great men's servants

When Minseok had awoken that morning he felt off. It was possible that it was a combination of uneasy rest he had in the past week and the seasons changing, always feeling quite off when they change. He barely had time to crack open his tired eyes, glued together from sleep, when there was a gentle rap of knuckles on his door and Sungjong was coming in for morning preparation. It was always Sungjong that came for help in the morning without fail, the male servant carrying in a small tub of hot water and cloths for Minseok to wash with. They worked together efficiently; Minseok would go to wash his face first and then clean up while Sungjong would arrange his daily outfit, always choosing appropriately considering weather and his activities. Sungjong was a crucial piece to Minseok’s life.

Minseok had to shake off his weariness in order to stand up straight for Sungjong to start dressing him; no matter how many times Minseok would insist that he was perfectly capable of clothing himself, Sungjong would continue on as if not hearing him. It was a struggle not to watch the other as he pulled fabric onto him piece by piece, the male was quite a distraction and Minseok had nothing else to look at in the room during. His cheeks reddened some without fail as Sungjong pulled the trousers up his legs, although he hid the colouring by turning his head completely. He knew they were both men but there was something about the position that just sparked an awkwardness in the young male that he couldn’t control. Sungjong had pulled away to bring back Minseok’s doublet, he stretched his arms out to fit through the sleeves. He watched the male as he moved around him, his long deft fingers doing up the jacket, they looked warm; he looked warm.

It was a habit, falling into thoughts like those— Minseok was wholeheartedly guilty of the consuming images and ideas in his head. It took more than a shake of the head to rid them from the forefront of his mind but it was all he could do at the moment, he would have to be down in the serving room for the family’s fast breaking— something he was reluctantly invited to each morning unless nobility was a guest in the castle. He’d eat with the King, Queen, and his brother Jongdae but as soon as someone were to eat with them Minseok would be pushed aside for it was unheard of for someone like him to eat with the royal family. It would not have been so hard if he were ‘allowed’ to eat with the servants but because his father was king, not even that luxury was given to him; Minseok would eat alone.

Today was one of those days he was told when a servant came to him with word of a visitor in the castle. Minseok really should have learned not to be bothered by this but it was troubling when he could not even share food with his brother when the sun rose, could not make sure the other was doing well or if he slept peacefully— he would be outcasted and ignored for however many hours the visitor chose to stay. 

He likely wouldn't see it on this particular day, considering the Duke and Duchess of Morwick would be on their way to the castle even now. Their imminent arrival meant hours of preparation to be done before the King and Queen would even stir in their bed; meals had to be prepped, floors had to be scrubbed until they shone, the most lavish rooms in the palace had to be squeaky clean and decorated lavishly in only the newest and most expensive fashions. His day began with seeing to the princes, a routine that had been a part of his life since he was fourteen.

He dressed with haste and made his way through the kitchens, swiping a slice of pear from a cutting board piled high with ingredients for this morning's fast-breaking and ducking with a cheeky grin to avoid the inevitable swat the chef would at him on his way out. He made his way upstairs with careful ease, wash basin filled fresh rosewater balanced in his arms, grateful for the slight rise in temperature the climb to higher levels of the castle would bring. Years of making the trip from the servant quarters to Prince Minseok's chambers so ingrained in his memory that he could likely walk the route in his sleep.

He knocked on the door with a gentle hand and entered the prince's chambers with a bow, setting the wash basin in its usual place on his night table and moving to the wardrobe. "Good morning, Your Highness." He carefully tugged an ensemble out of the wardrobe, forest green inlaid with subtle hints of antique gold to match the season, though not too flashy that it might outshine his brother, and laid it out on the bed, smiling politely at Minseok as he approached. He was not oblivious to the prince's air when he assisted him with dressing in the morning (he insisted for propriety's sake. He would feel inadequate as a servant if he couldn't do so much as dress his prince), but he always assumed that if the elder male flinched or stiffened in any way, it was due to the chill of the morning.

As he fastened Minseok's doublet, deft fingers traveling with practiced expertise down a trail of tiny brass buttons, another servant entered to inform the prince that the Duke and Duchess would be staying in the palace, and that Prince Minseok would not be eating at the main table for breakfast at His Majesty's request. Sungjong's jaw tensed as he stepped away from Minseok, gathering his bedclothes and soiled washcloths and actively composing himself, despite the internal dissent he felt boiling in the pit of his stomach. When he turned back to the prince, his demeanor was as calm and composed as always as he draped a modest strand of peridots over his shoulders and reached around to fasten it behind his neck.

“It looks as if the weather will be exceptionally pleasant today,” he uttered quietly, meeting Minseok’s gaze with his own for only a fleeting moment, but hoping he conveyed his sympathy and encouragement; getting out of the stuffiness of the castle would do well to appease such ritual rejection, and maybe he could get enough fresh air for the pair of them, “Perhaps it’s a good day for a ride through the kingswood.” I’m sorry I cannot be of more help than that. He thought to himself as he bowed again, leaving the room and retreating to the kitchens to prepare for the imminent breakfast spread.

Taemin watches as Sungjong looks down, apparently realizing his “mistake” and quickly switching back to the demure and innocent façade. With a sigh, the young lord sets his book aside and shifts in his seat so that he can rest his elbow on the arm of the chair and his face in his palm.

He vaguely wonders why he ever thought this was a good idea in the first place, because he knows that he’s probably scared poor Sungjong half to death, which makes him no better than the other nobles and lords who treat Sungjong and the other servants like complete shit.

