Marc pulled his suitcase into the parlor of Waverton with his eyes firmly on the Turkish rugs. Unable to manage a glance up at the carved grand staircase he had been thinking about for two months, he shuffled across the carpets towards the front desk. He should've canceled the trip and eaten the five hundred dollar deposit.
"Reservation for Rosini," he grumbled, sliding his credit card across the desk.
"Certainly sir," the attendant said. A tablet was quietly slid back across the desk for Marc to sign, and was soon replaced by a pair of welcome envelops and a brochure, "So I have a reservation for two for the honeymoon sweet, congrat-"
Marc immediately snapped his head up, prepared to give the attendant a withering look. But his scowl died along with the attendant's congratulations. Finally looking forward, Marc found he was not face to face, but had only managed chest-level for the attendant had at least a foot on him. Craning his head up, Marc couldn't help but notice the attendant was built like linebacker. Broad shouldered with massive arms, the man's dark green henley practically strained against his chest. The sleeves were rolled up past thick forearms, and his shirt was unbuttoned. Marc tried not to stare at the patch of fuzz, and went to meet the man eye to eye.
Oh.
The attendant's eyes were a remarkable slate gray, and yet... they were warm. Marc didn't see pity, but sympathy and a little embarrassment. Marc wanted to say something, but every time he tried to pick out the words, they seemed to get fuzzy. Instead, he just stared, until he realized he was staring, they both were.
"Uh-um.. your room is three-uh ten. Up the stairs and down the hall to your right. Breakfast goes from six to ten. Welcome to Waverton." the attendant's voice was quiet as he pulled the second envelop off the desk.
"Thanks."
The suite was magnificent. Of course it was. Everything was carefully crafted and ornate, the perfect example of Gilded-Age splendor. The bedroom had a huge four-poster bed, raised up like an altar. It competed for space with the huge window, and writing desk. Pulling back the curtains, Marc could make out the shimmer of the lake in the evening light, as well as the tulip gardens laid out below.
Marc grabbed a pillow, unsure if he wanted to weep into it, or throw it across the room. He settled for slowly grinding a fist into it.
Fuck. For two months he had planned their three year anniversary weekend, then the week before, Jamie had decided to end it. Now he got to spend four days in a beautiful mansion in absolute misery, because it was too damn late to cancel.
Marc grabbed the remote, and flipped on the television. At least he had HBO.
Marc reclined easily on a grassy hill overlooking the lake. It was dark but the waters caught the moonlight and cast everything in silver. His eyelids heavy, Marc began to drift. Hands moved slowly over his shoulders and across his chest. He could feel their warmth against the cool night air. One hand slid down his stomach and tucked under his belt, tracing little circles on his skin.
Almost involuntarily Marc began to rock his hips,waiting as those fingers slid their way slowly to the buckle and button. Jamie was taking his damn sweet time wasn't he?
God, Marc needed this.
Lips touched him softly on the neck, and Marc sighed as kisses climbed up his cheek.
Eventually their lips met, but they were barely kisses. His lips were hesitant. There was a taught tension there Marc wasn't expecting, so he leaned forward for more. Expecting that tension to give way to hungry kisses. But instead he found only cold air.
It made no sense. Jamie liked to tease, certainly, but he was always so direct. More than a little forceful.
"Jamie?" Marc whispered. Letting his eyes open.
Marc lay sprawled across the massive bed, alone, and hard as a rock. Frowning at his morning wood, Marc reached for his phone and went searching for porn.
An hour later, Marc wandered down the stairs, still fixated on last night's dream. Despite never having had sex by the side of a lake, the whole moment felt familiar, a strange sense of deja vu. The parts fit together too well for it to be a collection of half-remembered moments jammed together. Some dream.
Marc smiled ruefully to himself. Better unconscious than not at all. It had been weeks since he and Jamie had sex, or much else for that matter. Just a few half-hearted pecks on the cheek. Not quite the same slow kisses...
Marc started getting hard again, and decided to go for a run.
Before it was sold in the thirties, Waverton had sprawling grounds that went out in thousands of acres in every direction. The Bed and Breakfast had managed to hold on to a sizeable chunk of land beyond the gardens, with a nice set of woods and walking paths.
