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“What are you doing out here?” He speaks informal, his voice a whisper.
“I came to see you, before you went off.”
Sir George stands barefoot on the snow covered porch, poised under the awning and dressed up in his nighttime robes. A large coat, one the size of a thick blanket with sleeves cut into it, swallows his whole frame and gives him the appearance of a small, frail boy.
“I’m just going to my quarters.”
He turns his back to the Master’s son, going down the squeaky steps two at a time. His worn shoes crunch lightly over gravel and disturbed snow.
“Dream!”
The other’s voice is breathless and hurried already, the thumping of his feet echoing off the stairs in pursuit. They jump into the sea of ground shells with a painful collision, the sound reminding Dream of someone shattering a vase.
The blond is quick to turn back around and rush over to the boy.
He isn’t really a boy though, just a lonely young man.
“Sir George!” He says quietly, anger tied in annoyance. He’s holding him by the elbows, watching as he regains his footing.
“Goodness,” the other mumbles, leaning into the grasp.
“You’ve cut up your feet now, haven’t you?”
The smaller doesn’t respond.
Dream huffs, knowing Master Henry will be at everyone’s throat if his son goes back into that house with blood on his bare heels.
“Come on.”
He gives George a rough shove from the back, and they are marching off to the low wooden buildings at the edge of the property. George doesn’t complain once as pieces of shell dig into his soft soles.
The quarters are contained in a horizontal house in a large patch of grass with work sheds surrounding it. The entire building is separated into three sections, each with an upstairs space. First is the enslave quarters, and Master Henry owns 25 slaves in total. Only 12 worked in his main house, while the others were squared away on a tobacco plantation 150 miles away.
The next room is for indentured servants, and he has exactly 7 of those, all who are white but one. No one addresses Betty directly, and many complain about the fact that she doesn’t sleep with the rest of the slaves in the cramped first bedroom.
The last room belongs to Dream, and Dream only. He is the only paid servant, having finished his three years of unpaid servitude three months ago. Master Henry offered him the job because he was a, “quiet man who did yard work with much pleasure,” and, “was very precise in his place in this colonial society.”
Dream took none of those as compliments, but he dare not say anything to Master Henry or his spoiled son.
The two walk silently to the blond’s place, passing a flickering candle in the window of the first room.
Dream doesn’t say anything as he guides the man towards the rickety door at the end of the long house, and pushes it open. It whines in protest, alerting everyone else of his presence. He huffs, but brushes it off.
George eagerly peers inside, face falling short when he sees such a bland set up. It’s nothing different from that of the townspeople’s houses. There’s a small fire crackling in a stone hearth, a bed pushed up against the side wall, a singular round table in the middle of the room accompanied by one chair. An old chest has clothes spilling out of it; there’s a wicket basket under the frame of a single window where a candle stub sits. A few bottles can be spotted here and there, and one cabinet hangs lonely on a wall.
“Sit down,” Dream tartly says, pointing to his neatly made bed. George looks at the pathetic wooden frame holding up a deflated sack stuffed with corn husks, and pauses as discomfort creeps up on him. Dream doesn’t care; either the man will sit on his bed or sit on the dirty floor. It wasn’t a hard choice to make.
He drags a wooden bucket up the frame and grabs a rag.
“Are ya gonna sit?” He snaps.
George hurriedly perches himself on the very edge of the mattress.
Dream sinks down onto the floor and dunks the cloth into the water. His hand passes through frozen chunks of ice making goosebumps rise on his arms.
He bears no reaction to it, wrings out the cloth, and then gently grabs the other’s foot and wipes the blood away.
George gasps, jerking his foot away and almost kicking Dream in the face.
The blond gives him a look of fury, holding back the harsh words building against his lips. He grabs the foot again and wipes, this time sparing no gentle actions. He rubs bits of shells out of the millions of cuts with George squeaking in response.
When he’s finished, the man has tears swimming in the edges of his eyes.
Dream pretends to not notice while he drapes the cloth over the fireplace and fetches bandages from the sparse cupboard. He owns no ointment, but figures there is some stocked up in the pantry.
“Put something on this when you go home,” he instructs, wrapping both feet up.
George is quiet, grasping his coat around him with a pout set on his lips.
Dream stands, signaling he is done, but the man doesn’t move.
“Sir George?” He asks, a brow quaked at the strange behavior. He wonders if the spoiled boy isn’t used to being treated as anything other than a miniature king, and is unhappy with the reality of being cared for by the damned of the house. Dream knows word of this will get back to Master Henry from George’s own un-restrained lips, and he has definitely ensured the act of a beating very soon.
“You dislike me,” George sadly says.
