APH: Into the Face of the Beguiled (5/?)
Title: Into the Face of the Beguiled (Chapter Five)
Author: grosse_averse, tatterdemalion on ff.net
Characters: in this chapter - America, Canada, France, Prussia, Ukraine, Greece
Rating: probably PG-15 for this chapter, but overall this story will be rated M.
Summary: AU. Alfred and Matthew Jones, expert runaways and orphans, arrive in Amsterdam to make their fortune. There, they find themselves caught up in the world of cabaret, prostitution, money, and murder, and it may be too late to get out.
Note: You know that long gap in between the last chapter and this one? Yeah. I really have no excuse. And this chapter isn’t particularly exciting either, but it’s got some ~**~~*~FoReShAdOwInG~*~~**~ and junk.
Haha I feel like I’m fourteen, that’s lame.
Also, thank you x1 000 000 000 to o0litodreamer0o for beta-ing!
Backwards to Chapter Four!
“Come on, I’ll show you how to do it...”
“Hey hey kid...sorry I got a little rough on you...”
“So tight...”
Matthew shot up in bed, heart racing, head pounding, gripping the sheets in his fists so hard he could feel his nails against his palms. He could hear the sounds of Alfred at the door, arguing with someone.
“...and you can tell Bonnefoy, if he wants to see us, he can come up himself. Until then, he can go fuck himself.” There was the sharp sound of the door slamming. Matthew winced.
“Al,” he called, sitting up in the bed. In a few seconds his brother, hair still uncombed from sleep, appeared at the doorway, shivering a little. The window, though covered, was not too insulating on such a chilly morning.
“Morning!” Alfred greeted, voice and smile too cheerful to be sincere. “Sorry if I woke you up!”
“Alfie, you shouldn’t try to make him angry.” Matthew told him. Alfred huffed and gave a sheepish grin, pulling absently at the hem of his undershirt.
“I know.” he admitted. “But hey! Are you feeling all right?”
Matthew forced a smile. “Yeah.” he lied, and felt a pang of guilt at the relief that blossomed on Alfred’s face.
“Okay, good!” he ruffled his younger brother’s hair. “I think there’s some bread still in the cupboard and we might have some coffee...you want that?”
Matthew swallowed his nausea. “S-sure. Thanks,” he muttered as his brother bounded out of the room towards the kitchen.
Matthew lay back down, rolled over on his side with one arm curled under his head. He had a horrible headache, and the taste in the back of his mouth was making him feel sick. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel hands on the back of his head, urging him, holding him down... make it worth my while...c’mere, Alfred, no - !
When Francis let himself into the apartment, Matthew was retching in the bathroom; Alfred welcomed him by shifting his grip on the coffeepot like he was considering throwing it at the Frenchman’s head (which would’ve have been an unfortunate choice on the boy’s part, as Francis was quite fond of the dress he was wearing).
“Mes fils,” Francis said cheerfully once Matthew had emerged back into the bedroom, looking pale. “I hope you are both well this morning?”
The brothers stared at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Alfred said. Francis talked over him.
“Your client came to me specifically to say how pleased he was with the both of you.” the Frenchman informed them. “He said he enjoyed your act.”
“What act?” Matthew wanted to know. Francis smiled.
“Your virgin act, my dear.”
“That wasn’t an act!” Matthew exclaimed, horrified. How could anyone think he was acting after that? Was that what Mikkel was thinking when he was easing Matthew’s mouth down onto his cock? That he was just putting on an act for him, playing hard to get? Matthew felt his stomach twist again.
“I know.” Francis soothed. “Dear heart, don’t be upset...here.” despite Matthew’s protests he drew a matronly arm around the youth’s shoulders, pulling him to his feet. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am with you, my dear. Come with me to the kitchen; I will show you what I used to make for my throat in the mornings when I was...ah, less than experienced, shall we say?”
He helped Matthew up - the boy’s ankle was still sore after the jump from the window, but nothing seemed broken - and together they moved slowly into the kitchen.
Alfred followed them, eyes narrowed. “What are you giving him?” he asked. Francis turned from where he was perusing their cupboards.
“Not coffee.” the Frenchman shot back dryly. “Not for his throat or his stomach, not right now. Some warmed up milk with honey will do you well, my dear.” he added to Matthew, who was leaning against the counter, arms crossed defensively over his chest.
“‘M fine.” he insisted, even as Francis warmed the milk in a pan, drizzling in the honey with graceful precision. Matthew couldn’t help staring. “D-do you cook, Madam?” he asked. Francis looked up at him, raising his eyebrows.
“I can cook, a little,” Francis admitted, stirring the milk to stop it from skimming. “Do you have a mug, Mathieu?”
Matthew held one out to him, watched him pour the hot milk concoction. With a hesitant smile of thanks, Matthew raised it to his lips, watching Francis pile the dishes into the sink, lifting his skirt with one hand. It was oddly bizarre, watching the usually flamboyant Frenchman in such a calm, serene scenario. The liquid felt good against his throat, and it was delicious - Matthew would’ve finished it all at once if it wasn’t so hot.
“Now, we should discuss your punishment,” Francis began, leaning against the counter. Alfred instinctively moved closer to his brother, preparing for the worst.
“A few members of this theatre managed to convince me against being too hard on the two of you.” the Frenchman informed them. “But it is clear that leaving the two of you alone together was a bad idea.”
A glance in the direction of the covered window - Alfred was starting to get suspicious.
“Until we can get this fixed up,” Francis continued, “You will be rooming with someone else.”
Alfred relaxed, a little bit. “Who are we staying with?” he asked. Francis smiled.
“Gilbert has kindly offered to let Matthew stay with him, and - ”
“Wait, what?” Matthew demanded. “You’re splitting us up?”
Francis looked mildly puzzled, as if he had expected another reaction. “Mais oui,” he confirmed. “Just look what happens when you two stay together, unsupervised.”
The brothers exchanged a panicked look.
“When can we stay together again?” Matthew wanted to know. Francis’s smile was falsely sweet.
“Why, however long it takes to fix your window.” he replied, glancing at Alfred.
Alfred knew it wasn’t about the window. He knew that when Francis said that, he meant, ‘However long it takes for the two of you to stop wanting to escape’.
The sooner they gave up, the sooner their window would be “fixed”.
Matthew was looking worriedly over at his brother. “Alfred?” he asked quietly.
“I don’t want Matt staying with that guy.” Alfred told Francis, who merely shrugged.
“I might remind you that you don’t really have a say in that at all. Besides,” here the Frenchman turned to Matthew with a smile on his face, “I believe Gilbert has taken a liking to you, my dear.”
Alfred scowled. Matthew went pale.
“My brother and I are staying together!” Alfred told the Frenchman angrily. “Didn’t you say we were an act? How can we be an act if we’re going to be separated?”
“You’ll entertain together in the evenings.” Francis pointed out. “But in the daytime I think it would be best for the two of you to stay apart.”
Alfred met Matthew’s eyes, and the younger of the two shook his head. They both knew there was no sense arguing.
With both of them staring at him, Alfred caved.
“Who am I staying with, then?” he grumbled.
“Ah, mon petit, you are lucky! You get to stay with me!” Francis trilled, wrapping a tight arm around the elder brother’s shoulders. Matthew cringed sympathetically.
