenly, the warlord seemed so human and mesmerizing that Frank was horrified, almost breaking into his stupid smile. His laughter was like the soft whisper of leaves, like a bird's trill. It was a stark contrast to the image of a leader pushing the country into bloodshed. It simply could not be.
Mr. Way squinted slyly and bit his lower lip.
“You're sassing me right to my face. Aren't you afraid of the consequences?”
“Should I be?”
“You should be.”
A tightening in his throat made it hard to breathe. His smile faded, and sweat broke out on his hands. He felt a sudden pang of fear, and all the courage left him. Why had he been so cockily confident in the first place, hoping for mercy? What had pushed him to such recklessness? Noticing the change in the servant's face, the man hastened to add in his usual soft voice.
“Hopefully, fear won't drive you the entire time we're together,” the warlord said, licking his lips quickly. He lazily shook off the invisible dust on Iero's shoulders. “Go. You must be expected.”
“I'm sorry,” Iero said, his voice trembling. His chattiness would surely get him killed. If he was in disfavor with the most important man in the state, he was ready to close his eyes to all his principles. “I'm sorry, sir. I shouldn't have...”
“Oh, no, no. Your impertinence has its charm. I like it, Frank.”
In place of fear, fingers in leather crawled up his neck, driving away panic and trembling. The touch scorched his skin and sent goosebumps snaking down his back. It was strangely soothing. Mr. Way ran his thumb over the tanned skin and circled the faded scorpion tattoo. Then he tucked a loose strand of regrown hair behind his ear. The man was smiling at him expectantly. Iero felt the heat on his face.
“But from now on, keep your mouth shut if you don't want to be without one,” the man's voice murmured softly, barely audible. Frank pressed his lips into a straight line.
“Yes, sir.”
He walked out of the office on barely bendable legs, ignoring his hitched breath. The sly look in Mr. Way's eyes would haunt him for the rest of the evening.
***
That night, he was overcome with anxiety. In every dream, there were deep green eyes staring at him, millions of hands choking him, and the floor falling away. It was no wonder he was hardly calm in the morning. Despite his absent-mindedness in the days that followed, no one was going to punish him. Even his superiors seemed afraid to raise their voices, giving him an easy job.
Perhaps it was worth rejoicing — it was the kind of life any servant wanted: carefree and stable. However, Iero was troubled by the warlord's words. Was he interested in getting together again? Would it affect his life?
Frank's job wasn't so difficult that he couldn't handle it: washing dishes, serving food to military officers, and waiting tables at banquets. He should have thanked his parents for the smarmy face, as it was to the taste of many high-ranking military men. Performing these duties was easy, but it was many times more unbearable when your safety depended on it. Serving Mr. Way coffee, for example, was an ordeal. He tried to keep the servants talking and in his office, but luckily for Iero, someone always interrupted their conversations to take the warlord to more important discussions. Not wanting to get under the iron fist, Frank hurried back to the kitchen under the dictator's sly gaze.
Frank was alarmed by this attention for several reasons, primarily his talkative nature, from which witticisms poured forth. As soon as Mr. Way spoke to him, Frank forgot all his caution and extreme measures — what magic! This communication was blinding; it itched under the skin. Mr. Way marveled at Frank as if he were rarer than a scarce coffee bean. Frank was alarmed by this attention for several reasons, primarily his talkative nature, from which witticisms poured forth. As soon as Mr. Way spoke to the boy, Frank forgot all his caution and extreme measures — what magic! This communication was blinding; it itched under the skin. Mr. Way marveled at Frank as if he were rarer than a scarce coffee bean. While washing floors, Iero realized that no one had ever answered the warlord. Everyone stood at attention in front of him, both afraid of and in awe of him. The guy's talkativeness was a rare quality for a dictator. He wasn't just called that behind his back, right? Though, to be honest, after Mr. Way's ridiculous impertinence and high-pitched laughter, Frank doubted that such a man could be a dictator.
The end-of-the-year reception broke up the routine of the meetings. Although it was almost the end of the year, Iero felt no joy. For ordinary rats like them, it meant more danger and triple the work. They also had to appear in the hall among well-dressed men and observe etiquette. The only requirement Frank had initially fulfilled was to look attractive. He did not know etiquette — of course he knew it, but only superficially — and there were no suitable clothes either; he had been given a uniform, but the fear of staining or tearing it haunted every step from the kitchen to the tables. Judging by his insolence in the presence of the dictator, polite was not a trait to be taken away from him.
