Chapter Text
Opening your eyes, you stare at the stained gray ceiling above you, willing the images from your dream to ghost back into the recesses of your mind. You don’t want to move, but you can hear Marcus jostling around in the next room. He will slam through your closed door and cajole you out of bed if you remain here much longer.
You release a long sigh and then slowly push yourself up to a seated position, swinging your legs to the side of the bed. The motion takes most of your energy. You stare at the gray wall that stands a few feet from your bare toes. Your eyes coast down the pitted cement surface to the stone floor beneath your feet. With another deep sigh you push yourself off the bed, your soft cream-colored nightgown ballooning over your ankles and covering the tops of your feet.
You stand here staring at the mold-specked wall for another moment before turning and sleepwalking to the foot of the bed to pluck a knitted brown sweater from a rickety wooden chair that stands in the corner of the room. The cardigan is nearly three sizes too large for you and masculine, but you wrap it around your thin shoulders and huddle inside.
As you shuffle to the closed door, you hear the sounds from the other side pause. Marcus is aware of your movements. You grasp the doorknob and slowly slide the door back to reveal the adjoining room.
Glancing past your brother, you take in the small living room where he has already folded up the sheets and blankets he uses to make his bed on the couch each night. Your eyes drift back to him. He is motionless, waiting. He tries a small smile but it fades quickly when it is not returned.
Your eyes travel around the small kitchenette in which he stands, taking in the tiny ice box, single burner stove, dated but pristine counters. A plate holding a tiny loaf of bread is sitting on the counter to the left of his hip. The short knife he was using to hack through the loaf hovers in his hand as he stares at you.
Suddenly, you are aware that your cheeks are wet. You reach a hand toward your face, wiping at the fluid that is running from your eyes. You drop your gaze to your wet fingertips amazed that you could still have tears inside you after crying so much the last few days.
Marcus sets the knife on the plate and moves to you, gently wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pulling your face to his chest. His movements beg to remind you that you aren’t alone. You aren’t lost. Your entire world has not been destroyed. His action makes the tears flow faster.
“Sh, sh,” he whispers, his chin resting on the top of your head. You cry silently for a few moments, thankful your sorrow is past the sobbing that occurred only days ago when you learned they were gone.
After much too long, Marcus pulls back, gripping your shoulders and holding you at arms length. He stares down at you with pity and concern. “We have to get back to work today,” he says softly. “If we don’t start working again, we will starve to death.”
His words are spoken gently but hold a heavy weight of truth. You nod, using the backs of your hands to swipe at your wet face. He takes a step back but stays close for a moment assuring himself that you won’t crumble to the floor before he returns to the plate and drops his eyes to the bread.
Cutting a thick slice of the coarse, dry loaf he extends his hand to you. You take the bread, holding it in your hands before wrenching off the smallest crumb and bringing it to your lips.
As a shrill shriek breaks the silence in the room, Marcus spins to the small stove behind him, yanking a gold teapot from the single burner and placing it on a board that sits on the counter. He retrieves two peach-colored cups and a small wooden box from the narrow single cabinet over the stove.
You watch as he drops a tea bag in each cup and smothers it with hot water. It strikes you as strange that he would speak of the two of you starving to death yet chooses to indulge in the use of two tea bags.
As your grandparents had taught you both, most days Marcus would steep a single bag, dividing the liquid between the cups and topping them with more hot water. This made for a watered down version of the black brew but allowed your stash to stretch much longer.
As the tea steeps, he returns to the loaf of dry bread, hacking a slice off for himself. Watching him gnaw on the stale slice draws a sweet memory from your mind.
In your vision from at least ten years ago, Marcus is around 12 and you are probably ten. Your Grandpa Reginald busts through the front door of the apartment with a small package held protectively in the palms of his hands. Grandma Marta turns with a warm smile playing across her lips.
“What have you got, Reg?” she asks as he bustles toward her holding his palms out. She peers at his hands for a moment before her eyes dance up to his face and her smile widens. “Butter?” astonishment laces her reaction.
“What’s butter?” Marcus asks, pushing off the couch where the two of you had been sitting together sharing a book. You place a small slip of paper in the book and follow him to the kitchenette.
“It’s a delicacy, children,” Grandma Mar answers, turning to pull a small dish from the cabinet. “It flavors your bread.” She gently takes the small package of butter from her husband, unwraps it and places it in the dish. Then she draws a pair of spoons from a drawer and glides the back of each across the pale yellow brick inside the dish. She hands a spoon to each of you.
Marcus wastes no time jamming the spoon into his mouth. His eyes light up as he tastes the salty substance. You are more hesitant but eventually you lick the back of your spoon.
“It’s salty and sweet,” Marcus exclaims, pulling the spoon from his mouth. You nod in agreement.
“We will have more at lunchtime but for now it goes in the ice box so that it won’t melt,” Grandma Mar hands it to Grandpa Reg, who opens the ice box and slides the dish inside on one of the two shelves.
“It melts?” Marcus asked enthusiastically.
“Yes, it will, but we don’t want that,” Grandma’s tone is playfully scolding. “We want to cherish every ounce of this butter because it’s quite rare these days, especially in the Underground.” She turns back to your grandpa. “How did you get it?” she asks.
“I’ll divulge that when little ears aren’t listening,” he steps toward her, placing a soft kiss on her forehead, his arm wraps around her shoulders for a moment. Her hands come up to squeeze his forearm before they pull away from each other.
“Do you remember butter, Marcus?” you ask softly, drawing his eyes to yours. A smile plays across his lips momentarily before his eyes return to the bread in his hand. He stares for a moment, lost in his own memory before nodding once.
