#analogicalweek

The voice on the other end alone was enough to make his stomach flip, light and lilting even when talking about something as boring as scheduling. Virgil knew it then and he was stewing over it now- he was absolutely done for. No one had that kind of voice without being kind and patient and while those were things he definitely needed if he was going to learn anything he was sure he’d get distracted anyway. Forming a squish from a voice- that had to be the worst joke played on him yet.

Looking up however nearly made him want to cry at the irony. That had to be him, the only person on campus at the moment standing tall on a skateboard while gripping a dark blue messenger bag. From what Virgil could see he had blue hair that was pulled to one side with the other shaved, immediately piquing Virgil’s interest with the unique look. He tried his hardest not to stare as he came closer and his jacket came into view; a leather one spiked at the shoulders and sporting pride flags at the chest. Virgil felt his own chest constrict as he stored that away for later, the pintrovert system coming in handy for what felt like the first time in his life.

Just as he was getting his crutches situated to stand up he noticed the other man riding straight for the sidewalk seemingly not paying attention to where he was going. Scrambling to his feet he lurched forward to yell out.

“Hey watch ou-” The warning died on his lips as his tutor executed a perfect lick flip onto the sidewalk, letting the momentum carry him a couple more feet before stopping and tucking the skateboard under his arms. Virgil was sure he looked like an absolute idiot as he approached him, trying his hardest not to gape while practically feeling his eyes sparkling while looking at the punk with wide eyes.

“Hello, I’m Logan. And you’re Virgil right? The person I’m supposed to help with his medical terms?” He waited for Virgil to nod before continuing. “Excellent. Is the library fine?”

Realizing He’d been silent too long, he managed to squeak out a “Yeah,” as he reached down to swing his bag over his shoulder. Logan started towards the doors with him, shuffling things around in his bag to pull out notecards and stuff the skateboard into it. How it fit Virgil had no idea but taking in the aesthetic he honestly wouldn’t be surprised if it involved some sort of fae magic.

They settled down at the table and Logan looked over at him, making his heart once again skip a beat as he took in the beautiful shade of brown. Shaking his head slightly he tried to focus on what Logan was currently talking about while organizing several colored pens in front of them.

“-that way you’ll be able to separate the terms better and your brain will be better equipped to compartmentalize the terms you need to remember in half the time. Does that make sense?”

It didn’t. It really, really didn’t. He had a soulmate somewhere that he hadn’t found yet and most likely wouldn’t for a long time to come, and yet here he was trying desperately to hide a blush because this person was just- he was so cool. His voice and eyes were pretty and he was obviously smart if he had been the first person his teacher had recommended to tutor him…

“Are you feeling alright? You look flushed.” Hearing this Virgil snapped back to reality and gave a thumbs up, ducking his head while trying to resist the urge to slam it into the wood.

“Fine, yeah! Just you’re- it’s hot! Hot in the hoodie.” Praying he had saved that sentence quickly enough he dared to peak back at Logan through his bangs, who was just smiling slightly with an arm draped over the back of his chair.

“You can take that off then, if you want.” Logan pointed to the hoodie. “Since you’re hot.”

Virgil decided then, somehow managing to keep a straight face through his panic, that it was quite homophobic of the floor to not simply open and swallow him whole. Try as he might to calm himself he could still feel the remnants of the harsh flush in his cheeks as he saw Logan simply look at him with that smile, making him idly wonder if the sly bastard was really flirting with him or was actually just that oblivious.

Virgil sputtered as he wrapped the hoodie tighter around himself, shaking his head slightly. “Nah, I’m fine actually! You were saying about colors?”

“Just that color coding can help you study better. I’m here to give you tips as well so please pay attention.” Leaning forward again, Logan started explaining how to separate the different concepts and how to decide what was important and what wasn’t; honestly Virgil was genuinely surprised at how much he retained, forgetting his panic in favor of actually learning, for which he was very grateful. By the time an hour had passed he had a pretty good grasp on what he was meant to be learning and how to go about it. He stacked his much improved notecards together and shoved them in his pocket for later, shifting around in his seat to look at Logan properly.

“Thank you honestly, I feel a lot better about the class now.”

“It was no trouble, I’m grateful I was able to help. And if you’re in need of further assistance before next week, call me?” Logan smiled crookedly. “I use the library’s phone for tutor scheduling, this is for my actual phone..”