“No.” Alfred intoned murderously. “No way.”
Francis squeezed his shoulder. “Again,” he pointed out, “This is not a discussion. Get your things together and I will bring you downstairs.”
Matthew moved immediately into the bedroom, almost eager to leave the place that held such bad memories, but Francis held Alfred back.
“What, do you want a thank you?” the blond spat. Francis looked a little irritated.
“You are lucky that this is all I am punishing you with.” the Frenchman remarked. “If you care about your brother, then this will be the last time you attempt something like this.”
“The next time I “attempt something like this”,” Alfred mimicked childishly, “My brother and I will be far away from here, and we won’t be coming back.”
Francis’s thumb rubbed a painful circle into the muscles of Alfred’s shoulder, his cool smile never changing.
“That is why I like you so much my dear,” the older man’s voice was suggestive. “You are so fiery.”
“Al, come help me!” Matthew called from the other room, and Alfred was quick to detach himself from Francis and exit the kitchen. Francis leaned on the counter, one hand wrapped around the mug that held the half-drunk milk, and allowed himself a slow, private smile.
Too easy.
--
They left the apartment and followed Francis down what Alfred would later mockingly refer to as “the walk of shame”. As it was late morning, most of the other members of the brothels were up - apartment doors had been left wide open, their occupants visiting others or cleaning up after the previous night, or simply hanging around in the hallway talking, and most stopped their conversations to watch as Matthew and Alfred, each carrying their armfuls of clothes and other necessities, were led past them. Matthew kept his eyes fixed firmly ahead, a blush staining his face. Alfred had the audacity to wave at a few of them.
On the second floor, Francis stopped in front of one of the doors and rapped sharply on the wood. When there was no answer, Francis drew a key from where it was hidden in the folds of his skirts and fit it into the door.
Brothers in tow, the Frenchman flung the door open with a sharp, “Gilbert! Leves-toi! You have a guest!”
The apartment was dark, the curtains drawn - the covers on the bed stirred and Matthew hung back, nervous, as Francis strode forward and ripped the blanket from the bed.
Gilbert, splayed out across the mattress, lashed out, kicking at the Frenchman irritably.
“Christ, Bonnefoy!” Matthew heard him snarl. Francis dodged the limb effortlessly.
“Come now, my friend, you cannot be that tired!” Francis teased. “Your client did not stay that long!”
“Just because some fat guy’s premature doesn’t mean that I can’t be tired.” Gilbert grumbled, adding with a groan, “Gott, my head...”
“With how much alcohol that “fat guy” gave you, I am surprised that you were able to stick it in him in the first place.” Francis remarked crudely, grabbing Gilbert by the underpants and attempting to pull him out of bed. “But never mind that, I’ve brought you a guest.”
“What?” Gilbert looked up, and locked eyes with Matthew. A grin slid across his features and Matthew stiffened. Quickly the pale haired man sat up in bed, raking a hand through his hair. “Oh, right!” he crowed. “Gotcha. I remember.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Francis said, backing away from the bed and clapping a hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “Be a dear and light the lamps for him. He stumbles when he’s hung over.”
As if to prove his point, Gilbert cursed and disappeared over the side of the bed.
Alfred and Francis were gone without much of a goodbye (if by goodbye on Alfred’s part you could count the one where he promised to be back and “be a hero!”), and Matthew was left standing in the foyer of Gilbert’s apartment. Mechanically he walked over to light the lamps, as had been suggested, and then went around the side of the bed.
“Are you all right?” he asked Gilbert quietly, kneeling by his head - the older man was lying sprawled on the floor, unmoving.
“Fuck, kid, I’m trying to go back to sleep.” Gilbert’s voice was muffled against the carpet.
“Wouldn’t the bed be better for that?” Matthew wanted to know.
“Shut up.” Gilbert told him. “If you want to be helpful, start making some coffee. I’ll be up in a minute.”
Sighing, Matthew did as he was told, standing and picking up the blankets from the floor as he went. The area around the bed was a mess - between the empty alcohol bottles and glasses on the floor and the knocked over lamp, it looked like it had been a rough night. Matthew didn’t want to think about it.
When Matthew finally turned from the stove with a pot of hot coffee, he jumped - Gilbert was sitting casually, fully dressed, at the kitchen table, hair sticking up in stray tufts. When he stretched the bones in his shoulders crackled.
“When did you get there?” Matthew gasped, fetching Gilbert a mug. The pale-haired man shrugged, yawning.
“A couple of minutes ago. You were humming.” Gilbert pointed out with an annoying grin, chin propped up on his hand. Matthew flushed.
“What song was that?” Gilbert wanted to know. “That you were humming.”
Matthew placed the pot and mug down on the table. “Doesn’t matter.” he muttered - it was an old song from his childhood, that one of the Native women used to sing to him and his brother - an old song, about a bird who wanted to fly higher than all the other birds. Sometimes Matthew felt like that, felt like trying to stretch himself so high that he could get out of this, out of everything, the lying the stealing the pick-pocketing...everything.
Gilbert was already pouring some coffee, song forgotten. Matthew sighed and poked around in the cupboard to find something to eat. Nibbling on a biscuit, he closed the cupboard to see Gilbert staring at him again.
“What?” he asked crossly, before he could stop himself. A grin appeared on Gilbert’s face.
“So?” he prompted. “Aren’t you going to make me breakfast?”
“...Why would I do that?” Matthew wanted to know. Gilbert propped his feet up on the table.
“‘Cause you’re staying in my apartment!” he declared. “So you should be cooking me breakfast!”
“I don’t want to stay with you.” Matthew pointed out. “So I shouldn’t feel obligated to make you anything.”
“Hey, kid.” Gilbert rose to his feet, eyes flashing with irritation and a trace of amusement. “Bonnefoy put you here as punishment, got it? This isn’t gonna be some walk in the park for you. Now make us some fucking breakfast.”
For a moment they stared each other down - Matthew willed his knees not to shake. Finally, he ground his teeth.
“What do you want?” he asked slowly, and scowled at Gilbert’s triumphant grin.
“There’s a griddle in the cupboard,” Gilbert pointed out. “I want pancakes!”
Matthew’s mouth dropped open. “Pancakes?” he repeated. Gilbert nodded.
“Yeah - what, you don’t know how to make them?”
“Of course I know how to make them!” Matthew exclaimed, stung. “But do you have anything to put on them?”
“Huh?” Gilbert looked confused. “Uh...I have some jam.”
Matthew wrinkled his nose. “Jam? On pancakes?”
“What’s wrong with that?” the pale-haired man demanded. Matthew shook his head.
“Nothing. Never mind. Do you have any bowls?”
Gilbert rose from the table in order to help Matthew gather the ingredients - then he returned to his seat, propping his feet up on the table, watching Matthew intently as he worked. Matthew had found an apron somewhere in the mess of the small kitchen, and slipped it on over his clothes (it wouldn’t do, he reasoned, to get his clothes dirty and find himself deeper in debt with Madam). Gilbert snickered at this.
“I’ve got my very own housewife.” he teased. Matthew felt his face go red and ignored the older man in favour of keeping watch on the cooking pancakes.
