Francis stood in the center of Charles's lavish kitchen, the steel of the prep table cold against his palms. He looked at the ingredients laid out before him—flour, butter, sugar, eggs. Simple, domestic items that felt entirely out of place in a house of secrets and political debts.
"So," Francis said, his voice echoing slightly off the tiled walls. "What is the minimal task really? I don't have all day, Charles."
Charles leaned against the doorframe, swirling a glass of red wine. He looked at Francis with a gaze that was heavy with memory. "I want you to make the creampie," Charles said softly. "The Vallentine. The one you always made when we were young. When we were just kids."
Francis blinked. He expected a request for a forged document, a secret assassination, a hidden ledger. Not pastry.
"That's it?" Francis asked, narrowing his eyes.
"That's it."
Francis let out a scoff, turning back to the table. "Whatever gives."
He began to work. His hands moved with the automatic precision of a lifetime ago. He sifted the flour, his mind drifting back to the days of sunlight and innocence, days before crowns and death. He mixed the batter, the rhythm of the whisk soothing his frayed nerves.
But as he poured the mixture into the tin, a prickle sensation crawled up his spine. The air in the kitchen shifted. It felt heavier. He felt a presence lurking in the back of his mind, a shadow peeping through the veil of his focus.
He turned around abruptly.
Charles was standing right behind him, silent as a cat.
Francis's heartbeat dropped. He clutched the whisk to his chest. "What are you doing here? I thought you were in the study."
Charles said nothing. He just stepped closer.
Suddenly, Charles reached out and grabbed Francis from behind, his arms wrapping around the butler's waist, pulling him flush against his chest.
Francis stiffened. "Charles—"
Charles leaned in, his breath hot against Francis's ear, trying to turn him for a kiss. Francis resisted, his elbow jerking back. He twisted out of the hold and shoved Charles away.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Francis shouted, his face flushing with anger.
Charles didn't back down. He surged forward, slamming Francis back against the cold steel of the prep table. He pinned Francis's wrists to the metal surface, his grip iron-tight.
"You left without any emotions or a farewell," Charles hissed, his face inches from Francis's. "You think I would let you go this time? After you walked out of my life like I was nothing?"
Francis struggled against the grip. "Charles, listen, it's—it was complicated. I didn't mean to do this to you. Will you get your hands off me?"
Charles grinned, a twisted, desperate expression. "You knew I loved you so much. But still, you wanted to go with that Prince. Oh, always fiddling through the garden with him. Too bad he died." Charles's voice dropped to a cruel whisper. "Well, you made that choice too."
Something inside Francis snapped. He gathered his strength and threw Charles off him with a violent shove. Charles stumbled, crashing into the pantry shelves, knocking jars to the floor.
"Shut up!" Francis roared, stepping forward. "And you dare not talk about him! He was everything to me! EVERYTHING!"
Charles picked himself up from the floor, dusting off his coat. He looked at Francis with cold, calculating eyes.
"Then why didn't you go with him that day?" Charles asked softly. "Why did you leave him there?"
Francis froze. The fight drained out of him, replaced by a sudden, crushing cold.
"You were the one who left him alone," Charles continued, his voice cutting like a knife. "And well, you took a good chance on that, didn't you? Because he didn't return. Only his ashes did."
The words hit Francis like a physical blow. He gasped, his hand flying to his mouth. Tears, hot and fast, spilled down his cheeks. The image of Dean—the fire, the explosion, the empty grave—flashed in his mind.
Charles realized he had gone too far. The cruelty melted from his face, replaced by a flicker of panic. "Ok, that was—I am sorry, Francis. I didn't mean—"
Francis didn't hear the apology. He saw red. He reached for the knife block on the counter, his hand trembling.
"We are done," Francis said, his voice shaking but deadly quiet. He pointed the tip of the knife toward Charles's chest, stopping just inches from his heart.
"You can't call me that," Francis whispered, tears streaming down his face. "Only he had the right. You can't."
He lowered the knife, his hand shaking so hard he nearly dropped it. "I am leaving. Get your own fuckboys to make you a real creampie from their asses like you used to back in the days. I knew this was a mistake. I shouldn't have come here for help."
He slammed the knife down onto the table, the blade quivering in the wood.
Charles stepped back, raising his hands in surrender. He looked into Francis's eyes and saw something he hadn't seen in years. Since the day Dean died, Francis had been a hollow shell, a butler performing a ritual of duty. He had lost his courage, his fire.
But now, Charles realized, watching the tears fall and the rage burn in Francis's gaze... he had found the spark back. He had found someone else to fight for.
"We are done," Francis repeated, turning on his heel.
"Francis, listen—Francy, wait!"
Charles reached out, but Francis was already storming out of the kitchen, leaving the unfinished pie and the shattered pieces of their past behind him. He walked out of the manor, past the confused servants, and climbed into the carriage waiting on the street, his heart hammering a rhythm of grief and rage against his ribs.
To be continued.