Chapter Text
Alberto wasn't tired, but he was sleepy, an important distinction most people didn't understand.
Tired was a strong, angry, annoyed feeling. Tired was a grumpy sort of emotion.
Sleepy, on the hand, was none of these things.
Sleepy was slow, sleepy was hazy. Sleepy was a warm fire, a collection of sweet yet fuzzy memories.
So, no, Alberto did not necessarily enjoy having kitchen dudy tonight (or any other night when he had the misfortune to be assigned it) but he wasn't entirely angry about it, either.
Afterall, in the entire palace, the kitchen was one of the places he felt most safe. The smells of soot and bread, of logs being burned and special sauces brewing was comforting. The glow from the many fireplaces and stoves was lovely. It was never cold here, unlike his sleeping chamber come winter. The brick walls wrapped around the room like a good hug.
He even got a window here! One he could stop and stare out of on nights like this, when he had these moments alone.
The view was beautiful, Alberto could see the bright colored buildings of the Paguro Kingdom; could see the inviting ocean from afar.
Although he couldn't see his family's cabin from here, he could imagine it more vividly when gazing at the nearby town.
He could see his Papà humming to old opera while making the meals he missed with all his heart. He could see Giulia struggling to brush her hair in the morning. Alberto could almost hear his cats purring.
Almost,
But not quite.
Night duty wasn't all relaxing though, Alberto still had a job to do.
If any of the royals awoke in the middle of the night with a hankering for tea or bread or scones or whatever really , he had to be ready. Their lady or lord in waiting would report the news right away (to one of the more respected servants, the ones who worked near the royals. Not those like Alberto, obviously.) and then, they would run and tell him what to make.
He couldn't fall asleep the whole night, and he had to have enough energy to make breakfast come dawn.
Maybe he could squeeze in a nap around noon?
Probably not.
But regardless, anyone could walk in at any time. He had to look like he was doing something.
So, there he was, scrubbing dishes with sponges with fancy scented soap. Not really expecting anyone to show up; in his experience, it's a rarity when someone runs in during night shift. The royals seem to love their sleep; well as long as all their many demands to be comfortable are met.
The Royal family wasn't bad! Not at all, and Alberto knew this. They were kind rulers, who for the most part, were relatively open minded. They kept the kingdom well fed and safe. They even seemed genuinely nice from a few stories Alberto had heard around the castle. But, like all monarchs, they did see themselves all above their citizens.
They were kings and queens, princes and princesses, noble men and women. Much more educated, polite, and wealthy than the rest of the population.
So, yes, Alberto could confidently say they were spoiled.
Alberto had seen things sent back to other workers because “Queen Daniella said the pillow case was much too rough.”
Or,
“King Lorenzo has requested the tea to have more peppermint than it does.”
Or,
“None of the family enjoyed tonight's dinner and have asked for something different.”
At the latter, all those in the kitchen would look at Alberto, pleadingly.
He was the best chef they had.
None of the meals he made were ever sent back in the four years he had worked for the Paguro’s.
He remembers the first time he was swept into the kitchen, after four months of washing windows and mopping floors.
He was fourteen when he was called to the Palace to work. A draft not in his favor.
“Can you cook?” a frantic looking woman asked Alberto. He looked up from where he was putting away his mop.
He blinked once, twice. “I...what?”
The woman seemed to be in her late twenties, with curly red hair that reminded him of his sister. It was tied back in a bun, he remembered. But besides that, she did not resemble Giuila at all.
Her eyes were a bright, almost startling blue. Her lips were thin and chapped, her nose tiny and delicate.
“ I asked if you can cook?? Half of our chefs got some sort of stomach bug so obviously they can't be in the kitchen! I mean, if we got the family sick with whatever they have we’d be in so much trouble! But we’re entirely short staffed in that department; and everyone here hasn't cooked in god knows how long and if they have it's probably just mediocre at best. So we need a good cook! And-”
She didn't seem like she was going to stop. Annoyed, Alberto had interrupted her tangent.
“Sì! I’m a good cook.” He said.
“Are you sure? Because-”
“Yes. I am.”
He had made a meal then, with little help from others. And when he had been told that
“Prince Paguro gives his compliments to the chef.”
He was there to stay. No more window washing.
Alberto looks out the window, longingly.
One thousand, four hundred and sixty.
He had been recruited as one of the few to work here exactly four years ago today.
Only one more year to go, and Alberto would be free to go home.
The age someone got recutted was not always fourteen; usually it was someone older. Fourteen was the youngest you could be drafted. But it was always one person per state every five years.
Always someone poor, if you were wealthy enough, you could pay to be excused from the draft.
Still, the odds of it being Alberto were extremely slim.
And yet, here he was.
He gets paid, of course. The money is sent back home monthly. A good amount of it, too. More than he’d make at the pescheria, that's for sure.
To an extent, he was happy about it when he found out.
College was always a problem for their family. Giulia wanted to go, Massimo wanted her to as well, and so did Alberto. But payment for the education? It was always something looming over their heads.
He was paid enough over the years to get taxes done without worry and for his sister to get the education she wanted and deserved.
That was the only reason many of the families whose children were taken away had not revolted, the pay was more than generous.
The work was long, sure. And no common man would ever be working close with anyone of importance, you had to be at least someone special for that right. Someone with a wealthy family, Alberto assumed.
That is not to say the Marcavoldo family was at all happy about the situation, though.
