Archive of Our Own ^beta

During the first two years of his employment by master Beck, Tony has met the master himself on many occasions to discuss salary, working hours and tasks. It is all purely professional, however, but it is the master himself who keeps it that way. Tony would not mind talking about other things now and then too. After all, his work is sort of solitary when the rest of the staff of the house have their tasks inside. Occasionally, the maids do come out to put up the laundry to dry in the sun. It is not that the gardener is not allowed in the house, but he does not feel like he has a good enough reason to enter. His duties are outside, in the garden, as clearly stated by his employer, master Beck. Besides, Beck’s true treasure is inside that house. And that is his much younger husband, Peter.

On even rarer occasions, Tony will be lucky enough to see Peter. One time, he saw him in the open window on the West side of the house, up on the second floor. It was right after a heavy rain, and the young man seemed to be breathing in the chill and moist air. Tony had watched Peter for as long as he could, without being detected, before resuming his work. The next time he saw Peter was a month later, and he saw the young man leaving the house in a hurry with a suitcase. The gardener did not see him return, but he assumes he must have at some point. The next time Tony saw Peter, was in early spring, when there were still piles of snow lingering in the garden and resisting the sun’s heat that was starting to return to claim the land after its’ winter absence. The young man was dressed in all black. One of the maids had told Tony that his aunt had died, hence the black clothing. Tony recalled seeing Beck leave for work the next morning in a new brown suit.

It all began that spring, when Peter’s aunt had died.

————

Tony wanted to console Peter, but Beck’s instructions, both explicit and implicit ones, kept him from entering the house. He cannot go in the house, his work is outside in the garden. Peter is not a flower in the garden he is obligated to tend to. And yet, Tony had to offer his condolences and so he started picking flowers and left them by the window on the second floor of the Western side of the house. The gardener had seen Peter in that window once, so that is his best guess at which room belongs to Peter. Tony had climbed up the ladder he had set up against the brick wall, only to have to climb back down when he realised the three white roses he had picked would just be blown away by the wind. On the second try, he brought a stone along with him, and placed the stone on top of the stems of the roses. The gardener had cut off the thorns beforehand, since he did not want to cause Peter more hurt.

The next day, the roses were gone from the window sill, and Tony was positive that the stone had been moved, and not by the wind. Just like the butterflies’ wings in the garden, Tony’s heart fluttered lightly, like he had been blessed with youth and resilience. His weather-beaten face cracked into a wide grin, and for the rest of his workday, he whistled.

———

And so it began, and so it continued. Every Sunday from then on, Tony picked flowers and placed them under the stone on the window sill on the second floor on the Western side. Even during winter, he placed flowers there.

A gardener like himself could hardly get by without flowers for a whole winter, and that was why he grew some in his tiny cottage, at the very edge of the Beck estate. Tony had never seen Peter take the flowers, but he must take them, since on Sunday evening or Monday morning, the flowers were always gone.

Tony was madly in love.

And a year later, he fell even harder.

———

The tulips have finally opened their petals fully, and Tony takes his gardening glove off of his right hand to feel the silky texture of the flower under his fingertips. The gardener smiles at how beautiful the tulips’ lavender colour turned out this year. A bumblebee flies clumsily across Tony’s range of view, bobbing up and down in the air as it struggles to keep its altitude with its heavy and fluffy body dragging it down. Soon enough, the bumblebee catches a break in one of the tulips and wiggles around in search of nectar. Tony hopes more bumblebees join this one and help the garden flower to its full glory. You see, the gardener can only do so much. He still relies heavily on his tiny, winged helpers too.

Rising up from the dirt, Tony dusts his knees off before grabbing the water can. Realising it is nearly empty, Tony pours the last of the water over the tulips before heading to fetch more by the house. There is a water tap by the kitchen entrance, so Tony uses that one rather than going into the house. While walking to the tap, Tony decides that he will leave three of the tulips by the window this time. The lavender colour is so stunning, after all. He bets Peter adores flowers as much as he does.

With three tulips in hand, Tony heads back up to the house, and to the back where the ladder is among the rest of the gardening tools. The wind is still today, and Tony wipes his brow before placing the flowers down momentarily to put up the ladder. After a year of climbing up and down each week, Tony’s fear and dislike of heights is practically gone. It seems like you can get used to anything. Well, most things.