Even though the day was barely started, it was going to be a hot one. After only a few minutes, Marc was wiping sweat through his dark curly hair. Even if it was difficult to pack weight on his slight build, he still felt painfully out of shape. As he huffed up the next hill, he promised himself that once he was over, and into the clearing he would stop and catch his breath.
Marc came to a dead stop at the hilltop.
"The fuck?" Marc stared out in disbelief. The hill gave way to a clearing, and that small lake he had seen from his window.
The same lake from his dream.
Marc stumbled down the hill, still breathing heavily. The tree and brushline looked a little different, but the shape of the landscape, the slow gentle curve of the water. It was uncanny. With little hesitation, Marc managed to find the exact spot from his dream, a little rise over to the left with a nice view of the water under the shade of an oak tree.
Collapsing into the soft grass, Marc stared out over the water, watching a heron make ripples reflect in the morning light. He must have seen the spot in the website or something. God knows, he spent enough time staring at the pictures dreaming of the long weekend with Jamie.
Though he never actually bought the ring, Marc had toyed with the idea of proposing this weekend. In retrospect, he was grateful for whatever subconscious urge told him not to waste money on a ring.
What a waste, the last three years. They had met through a mutual friend, started dating soon after, and moved in together after a year. They were planning to buy a dog. They had planned to buy a house. They had planned to get married. So many damn plans.
"No more plans." Marc grumbled, fingers digging in among the grass. For a brief moment as he crumpled grass in his fist, Marc felt that same misty memory at the edge of his mind. He had been here before. A wave of melancholy took him for a moment. Loss. His eyes started to feel wet.
"No." it was good to speak into the morning silence. Marc levered himself back up, and made his way back to Waverton, ignoring the little paths that went elsewhere and on to a quiet solitary evening.
It was dark. He could see flickering lights in the distance. Marc grasped a wood column as a hand gently grasped his hip. Another hand was on his cock, moving slowly. Marc bent forward, letting his hips push back. Before he shut his eyes, he saw the lights begin to dim. The air smelled of gasoline.
He could feel Jamie's erection against his ass, pressing in slowly. When reached back to guide it in, it felt different, thinner. But it was slick, and Marc was ready, so he positioned his hips and began to push further back. That familiar feeling of warmth and fullness. Marc's ass twitched, as Jamie slid in another inch. Marc exhaled, and as he pushed down, he felt Jamie's hand holding firm on cock. Still moving slowly. Every movement sending waves of pleasure through his body.
Jamie began to thrust. Slow at first. Achingly slow. Marc couldn't help but eagerly push back to meet him. He tried to widen his stance, but almost tore the pants around his ankles. Instead he gripped both hands on the square wood column, straining to find purchase.
It was faster now. The soft slapping sound as their bodies met grew louder. Every time they met, Marc's toes curled in ecstacy. Jamie sank to the hilt with each thrust and Marc could only moan softly. As he grew closer and closer to orgasm, his pleas to be fucked harder grew loud.
The hand on his dick leapt up and covered his mouth. Marc's eyes snapped open. Pale slender fingers rubbed against his lips. He could see a gold signet ring. There was a figure on the ring but it was hard to make out. But it wasn't Jamie's hand...
"Shhh." the man behind him whispered. Marc could hear the smile in his voice. Hand still over Marc's mouth, the man began to thrust harder and faster. Marc's erection began to slap against his stomach. He bit down on fingers. It was all too much.
Marc thrashed in the sheets as he came. He was awake, sweaty and covered in cum, ass still clenched. He looked around awkwardly. The bedroom was empty. He was alone. He could hear the sounds of people taking breakfast below. "Oh, shit. How loud was I?" Marc whispered, still breathing hard. Painfully aware of the thin walls, Marc flipped on the TV. It was a welcome distraction. He needed something. He still didn't want to think about Jamie, and focusing on that dream... No, he needed distraction.
Despite his almost clock-work need to check his phone every ten minutes, through a monumental act of will, he had managed to avoid social media. He hadn't told anyone about the break up, and wasn't looking forward to the whole thing.