Massimo adopted Alberto at eleven, after finding the boy sitting at the local train station, playing an old guitar with an empty case in front of him.
A piece of cardboard was propped against it, with messy handwriting splayed on the front, it had read:
Hungry, anything helps.
In messy italian.
Alberto was never that hungry again afterwards.
Never had he slept on the streets once more, never did he wonder if he would freeze in the winter chill.
When the letter arrived in the mail, Gilula sobbed.
Massimo’s loving silence turned stiff and scared and sad.
Alberto’s breath left his lungs.
He knew things couldn't be good for that long. That's not how life worked, not for him.
Its as if the universe saw him, the orphan boy in a loving household with joy and fish and homegrown herbs hanging on the wall; with books about the universe, with a cat who looked perplexed whenever Albertos tan skin turned into purple scales; with a sister spunky and smart who loved her brother fiercely, and talked a mile a minute. With a father who taught him how to read and cook and loved to listen to his guitar and see his art, a father who wouldn’t leave.
The universe saw all of this and more, raised an eyebrow and asked: Well, how did you get here?
And plucked him away from his newfound family.
He wasn't allowed to visit, even though the Palace was within the same twenty or so miles from his house. No servant in his class could. Even if the Palace was in his home state.
He never felt so close yet so far away from anything before.
The workers were allowed to send letters to their families though...the problem was many of them couldn't read or write.
Alberto could do both alright, he even understood basic math.
He believed he was a lucky one.
He had his letters to get him by. A little piece of home sent to him monthly. He could hear how his loved ones were doing.
Others, like his friend Carlotta, who couldn't read nor write were sent baked goods or drawings or things of that like. And while it was greatly appreciated, she still had no clue what things were like back at her home in Genoa.
Alberto was drawn out of his thoughts by the sound of a door slamming, followed by heavy breathing.
He almost dropped his sponge in surprise.
Turning around, Alberto looked towards the door.
There was a boy in the kitchen, and definitely not one he knew.
He wasn't another chef, like Matteo or Genevive or Carlos.
Definitely not one of those who gave orders and supervised the staff.
The boy's eyes were shut, back pressed against the door.
It seemed like he had just sprinted all the way here,
Alberto raised an eyebrow,
It seemed like this boy was hiding from something.
He had chocolate brown curls, freckles across his nose, and pink rosy cheeks.
But none of this is what Alberto noticed first.
What Alberto did see was the clothes he was wearing.
Long, white, flowy silk pajamas.
He could've had a heart attack right then and there.
Alberto was not book smart, but he wasnt stupid at all.
The clothes the workers like Alberto got were not so fine. They were wool, thick and itchy in winter. Or thin fabric, rough and ill fitting come summer.
These clothes were fancy, tailored.
This boy, whoever he was, was important.
This boy was running from something, and Alberto did not want to be blamed for whatever was going on.
He dropped the pot he was scrubbing with a pang, thanking his stars that his hands dried moments before.
The boy's eyes flew open, and he let out a surprised yelp.
Alberto took a step away, back pressed firmly against the sink.
“Oh,” the boy's voice sounded smooth and safe, “Sorry. You scared me, I thought-”
“You shouldn't be in here.” Alberto said, brow furrowed. There was no anger or accusation in his tone, just confusion and worry.
The boy's eyebrows raised, it wasn't every day he was interrupted. “...No, I suppose not.”
There was a tense silence for a moment, maybe two.
Then, Alberto sighed. “I’m sorry, I don't want to get wrapped up in whatever…” he motioned towards the shorter boy “you're doing?”
The boy looked offended.
“And, um, with permission to speak freely, I think you should go? I can't afford to get in trouble.” Alberto did not know who this person was, but he was of higher status than him. He didn't know what he was supposed to say or not say, do or not do. But he did know that if someone were to join the pair, Alberto would be the one taking the blame for anything wrong.
“No.”
“What?”
“I said no. I’m not leaving.” He paused,
“Not yet anyways.” The boy said, matter of factly. He then walked away from the door, a curious look on his face.
Alberto did not know what to do in the slightest,
What the hell is going on?
The boy approached him, standing a few feet away, head tilted. “I don't think I’ve seen you around. Are you new here?”
Alberto couldn't help it, he let out a light laugh. “No, I’ve been here four years.”
The other boy looked down, a blush forming on his cheeks. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
Alberto shook his head, a small smile on his face. “It's no big deal, you don't seem like the type who works around here.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
Alberto raised his eyebrows, an amused look on his face.
“Your clothes.”
The other looked Alberto up and down, confused and maybe a tad self-conscious. “What about my clothes?”
Alberto shrugged casually, leaning on his elbows against the sink, “They're not the ones workers on my level get, you know? They're fancy, well made I mean. Not something we get around here.
“You're obviously someone important.”
The boy lifted up his head, silent for a while. Trying to look proud like he has been taught to do so.
Then his brow furrowed, eyes falling to the floor. He looked guilty, even sad.
“I just wanted to see the stars.” He whispered.
“Huh?”
The boy pursed his lips, shifting from his left to right foot. “There aren't any clouds out tonight, and I wanted to be alone for a bit to look at them.”
Alberto felt a pang of pity for him.
“Why didn't you just leave your room and go? Why run and hide?”
“Because, then I couldn't go alone.” He needed a supervisor to accompany him.
“Why not?”
Silence.
Oh, fuck.
“You’re…” Alberto started, eyes growing wide.
Luca nodded, “Prince Paguro.”