Unlike the elites and the military, the end of the year did not bode well for the poor and servants — albeit of the elite class.
The noise, clamor, and music, as well as his trembling palms, were unsettling. Such celebrations were foreign to Frank; he had never experienced such luxury before coming to the main department. There was champagne, girls, and unhappy musicians in the corner of the hall, as well as the warlord towering over everything. Although everyone tried to maintain the party atmosphere — it was a celebration, after all — Frank felt out of place.
He was not involved in politics, but it was not difficult to comprehend all perspectives. It's not a holiday, but a screening, which makes it even scarier. Still, the guy kept nervously curving his lips into a restrained smile as he poured alcohol for the military. Some man on the side was whispering quietly with a girl, trying to defuse the situation. It was a pity — too much alcohol had clearly been consumed by him, and he was not at all interesting to her. The women in the military's arms tried to flirt with Iero, but the situation only caused nausea and disgust. Here, in a rich hall decorated with a crystal chandelier and an abundance of various viands, the men were trying to distract themselves from the cruel reality in which they most likely had to kill. But did anyone care about that right now? On the contrary, laughter echoed through the room, laced with melody, and Iero could literally feel the nervous musicians' fingers trembling; no one around them seemed to wonder why they were there.
Before he was in the department, Frank was a musician. Thankfully, that wasn't forbidden. In a town out west, he had a guitar and friends with whom he shared simple pleasures. They were honest with each other and would quietly sing their songs at servants' gatherings, where there were no masters and their damned orders. Frank dreamed of freedom and knew how unattainable it was at that time. You were either born into a wealthy family or worked hard from a young age; there was no middle ground. Some people served others—this was the reality and the eternal satisfaction that was killing Frank's soul with each passing year. His heart fluttered with excitement at the melodies, the strumming of strings, and the flowing songs they created. Music was a special language that connected him with his comrades through shared experiences.
Until one of them was hanged and the rest were sent to different corners of the country.
For some reason, Fortune loathed Frank for his free spirit and lost him to Lady Irony in a card game, sentencing him to work in the main department's kitchen. Shortly before his death, his father taught to play guitar. His mother tried to manage on her own until illness took her away, too. And here was Frank, haggard and resigned to his fate, serving overbearing men appetizers and another round of drinks, smiling crookedly at them while hating them with all his soul. Ironic. Frank tried to be inconspicuous; the event required him to wear the proverbial uniform, slick his hair back, and act like a socialite. Even if he were lucky enough to get out of the fields and into the safety of the department's kitchen, it would still be a lie. Iero is just a hostage to this fucking life.
The man in the red uniform watched from the balcony, uninterested in what was happening, sipping idly from his glass and looking boredly at the people below. Frank knew what kind of man was up there, how much power he held, and how much blood he had shed to get there. Mr. Way remained silent and no longer beckoned to Iero or distracted him from his work. However, his gaze still followed the figure downstairs serving drinks to the guests. The look burned a hole in Frank's back and sent shivers down his spine.
Champagne flowed, men flirted with the girls, and some danced. Meanwhile, Frank kept his lips pressed together in a tight smile, hoping to avoid detection. Instruments sang in the corner, and Iero tried to focus on the only pleasant thing right now: The music. He concentrated on the trill, closing his eyelids slightly. He didn't care about the fun or decorum of the people at the tables. He despised it all and didn't comprehend it.
One day, poor health saved him from service, and luck finally smiled on him. He was exiled to the farm fields and, after being reassigned, became an assistant cook. It was better to hold a meat knife than a gun. The recruits he cooked for looked pitiful. “Poor things,” Frank thought as he handed bowls to the soldiers. They could hardly hold guns and only managed to shoot cans on farms while drunk. It must be easy to send them to their deaths when you don't see them every day. What do they care if there's a celebration in their honor anyway?
Frank never held a gun in his hand because he didn't like the idea of having too much power. He believed that no one had the right to take responsibility for another's life. He preferred to keep this belief to himself, though. He had to keep silent about many things he hated.