Virgil gaped at the slip of paper offered to him with a wink, fully cementing the idea that Logan had, in fact, been flirting with him and Virgil had been too infatuated with his style to actually notice. Purple nail polish caught his eye as his hand moved closer and he had the vague thought of that being his favorite color and how did he keep them from chipping? Before his thoughts could wonder further he was taking the paper and smiling, just aware enough of their fingers brushing as he remembered being with this person, his soulmate, time and time again. Every time was better than the last as their souls grew accustomed to one another and grew over eternity, strengthening their bond with every word exchanged.

Virgil looked at his soulmate's dazed expression, the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen gracing his lips and eyes watering with emotion at having found him again. So many words stuck in his throat as he struggled with the perfect thing to say, something that would capture how happy he was to finally be together again and how excited he was to explore this lifetime together. Something that would make Logan understand just how much he meant to him.

“I think this is the coolest form you’ve ever taken.” He blurted, immediately covering his mouth and cursing himself twice over.

His heart sank as Logan barked out a laugh, snorting into his own hand and taking a minute to compose himself before laying a gentle hand on his cheek.

“And I think this is the loveliest I’ve seen you.”

He laughed softly as Virgil went completely red, fingers twitching with indecision over whether to flap his hand or slap the idiot beside him. Deciding on a combination of both he frantically beat a hand against his shoulder while sleeping his other over his mouth, mumbling profanities under his breath. Whipping around as his hand was caught he couldn’t help but grin at Logan’s own brilliant smile, even if his face felt like he had dipped it in a vat of boiling water.

“It’s getting late, I could walk you home?”

“Yeah,” Virgil managed. “I’d like that.”

Walking home and still slightly wishing the floor had opened up beneath him, he couldn’t help but feel lucky that he had found Logan so soon. They had an eternity to catch up on and if it had to start with fixing his bad study habits, he supposed he couldn’t complain.

The Domicile Dockery had been nothing to sneeze at, and the Saint Jerome's Orphanage for Boys had been... well, to perfectly honest, so terribly dreary that its only real worth was being sneezed at, but the Manor Grantham (was there a more proper name for this absolute behemoth that Virgil should know, he wonders anxiously) is truly in another world entirely. 

Manor was hardly the appropriate word—surely this must be a castle, enough to hold half a village, faced in fine, tan stone—Virgil hasn't any idea what kind but it must surely be so expensive it would make him weep—with a great many windows dotting them, grand embellishments at each eave, with so many spires at the roof that Virgil would surely lose count even if he wasn't blinded by the noon sun.

Even from the servant's entrance, it's a sight to behold.

Virgil can hear the door creak—even the servant's courtyard door is ornate—and Virgil hastily jams his cap back on his head, trying his level best to keep from mussing his hair too much.

A tall man in a livery—a footman, then, someone that tall had to be—arches an eyebrow at him.

"Anthony?"

"Yes, that's me," Virgil says. "Virgil Anthony," he adds, in case they're expecting an Anthony Smith or Anthony Carson or—

Well, another Anthony, anyway.

"Albert Fellows," he says, in a near-musical Scottish accent. "Mr. Braithwaite and Mrs. Cassidy are ready for you. I'll take you to them."

Virgil sweeps off his cap when they walk in the door and come face-to-face with two other people, as Sister Leonella had always said that was proper manners and, if these people are anything like the Dockerys, then they certainly care very much about proper manners, but there's no place to hang it. He just holds it in a hand, gripping it tightly, wiping his left hand as subtly as he can on his pants to rid it of sweat.

The two other people step slightly closer; a man, shorter than Fellows, portly and officious-looking, with every scant gray hair upon his head and every gray hair in his truly impressive mustache waxed painstakingly into place, frowning at Virgil as if he's an out-of-place blade of grass,  and a woman, shorter still, plump and pleasantly smiling, with gray shooting through her black, pin-straight hair.

"Virgil Anthony?" The man who must be Mr. Braithwaite says.

"Yes, sir, that's me," Virgil says, and clears his throat—he'd said it rather quietly.

"How delightful to meet you, Mr. Anthony," and Virgil nearly starts—Mrs. Cassidy has the same accent as he does.