“Can you get some plates, please?” Matthew finally asked when Gilbert made no move to help. With a sigh, Gilbert made a show of standing up and sauntering over to the cupboard. When he passed, he tugged on Matthew’s apron strings.
“Looks cute on you.” he appraised. “You should wear it often when you’re here, okay?”
Matthew swatted him away - laughing, Gilbert tucked the plates under his arm, twirled one of Matthew’s curls around his finger, and reached around the younger boy to rifle in a drawer for cutlery. Matthew’s eye twitched and he used his hip to push Gilbert away from him.
“Cut it out.” he muttered sourly, earning himself another laugh from the older man.
“Don’t be so uptight.” Gilbert told him simply. “Those pancakes done yet?”
Inside, Matthew was fuming. Egotistical, selfish jerk, he snapped maliciously in his head, loading the pancakes onto a plate and slamming them down on the table.
“Here,” he declared, adding sarcastically, “Want me to curtsy for you, too??”
To his horror, Gilbert actually seemed to be considering it - quickly Matthew sat down and reached for his plate before the other man could say anything.
Throughout breakfast, Matthew found himself glancing at Gilbert, and wondering. What was he doing here? Why was he performing these types of services? He didn’t seem “the type” at all (if there was a type for male European prostitutes at all, which Matthew doubted).
Gilbert, catching him looking, set down his fork. “Spit it out.” he prompted brusquely. “Or are you just admiring me?”
Matthew spluttered his indignation and Gilbert looked pleased. “Yeah, I know I’m too awesome to keep your eyes off me.” he bragged. “But just try.”
“You jerk, I wasn’t doing that!” Matthew exclaimed, before hesitating. “I - I was wondering why you became a, a...”
“Prostitute?” Gilbert finished brusquely. “That would be none of your damn business. Finish eating, we’ve got stuff to do.”
The change in the other man’s demeanour was startling - Matthew didn’t know what else to say, settling for lowering his head and working on the rest of his breakfast. A sour frown graced Gilbert’s face, as he too concentrated on eating.
After a few moments, Matthew spoke up. “I - I’m sorry.” he apologized. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Gilbert studied him for a second, almost impressed by the open honesty in the youth’s voice.
“Yeah, whatever.” he grunted. “Just be lucky I’m in a good mood right now, huh?”
Matthew scowled, picking up his plate and carrying it to the sink. Gilbert watched him go with a smile on his face.
---
Alfred wasn’t sure what he should be feeling as Francis led him up the stairs and into his office. There was a pause as the Frenchman took out his keys and fit it into the door that stood behind his office desk. Alfred flexed his fingers against the armful of clothing he was carrying. Wordlessly, Francis opened the door and ushered him inside.
Francis’s quarters were smaller than Alfred and Matthew’s apartment, but stylishly furnished. Francis pointed at the settee.
“Put your things there.” he ordered. “And try to fold them, my dear, it looks unsightly to be leaving them in a pile like that.”
Alfred ground his teeth as he attempted to messily fold his clothing. After watching him for a few seconds, Francis let his breath out noisily through his nose to express his displeasure and prodded the young man aside, holding out a shirt and snapping the wrinkles out.
“However did you and your brother manage on your own?” he clicked his tongue and shook his head.
“We did just fine by ourselves.” Alfred said icily. “There’re more important things then foldin’ clothes, you know.”
Francis, surprised, turned to look at him. “Why of course.” he agreed, “I never said there weren’t. Now, mon cher, have you eaten yet?”
Alfred reluctantly admitted he hadn’t - Francis looked pleased before a sly look appeared in his eye.
“I will make you something.” he informed him. “Then you can get to work.”
Alfred had a petulant frown on his face. “My brother and I already worked last night.” he protested. “Why do we have to work today, too?”
Francis studied him. “Hm, oh my, I see what you’re trying to do!” he exclaimed suddenly.
“Huh?” Alfred stared. Francis backed him up against the settee, putting a hand on the younger blond’s elbow.
“Do not be shy.” Francis cooed. “Since you insisted, we will stay here and...work out any tenseness in our relationship, mm? In the best way possible, of course.”
He revelled in the way Alfred’s face darkened. “What the hell?” Alfred spat, struggling against the Frenchman. “Let go of me!”
Francis’s hand was stroking lazy patterns up and down his arm and Alfred wrenched it from his grip, hitting the edge of the settee with a dull thud.
Francis, a lazy smirk on his face, asked, “Or would you rather go downstairs and work?”
Alfred jumped away from the older man. “I don’t want to be anywhere near you!”
“Oh, good, then you will work?” Francis asked innocently, taking great pleasure in Alfred’s facial expressions. Alfred didn’t even need to consider this - give in and work was a much better option than remaining in a room with this man.
“Yeah, yeah.” he grumbled, and brushed past Francis before he could see that triumphant smirk. If Matthew wasn’t injured, Alfred would have been planning an escape again, whether or not he and his brother were together. He made a promise to get them out, and he kept all promises he made to his brother.
Alfred remembered Valletta, and the smell of a dead man’s blood.
No matter how hard it was for him, he always kept his promises to his brother.
Alfred and Francis didn’t talk much, when Francis sat him down at the table with a hot breakfast. When Alfred chanced a glance at the Frenchman’s face, he wore a peculiar expression, almost like fond nostalgia. It was a side of the Frenchman that was awkward to see, and Alfred concentrated on his food instead.
When he looked up again, Francis had his chin propped up on his hand, amusement in his eyes.
“Do you like it?” he teased. Alfred looked down at his plate. It was empty.
“Uh, sure.” he said. “It was really good.”
“I imagine you do not often eat like this,” Francis mused, gathering Alfred’s plate and cutlery. “Living as you and your brother did before. It flatters me that you would so whole-heartedly enjoy yourself.”
Alfred shrugged, keeping his expression neutral. “Food is food.” he offered. “I don’t turn down food if I can help it.”
Francis’s smile was close-mouthed - a sign, Alfred recognized, of impatience. He wondered what the Frenchman was waiting for.
Francis instructed Alfred to get dressed while he cleaned up after breakfast. Alfred grabbed a clean pair of trousers and a shirt and went into Francis’s bedroom to get changed. Despite it being Francis’s private quarters, the bedroom looked like any other in the brothel - small, impersonal, no personal stylistic touches. There was, however, a photograph on the bedside table, in a simple metal frame. It was of a man in a dark suit, staring directly at the camera with a sort of disgruntled look on his face. Despite his formal dress his hair was unruly, and his thick eyebrows were drawn unflatteringly over his eyes. Alfred tilted his head, picking up the picture. He didn’t look familiar - was he a patron at the brothel? Did he work here? Or was he someone Francis knew before, when he was in France?
Musing, Alfred turned to realize Francis was standing in the doorway, watching him.
“If you do not hurry and get dressed,” Francis pointed out, his voice detached and airy, “I will end up having to give you a very distasteful job.”
Alfred hurriedly put down the photograph and struggled into his shirt, before pushing past Francis to find his shoes. The Frenchman stepped into the room, picked up the frame, and studied it for a moment.
Then he opened the drawer on his bedside table and placed the photograph face down in the drawer before closing it again.