He considered looking at porn again, but after waking up to a fairly epic orgasm, he didn't have the heart to go again just yet.
It was strange. He remembered having wet dreams as a teenager, but it was never so... vivid. It all felt so real. He could swear his ass still felt a little tender. The way he used to feel after one of those marathon morning sex sessions that took him to lunch.
Eventually the TV grew stale and the room a tad stifling. He was running out of options here, he had even missed breakfast. While he still had the option of going into town to shop or having an early lunch, Marc decided to go running again.
Jogging past the tulip garden, he broke into a full stride once he was back in the shade of the wooded paths. He half-remembered something about twenty miles of trails and paths on the website, so where he had turned left for the lake, he went right instead.
He fared a bit better this time. He was still a sweaty mess, but wasn't winded so easily. After a few miles, he even managed a smile. Soon he heard the distant tinny sounds of music up ahead, he must've forgotten his headphones in the room.
On a whim he jogged toward the sound, making his way back towards the road that ran beside the property. The path ran by a house tucked back into the woods. It was a dilapidated affair, in the same Gilded-Age style as Waverton, but an order of magnitude less ornate. A pickup was parked out front. Marc could see a ladder up the front and...
Oh.
The attendant was in the process of painting the windows frames and shutters. In the warm morning sun, he had removed his shirt. His muscles glistened. His skin, though tanned, had just a hint of pink at the shoulders. Just as Marc had imagined, his arms and chest were sculpted perfection. He hadn't pictured the generous spread of hair across the attendant's chest, or that his abs looked like something off a magazine cover. The attendant wore a pair of tattered paint-splattered jeans, pulled low from the tools on his belt. He hadn't seen a V-cut like that since his club days. Marc's breath caught.
"Anything I can help you with?" the attendant shouted down to him.
Shit. Marc had stopped dead in his tracks. He was staring.
"Mr. uh... Rosini?"
"Oh! Uh no... I was just enjoying the..." the music blaring on the radio had a distinctive guitar riff, "Rage against the Machine?"
The attendant grinned and began climbing down the ladder. He had bits of gray paint in his chest hair. Marc was staring again.
"Yeah... phone reception out here is pretty terrible, can't really stream anything... " he gestured at the boombox plugged. The track switched from 'Bulls on Parade' to 'Vietnow.'
"Big Rage fan?"
The attendant chuckled, "I was when I was seventeen. Found some old CDs from when I spent summers here as a kid."
"Oh, so Waverton's a family estate? I thought the Esterfields sold the place back in the thirties."
"They did. My great aunt Clara bought it sometime before I was born, fixed it up. She's been running it ever since."
Marc dimly remembered images of a smiling older woman on the website. She had the same gray eyes as the attendant. "She's done a wonderful job. The place is beautiful."
"It is, but she hasn't exactly spent the same amount of effort on the caretaker's house," he gestured up at the house, which sported new windows, shutters, and new front door, "Or herself," his expression turned glum.
"Oh? Is she OK?"
"She took a tumble in May. Broke her femur. Wasn't taking her meds."
"Damn. I'm sorry. Sounds like you're close."
"She's basically my grandmother. She's staying back with my folks in Boston. I'm here for the summer taking care of things."
"That's very sweet of you. Looks like you're pretty handy too."
He shrugged, "I manage a general contractor business back in Boston. The office is probably happy to have me not fussing over every little detail for a while."
Marc blinked, the man in front of him looked barely twenty four.
The attendant gave a whistle, "Shit! I must be dehydrated, going on like that. I'm Ryan by the way." He held out a hand. It had some paint on it, but Marc took it eagerly.
"No, it's nice to talk to someone. I'm Marc, but I guess you probably knew that already."
"Yeah. But it's nice to meet you anyway. You enjoying the honeymoon suite?"
"Yeah... its nice," suddenly Marc felt a familiar weight in his stomach.
Marc's expression must have looked awful, because Ryan winced in response, "Hey, looks like you were out for a run. Want some water? I'm boiling." Marc smiled a little at Ryan's awkward attempt to change the subject. He nodded, and Ryan walked down the gravel drive around the house. Marc followed, admiring the work Ryan must have done in the last month or so. He also admired Ryan's ass, well framed even in those sagging jeans.