An Essex woman, then. Some little piece of home here helps settle his racing heart a little.

A very scant little.

"Through here, I should think," Mr. Braithwaite says, opening a door for Mrs. Cassidy.

It's an office that manages to fit three comfortably—Virgil thinks of Mr. Fincher's office, back in the Domicile Dockery, barely enough to fit two people, and he'd been headbutler there the same as Mr. Braithwaite is here. It seems everything in his house is huge, to match its outside.

Virgil sits after Mr. Braithwaite and Mrs. Cassidy do—it seems the safest and most manners-like option.

"Now, Mr. Anthony," Mr. Braithwaite says, flicking open an envelope. "Trained originally as a tailor and then as a valet, sponsored by the Lady Dockery. Why did Lady Doris sponsor you, Mr. Anthony?"

Because Lady Doris Dockery is a raging bitch who wanted to lord over one of the little orphans who she thinks would have been wicked urchins if she did not keep her sainted eye on them for even a bare moment, and that those same orphans should grovel at her feet for her donations, for as long as she might live, Virgil thinks, but holds his tongue.

"The Lady Dockery is a very charitable woman," Virgil says instead.

Mrs. Cassidy sniffs—disdainfully, Virgil thinks, but Virgil might be reading too much into it?

"Lady Dockery is an acquaintance of her ladyship, Mr. Braithwaite, you remember—she came to the house two weeks ago for the Ladies' poor relief luncheon, that's when she delivered the recommendation to his lordship in the first place," Mrs. Cassidy says, and ah, that explains it. No one had to spend more than ten minutes with Doris Dockery to know she was a self-important woman who loved nothing more than to look down her nose at everyone else.

Mr. Braithwaite seems to ignore this, however, and continues stodgily with his list of questions.

"You come very highly recommended by the Baronet and Lady Dockery, very highly recommended indeed—I do wonder why you aren't still working there."

Virgil, unable to help himself, darts a disbelieving glance to Mrs. Cassidy, as if to say why on earth does he think?

Mrs. Cassidy quirks a brow, as if to maybe say, yes, I know, he's quite a pompous handful, serves him right for never listening to me.

"...the Baronet Dockery died last month, sir," Virgil says in a carefully even voice.

Yes, and Mrs. Cassidy's lips definitely twitch with near-laughter, and she digs around in her apron pocket for a handkerchief to cover her mouth.

"And so the Dockerys had no more need for a valet, may the Baronet rest in peace," he adds.

Baronet Dockery had been all right, really, much better than his nasty little wife—Virgil had been somewhat sad he'd died, even though he'd been very old and sickly, and it rightfully shouldn't have been a shock.

"No more need?" Mr. Braithwaite says. "The Dockerys have no children?"

"Three daughters and a son, the daughters all grown with households of their own—one in Wiltshire, one in Painswick, and one in Devon—and their son serving abroad in the King's army," Virgil rattles off dutifully. "The Lady—well, Dowager Dockery now—therefore has no more need for a valet."

"Hmph," Mr. Braithwaite says, and pages through Virgil's admittedly meager references. All glowing, though only one from an employer proper. Virgil was many things, but he was a damn good valet and a trained tailor to boot.

"Your references say you're a fine embroiderer," Mrs. Cassidy prompts Virgil.

"Oh—yes, ma'am," Virgil says. He pulls out a clean handkerchief and offers it to her for inspection—when the Baronet had been on bedrest and Virgil left to his devices, unable to help the Baronet at all, he'd put lavenders all along the edge, along with his initials in one corner.

"Very fine!" She exclaims, bringing it close to her eyes, running her fingers over the flowers. "Very fine indeed, isn't it, Mr. Braithwaite?"

"Hmph," Mr. Braithwaite repeats, paging through Virgil's references.

"Lord Roman should like that," Mrs. Cassidy tells him. "He's trying to improve his embroidery, especially his florals, if you could find time in the day to tutor him."

Lord Roman—one of the sons, Virgil would guess. Lady Dockery had said there were three, he thinks? Maybe two? No daughters, he knows that much, Lady Doris had clucked disapprovingly about the lack of daughter to marry to her own son.

"With his lordship's permission, of course I could," Virgil said.

Mr. Braithwaite looks pleased by Virgil's insistence upon proper procedure. At least, Virgil assumes he looks pleased; he isn't as nearly as easy to read as Mrs. Cassidy.