--
By the time dinner rolled around, Alfred and Matthew were absolutely exhausted. Their paths had barely crossed all day - Matthew had been in charge of cleaning the costumes from the previous performance, while Alfred got stuck with base cleaning jobs. If he hadn’t been so tired he would’ve suspected Francis was doing it on purpose, the way the Frenchman was sending him around to all of these jobs. Currently Francis was being excitedly led around by Feliciano, who was showing him the new equipment they’d recently gotten for the theatre - new pulleys, someone installing better supports for the catwalk - it was really a wonder the old theatre hadn’t fallen down yet.
Alfred pushed himself to his feet (he’d been crouched under the seats for God knows how long, trying to scrape up something stuck to the floor), and surveyed the theatre. Matthew and Kateryna, arms full of costumes, were making their way across the stage - when Matthew caught his brother’s eye he smiled in lieu of a wave, and Alfred waved back. Seeing that Francis was distracted, Alfred left the row of seats and made his way up and behind the stage.
Matthew and Kateryna had disappeared somewhere into the back rooms - there was a whole mess of them behind the stage, it was almost like the catacombs of a tomb. Alfred didn’t like going back there, unless accompanied by a member of the troupe.
Still, he could hear his brother’s voice as he dropped something (“Oh shoot, Miss Kateryna, I’m really sorry - !” “That’s all right Matthew, they’re dry enough that they won’t dirty...”), and Alfred set off after the voice.
It took him two minutes to get lost. Somehow he’d found himself at the very back of the theatre, where the old equipment was kept, too broken to be salvaged but maybe valuable enough to be pawned off. Alfred wiped the dirt off an old cracked mirror and thought about retracing his steps.
“Who are you?”
Alfred jumped, slamming into a lamp without a shade. There was someone curled up neatly on top of a cupboard with a broken door, a rather good looking man with sleepy eyes, dark Mediterranean features and a thick head of wavy brown hair.
“Shit.” Alfred sneezed from the dust he’d kicked up. “You scared me!”
“Sorry.” the man hopped down, brushing off his trousers. “Nobody comes in here, usually. It’s a good place to take a nap.”
“Oh.” there was an awkward pause. “I’m Alfred.” he said finally.
“I know.” the man replied. “Everybody knows who you are. And your brother, too. I’m Heracles. I work here.”
“...here as in the theatre, or here as in....”
“I’m a prostitute.” was Heracles’ simple response. “If that was what you were going for?”
“Y-yeah,” Alfred admitted sheepishly. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too.” Heracles rose and stretched with a languid arch of his back. “Did you need something?”
“I was trying to find my brother,” Alfred explained. “But then I got lost.”
Heracles raised his eyebrows, amused. “It happens,” he assured him. “I’ll show you back to the theatre, if you like?”
“Thanks!” Alfred exclaimed, relieved. As Heracles led the way, he added, “What floor do you live on, Heracles?”
“First floor.” was the brunet’s answer. Looking back over his shoulder, he continued, “The Empire Room. I dress up in a toga a lot. There are some olive branches involved as well.”
“Oh.” Alfred frowned. “And...people like that?”
Heracles gave a lazy shrug. “I’m popular enough. Besides, people who like to fantasize are very easy to please.”
At Alfred’s confused look, the brunet shook his head. “Never mind.” he said with a casual wave of his hand. “You’ll find out, soon enough.”
Alfred met up with Matthew once Heracles had led him back to the stage - the dark haired man said goodbye, before making his way over to where Kateryna was hurriedly coiling rope around her arm into a loop.
Unfortunately Gilbert chose that time to come up behind Matthew and slap him across the shoulders.
“We gotta get back to the room before the customers arrive!” Gilbert said. “You’re making dinner, right?”
To Alfred’s surprise, his usually polite brother scowled at the older man. “I made breakfast.” Matthew pointed out.
“Yeah, so, logically,” Gilbert pointed out, “You should be the one making dinner as well. Since we have established that you can cook.”
He grinned at the look Matthew gave him. “Not just a handsome face.” he proclaimed proudly, then grabbed the blond’s elbow. “Chit chat later, I’m starving.”
“Wait - ” Matthew shot his brother a pleading look as he was dragged away. “Al, I’ll see you later!”
“Oh, yeah,” Gilbert added as he led the boy to the back apartments. “The boss says, if you and your brother get a customer tonight, to bring them back to your old room. I don’t want you hanging around tonight for my customers.”
“Customers?” Matthew repeated with a nervous laugh. “More than one?”
“Well, yeah. How else am I going to make money, squirt? I can’t make money off one person a night anymore, unless they pay big. And have you seen the fuckers that come around this place? They aren’t what I would call high rollers.”
Matthew flushed. “I really wouldn’t know.” he muttered, pushing his way into the apartment and through to the kitchen. Gilbert followed him at a casual amble.
“I had the feeling.” he laughed. “Has Madam put you on the training wheels program?” At Matthew’s confused frown, he elaborated with a casual tone, “Clothed or unclothed touching, fetish requests, oral and handjob. No penetration allowed. Right? Bonnefoy practically has that written out, if you want to see it.”
“Does everyone follow that, when they start?” Matthew wanted to know as he pulled a pot from the cupboard. Gilbert shrugged.
“It depends on their experience. Most of the whores here have previous experience. We have this one girl, from Belgium.” a slow smirk spread across Gilbert’s face at the recollection. “You’ll have to meet her kid, she is something else. Danced in Brussels for a while, met Francis on a train, agreed to be co-manager of this dump if she got cushy jobs. But most of the people here have done the same old routine.”
Gilbert stopped for a moment to think. “Oh! Right! The little ticket girl, Michelle. She had no experience when she came here. You should have seen her face when she got roped into this. Kind of like your reaction kid. Except with bigger eyes. And she didn’t try to run. Smart girl.”
“Does she have....customers?” Matthew didn’t like to think of the dark haired girl, who still had such girlish features, taking men to her room. Gilbert nodded.
“Not as frequently, though. She got the same song and dance as you two when she arrived - no penetration. Francis auctioned off her virginity in the end, though. It drew a lot of money into the brothel. I think that’s why he’s so excited to have you and your brother. Double the money, I would think.”
“A-auction?!” Matthew repeated, horrified. “I....what?”
Gilbert laughed. “Don’t look so shocked,” he chided. “You think Bonnefoy’s being nice to you by not letting customers fuck you? Look, the men who come here don’t want to be teased and don’t want to pay good money to see “almost” or “barely” - they get enough of that in real life. They come here to get what they pay for, and what they pay for is fucking whores. Sure, there are the occasional weirdos who are content to feel you up and get you to suck their cocks, but most of these guys can get that at home. What they’re looking for is sex, good sex, taboo sex, whatever. So don’t think this isn’t a business kid, because it is. Got that?”
Matthew managed to close his jaw. Of course he hadn’t forgotten where he was, or what this place was. It was just easy to lull himself into a false sense of security in the daytime, when there were no customers and this just looked like a theatre.
Gilbert was watching him impassively and Matthew averted his eyes.
“I’m going to get dinner started.” he muttered. Gilbert’s gaze followed him as he went to the kitchen sink.
“You do that.” Gilbert said, before leaving the kitchen.
Matthew had never missed his brother so terribly.
--
END CHAPTER FIVE
--
Note: This chapter was really long so I had to cut it. No sexing today, sorry!