"So I have water here in the garage, beer too if you're interested. Marc?"
Marc was speechless. The garage was a wide open affair, practically a stable. Its three bays were supported by squared wood columns, freshly painted in white.
"Marc?"
"Mmm w-water's fine." He could almost smell the gasoline again. His body clenched. First the lake and now this. This wasn't on the website. Couldn't be.
Marc almost dropped the water bottle.
"Seriously, are you ok man? You're pale as a sheet."
"Yeah," Marc took a swig from the water, it was a welcome distraction, "h-has this garage always been part of the caretaker's house?"
"I think so. Mr. Esterfield was supposedly wild about cars. Owned quite a few."
"Huh. Interesting." None of this made sense. How could he dream of a place he'd never been before? Who was he dreaming about, who-
Ryan had a hand on Marc's shoulder. It was warm. Marc blinked, his train of thought derailed. Marc gazed up at Ryan's worried expression. Ryan stepped in closer. Marc could smell fresh paint and salty sweat on Ryan's skin. Marc shivered, and briefly considered running a hand against Ryan's stubbly cheek.
"Listen," Ryan's voice was a quiet rumble, "I know this weekend wasn't exactly what you had in mind. But it's gonna be OK."
"No it's not that... well I mean, it's that too. I just haven't slept well the last few nights."
Ryan frowned, began to lean in further before jolting ramrod straight,, "Fuck. Listen Mr. Rosi--Marc, that was waaaay out of left field. Your business is your business."
Marc chuckled quietly, "I booked the honeymoon suite for two, and showed up alone. I might as well have been wearing a sign that said dumped across my chest."
Ryan shrugged, "Wasn't my place to ask. Aunt Clara would lay me out if she found out I was talking to a guest this way."
"Yeah, but how often do guests come by this way?" Ryan could only shake his head in response, "Listen, it was nice meeting you Ryan. I should let you get back to painting."
"You too. I hope you have a good weekend Marc, and put whatever-his-name-is out of your mind while you're here."
"I'll try." Marc said, grinning but not sure why.
Marc had finished his run and was coming back from lunch before he realized that Ryan had basically mentioned that he knew Marc was gay. He was grinning again, despite himself. He didn't think he dressed particularly gay. He had been wearing running shorts and tshirt this morning. Most people saw him as a nerd far before they saw gay. A masters degree in data-science and years spent behind a computer had earned that well enough. Maybe Ryan had seen him ogling his shirtless hairy chest.
Or maybe...? No. Even if that chiseled slab of man was gay, there was no way he would have eyes for Marc. Marc wasn't even looking. He had just broken up... No, he had been dumped. Still... No. He was probably taken. Although... he certainly wasn't wearing a ring...
A ring.
The memory of last night's dream came roaring back. It didn't make any sense. Maybe he was going crazy. Seeing patterns that weren't there. Still...
Marc sat down at the table in the dining room. Despite his interest in Waverton, he had barely spent any time outside of his room. So now, sitting in the grandest room in a grand old house, he took the time to study his surroundings.
Delicately crafted wood panel ceilings, Flemish tapestries on the wall, and an ornate marble fireplace. Waverton had been built with expense and care. Clara had clearly kept the place up with great care, a mountain of money, and a love of the period and the Esterfield family. Winston and Edith Esterfield sat larger than life in the oil portrait above the fireplace. The man with his bushy brown mustaches seemed to sit in judgement, a dead man overlooking an empire long collapsed. He was dressed in the same somber black suit almost every man wore from that era, with a signet ring on his right hand.
Marc drew closer. Each step bringing the ring into greater detail. It was a simple gold circle with the image of a sphinx and the letter E caught with delicate detail by the brush of a master painter.
Even in the dining room with its tapestries, even in the summer, Marc shivered. It was unmistakably the same ring from his dream. Unable to look any longer, Marc fled back to his room.