“Sweet and salty,” he murmurs, his hazel eyes drifting back to yours. You gaze at each other for a few seconds before he pushes the remainder of the bread into his mouth and moves toward you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and dropping his lips to the top of your head. “Get dressed,” he whispers into your hair. “We have to get to work.”
After choking down half of the slice of bread, you return to the small bedroom, stepping to a tiny closet to retrieve a pair of dark slacks and a cream blouse. Your grandmother taught you how to sew a variety of clothing but warned you to keep your own wardrobe simple so as not to draw attention to yourself. The last thing women in the Underground needed was attention.
You slide your feet into a pair of worn brown leather boots that your grandfather found for you about a month ago, just weeks before he and Grandma Mar were brutally murdered on their way home from an Underground market. You push the memory of Marcus telling you that they were gone from your thoughts and force yourself to concentrate on the day ahead.
The two of you must return to the seamstress shop that takes up the bottom floor of your building. There are orders to be completed, some several days late already. You are lucky your patrons have been generous, allowing you and Marcus a few days to grieve your loss, but their patience would soon wear thin.
As you open the bedroom door, Marcus pushes himself off the couch but doesn’t move toward you for a moment. You can see the relief playing across his features as he takes in your work attire and neatly brushed hair. He smiles warmly and moves toward the apartment door, leading you down the narrow staircase to the shop below.
Flicking on the lights in the shop and flipping over the open/closed sign in the front window, Marcus readies the store for its first day of business without your grandparents. You glide across the small space and retrieve the order list from the shelf under the front counter and prioritize the work that must be completed.
“Can you cut three pairs of pants from the black wool blend?” you ask your brother before moving toward the sewing machine at the rear of the shop. Scarlet colored material is already cut and prepped near the machine, ready to be transformed into a gown that will likely be transported to Mitras on the surface.
You remember once asking your grandmother why people in Mitras would order garments from your shop in the Underground. Grandma Mar gave two reasons, the first being that they could get beautiful clothing for a fraction of the cost associated with shops in the above ground city. “Besides that, it’s our quality of work,” she added, her eyes twinkling. You never knew if the second comment was the truth or a joke.
Marcus unrolled several yards of wool fabric from a rack on the wall, pulling the cloth across a long cutting table in the middle of the room. He scanned over the order list before retrieving the correct pattern from a box beneath the table. After arranging the pattern in a way that would utilize the fabric most efficiently, he began cutting the pieces.
The two of you become so engrossed in your work that the sound of the bell over the shop door causes you to jump. You lift your head to the customer who has entered the store. A small gasp escapes your lips as your gaze is met by a pair of eyes, the most unusual shade of icy blue. A frame of thick stark black lashes further contrast the color, giving the man standing at the entrance of the store an air of menace. You turn the word over in your mind, wondering why you have such a harsh impression of a stranger.
Marcus moves to the store front, slightly blocking your view of the man and drawing his gaze away from you. “Levi,” you hear your brother utter the name nervously. “I’m so sorry. We haven’t completed your order yet, but we hope to have it finished today or tomorrow at the latest.”
“What’s the problem?” you hear the man ask. The blunt rudeness of his question combined with the grief clouding your heart and that troublesome look he has given you, spur a loud laugh to burst from your lungs. This reaction puzzles you, but as you examine what could possibly cause it, you find yourself laughing again.
Marcus spins to stare at you, his eyebrows lifted and his mouth dropped open. The man sidesteps your brother to stare across the room. His eyes are cold, but also curious as he watches you attempt to compose yourself.
Pushing yourself out of your chair, you march across the shop to the counter, returning Levi’s glare. “Three days,” you answer. He cranes an eyebrow at you, likely beginning to believe you insane. “That’s all we got,” you continue. “Three days to mourn them before someone comes here selfishly urging us back to work.”
Levi breaks eye contact with you to turn back to Marcus. “Sorry, sir,” your brother stammers. The stuttered apology only serves to heighten your anger.
“Do not apologize, Marcus,” you snap. “Your order will be a day or two late, mister. There is no apology. No one apologized to us when they stabbed our grandparents to death on the street three days ago.”
Levi’s glare softens as you speak. His eyes shift to Marcus and then back to you. “Fine,” he answers dryly. After glancing at Marcus once more he turns silently and leaves the shop. The bell clangs as he disappears around the corner.
Marcus turns to you, a hint of fear playing across his face. “What the hell was that?” he exclaims. His raised voice causes you to shrink slightly. “We can’t lose customers because you are having trouble with your emotions,” he snaps. “Besides that,” he pulls a deep shaking breath. “That was not a customer to piss off.”
“It…I… He was rude,” your teeth clinch as you recall the man’s tone.
“He’s always rude,” Marcus states. “No one, and I literally mean no one, calls him on that, ever.”
“Why? They should,” you snap back.
“That guy,” Marcus huffs, raising a hand to point out the window. “He kills people,” your brother visibly shudders. “For a living.” He pauses briefly, raking a hand back through his shaggy light brown hair. “And you, you just… What was that?”
You have no answer for your behavior. Marcus knows you are sad. He is sad too. And your brother is right that you can’t sit in your room in your nightgown forever. There is work to be done and money to be earned if you ever plan on eating again. You definitely should have kept your emotions in check.
As you take your place behind your sewing machine and bow your head to your work you internally curse yourself for your reaction. But, you also curse this man, this Levi, for being the first customer inside the shop today. Hopefully he is more forgiving than your brother seems to believe.