"I can knit and crochet, in addition to the sewing and embroidery," Virgil adds.

"Socks?"

"If you should like to see my work again, I'd have to take off my boots," he tells her, and she titters.

"No, no, that shouldn't be necessary," Mr. Braithwaite says, looking alarmed at the concept of a stinky socked foot in his sacrosanct office.

"We tend to be in constant dire need of socks, here," Mrs. Cassidy tells him, patting his hand. "Your skills shall surely be a great help."

Shall surely, Virgil's brain seizes. Shall surely, did that mean—?

"Well, Mr. Anthony," Mr. Braithwaite says, at last setting aside the sheaf of his references.

Virgil's heart sets a wild pace, for an entirely new reason.

"Your references are impeccable, your manners are," he casts an eye over Virgil, "fine enough, and to be perfectly frank, Lord Julian has insisted on utmost haste and so we are in dire need of a valet for Lord Logan, who is newly graduated from university."

For Lord Logan? But he'd thought—oh, but what did it matter who he'd valet for, it was a job, a job, a job away from Essex and a job away from the orphanage and a job away from Doris Dockery—

"Lord Logan is the heir presumptive and as such needs to be accustomed to the finer details of the lordship," Mrs. Cassidy explains, "including a valet. Lord Julian is of the opinion that Lord Logan should not be thrust into the entirety of the lordship upon his death, Lord willing that be many years from now."

What is Virgil meant to say to that?

"Very wise of his lordship," he manages.

A valet for the heir. They were surely richer than God, Virgil thought; he'd only ever heard of valets and ladies' maids for the heirs among princes and princesses, and perhaps the dukes and duchesses who were the relatives of those princes and princesses.

"We'll introduce you to the family after tea, then," Mr. Braithwaite says, and before Virgil can say anything, he continues briskly, "you can use a spare livery, you're of a size with Copley. You'll officially start in the morning. Now, if you'll away to tea with Mrs. Cassidy and Mrs. Cochrane—the chef—they'll inform you of salary and living conditions and the like. Good day."

And Mrs. Cassidy leads Virgil to the kitchen, because Virgil is in too much of a daze to realize it's just across the hall.

⁂

The daze is only barely helped by watching Mrs. Cassidy and Mrs. Cochrane—a brusque woman who spoke exactly what was on her mind, rather refreshing after the interview with Mr. Braithwaite—cluck over each other, and over him, and with a strong tea and Mrs. Cochrane's truly exceptional biscuits and cream.

They are interrupted by beautiful brown tabby cat with a shiny coat licks at its mouth, savoring the bit of cream he'd managed to snatch. He has a pretty blue ribbon tied loosely around his neck.

"Oh, Thales, get down—"

"That's not Thales, miss." A maid says, glancing over from where she's vigorously mixing together some kind of batter.

"Well which one is it, then?"

"Aristarchus, I should think," the maid says. "He explores more than the others. Thales stays in the library mostly."

What kind of names were Thales and Aristarchus for cats? Virgil had always named the skinny mean cats that lingered around the orphanage for scraps things like Spots and Stripes. And then when a nun got fond of one, she'd usually name them for saints, much like Virgil himself, now he comes to think of it.

"How many cats are there?" Virgil says, giving Aristarchus a good scratch under the chin anyways. The cat purrs and deigns to lean into the scratch, so Virgil's fingers are rubbing against his cheek.

"Oh, how should I know," grumbles Mrs. Cochrane.

"A great many," Mrs. Cassidy says. "And good little mousers they are, too, what with the hunting dogs sleeping in the stables most nights. But cats of Lord Logan's—" 

She pauses to count on her fingers, murmuring names to herself—"Let's see... Thales, Aristarchus, Mirabai, Parmenides... yes, four so far, and the rumor is he's getting another as a gift as soon as an esteemed guest comes to visit, so that number ought to change. He's fond of cats, Lord Logan is."

Fond of cats. Well, Virgil could always bring that up if conversation was needed, it was something they had in common.

"Now shoo, go on," Mrs. Cochrane says, and so Aristarchus jumps into Virgil's lap—Virgil smiles as Aristarchus rubs his face against Virgil's stomach, then winces a bit as the claws dig in—and uses Virgil as a springboard to trot off into the hall.