He looks down at the floor in front of his chair, thinking for a moment on what it would have been like if his father had taken him in not as a son, but as a servant. He might not have turned out exactly like Sungjong, since his family treats servants much better than the nobles do here, but he has always taken note of how the servants still seem reserved around him and the rest of his family, even though they know they are treated well. The thought that he might have ended up in a situation like Sungjong’s, where he’s completely worthless and disposable and he knows it, brings another quiet sigh to Taemin’s lips.

He's not sure to feel about this particular lord's unpredictability. He's full of surprises, it seems, and that makes Sungjong more uneasy than anything else. He'd choose a gaggle of predictable nobles over one strangely intrusive one any day. As insignificant as being practically invisible in the presence of nobility makes him feel, he finds he prefers being ignored over being interrogated. Most nobles do not pry because they simply do not care, and he's certain this one is only so interested because he thinks his own valuable reputation is on the line.

"My lord?" he responds with a respectful quietness, tentatively glancing up at Taemin in time for his strange explanation. Sungjong is not prepared for this confession either, wonders bitterly why on earth it had to be him Lord Taemin felt the need to spill his heart to. No you don't, he thinks to himself, You've no idea what it's like. You were a child. Your future prospects were saved long before you even knew what a future was. You will not spend the rest of your life sweeping floors for men who will grow happily fat without a single thought for those who prepare their meals. You will marry and have children and they will want for nothing and you will never be forgotten because somewhere your name will be written in a ledger for your spoiled, fat, great great great grandchildren to remember you by. But, of course, he says none of this aloud, gives none of it away through his expression.

Taemin has always been interested in kitchen gossip, what the servants have to say about the people they serve. When he worked in the inn as a child, he knew better than to say much to the other workers, as they didn’t seem to respect him much. Their dislike of him was understandable, really, though he didn’t realize why at the time: he was some random orphan dropped on their doorstep, a kid who didn’t know anything about the world and tended to get into more trouble than he was worth, despite how he often tried to avoid it. 

But Taemin always listened to their gossip about the inn’s customers. It was safer that way, to know who was kind and who wasn’t, who to avoid whenever possible. Taemin figured that out quickly, and the instinct has stayed with him ever since. Even at the estate, after he was adopted, he continued to listen in on the servants’ conversations whenever he got the chance. The servants at his estate never had anything bad to say, though, since they loved his family well. Taemin soon rid himself of the habit, quickly growing bored without all the interesting, hateful stuff.

When he moved to the castle, it didn’t take him long to realize that many of the nobles there hated him and his family, and he soon got himself back in the habit of standing outside his chambers or the kitchens, listening to the servants within whisper to each other about him and the other nobles in the castle. It was much more difficult when he was on the other end of the gossip, for the servants hardly said a word more than “yes, m’lord” or “no, m’lord” whenever anyone of high birth was around. He figured out ways, though, lurking at doors for longer than he should and keeping his ears open whenever he could. 

Now, as he sits in his chambers, he pretends to read while he watches a servant boy sweep his floor. This servant has been around for years, from what Taemin’s heard. His name is Sungjong, and from what Taemin’s heard him say in hushed tones to the other servants, he’s jealous of the fact that Taemin’s father adopted him and eventually named him heir. And it’s been a fairly dull day so far, so Taemin figures he may as well spice it up with a unique conversation. And anyway, maybe he can get Sungjong to trust him, if he’s lucky. It’d be nice to know there was at least one servant in the castle who didn’t hate him for things he couldn’t control.

He lowers his book to his lap, using his hand to cover the page as if holding his place, though he hadn’t actually processed a word of it. “Sungjong,” he says, hoping to surprise the other with his knowledge of his name. “I’ve heard what you say about me. To the other servants. And I just want to let you know that I would have died if my father hadn’t adopted me. He could have chosen any other boy off the streets of that town, but I was lucky enough for it to be me.”

In his two decades of living in the palace, of serving kings and queens, nobles from all ends of the world, not once has been he been caught collecting secrets like shiny trinkets, to trade and share with his fellow staff amongst bawdy jokes and casual conversation. He knows of more foolish servant girls who are looser with their tongues (and often looser with their legs as well), and has seen one too many of these foolish friends dismissed from the castle, thrown onto the streets to seek out lives in taverns or brothels or wherever their looseness will not get them condemned. But he lives and breathes this castle, has memorized the pattern of the mortar between every ancient brick, and he knows better; his kind are the eyes and ears of the castle walls, but his kind are disposable. Even he, whose mother helped deliver two king’s sons, who’d climbed into the affectionate eye of more than a few influential people in his lifetime, could be removed in an instant with a fluid flick of Her Majesty’s wrist.

So it’s only natural that behind a blankly innocent façade, Sungjong is watching his life flash before his eyes.

Lucky indeed, he finds himself thinking with bitter sarcasm, though his mask of coy ignorance, a long-ago perfected expression that gives most distracted nobles the impression that he is as harmless and naïve as he was six years ago. “I…I’m not sure what my lord…is suggesting. I have no reason to hate you,” he glances up to find Taemin staring right back at him, and his own eyes linger boldly for a split second, defying everything he knows to be proper, for it is nothing short of insulting for a servant to make uninvited eye contact with a high born lord. Though, Sungjong points out to himself, this particular lord isn't high born at all.

The slip is a result of the sudden anger that’s flared up inside him, because everything he’s ever known is about to be snatched away by a low born orphan boy who only survived past the age of ten because he happened to nearly starve to death on some old lord’s doorstep. But he catches himself almost instantly, his gaze falling demurely to the floor where it belongs, his grip on the broom, that had automatically tightened in his otherwise invisible agitation, loosening subtly.