A soldier nearby began reaching for someone to his left, causing him to be grabbed by the chest and shaken a few times. Frank looked away, carefully pretending he had nothing to do with what was happening until he was elbowed. The blow knocked all the air out of his lungs, and the stemware spilled right onto his white shirt, staining his uniform. Unexpected panic whipped up his anxiety, causing a confused look to bounce from person to person as a nagging pain spread beneath his ribs. A guy slightly older than Iero came running to his aid as the two officers who had jumped up to their table took the rambunctious drunk under their arms.
“Are you all right?” Someone asked as they picked him up to prevent the pain from spreading further.
“Yes,” he hissed hastily, realizing that he had not only ruined his uniform but also broken the stemware. He'd be flogged for that, but a bruise was nothing. The pain was already receding, and the realization of his situation was coming to the forefront.
“You'd better sit down,” the guy kept saying, helping him move behind the column and away from the conflict.
“I'm fucked up, who cares!” Iero exclaimed, trying to see the stains on the cloth. The servant held out the towel and gently placed a hand on his shoulder to get his attention.
“You were told that you are dismissed for the day. Don't worry about the uniform. Enjoy the celebration.”
“What?” Frank looked at the servant across the hall in incomprehension.
“It's from Mr. Way.”
And guy, left Frank alone, hurried to the kitchen. Probably instead of him. The drunk was led out of the hall, but no one looked at him. Who knew what they would do to him for ruining the party atmosphere? What else could be expected from people who kill on orders? Mercy? Stupidity. Everything around them was stupid and pointless. Only the seated Warlord Wei took a sip of wine and watched the scuffle with a sidelong glance.
His shoulders twitched as he faced the dictator's gaze from above. The dictator smiled softly at Frank, as if there were no tables or columns between them. It was as if they were playing their weird bitterness again and all the people around them didn't exist. The man smiled indulgently, raised his glass, and kept his eyes averted — then drank it all at once.
He didn't know what the warlord liked about him. Maybe it was just his pretty face and sharp tongue, but he shouldn't get his hopes up. Time would pass, he'd get tired of socializing, and Frank would probably be hanged for his insolence. Isn't that what happens to gentlemen who find peace in alcohol?
***
The bruises on his ribs wouldn't go away. His chest would occasionally whimper when he accidentally pressed the tray too close. After a hard day in the kitchen from morning to night — hands were in short supply due to frequent receptions — her legs ached worse than a bruise from a rambunctious guest. And what was his irritation when, almost just before lights out, someone dragged him from his bunk onto the warlord's carpet.
The truth was that no one had said the carpet would be in the dictator's chambers.
A man with a lit cigarette hanging from his lips was seated on the sofa. The room smelled of wine and tobacco. He wore a crumpled shirt and pants and had left his shoes near the pouffe by the entrance. The bed was unmade, and the room looked much dirtier and cozier than the office. An easel stood in the corner, though it was impossible to see what was on it. Was the dictator a fragile, creative person?
“Oh, I'm sorry I called you in so late,” the man wheezed, taking a gulp of alcohol straight from the bottle. He reeked of alcohol. His voice was slurred, and he flicked ash from his cigarette into the ashtray next to him on the upholstery. “You must have been getting ready for bed.”
Why is he here? The office made sense, but the private chambers didn't fit into Iero's world at all. Their conversations never went beyond small talk, and Frank had the feeling that he was standing across from the lord for a reason. He was irritated, and his irritation was mixed with fatigue and pain.
“I have to get up early to cook for you. So, yeah, you're not on time,” he said nervously.
A pair of eyes stared at Frank, devoid of their usual slyness. Drunkenness spoke without bounds of propriety or subordination. The man sat up, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
“Oh, I'm so sorry!” They both knew it was a lie. “But since you're here, let's chat. How was your day?”
“It was supposed to end beautifully.”
The warlord smiled wider than usual and spoke softly without his usual framework, purring as he did so. He spoke as if he and Frank were old friends and equals, not master and servant. Iero wore a frayed shirt and pajama pants, practically naked in front of the most powerful man in the country. Yet, the warlord smiled at him sincerely, without pretense. The wrinkles around his eyes warmed Iero's heart and almost soothed his anger.
“What about your day?” Frank asked only for the sake of propriety, sitting down in the chair with his back to the desk across from the couch.
Mr. Way unexpectedly burst with emotion, which continued to fascinate and warm Frank inside.