Onwards to Chapter Six!
Author: grosse_averse, tatterdemalion on ff.net
Characters: in this chapter - America, Canada, France, Prussia, Ukraine, Greece
Rating: probably PG-15 for this chapter, but overall this story will be rated M.
Summary: AU. Alfred and Matthew Jones, expert runaways and orphans, arrive in Amsterdam to make their fortune. There, they find themselves caught up in the world of cabaret, prostitution, money, and murder, and it may be too late to get out.
Note: You know that long gap in between the last chapter and this one? Yeah. I really have no excuse. And this chapter isn’t particularly exciting either, but it’s got some ~**~~*~FoReShAdOwInG~*~~**~ and junk.
Haha I feel like I’m fourteen, that’s lame.
Also, thank you x1 000 000 000 to o0litodreamer0o for beta-ing!
Backwards to Chapter Four!
“Come on, I’ll show you how to do it...”
“Hey hey kid...sorry I got a little rough on you...”
“So tight...”
Matthew shot up in bed, heart racing, head pounding, gripping the sheets in his fists so hard he could feel his nails against his palms. He could hear the sounds of Alfred at the door, arguing with someone.
“...and you can tell Bonnefoy, if he wants to see us, he can come up himself. Until then, he can go fuck himself.” There was the sharp sound of the door slamming. Matthew winced.
“Al,” he called, sitting up in the bed. In a few seconds his brother, hair still uncombed from sleep, appeared at the doorway, shivering a little. The window, though covered, was not too insulating on such a chilly morning.
“Morning!” Alfred greeted, voice and smile too cheerful to be sincere. “Sorry if I woke you up!”
“Alfie, you shouldn’t try to make him angry.” Matthew told him. Alfred huffed and gave a sheepish grin, pulling absently at the hem of his undershirt.
“I know.” he admitted. “But hey! Are you feeling all right?”
Matthew forced a smile. “Yeah.” he lied, and felt a pang of guilt at the relief that blossomed on Alfred’s face.
“Okay, good!” he ruffled his younger brother’s hair. “I think there’s some bread still in the cupboard and we might have some coffee...you want that?”
Matthew swallowed his nausea. “S-sure. Thanks,” he muttered as his brother bounded out of the room towards the kitchen.
Matthew lay back down, rolled over on his side with one arm curled under his head. He had a horrible headache, and the taste in the back of his mouth was making him feel sick. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel hands on the back of his head, urging him, holding him down... make it worth my while...c’mere, Alfred, no - !
When Francis let himself into the apartment, Matthew was retching in the bathroom; Alfred welcomed him by shifting his grip on the coffeepot like he was considering throwing it at the Frenchman’s head (which would’ve have been an unfortunate choice on the boy’s part, as Francis was quite fond of the dress he was wearing).
“Mes fils,” Francis said cheerfully once Matthew had emerged back into the bedroom, looking pale. “I hope you are both well this morning?”
The brothers stared at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Alfred said. Francis talked over him.
“Your client came to me specifically to say how pleased he was with the both of you.” the Frenchman informed them. “He said he enjoyed your act.”
“What act?” Matthew wanted to know. Francis smiled.
“Your virgin act, my dear.”
“That wasn’t an act!” Matthew exclaimed, horrified. How could anyone think he was acting after that? Was that what Mikkel was thinking when he was easing Matthew’s mouth down onto his cock? That he was just putting on an act for him, playing hard to get? Matthew felt his stomach twist again.
“I know.” Francis soothed. “Dear heart, don’t be upset...here.” despite Matthew’s protests he drew a matronly arm around the youth’s shoulders, pulling him to his feet. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am with you, my dear. Come with me to the kitchen; I will show you what I used to make for my throat in the mornings when I was...ah, less than experienced, shall we say?”
He helped Matthew up - the boy’s ankle was still sore after the jump from the window, but nothing seemed broken - and together they moved slowly into the kitchen.
Alfred followed them, eyes narrowed. “What are you giving him?” he asked. Francis turned from where he was perusing their cupboards.
“Not coffee.” the Frenchman shot back dryly. “Not for his throat or his stomach, not right now. Some warmed up milk with honey will do you well, my dear.” he added to Matthew, who was leaning against the counter, arms crossed defensively over his chest.
“‘M fine.” he insisted, even as Francis warmed the milk in a pan, drizzling in the honey with graceful precision. Matthew couldn’t help staring. “D-do you cook, Madam?” he asked. Francis looked up at him, raising his eyebrows.
“I can cook, a little,” Francis admitted, stirring the milk to stop it from skimming. “Do you have a mug, Mathieu?”
Matthew held one out to him, watched him pour the hot milk concoction. With a hesitant smile of thanks, Matthew raised it to his lips, watching Francis pile the dishes into the sink, lifting his skirt with one hand. It was oddly bizarre, watching the usually flamboyant Frenchman in such a calm, serene scenario. The liquid felt good against his throat, and it was delicious - Matthew would’ve finished it all at once if it wasn’t so hot.
“Now, we should discuss your punishment,” Francis began, leaning against the counter. Alfred instinctively moved closer to his brother, preparing for the worst.
“A few members of this theatre managed to convince me against being too hard on the two of you.” the Frenchman informed them. “But it is clear that leaving the two of you alone together was a bad idea.”
A glance in the direction of the covered window - Alfred was starting to get suspicious.
“Until we can get this fixed up,” Francis continued, “You will be rooming with someone else.”
Alfred relaxed, a little bit. “Who are we staying with?” he asked. Francis smiled.
“Gilbert has kindly offered to let Matthew stay with him, and - ”
“Wait, what?” Matthew demanded. “You’re splitting us up?”
Francis looked mildly puzzled, as if he had expected another reaction. “Mais oui,” he confirmed. “Just look what happens when you two stay together, unsupervised.”
The brothers exchanged a panicked look.
“When can we stay together again?” Matthew wanted to know. Francis’s smile was falsely sweet.
“Why, however long it takes to fix your window.” he replied, glancing at Alfred.
Alfred knew it wasn’t about the window. He knew that when Francis said that, he meant, ‘However long it takes for the two of you to stop wanting to escape’.
The sooner they gave up, the sooner their window would be “fixed”.
Matthew was looking worriedly over at his brother. “Alfred?” he asked quietly.
“I don’t want Matt staying with that guy.” Alfred told Francis, who merely shrugged.
“I might remind you that you don’t really have a say in that at all. Besides,” here the Frenchman turned to Matthew with a smile on his face, “I believe Gilbert has taken a liking to you, my dear.”
Alfred scowled. Matthew went pale.
“My brother and I are staying together!” Alfred told the Frenchman angrily. “Didn’t you say we were an act? How can we be an act if we’re going to be separated?”
“You’ll entertain together in the evenings.” Francis pointed out. “But in the daytime I think it would be best for the two of you to stay apart.”
Alfred met Matthew’s eyes, and the younger of the two shook his head. They both knew there was no sense arguing.
With both of them staring at him, Alfred caved.
“Who am I staying with, then?” he grumbled.
“Ah, mon petit, you are lucky! You get to stay with me!” Francis trilled, wrapping a tight arm around the elder brother’s shoulders. Matthew cringed sympathetically.