“So, it was you.”

At first, Tony thought it was the wind. His work is so solitary, so there has been more than one occasion where he thought someone spoke to him while he was working in the garden, but it turned out to just be the wind. But, that wasn’t the wind. That was a real, human voice. Or rather angelic, Tony thinks as he lifts his gaze and sees a young man in the open window, smiling down at him.

“Uhm- pardon me- I…”

“No, no! Not at all, uhh…” The young man insists, then pauses to breathe out a nervous chuckle. “Would you come up?”

Looking down at his feet again, Tony makes his way up the rest of the ladder till he has reached the top step and rests his hands there. Peter is even more stunning up close. Whichever image Tony created in his head of the young man, well… It could hardly compete with reality. That was assuming this was reality. Because Tony would have bet he was in heaven now. Perhaps he fell from the ladder, and this was the angel greeting him by the gates.

At first, Tony found himself captivated by the young man’s irises. The colour reminded him of the earth and soil he planted flowers in, the bark of the trees along the gravel road leading up to the house, the fur of the deer that sometimes visit the garden, the dark honey the bees make. When asked, most people say their favourite colour is blue, but Tony thinks lesser of all those people because they are completely overlooking the most beautiful colour of all, and that is brown. The colour of Mother Earth herself, and the colour of this young man’s eyes.

And then he notices the bruises, the hints of purple and yellow under Peter’s left eye.

“What- what happened to you?” Tony asks.

“Oh, uhm- cricket accident. My friends aren’t very good.” Peter explains with a chuckle, and gestures to his bruised eye. He bites his bottom lip, and studies the gardener in front of him for a second. Tony is not convinced by the asymmetrical bruise, but smiles nonetheless. “I don’t believe we have met, officially. You’re Anthony.”

“Yes, uhh. Your husband hired me a few years ago.” Tony states awkwardly, and cringes at himself when Peter nods slowly. God, is he boring him already? “But, most people call me Tony.” He adds, and Peter seems to perk up again like his interest has been caught.

“Well, Tony, it is a pleasure. I’m Peter.”

“I know.”

———

After that first official meeting, Tony inches closer to the house. He greets the maids when they enter and leave the house, as well as master Beck of course. The gardener can tell a snob from a mile away, and he knows that Beck has some dull job where he has to type all day and obey orders from his seniors all the while pretending he is not being bossed around. They are all being bossed around, that is Tony’s philosophy, and looks up to the sky. After letting his eyes rest on the few white clouds in the sky, Tony’s gaze shifts to the house and to his delight he sees Peter peeking out from a window on the first floor.

“Good morning, Tony! Lovely day!”

“Yes, indeed. Why don’t you join-“

“Absolutely not.”

Tony practically stumbles back when he hears Beck command, and tips his sunhat towards his employer in a greeting. Beck breezes past him, with his work case in hand, without a greeting. With long strides, the master makes his way down the staircase leading to the front door, and down to the waiting car.

Behind him, Tony hears a window being closed shut, harshly, and turns his head just in time to see Peter walking away without wishing his husband a good day at work.

After that, Tony makes sure to only approach the house after Beck has left for work.

———

In the middle of July, Tony notices that the front door to the house is open. There is a large stone holding it open, so the gardener knows it was left open on purpose. He sees it as an invitation, and sets down his gardening tools before walking up the staircase. The air grows hotter with each step he takes, and so the much cooler air inside hits him like a cold bucket of water is poured over him. A few feet inside the house, Tony remembers to take his sunhat off, and quickly combs his fingers through his hair.

To his left, he can hear the soft clatter of dishes and cutlery being washed, and the faint whispering of the maids and kitchen staff. The gardener advances into the house on light feet, and for a second he panics when he realises his shoes might be dragging dirt into the house. Looking behind him, Tony cannot see any tracks nor any dirt, and he sighs quietly before continuing.

To his right, Tony picks up the soft sounds and melodies of smooth jazz. His heart rate picks up in his chest, and like a caged bird his heart hammers and struggles against his ribs. The gardener does not recognise the song that is being played, and he feels like an uneducated and uncultured lowlife for it. Perhaps he should just turn around before he embarrasses himself. Remember, Peter is not a flower in the garden he has to tend to.

