Birds of a feather // Saltburn fanfic

Breakfast

A con man, a grifter, a crook, a swindler, a scammer, a fraud, a gouger, a rat, an arsehole, a wanker, a motherfucking cheater Francis had been called before. No not called. More like accused of. Allegedly.

Allegedly Francis was a fucking grifting rat. So what? No one had any proof. These allegations had no weight. It was gossip, merely rumors.

And it didn't bother Francis the least bit anyways. They didn't think any of it was true really. They rather thought of themself as a hard worker, an opportinist, a self-made aristocrat, a hedonist, an enjoyer of the finer things, a genius, an übermench.

They've grown aware of Mr. Oliver Quick from the rumors of all the lavish parties he had been throwing at his newly bequeathed manor. Saltburn. Ever since the first time Francis heard of Saltburn and the enormous amount of accumilited wealth within it they knew they wanted a slice of it. A young bachelor with no family and all the money one could ever need, should be an easy enough target, right?

Francis started sending letters to saltburn in January.  Letters of an irresistible offer. Asking Mr. Quick to showcase some of the artifacts of saltburn at Francis's London gallery. This was an amizingly reliable formula, tried and true many times with many of englands old-money idiots. They get press coverage, clout and fame all of which their greedy and narcissistic selves can't fucking resisit, meanwhile Francis gets rich from selling a few peices on the black market and returning very convincing fakes to the original owners. It's honestly a win-win situation. A symbiotic relationship.

Now it was early March and Francis was in a cab approaching Saltburn. After numerous letters Mr. Quick finally wrote back and invited Francis for breakfast to discuss their offer.

None of the photos Francis saw of the estate could prepare them for how grandiose Saltburn actually was. The gate alone schoked them to the core as it seemed it was built for giants rather than mere humans. But they had little time to marvel at the entrance because before even knocking the doors opened with surprising ease and man greeted them standing as still as the marble statues of Saltburn.

'Francis Brown?'

'Yes.'

Duncan. Francis had heard about him. A living and breathing part of Saltburn. The soul of the manor. If anyone would grow suspicion of Francis's operation it would be him. Someone who has been at the estate for what seems like centuries, someone who knows and sees everything, someone who has ears and eyes where no one else has, someone who carries everyone's secrets. Francis hated him already and it seemed that the feeling was very much mutual.

'Come. Mr. Quick is waiting.'

The sound of their collective footsteps echoed from the marble floor to the colourful wallpaper covered walls to the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Francis's eyes jumping from one detail to another, from the painting to the vase to the quartz bust. Like the eyes of a pretador scanning it's prey searching for the most delicious cut of meat.

Eventually they reached the dining room what Duncan signaled as halting in his elegant march and standing flush against the wall by the entrance. Big windows draped by thin curtains letting in the weak rays of sunshine escaping through the cloudy morning sky, a big Art Nouveau style mahagony table, vintage dark portraits of long dead aristocrats and royalty on the wall, the smell of freshly brewed coffee, and Mr Oliver Quick himself.

'Mx Brown!'

He exclaimed and stood up to shake the hand of the stranger before him. He was wearing a light blue v-neck tightly knit sweater with the collar of a white shirt poking out from below and light tan coloured trousers.

'Call me Francis. I insist.'

A quick and firm handshake, a gesture to the chair beside him a pat down on his sweater after sitting down. All of the usual boring polite maneuvers, as painstakingly unnatural all of it was it came naturally to both of them at this point after all these years.

'All right then, Francis. Coffee?'

They discussed Francis's proposal, the logistics of moving the pieces, potential paintings and different artifacts to showcase, financial aspects, possible dates for the opening. Francis had had this exact same discourse dozens of the times with the exact same old-money, never-had-to-work-for-anything-in-their-lives idiots before. It was nothing new to them and honestly at this point sometimes even Francis themselves believed that they were only doing this kind of thing for the art and the gallery. They might have been playing their role for a little too long and a little too convincingly afraid so.

After a few hours Duncan entered the room and discreetly whispered something to Oliver what made him stand up and ask Francis to end their meeting as he had other affairs to tend to.

'How about lunch next week?'

'That would be lovely.'

Francis offered a polite smile and gathered their papers from the table and put them back in their leather bound portfolio.

'It was such a pleasure to finally meet you Oliver, I'm glad to be working with you. But I hope our relationship doesn't end with business.'

Another handshake and another nauseatingly fake and polite line.

'Oh I'm certain we will be good friends Francis, we have a lot more in common than you think.'

Oliver squeezed Francis's hand after speaking then entered the room in a hurry, leaving Francis with Duncan who was so very eager to show them to the courtyard where a driver was already waiting to take them back to town.