“No.” Alfred intoned murderously. “No way.”
Francis squeezed his shoulder. “Again,” he pointed out, “This is not a discussion. Get your things together and I will bring you downstairs.”
Matthew moved immediately into the bedroom, almost eager to leave the place that held such bad memories, but Francis held Alfred back.
“What, do you want a thank you?” the blond spat. Francis looked a little irritated.
“You are lucky that this is all I am punishing you with.” the Frenchman remarked. “If you care about your brother, then this will be the last time you attempt something like this.”
“The next time I “attempt something like this”,” Alfred mimicked childishly, “My brother and I will be far away from here, and we won’t be coming back.”
Francis’s thumb rubbed a painful circle into the muscles of Alfred’s shoulder, his cool smile never changing.
“That is why I like you so much my dear,” the older man’s voice was suggestive. “You are so fiery.”
“Al, come help me!” Matthew called from the other room, and Alfred was quick to detach himself from Francis and exit the kitchen. Francis leaned on the counter, one hand wrapped around the mug that held the half-drunk milk, and allowed himself a slow, private smile.
Too easy.
--
They left the apartment and followed Francis down what Alfred would later mockingly refer to as “the walk of shame”. As it was late morning, most of the other members of the brothels were up - apartment doors had been left wide open, their occupants visiting others or cleaning up after the previous night, or simply hanging around in the hallway talking, and most stopped their conversations to watch as Matthew and Alfred, each carrying their armfuls of clothes and other necessities, were led past them. Matthew kept his eyes fixed firmly ahead, a blush staining his face. Alfred had the audacity to wave at a few of them.
On the second floor, Francis stopped in front of one of the doors and rapped sharply on the wood. When there was no answer, Francis drew a key from where it was hidden in the folds of his skirts and fit it into the door.
Brothers in tow, the Frenchman flung the door open with a sharp, “Gilbert! Leves-toi! You have a guest!”
The apartment was dark, the curtains drawn - the covers on the bed stirred and Matthew hung back, nervous, as Francis strode forward and ripped the blanket from the bed.
Gilbert, splayed out across the mattress, lashed out, kicking at the Frenchman irritably.
“Christ, Bonnefoy!” Matthew heard him snarl. Francis dodged the limb effortlessly.
“Come now, my friend, you cannot be that tired!” Francis teased. “Your client did not stay that long!”
“Just because some fat guy’s premature doesn’t mean that I can’t be tired.” Gilbert grumbled, adding with a groan, “Gott, my head...”
“With how much alcohol that “fat guy” gave you, I am surprised that you were able to stick it in him in the first place.” Francis remarked crudely, grabbing Gilbert by the underpants and attempting to pull him out of bed. “But never mind that, I’ve brought you a guest.”
“What?” Gilbert looked up, and locked eyes with Matthew. A grin slid across his features and Matthew stiffened. Quickly the pale haired man sat up in bed, raking a hand through his hair. “Oh, right!” he crowed. “Gotcha. I remember.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Francis said, backing away from the bed and clapping a hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “Be a dear and light the lamps for him. He stumbles when he’s hung over.”
As if to prove his point, Gilbert cursed and disappeared over the side of the bed.
Alfred and Francis were gone without much of a goodbye (if by goodbye on Alfred’s part you could count the one where he promised to be back and “be a hero!”), and Matthew was left standing in the foyer of Gilbert’s apartment. Mechanically he walked over to light the lamps, as had been suggested, and then went around the side of the bed.
“Are you all right?” he asked Gilbert quietly, kneeling by his head - the older man was lying sprawled on the floor, unmoving.
“Fuck, kid, I’m trying to go back to sleep.” Gilbert’s voice was muffled against the carpet.
“Wouldn’t the bed be better for that?” Matthew wanted to know.
“Shut up.” Gilbert told him. “If you want to be helpful, start making some coffee. I’ll be up in a minute.”
Sighing, Matthew did as he was told, standing and picking up the blankets from the floor as he went. The area around the bed was a mess - between the empty alcohol bottles and glasses on the floor and the knocked over lamp, it looked like it had been a rough night. Matthew didn’t want to think about it.
When Matthew finally turned from the stove with a pot of hot coffee, he jumped - Gilbert was sitting casually, fully dressed, at the kitchen table, hair sticking up in stray tufts. When he stretched the bones in his shoulders crackled.
“When did you get there?” Matthew gasped, fetching Gilbert a mug. The pale-haired man shrugged, yawning.
“A couple of minutes ago. You were humming.” Gilbert pointed out with an annoying grin, chin propped up on his hand. Matthew flushed.
“What song was that?” Gilbert wanted to know. “That you were humming.”
Matthew placed the pot and mug down on the table. “Doesn’t matter.” he muttered - it was an old song from his childhood, that one of the Native women used to sing to him and his brother - an old song, about a bird who wanted to fly higher than all the other birds. Sometimes Matthew felt like that, felt like trying to stretch himself so high that he could get out of this, out of everything, the lying the stealing the pick-pocketing...everything.
Gilbert was already pouring some coffee, song forgotten. Matthew sighed and poked around in the cupboard to find something to eat. Nibbling on a biscuit, he closed the cupboard to see Gilbert staring at him again.
“What?” he asked crossly, before he could stop himself. A grin appeared on Gilbert’s face.
“So?” he prompted. “Aren’t you going to make me breakfast?”
“...Why would I do that?” Matthew wanted to know. Gilbert propped his feet up on the table.
“‘Cause you’re staying in my apartment!” he declared. “So you should be cooking me breakfast!”
“I don’t want to stay with you.” Matthew pointed out. “So I shouldn’t feel obligated to make you anything.”
“Hey, kid.” Gilbert rose to his feet, eyes flashing with irritation and a trace of amusement. “Bonnefoy put you here as punishment, got it? This isn’t gonna be some walk in the park for you. Now make us some fucking breakfast.”
For a moment they stared each other down - Matthew willed his knees not to shake. Finally, he ground his teeth.
“What do you want?” he asked slowly, and scowled at Gilbert’s triumphant grin.
“There’s a griddle in the cupboard,” Gilbert pointed out. “I want pancakes!”
Matthew’s mouth dropped open. “Pancakes?” he repeated. Gilbert nodded.
“Yeah - what, you don’t know how to make them?”
“Of course I know how to make them!” Matthew exclaimed, stung. “But do you have anything to put on them?”
“Huh?” Gilbert looked confused. “Uh...I have some jam.”
Matthew wrinkled his nose. “Jam? On pancakes?”
“What’s wrong with that?” the pale-haired man demanded. Matthew shook his head.
“Nothing. Never mind. Do you have any bowls?”
Gilbert rose from the table in order to help Matthew gather the ingredients - then he returned to his seat, propping his feet up on the table, watching Matthew intently as he worked. Matthew had found an apron somewhere in the mess of the small kitchen, and slipped it on over his clothes (it wouldn’t do, he reasoned, to get his clothes dirty and find himself deeper in debt with Madam). Gilbert snickered at this.
“I’ve got my very own housewife.” he teased. Matthew felt his face go red and ignored the older man in favour of keeping watch on the cooking pancakes.