It’s out of the blue, and the words properly slap Dream right in the face. He watches the man gaze at the floor, his mouth resting in a frown as he wiggles his bandaged toes. Sadness hangs from his eyes.
The blond doesn’t know how to respond. Any sentence he formats in his head cannot be spoken aloud, because this spoiled brat would waddle back to his father and open his loud mouth.
I do dislike you, you piece of shit!
I don’t simply dislike you, I hate you and your father.
Everyone in these quarters HATES you, you bloody bastard!
You are a privileged cunt that sits on your ass all day and whines!
Certainly, at this moment, Dream is filled with pure rage. Rage that has built up from years of free servitude, years of being beaten and yelled at. Years of sleeping in the cold chambers of this outdoor storage house. He feels it all, right now, staring at this pathetic man, hunched over on his bed.
“I’m sorry, you know,” George says quietly. “Whenever father raises his hand, I can’t stand to watch him bring it down upon you.”
Dream stays silent.
“He does the same to me too, you know. Maybe not as bad, but if I speak up he doesn’t hesitate, it’s like a command.”
He wrings his hands together now, playing with his fingers.
“I came outside to see you go,” he adds on.
“Why?” Dream asks, playing up bewilderment. “You do realize I am in trouble, at this very moment, as we speak? Anytime you meddle in our business, you bring us hurt and shame. Do you even realize this?”
George finally looks up at him, and not only are there tears swimming in his eyes, but his face has hardened, and he stands up.
“Oh, well then! I am about to delve you in a lot more trouble then!”
The man sheds the coat from his body and throws it to the sack mattress. He teeters up to the taller, and more muscular opponent, poking his pointer finger into the other’s chest.
“I know your little secret,” he starts, and then elaborates.
“You’re a dirty little sinner, and the devil dances over your heart! I see how you gaze the other way when the ladies cross the street in their flowing gowns. I see you eyeing the working men unloading cartridges, and when they trot by on horseback. I see you do all of that.”
George watches Dream’s face slowly drown in horror. He curls a smile, and then throws more matches into the fire.
“I even notice the way you are around me, and you’re mad at yourself for it. They way you wake me in the mornings, the way you gently touch me in the bath, the way you dress me, smoothing every inch of the fabric on my body. The way you are so delicate with my hair with the comb in your hand, and how you bore your sinful sight into my form when I’m dressed and ready in the mornings. How you pause when you get a look at me in the hallway, and when I’m in my nighttime robes. I am no fool.”
George did not realize his voice was slowly rising until it dissipated into the silent room. Dream’s face was red and his eyes were popping out of his skull.
A callused palm was pressed quickly into his mouth, and he was pulled close into the blond’s warm body.
“You better shush,” Dream says quietly. “The walls are thin here.”
George shivers, not knowing if it’s from the sudden change in demeanor, or the draft blowing through the walls.
They stand by the bed, flushed close to each other with Dream processing what he will do next, and George, frozen still.
“You can’t accuse me of being a dirty sinner; not when you pride yourself on standing in the snow to watch me walk back to my quarters.”
“Well, I never got to say I was a sinner myself.”
“Oh?”
They have separated now, and George gathers his coat in his arms.
“I enjoy watching you work in the fields sometimes,” he whispers, a smile creeping up on his lips. He tries to hide it, angling his head towards the barren wall, but Dream notices anyway.
“And I like when you come to take care of me in the mornings. I have been thinking of asking father if you can be my personal servant, since my last one, well-,” he doesn’t need to finish.
Dream considers it, but his face hardens and he shakes his head.
“I can’t,” he replies.
“What?! Why not?”
George faces him again now, taken aback.
“Because, it’s simple really. We can’t.”
“But no one will know! There is a steel key to my door, and I can request that no other servant will be in my presence!”
“And what of your future wife? Master Henry will want you to marry soon, and my heart won’t be able to take it.”
Dream pulls the tiny chair from under the table and sits down.
“I am sinful,” he says. “I cannot take the risk and delve in that, only to be cast aside to become a shadow; watching you and your wife for the rest of my life while my heart aches and my soul sours.”
The blond is on the brink of tears, and he covers his face with his hands.
George’s eyes go soft, and he moves slowly to pull Dream’s face up to his. His palms caress the spiky scruff along the servant’s jawline.
“I can stall,” he promises quietly. “Long enough, and when I inherit the property, we can live in peace.”
It is quite a plan, and it’s sold when gentle lips meet his chapped ones.
“Gosh, you’re going to be the death of me,” Dream murmurs as the Master’s son pulls away. He watches him slip into the coat and walk out of the door, flashing him a grin before fully disappearing.
George’s absence already makes him feel empty in this big, lonely room.
He is in so much trouble now.