"Right then, Anthony," Mrs. Cochrane says briskly. "Back to business."

Virgil takes a fortifying gulp of tea.

And then his daze is then renewed in even greater fervor when Mrs. Cassidy casually mentions his salary will be at least double if not triple (Virgil's hopeless with numbers and Mrs. Cassidy had said something about holiday bonsues, an entirely foreign concept) what it was at the Dockerys.

⁂

His feet pinch, the livery's shirt and coat are both too short on him because he's broader in the shoulder and the foot than this Copley, and he's already got the names of the Earl's impressively large household staff hopelessly mixed around; at the Dockerys, it had only ever been him, Mr. Fincher, the ladies' maid Mrs. Howes, and the chef Dowlings.

Here—three footmen, Lord Julian's valet Mr. Walsh, Lady Priscilla's ladies' maid Mrs. O'Coyle, the head housemaid Miss Hannah Brennan and Mrs. Cassidy, who was the head housekeeper—why did they need both, Virgil wondered cluelessly, but then, it was an impressively large house and probably needed a great many people to keep it clean—the seemingly innumerable maids and the kitchen's staff, all of whom had been tittering and giggling as Mrs. Cochrane lectured them about how dinner was to be prepared that night, and of course even more  not in the room like the chauffer, the gardener, the hostler, the kennel master, because apparently Lord Julian and the younger sons were very fond of their hunting dogs—and Virgil's head was swimming with all of it already.

As it stands, when Mr. Braithwaite is leading him through the servant's hallways, he keeps his eyes on his feet and tries his very best to remember directions as this house is so hopelessly large and Virgil is so hopelessly overwhelmed. One right, a left, two more rights, straight on, another left...

Tries, but fails, because Mr. Braithwaite is keeping on an endless stream of information of the family, which Virgil really should know, but he isn't sure if it should come at the sacrifice of knowing the layout of the house.

"...Lord Julian and Lady Priscilla have been married twenty-five years this spring, and Lord Logan is twenty-one in the fall—"

"He's twenty?" Virgil says, interest piqued. "I thought you said he just graduated university?"

"He has," Mr. Braithwaite, and was that near-paternal pride in his voice. "Lord Logan has always been very studious, and he advanced very easily ahead of his peers. He inherited his intelligence from his father."

Then he and Lord Logan were about the same age, give or take a few months. He hadn't very well been able to celebrate his last birthday, and hadn't really been in the mood to, what with his employer on death's door. How odd it would be to serve a peer rather than someone decades his senior.

"—Lords Roman and Remus, they're the twins—thank heavens Lord Remus has gotten it into his head to grow a mustache, it was quite impossible to differentiate between them when they were children—are turning eighteen this summer, Lord Roman some minutes older than Lord Remus, I can't remember the exact number but I'm sure you shall hear of it soon enough."

Lords Logan his employer, then Roman who liked embroidery, then Remus with the mustache, yes, Virgil would be able to remember that.

"A great many celebrations this year, all we should be thankful for," Mr. Braithwaite says briskly. “Much to be thankful for indeed."

Virgil isn't sure if he necessarily should act thankful for a family he hasn't met and has just hired him today, so instead he asks a question that people like Fincher had always seemed to like.

"How long have you served here, Mr. Braithwaite?"

Yes, that's the right question. Mr. Braithwaite actually smiles.

"Thirty years in the summer."

"Heavens," Virgil says, startled; that's quite a long time to stay with a family. The longest he'd ever heard was, in fact, from Fincher, and he'd been with the Dockerys ten years.

"Indeed. I came here when I was a lad—not much older than you, I suppose. I was a stableman then. Lord Julian's father Marmaduke—" Virgil stifles a snicker by biting his tongue, "—was quite an accomplished rider, very fond of his horses in the way that Lord Julian is fond of his dogs, and Lord Logan fond of his cats. Then I became a footman, then underbutler, and now head butler for fifteen years. Hard work and loyalty, young man. This family greatly rewards loyalty. You would do well to remember that."

Virgil takes a moment to ruminate on that—literally, just a moment, as Mr. Braithwaite comes to a stop at a well-disguised door.

"Ah, here we are."