“Can you get some plates, please?” Matthew finally asked when Gilbert made no move to help. With a sigh, Gilbert made a show of standing up and sauntering over to the cupboard. When he passed, he tugged on Matthew’s apron strings.
“Looks cute on you.” he appraised. “You should wear it often when you’re here, okay?”
Matthew swatted him away - laughing, Gilbert tucked the plates under his arm, twirled one of Matthew’s curls around his finger, and reached around the younger boy to rifle in a drawer for cutlery. Matthew’s eye twitched and he used his hip to push Gilbert away from him.
“Cut it out.” he muttered sourly, earning himself another laugh from the older man.
“Don’t be so uptight.” Gilbert told him simply. “Those pancakes done yet?”
Inside, Matthew was fuming. Egotistical, selfish jerk, he snapped maliciously in his head, loading the pancakes onto a plate and slamming them down on the table.
“Here,” he declared, adding sarcastically, “Want me to curtsy for you, too??”
To his horror, Gilbert actually seemed to be considering it - quickly Matthew sat down and reached for his plate before the other man could say anything.
Throughout breakfast, Matthew found himself glancing at Gilbert, and wondering. What was he doing here? Why was he performing these types of services? He didn’t seem “the type” at all (if there was a type for male European prostitutes at all, which Matthew doubted).
Gilbert, catching him looking, set down his fork. “Spit it out.” he prompted brusquely. “Or are you just admiring me?”
Matthew spluttered his indignation and Gilbert looked pleased. “Yeah, I know I’m too awesome to keep your eyes off me.” he bragged. “But just try.”
“You jerk, I wasn’t doing that!” Matthew exclaimed, before hesitating. “I - I was wondering why you became a, a...”
“Prostitute?” Gilbert finished brusquely. “That would be none of your damn business. Finish eating, we’ve got stuff to do.”
The change in the other man’s demeanour was startling - Matthew didn’t know what else to say, settling for lowering his head and working on the rest of his breakfast. A sour frown graced Gilbert’s face, as he too concentrated on eating.
After a few moments, Matthew spoke up. “I - I’m sorry.” he apologized. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Gilbert studied him for a second, almost impressed by the open honesty in the youth’s voice.
“Yeah, whatever.” he grunted. “Just be lucky I’m in a good mood right now, huh?”
Matthew scowled, picking up his plate and carrying it to the sink. Gilbert watched him go with a smile on his face.
---
Alfred wasn’t sure what he should be feeling as Francis led him up the stairs and into his office. There was a pause as the Frenchman took out his keys and fit it into the door that stood behind his office desk. Alfred flexed his fingers against the armful of clothing he was carrying. Wordlessly, Francis opened the door and ushered him inside.
Francis’s quarters were smaller than Alfred and Matthew’s apartment, but stylishly furnished. Francis pointed at the settee.
“Put your things there.” he ordered. “And try to fold them, my dear, it looks unsightly to be leaving them in a pile like that.”
Alfred ground his teeth as he attempted to messily fold his clothing. After watching him for a few seconds, Francis let his breath out noisily through his nose to express his displeasure and prodded the young man aside, holding out a shirt and snapping the wrinkles out.
“However did you and your brother manage on your own?” he clicked his tongue and shook his head.
“We did just fine by ourselves.” Alfred said icily. “There’re more important things then foldin’ clothes, you know.”
Francis, surprised, turned to look at him. “Why of course.” he agreed, “I never said there weren’t. Now, mon cher, have you eaten yet?”
Alfred reluctantly admitted he hadn’t - Francis looked pleased before a sly look appeared in his eye.
“I will make you something.” he informed him. “Then you can get to work.”
Alfred had a petulant frown on his face. “My brother and I already worked last night.” he protested. “Why do we have to work today, too?”
Francis studied him. “Hm, oh my, I see what you’re trying to do!” he exclaimed suddenly.
“Huh?” Alfred stared. Francis backed him up against the settee, putting a hand on the younger blond’s elbow.
“Do not be shy.” Francis cooed. “Since you insisted, we will stay here and...work out any tenseness in our relationship, mm? In the best way possible, of course.”
He revelled in the way Alfred’s face darkened. “What the hell?” Alfred spat, struggling against the Frenchman. “Let go of me!”
Francis’s hand was stroking lazy patterns up and down his arm and Alfred wrenched it from his grip, hitting the edge of the settee with a dull thud.
Francis, a lazy smirk on his face, asked, “Or would you rather go downstairs and work?”
Alfred jumped away from the older man. “I don’t want to be anywhere near you!”
“Oh, good, then you will work?” Francis asked innocently, taking great pleasure in Alfred’s facial expressions. Alfred didn’t even need to consider this - give in and work was a much better option than remaining in a room with this man.
“Yeah, yeah.” he grumbled, and brushed past Francis before he could see that triumphant smirk. If Matthew wasn’t injured, Alfred would have been planning an escape again, whether or not he and his brother were together. He made a promise to get them out, and he kept all promises he made to his brother.
Alfred remembered Valletta, and the smell of a dead man’s blood.
No matter how hard it was for him, he always kept his promises to his brother.
Alfred and Francis didn’t talk much, when Francis sat him down at the table with a hot breakfast. When Alfred chanced a glance at the Frenchman’s face, he wore a peculiar expression, almost like fond nostalgia. It was a side of the Frenchman that was awkward to see, and Alfred concentrated on his food instead.
When he looked up again, Francis had his chin propped up on his hand, amusement in his eyes.
“Do you like it?” he teased. Alfred looked down at his plate. It was empty.
“Uh, sure.” he said. “It was really good.”
“I imagine you do not often eat like this,” Francis mused, gathering Alfred’s plate and cutlery. “Living as you and your brother did before. It flatters me that you would so whole-heartedly enjoy yourself.”
Alfred shrugged, keeping his expression neutral. “Food is food.” he offered. “I don’t turn down food if I can help it.”
Francis’s smile was close-mouthed - a sign, Alfred recognized, of impatience. He wondered what the Frenchman was waiting for.
Francis instructed Alfred to get dressed while he cleaned up after breakfast. Alfred grabbed a clean pair of trousers and a shirt and went into Francis’s bedroom to get changed. Despite it being Francis’s private quarters, the bedroom looked like any other in the brothel - small, impersonal, no personal stylistic touches. There was, however, a photograph on the bedside table, in a simple metal frame. It was of a man in a dark suit, staring directly at the camera with a sort of disgruntled look on his face. Despite his formal dress his hair was unruly, and his thick eyebrows were drawn unflatteringly over his eyes. Alfred tilted his head, picking up the picture. He didn’t look familiar - was he a patron at the brothel? Did he work here? Or was he someone Francis knew before, when he was in France?
Musing, Alfred turned to realize Francis was standing in the doorway, watching him.
“If you do not hurry and get dressed,” Francis pointed out, his voice detached and airy, “I will end up having to give you a very distasteful job.”
Alfred hurriedly put down the photograph and struggled into his shirt, before pushing past Francis to find his shoes. The Frenchman stepped into the room, picked up the frame, and studied it for a moment.
Then he opened the drawer on his bedside table and placed the photograph face down in the drawer before closing it again.
