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The boy watched through the gap in the door.
He’d attended his duties in the basement kitchens and was making his way through the first floor of the Ministry, after which he’d ascend to the servant’s quarters and be ushered off to bed. The boy had dawdled on his way to the staircase—nobody liked bedtime.
His boredom often took him places he shouldn’t go. Tonight’s adventure led him to the carved oak doors outside the dining hall that was reserved for those in the Clergy he didn’t get to meet. He’d heard voices from inside and, being one of those types of children, tip-toed closer for an evening’s eavesdropping.
The gap granted him a view of a vast room, empty besides a table with four chairs and only one occupant. Frater Imperator sat with his elbow on the table, holding a spoonful of egg-fried rice.
“Ah,” Frater said, to nobody. “Well. No.”
He brought the spoon to his mouth but snapped his head around to his left, lowering the spoon before he’d had a chance to eat from it.
“What do you mean, what do you mean, ‘no’ ?” he asked one of the empty chairs. “I don’t, uh, I can’t recall you singing the praises of the Papas who came after you.” He turned back to his spoon and raised his eyebrows then muttered, mostly to himself, “Or singing anything at all since the sixties.”
He waited a moment then wobbled his head like he was mocking somebody—a yeah, yeah kind of motion. “I’m sure you were so great.” Another pause, after which he frowned and said, mostly to his rice, “Dipshit.”
A look of guilt crossed his face, like he’d just been reprimanded. This was a common expression to grace the features of Frater Imperator and there wasn’t one servant in the Ministry who hadn’t noticed it. The boy had overheard gossip about it—how Frater Imperator could be berated by a mere gust of wind—from the chefs and the stablehands and the maids and—
“Mm. Sorry,” Frater muttered, and at long last, put the spoon in his mouth. Whatever haunted the man granted him long enough to chew and swallow before—
“No, I will not give you a mouthful. That’s disgusting.” His strained features warped into mild amusement when he glanced to his right before he added, “Yes. Ha. I do remember how it ended last time. Do you, old man?”
The boy could have sworn that a sudden chill spread through the corridor. He couldn't tell where it had come from, but it was strong enough to leave his hairs standing on end. He rubbed his arms as quietly as he could just as Frater spoke again.
“Over my dead body will I drop it. Or over yours—oh, wait.”
Silence fell, punctuated only by the click of the spoon as Frater went for another helping of what must have been half-cold rice. His exasperation had vanished in place of weariness. He’d slumped on the elbow that propped him up, his palm squashing his cheek. The boy had heard rumours of how Frater must wear makeup all the time to cover the bags under his eyes.
He put his spoon down and leaned back in his chair, taking the kind of deep breath that preceded something serious.
Still looking down at his plate, he said, “I think I am perfectly within my—my rights to not… be raring to go with the new Papa .” He’d put up two fingers and made inverted commas around the last two words. “It’s normal, hm? … yes, I was listening in Los Angeles.”
Both elbows went on the table. Frater sat forward again and rested his head in his hands.
“Ma—mm. I, uh. I am allowed my doubts, as I would say to all my congregation.”
Between his hands, he grimaced. It was as if he tried to perform a breathing exercise with how his chest rose and fell in long, sharp breaths, making that sleek black jacket catch the light of the candles.
“Okay, okay, doubts was the wrong word. Worries, then? Concerns? Dubious…ness? Dubiousnesses?”
He thought for a beat then opened his mouth to say more, but shut it like he’d been interrupted. The glance to his right was a pained one. Frater looked back down and started fiddling with the spoon, now resting empty on his plate of barely-touched food. It clicked on the rim louder than it had before.
And the former Papa Emeritus, in a voice so small it was as if he was nobody, said, “Am I allowed to be nervous?”
Silence followed whilst he carried on playing with the spoon, until his hand fumbled and it clattered onto the plate. A moment later, he flinched; this had been too delayed to be a response to the spoon.
“It’s cold when you touch me,” Frater grumbled. He sighed and put his hand in his lap. “Yeah, of course, of course. It will be fine. Plenty to be nervous about, though.”
The candles in the dining hall flickered but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Like what? I—I don’t know—he might not like me, for one, and—” he cut off, looking to his left. “That is not childish. You don’t like me, and you’re older than old.”
That inexplicable chill came back. The boy shifted his feet but couldn’t make himself leave—not whilst Frater stared at the table, biting his bottom lip and fiddling with the ruby that hung from the jewels on his jacket.
“It is true.” He dropped his hand like he’d just been told to leave the ruby alone, and rested it on the table instead. “You—because we’re related, that means you like me? Ha, ha,” he continued, his tone weak and humourless. “You know, something I learnt as Papa that you clearly did not—” he pointed to his left— “is that it’s not enough just to say these things. You have to act on it to make it mean something. And fat lot of good you’ve done acting on it, you colossal asshole shitface—”
Frater flinched and pulled his arm away like something had touched his hand, turning to his right. “I said, that’s cold .”
There was no malice to his voice; just exhaustion, and a crack on the last word.
What followed was a silence so stark the boy could hear his heart beating. Candles flickered and dimmed. Frater fought back tears, alone in the dining hall.
“I’m not hungry,” he announced, sudden enough to make the boy jump. He pushed back his chair with a squeak and stood, tugging his jacket into place, giving one last, desperate look to the empty chair to his right.
The boy scuttled out of sight just before Frater Imperator stormed into the corridor, letting the door groan slowly shut behind him.