“Terrible!” The man snorted, taking a drag on his cigarette. Iero would have given anything for a puff of that smoke. Those cigarettes were probably a hundred times better than the ridiculous self-twists on the farm. “I'm sick of these meetings!”
“Then give them up,” Iero said calmly. The lively emotions of the familiar snake in the office made him feel more confident.
“I can't.”
The warlord tilted his head to the side and blew away the strands of hair climbing into his eyes. He sounded grief-stricken and exhausted, as if this were really above him. Frank was confused: how could it be, because Mr. Way was in charge? One word from him, and any man would be strung up despite his status, money, nothing. Having such power was unacceptable to Frank because one man could not decide the fate of hundreds of lives. Now, he was being told that, despite his power and strength, he could not solve his own problems.
The man licked his lips, put out his cigarette, and looked at Frank carefully. A grin escaped the warlord's lips.
“I can't discuss it with you, obviously, but I can't say no to them. My status doesn't allow it. You like to reproach me for that, don't you?”
“It's not a reproach,” he replied quietly, averting his gaze. The sneer was completely out of place. “I just... don't understand you.”
“You don't have to, Frankie.”
For a second, Iero's whole gut froze, his heart stopped beating, and his oxygen was cut off. The mere sound of his name sent fire up his cheeks and neck. It was spoken so intimately, so quietly and personally that it was simply unseemly. Clenching his trembling fingers, Frank licked his lips, struggling with the contradiction. Whereas before, it seemed as if he were simply being played with out of boredom, the man's words suddenly made him feel something completely inappropriate for their relationship. It wasn't fair; the mere utterance of his name embarrassed him and made him sweat. Mr. Way, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to the gaze, too preoccupied with his own thoughts. There was silence, punctuated by the splash of alcohol in the glass.
“Thank you for your kindness at the reception,” Frank murmured. He felt as if he were completely lost, as if he had had too much to drink. He felt this way about the person across the table. “I'm very grateful to you.”
“Come on,” the warlord shrugged thoughtfully without looking up. Iero felt uncomfortable without his gaze. “It's the least I could do for you.”
“But you weren't obligated to.”
“That was my own wish,” Mr. Way objected, finally glancing at Frank. The gesture gave Iero goosebumps, and his cheeks continued to burn with embarrassment. “You can't take that away from me, can you?”
This whole situation is a mess. Where has such mercy ever been seen before? Why was the warlord so kind to him? Why did he smile so sincerely? There was no espionage or poisoning; nothing that a mere kitchen servant could do for a man like Mr. Way. The fever was getting worse. It moved to his chest, and as soon as he turned his neck, the bruise reminded him of its presence, causing him to cringe in pain. Frank had never “take” from his master. Frank had never taken anything from his master. A few times he had argued back, but there was no way he would have taken anything.
Iero swallowed and quietly blurted out, already lost in all the speeches he'd made.
“I don't understand what you're trying to seek.”
It sounded too desperate and sincere for a man of such high rank. Frank had never known such an attitude or understood how an overbearing dictator could take an interest in and protect someone as weak as a man from the lower ranks. The bedside lamp cast a dim light, and Mr. Way stood up straight, outlined by the warm glow. His eyes were frightening yet mesmerizing, open and honest. But Mr. Way was no longer smiling.
“I'm not seeking anything. I'm just looking for someone to talk to, without all that,” he said, making an ambiguous motion with his palm. “Um, all that stuff. I want just an fair heart-to-heart talk.”
“You want to talk, but you can't discuss your day without bringing up your status. Is that fair?” The voice faded to a whisper. The smell of cigarettes and alcohol seemed to intoxicate the servant as well. There was so much distance between him and the man that the guy squirmed in his chair. “You think it's that simple, don't you? But we are different, Mr. Warlord. I serve you and will never be on your level. Your coffee and lunch are my responsibility. And dinner. I serve the people in the hall too, even if I get hit. I'll be flogged if I soil the shirt I was given, yet you pour liquor like a river. Do you really think that's fair?”
He burst forth as if the filter between his mind and his mouth had been erased, spilling all of his torment onto the man. Frank was sure the country's top man was responsible for his inequality. Who else could it be? Who had established the hierarchy over the years? Who sent yesterday's children to the battlefield to die for an idea? Who was responsible for his comrade being hanged? No amount of sympathy or emotion in support of the dictator could equal all the atrocities Iero had experienced in his life.