“Oh, Tony! You startled me, forgive me.” Peter chirps and sits up where he was half laying down on a plush and rose coloured sofa. His face cracks into a smile, and the sight burns Tony’s eyes, like the sun does when reflected off of the pure snow in winter. On light feet, that remind Tony of hopping deer, Peter advances over to him with that smile on his lips still. But, then it fades, and turns into a concerned frown. As does Tony’s, when he sees the bruises. “Oh, my… You look worn out. It must be terribly hot out there. Come, I’ll fetch you a drink.”

All the way to the kitchen, Tony keeps quiet and tries not to rationalise the origins on the bruise on Peter’s eye. If memory serves right, it is on the other eye than the one he saw when he met Peter in the window that one time. The colour reminds him of the tulips’ petals, but unlike with the flowers, the fact that Peter has another bruise on his face enrages Tony.

After calling to the kitchen staff to make them some cold lemonade, Peter leads Tony to a balcony. It is in the shade, and Tony feels cooler and more comfortable already. He is used to the heat, and the outdoors in general, but still a cool place to escape the summer sun is a blessing to him.

And so is being accompanied by Peter.

“I’ve kept them all.”

“Pardon?”

“The flowers you’ve left me.” Peter says, gazing out over the metal railing of the balcony and over at the trees in the garden. “I kept a petal from each of them, and pressed them in between books.”

“Oh.” Tony turns his head to hide his blush. His heart starts flapping like a bird’s wings again.

“Why do you do it?” Peter asks, and Tony can feel his eyes bore into him. He cannot meet the young man’s eyes. It would be like staring right into the sun. “Why do you leave those flowers for me every Sunday?”

“Why do you keep them all?” Peter does not answer him. “Where did that bruise come from?”

“Tony…” Peter starts, but it leads nowhere.

The sun sneaks around the corner of the house and casts its rays on Peter and Tony on the balcony. There is no shade left, and Tony feels the air become thick and heavy within moments. The gardener is just about to leave, but then next to him, Peter abruptly raises his head, like a deer hearing a twig snap in the distance, indicating a possible predator.

“You must go.” Peter says, and Tony gives him a confused look. Then he also hears the tires on the gravel road. “Go.”

And Tony goes.

———

In autumn, on a windy and cloudy October night, a black car speeds up the gravel road to the house. Tony is bringing in the gardening tools to call it a day, but stops to watch the car come to a stop in front of the front door staircase. The car door opens, and a middle aged man with a leather bag runs up the steps. The bag looks familiar, and images of doctors and medical bags sweep across Tony’s mind, leaving an eerie feeling behind.

Dropping the gardening tools, Tony runs after the man.

When the gardener enters the house, the first thing he registers is the chaos. The maids are in a hurry, and upset. Some are sobbing, while others are trying to hold it together. Their voices still tremble when they speak to one another, and ask to fetch more towels. Amongst the chaos, no one registers that Tony has entered the house, and he follows the commotion that is coming from the drawing room.

There, on the floor in a pool of blood, lays Peter. He is unmoving, like a rag doll, and his head lolls back when the doctor cradles his neck. The blood is coming from his nose and from his head.

Tony cannot say anything, nor should he. Because Beck is also in the room. The look that the master gives him makes him violently sick. It makes Tony want to punch back.

“What are you doing here?” Beck barks. “Get out!”

———

Tony does not see Peter again all autumn, nor does he during the wet winter that follows. He still leaves flowers on the window sill every Sunday.

———

The house has always been quiet, no matter the season. If Tony ever hears voices, then it is the maids and other staff of the house. Besides that, the noises in the house include the cars arriving and leaving, and the doors opening and slamming shut heavily.

But, on the day that Peter’s aunt died last year, Tony hears a scream.

The gardener’s ears perk up, like an animal’s whenever they hear a faint sound in the woods. Something is up, and Tony feels his stomach turn, making him sick. He drops his tools, and decides to investigate. At first, he tries to be discreet, but then another scream echoes through the house and out a cracked window, and Tony runs.

He runs as fast as he can, but whether that is the speed of a prey or a hunter, he is not sure. Regardless, he wishes he was faster. The house still feels so far away. It is like he is running through a swamp, and the muddy and unsteady ground keeps dragging him down. Tony pushes on, and takes two steps at a time running up the stairs. He bursts through the door, and searches the first floor. Surprisingly, he cannot find any of the staff members. But, he cannot find Peter either.