And then Virgil remembers he is about to be introduced to the family, and his heart, already going quickly from the brisk pace that Mr. Braithwaite had set, starts pounding in his ears.

Mr. Braithwaite steps through.

Virgil takes a deep breath, wipes his sweaty hands on his borrowed pants, and enters the grand study.

And grand it is. Each towering wall is lined with bookshelves, all stuffed to the brim with books and encyclopedias, with Persian rugs of deep greens line the floor. He can just see two adolescent-looking dogs are tussling with each other over on the grand rug, yipping—a pair of the famed hunting dogs, Virgil's sure of it—with a dog whose black face has gone frosty with gray watching the pair warily.

"Your Mars is much too poorly trained, isn't he, darling Orpheus?" someone with a musical, deep voice says, clicking his fingers for emphasis; the dog that had been pinned obligingly squirms loose and trots out of Virgil's viewpoint. "There, there, it's not your fault my brother and his hound are brutes."

"You must train that dog properly, Remus, otherwise he won't be fit for the hunt when—Ah, Braithwaite," a voice says, different and still deep, still a voice that would belong on the stage in another life.

"The new valet for your inspection, my lord," Braithwaite says, and beckons Virgil through.

And the family—just as grand—are situated around the room.

Standing is a polished man in a fine suit, adjusting his spectacles; from his age, this must be Lord Julian, the current Earl Grantham. On the couch beside him the only woman in a room, in a gown of violet, a brown-haired woman who had been holding up a newspaper for the Earl's inspection, who must be the Lady Priscilla.

Sprawled together on the couches, one petting their dog comfortingly, the other praising theirs, could be no one but the twins; Virgil had never seen two men look so alike, if one looked past the mustache and the smug grin underneath it. And then—

Virgil's mouth goes dry at the sight of the last man in the room.

He's the most handsome man Virgil has ever seen.

His hair is an incredibly soft-looking brown, slicked into place with only a small amount of product, intelligent brown eyes that are only complimented by his spectacles, a perfect cupid's bow of a mouth, slender of frame yet with a softness around his stomach and hips, his legs seem to go on forever and yet he's perhaps only a half-head taller than Virgil, proportioned so well in contrast to Virgil's constant lankiness, and what a delightful height he is, for everything about him seems so delightfully perfect...

Please be a footman so I can attempt a torrid affair with you, please be a footman so I can attempt a torrid affair with you—

Even as he's thinking it, Virgil knows there's no way. The finery of his clothes, his presence amongst the rest of the family, the way he's casually in the middle of a book that must surely be from this library, the way he's looking Virgil up and down with a scholarly sort of interest, as if evaluating him, this must be—

"Lord Logan," Braithwaite says. "This is Virgil Anthony, your new valet."

Fuck.

"Mr. Anthony," Lord Logan says, in a voice just as pleasant as the rest of his family's, and yet his seems the best, the most striking, the most pull yourself together Virgil that is your boss, "A pleasure."

Virgil bows at the waist the way Sister Leonella had always insisted, since bobbing just the head made one look like a chicken, remembering himself just in time.

"My lord," he says, his brain saying yes, yes, please be mine, please be mine to hold, to kiss, to—

Shut up, he hisses to himself, and straightens back up from his bow.

Now he understands why the Sisters had railed against lust so; he'd never understood before.  He can only hope that Lord Logan has perhaps a repugnant personality, to offset his stately looks, and perhaps knock Virgil into some kind of sense so that he'll stop being such a blithering idiot, even if it is just within his own mind.

The rest of the family murmur greetings that Virgil manages to tear his eyes away from Lord Logan to return, in suitably conscientious fashion. 

Lord Julian tells Braithwaite of some business with the post office if he could get one of the footmen to take care of, if he pleases, and then Braithwaite is leading him out of the room again, and back down the servant's hall, and then the kitchen, and the quarters that are now his.

And then it hits Virgil as he sits on the bed that is now his, in a room that is modest and yet nonetheless much larger than his room at the Dockerys, which had been barely more than a closet, trying his very best to remember everything he’s been told but his mind circling back to Lord Logan, Lord Logan with his fine features and fine hair and fine face and fine body...

A realization makes him sit bolt upright.

It's going to be his job to dress and undress Lord Logan. 

Which means seeing Lord Logan in states of dress and undress. Touching Lord Logan in states of dress and undress.