--
By the time dinner rolled around, Alfred and Matthew were absolutely exhausted. Their paths had barely crossed all day - Matthew had been in charge of cleaning the costumes from the previous performance, while Alfred got stuck with base cleaning jobs. If he hadn’t been so tired he would’ve suspected Francis was doing it on purpose, the way the Frenchman was sending him around to all of these jobs. Currently Francis was being excitedly led around by Feliciano, who was showing him the new equipment they’d recently gotten for the theatre - new pulleys, someone installing better supports for the catwalk - it was really a wonder the old theatre hadn’t fallen down yet.
Alfred pushed himself to his feet (he’d been crouched under the seats for God knows how long, trying to scrape up something stuck to the floor), and surveyed the theatre. Matthew and Kateryna, arms full of costumes, were making their way across the stage - when Matthew caught his brother’s eye he smiled in lieu of a wave, and Alfred waved back. Seeing that Francis was distracted, Alfred left the row of seats and made his way up and behind the stage.
Matthew and Kateryna had disappeared somewhere into the back rooms - there was a whole mess of them behind the stage, it was almost like the catacombs of a tomb. Alfred didn’t like going back there, unless accompanied by a member of the troupe.
Still, he could hear his brother’s voice as he dropped something (“Oh shoot, Miss Kateryna, I’m really sorry - !” “That’s all right Matthew, they’re dry enough that they won’t dirty...”), and Alfred set off after the voice.
It took him two minutes to get lost. Somehow he’d found himself at the very back of the theatre, where the old equipment was kept, too broken to be salvaged but maybe valuable enough to be pawned off. Alfred wiped the dirt off an old cracked mirror and thought about retracing his steps.
“Who are you?”
Alfred jumped, slamming into a lamp without a shade. There was someone curled up neatly on top of a cupboard with a broken door, a rather good looking man with sleepy eyes, dark Mediterranean features and a thick head of wavy brown hair.
“Shit.” Alfred sneezed from the dust he’d kicked up. “You scared me!”
“Sorry.” the man hopped down, brushing off his trousers. “Nobody comes in here, usually. It’s a good place to take a nap.”
“Oh.” there was an awkward pause. “I’m Alfred.” he said finally.
“I know.” the man replied. “Everybody knows who you are. And your brother, too. I’m Heracles. I work here.”
“...here as in the theatre, or here as in....”
“I’m a prostitute.” was Heracles’ simple response. “If that was what you were going for?”
“Y-yeah,” Alfred admitted sheepishly. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too.” Heracles rose and stretched with a languid arch of his back. “Did you need something?”
“I was trying to find my brother,” Alfred explained. “But then I got lost.”
Heracles raised his eyebrows, amused. “It happens,” he assured him. “I’ll show you back to the theatre, if you like?”
“Thanks!” Alfred exclaimed, relieved. As Heracles led the way, he added, “What floor do you live on, Heracles?”
“First floor.” was the brunet’s answer. Looking back over his shoulder, he continued, “The Empire Room. I dress up in a toga a lot. There are some olive branches involved as well.”
“Oh.” Alfred frowned. “And...people like that?”
Heracles gave a lazy shrug. “I’m popular enough. Besides, people who like to fantasize are very easy to please.”
At Alfred’s confused look, the brunet shook his head. “Never mind.” he said with a casual wave of his hand. “You’ll find out, soon enough.”
Alfred met up with Matthew once Heracles had led him back to the stage - the dark haired man said goodbye, before making his way over to where Kateryna was hurriedly coiling rope around her arm into a loop.
Unfortunately Gilbert chose that time to come up behind Matthew and slap him across the shoulders.
“We gotta get back to the room before the customers arrive!” Gilbert said. “You’re making dinner, right?”
To Alfred’s surprise, his usually polite brother scowled at the older man. “I made breakfast.” Matthew pointed out.
“Yeah, so, logically,” Gilbert pointed out, “You should be the one making dinner as well. Since we have established that you can cook.”
He grinned at the look Matthew gave him. “Not just a handsome face.” he proclaimed proudly, then grabbed the blond’s elbow. “Chit chat later, I’m starving.”
“Wait - ” Matthew shot his brother a pleading look as he was dragged away. “Al, I’ll see you later!”
“Oh, yeah,” Gilbert added as he led the boy to the back apartments. “The boss says, if you and your brother get a customer tonight, to bring them back to your old room. I don’t want you hanging around tonight for my customers.”
“Customers?” Matthew repeated with a nervous laugh. “More than one?”
“Well, yeah. How else am I going to make money, squirt? I can’t make money off one person a night anymore, unless they pay big. And have you seen the fuckers that come around this place? They aren’t what I would call high rollers.”
Matthew flushed. “I really wouldn’t know.” he muttered, pushing his way into the apartment and through to the kitchen. Gilbert followed him at a casual amble.
“I had the feeling.” he laughed. “Has Madam put you on the training wheels program?” At Matthew’s confused frown, he elaborated with a casual tone, “Clothed or unclothed touching, fetish requests, oral and handjob. No penetration allowed. Right? Bonnefoy practically has that written out, if you want to see it.”
“Does everyone follow that, when they start?” Matthew wanted to know as he pulled a pot from the cupboard. Gilbert shrugged.
“It depends on their experience. Most of the whores here have previous experience. We have this one girl, from Belgium.” a slow smirk spread across Gilbert’s face at the recollection. “You’ll have to meet her kid, she is something else. Danced in Brussels for a while, met Francis on a train, agreed to be co-manager of this dump if she got cushy jobs. But most of the people here have done the same old routine.”
Gilbert stopped for a moment to think. “Oh! Right! The little ticket girl, Michelle. She had no experience when she came here. You should have seen her face when she got roped into this. Kind of like your reaction kid. Except with bigger eyes. And she didn’t try to run. Smart girl.”
“Does she have....customers?” Matthew didn’t like to think of the dark haired girl, who still had such girlish features, taking men to her room. Gilbert nodded.
“Not as frequently, though. She got the same song and dance as you two when she arrived - no penetration. Francis auctioned off her virginity in the end, though. It drew a lot of money into the brothel. I think that’s why he’s so excited to have you and your brother. Double the money, I would think.”
“A-auction?!” Matthew repeated, horrified. “I....what?”
Gilbert laughed. “Don’t look so shocked,” he chided. “You think Bonnefoy’s being nice to you by not letting customers fuck you? Look, the men who come here don’t want to be teased and don’t want to pay good money to see “almost” or “barely” - they get enough of that in real life. They come here to get what they pay for, and what they pay for is fucking whores. Sure, there are the occasional weirdos who are content to feel you up and get you to suck their cocks, but most of these guys can get that at home. What they’re looking for is sex, good sex, taboo sex, whatever. So don’t think this isn’t a business kid, because it is. Got that?”
Matthew managed to close his jaw. Of course he hadn’t forgotten where he was, or what this place was. It was just easy to lull himself into a false sense of security in the daytime, when there were no customers and this just looked like a theatre.
Gilbert was watching him impassively and Matthew averted his eyes.
“I’m going to get dinner started.” he muttered. Gilbert’s gaze followed him as he went to the kitchen sink.
“You do that.” Gilbert said, before leaving the kitchen.
Matthew had never missed his brother so terribly.
--
END CHAPTER FIVE
--
Note: This chapter was really long so I had to cut it. No sexing today, sorry!
Onwards to Chapter Six!