An eerie feeling pulls Tony up the stairs to the second floor and his feet carry him to the East side of the house. He enters a bedroom. The bed has been made neatly, and there is not a trace of dust. Everything has its place, from the books on the shelves to the decorative vases on the tables. The room is a picture of perfection, except for the blood on the floor.

There, on the floor, Beck lays unmoving. The blood coming from a large wound on his head has seeped into his three piece suit, colouring it a dark crimson. Tony has never seen his employer in such a state. Usually, he is as well put together as a classy man like himself can be. And now he lays on the floor, cross eyed and breathing poorly.

Peter is stood by the window, gasping in breaths while he holds one hand over his mouth. In his other hand, the young man is clutching a black statue of a stag. The statue looks heavy, but the body of the stag is still small enough to hold in your hand. At first, Tony does not see the blood on the edge of the statue, but then a drop of blood falls from it and onto the carpet.

“Peter-“

“I didn’t- I didn’t mean to- I just- oh, God, forgive me!” Peter wails and drops to his knees. Tony embraces him on the floor, and offers his shoulder for the young man to sob into. “He- he found the flowers I kept! He got f-furious, and… He- he fired everyone! He- he was- going to- come after you, and- and… Then, the statue was in- in my hand. And- and I hit him… I killed my husband!”

Behind them, Beck groans lowly, but remains unmoving. Tony gives his master a glare, offering him no sympathy whatsoever. Kissing the top of Peter’s head, Tony whispers quietly while the young man continues to wail.

“He would have killed you, eventually.”

In his state of shock, Peter continues to wail and speak incoherently, partly explaining, partly praying for forgiveness from above. Tony forces himself to stay above the chaos.

Peter cannot be caught. It is not right, not in any way after everything he suffered through at the hands of his cruel husband. Tony has only seen tiny glimpses through the windows of this household, but he is convinced the bigger picture is cruel, terrible and grotesque. Peter is the beauty, Beck is the beast. But, this beast does not deserve any redemption, not when Tony is writing this story. And so he thinks of a plan.

———

Tony directs Peter to wait in the hallway while he sets up the scene. The gardener wipes the statue clean, except for the blood, but so that no fingerprints are left behind to incriminate either of them. Then, he moves one of the tables to stand beside Beck, only to push it over to the floor. Then, he drops the statue to the floor, right in front of Beck’s nose. The dying man does not flinch, but he turns one eye to look up at Tony. The gardener cannot pinpoint the emotions behind that look, but he has a feeling Beck knows what he is doing.

“You deserve this.” Tony says lowly, his fists clenching at his sides while he looks at Beck gasp in even more shallow breaths now than earlier. He is close. “To die alone.”

Then, Tony walks out of the room. On a chair next to a mirror in the hallway, Peter springs up. His voice trembles when he speaks.

“Is he… is he dead?”

“Yes, he is.” Tony lies. “I’m so sorry, Peter.”

This time, Peter does not wail. Instead, he has a look of determination in his eyes. It is like he has matured a decade within just a few minutes. His eyes look different, and instead of a frightened deer, Tony sees something resembling a cunning fox’s eyes. Still, the shade of brown in his irises is the gardener’s favourite.

“You were right, Tony. He would have killed me.” Peter admits, stepping closer. “Eventually.”

“I’m glad you got him first.”

Peter hesitates, but then whispers.

“So am I.”

———

They catch a midnight train together, then another train, and then a third, all the while averting their gazes from the papers and their front pages depicting a tragic accidental death of a beloved salesman. And the burning question at the bottom.

‘Where is the widowed husband?’

“Did you really keep them all?” Tony asks Peter at the station.

“Pardon?”

“The flowers? The ones I left you.”

Peter nods, a soft smile on his lips.

“I did.”

“Which one is your favourite?”

“I think- white roses. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I need to know, so I can plant a whole field full of them. For you.”

Peter giggles, and Tony’s heart feels lighter. The younger man leans in closer, kissing his cheek sweetly. In the distance, the train announces its arrival with steamy puffs and mechanical whirling before coming to a stop. They walk hand in hand, and step onto the train together.