Principles and injustices had been built up over the years. Why did some people get everything while others got nothing? What made people tremble and pray that they wouldn't end up as cannon fodder? Where's the fucking justice?
“Why are you silent now, Mr. Warlord?” Frank snorted, realizing there was no turning back. “Are you thinking of cutting out my tongue?”
“No,” Mr. Way said dryly. “I've never thought about it. I like your honesty, and I wouldn't want you to lose it.”
His voice was like a creak or a scrape, and it cut the ear so used to purr and warmth. The difference between this and his usual tone was indescribable; it was as if they were two different people. The man took a deep breath, took a cigarette out of his porte-monnaie, lit it, and took a drag. He looked intently at Frank across from him. He had lost his temper, though he tried to look just as annoyed.
“Let's talk about it the way you want. But I'm afraid I can't talk about it. Not just because of status.” Frank frowned at the words and raised an eyebrow. “If I can't say it, you can. You're smart enough to draw conclusions. No one's going to punish you for that, of course.”
There was not a hint of anger on Iero's face this time. He realized now that the warlord valued sincerity. Well, he could give him it. Frank licked his lips nervously, and to his surprise, the warlord handed him a smoking cigarette. He didn't refuse; he simply followed the thin, pale fingers as they met his swarthy, calloused ones at the filter. The green eyes conveyed understanding.
“Let's play, Frank. I want to hear what you think of me. Consider it, take your time.”
“You first,” Iero wheezed, finally taking a drag on his cigarette.
The smoke filled his lungs, and his mind swam. It had been a long time since he had smoked, especially such strong cigarettes. The smoke clouded his vision, and he felt dizzy. The ash flew straight into the ashtray he held out. His thoughts were jumbled as he waited for Mr. Way's conclusions.
You said you came from the bottom. You know your worth and everything around you, yet you continue to underestimate your intellect. You're honest with me, but you don't know why. You've been through a lot, as evidenced by the many marks on your body. Your eyes never lie. You worked hard. But if you weren't taken into the army, it means you're not the healthiest organism. As a former smoker, I noticed your hands trembling when I put out the cigarette. Such a passionate mind cannot belong to a noncreative person, Frank.
The shoulders shook from the burst of laughter, and the corners of the mouth lifted into a smile. Almost everything hit the target. It would have been better to hide, but they had already let each other get closer than necessary. So, putting up a wall would have been strange. Silly. Just like Frank giggling at the man's acting. The lips pressed against the filter again.
“You got one thing wrong,” Frank said. He was pleasantly surprised by the warlord's words. There were no negative conclusions or anything that would reveal him as a drunken bastard whom he had to pour wine for. Even more surprisingly, they truly seemed like equals here and now. “I chose to keep the tattoos on my body. You gentlemen see them as a sign of belonging or a punishment. But I see beauty in it.”
Mr. Way's eyes lit up with curiosity as he set the bottle down on the nearby table. Where the ashtray had stood, Iero shook off the ash. Along with curiosity, something stirred in his lower abdomen, igniting a fire in his chest and on his cheeks.
“So the scorpion isn't the only one?”
During their first meeting, the man had run his thumb over the tattoo on Iero's neck, which he couldn't hide under his shirt collar. That memory evoked sweetness and a tickle on his skin. Back then, there was softness and interest in his gaze — something that concealed the true motives of their acquaintance. Now, he couldn't read anything in the dictator's dark eyes, and their gaze ignited a storm of emotions and inexplicable anticipation in him.
“Right. There's one on my stomach.”
“Will you show me?”
The cigarette had been smoked down to the filter and extinguished itself on the glass surface of the ashtray. Frank stood in front of the man with his strong legs—was it a busy day?—and took off his thick shirt, showing his torso. His skin prickled with goosebumps again and again. His body ached relentlessly for the porcelain skin in front of him, especially when pale fingers gently traced the outline of the bird on his stomach. His belly quivered under the touch; the hands holding the fabric dug into the collar of the removed shirt. The pads of his fingers burned him as they lingered teasingly on the crossed-out eyes of the sparrow. His breath was uneven; he inhaled only every other time. Mr. Way gazed at Frank's tattoos with admiration, as if he were a work of art—a painted horizon with sharp, voluminous strokes.
“Incredible,” he whispered near Frank's navel as he smoothed the wings of the birds. It was impossible to gather his thoughts. Under the foreign touches, Frank melted, losing his sanity. “It's beautiful.”
The gaze slid higher, to the black inscription beneath Frank's left nipple.
“Hope,” he said, stretching the word slightly into a sad smile. Mr. Way raised his dark eyes and looked Frank in the face. “Well, we all lack hope in these tough times.”
Frank's face stretched in surprise, bordering on shock. He thought he could be hanged for such sentiments, especially for openly expressing discontent with the state's politics. But when Mr. Way himself mentioned it, Frank's mind filled with thoughts again.
“And you're not mad?!” Frank blurted out, pressing his lips together.
“No. Should I be?”
“You should be.”
They stared at Iero with unreadable gazes. The previous warmth and intimacy had vanished without a trace. For Frank, it was impossible, as if by definition. He had once been punished for a tattoo, yet the warlord saw nothing objectionable here! His throat tightened, and he wanted to drink something to swallow the lump of questions that had risen.
“Sir,” Frank said, hesitating as he sat down on the chair next to him. His trembling fingers pulled his shirt back into place. Mr. Way understood perfectly what surprised the servant, but pretended not to. “Usually, this causes dissatisfaction among the people I serve. A person called a “dictator” would hardly approve of this.”
There was no answer. The man took a swig from the bottle, drinking straight from the neck, and then handed it to Frank. He tried to find answers to his questions but only encountered detachment and a dim gaze from green eyes. There was no cunning, nothing provocative or suspiciously inviting. Just the previous weariness when it came to politics or celebrations.
“Your turn,” the warlord rasped, biting his lower lip in a nervous gesture.
Frank sighed and looked intently at the face in front of him. It no longer seemed pompous or monstrous. Mr. Way's ringing laughter and little performances came to mind. The easel in the corner caught his eye just in time. Iero quickly glanced in that direction before returning his gaze to the man in front of him. His fingers, no longer hidden by leather gloves, turned out to be thin with only a hint of black dirt. His mind suggested an idea: the pencil lead. His thin lips always spread into smiles, but only Frank was not deceived by their intentions. His nose was neatly turned up, and a small red spot under his eye made his handsome profile more human.
“I don't understand your coffee, and it tastes gross. But the cigarettes are just right. I’ve never tried anything like them,” Iero began to ponder aloud. “You try to seem formidable, but you can’t deceive your insides,” he said that, and Mr. Way's fingers trembled. “You love art like no one else. Who keeps an easel in their private chambers? Someone who paints a lot and tries to distract themselves from misfortune through art. I understand this in my own way, but I understand,” Frank said, recalling his moments of surrendering to music to forget what was happening. “You are fragile and sensitive. You can’t stand being around people. You don’t like cruelty, which is why you drown yourself in alcohol. It’s hard for you, very hard. It seems you’ve lost someone, which is why you’re afraid to trust. You don't like what's happening around you. You are...”
Out of the blue, he had a sudden realization: Mr. Way had never been the cause of injustice. He was too lenient in his sentencing and too unsuitable for the atrocities going on around him. If he couldn't give it up and had to endure, overstepping himself with the help of bad habits, then someone else must have been directing everything from behind the scenes. And, according to the bitter smile, he got it right.
The porcelain skin came very close. Mr. Way put his fingers on Frank's lips, drowning out the last unspoken conclusion.
“Shh,” he whispered. “What a smart boy.”
Frank's eyes widened as he felt the heat spread across his face. He was so close, so desirable, yet so far away. Blood rushed to his cheeks, and the image of the commanding dictator melted into the warm contours of light. Silent eyes sparkled with tenderness, and Iero seemed to melt, breathing raggedly. The man's praise echoed with heaviness in Frank's chest and sweetness in his stomach. Just a few minutes ago, he had been stroked and admired for his body's patterns. Frank could have sworn his insides were ready to purr just to hear Mr. Way's praise again. The intoxicating truth was overwhelming.
“Go downstairs. You need to sleep,” the warlord rasped, pulling away to the Frank's great disappointment. He swallowed hard and sighed heavily. “Keep my secret, and I’ll keep yours.”
His legs carried him downstairs, where a pile of servants snorted from exhaustion. Despite the busy day, Frank found himself extremely satisfied with the fatigue of that night.