He had tried to go to sleep early that night with little success. Whether it was the thought of dreaming again, or what those dreams meant, he just couldn't. Hours passed and he just lay staring at the ceiling. His phone buzzed. It was midnight when he rolled over, grateful for the distraction. It was a text from Jamie.
*Can we talk? *
He immediately regretted checking his phone. He had no idea what to do. He could respond. What could he say? 'Hey, Jamie. I'm glad you texted. I've been sort of going crazy without you. Well not sort of... I keep dreaming about getting fucked by a lumber-baron dead for more than 80 years...'
Are you OK?
Marc turned his phone to silent. Got out of bed and, still in his PJs, made his way downstairs.
The B&B kept a nice coffee, tea, and baked-goods station in Waverton's massive solarium. It was open 24-7, and at midnight, it was sure to be empty. Maybe there was some chamomile or something to slow his pulse.
Marc found Ryan camped beside the tea-station, frowning at spreadsheets at a laptop, a steaming mug beside him.
"Oh. Hey again." Marc declared quietly, trying not to startle him.
Ryan looked up and smiled, "Still can't sleep?"
Marc shook his head, and started water boiling on the electric kettle. Almost imperceptibly Ryan pushed out a chair next to him, which Marc took after finding a bag of chamomile.
"Still trying to manage the office from out here?"
"Looking at Waverton's finances, actually." Ryan's voice was downcast.
"Oh."
"Yeah, I'm glad Aunt Clara has started keeping electronic records, but she doesn't organize it so well. And it's in excel." Ryan made a face.
"Need any help? I don't use excel that often at work any more, but I have a degree or two in data-science."
Ryan chuckled, "You may regret that offer, but for the moment, I'm OK. I still remember a few things from school."
"Where'd you go?"
"Boston College. Finance. You?"
"U Mass." Marc responded, sticking out his tongue.
"Should've charged you double."
Marc laughed, "So how did someone who studies finance end up running a general contractor company?"
"Summer job. I ended up being pretty good at it. Started putting my own crews together..."
"So you ownthe company."
Ryan offered a satisfied smirk, "I figured I could put my degree to use." He finished inputting a formula, and an entire column appeared, most of the numbers were in red, "shit."
"Not good?"
"Nope."
Marc crunched a few numbers in his mind, number of rooms by prices, standard costs, it was entirely off the cuff, "It seems like you do pretty good business here."
"We do, but the real costs are some of the old loans Clara has from buying the estate as one piece. We are getting killed on interest payments."
"So you need to win the lottery, pay it off in one go."
"Or sell some of the land for development," Ryan made a face, "but if we had a big chunk of money, this place could run forever."
"You really care deeply about this place, don't you?"
"It's been my aunt's life. And for me... there's something about this place... even after I turned eighteen, I never stopped coming back."
Marc looked away, for a moment uncomfortable with the weight of the phone in his pocket. "How much do you know about the Esterfields?"
"A good bit, though Aunt Clara knows just about everything, why?"
"I noticed Mr. Esterfield was wearing a ring in the portrait in the dining room..."
"Oh yeah, the Esterfield Sphinx, Mr. Esterfield's father used it for his lumber company, and when he struck it big, the whole family started to wear them. I think we have one in a display case somewhere. You can even see it in a few places around Waverton."
Marc wasn't sure what to make of that. For all its accuracy, the hands in Esterfield's portrait bore no resemblance to the hands in his dream. So he chose a different tactic, "Have you ever heard of strange things happening Waverton? People seeing or hearing things?"
"You mean, is Waverton haunted?"
"Yeah, I guess."
Ryan grinned, "You mean Mrs. Edith finally told you where her lost sapphires were?"
Marc made a face, "No, nothing like that. Maybe a strange dream?"
Ryan's expression grew thoughtful, "Well..."
Marc, playfully smacked Ryan on the shoulder, which brought a grin to his face, "Well what?"
"Aunt Clara would kill me if she found out I told anyone this, but for some weird reason, I can't stop babbling at you. People have occasionally mentioned having strange dreams, and seeing things. Even a few sleep walkers, but that happens at every B&B."
"What did they dream about?"
Ryan looked away, and blushed, "Oh a lot of things. Parties and stuff, Mr. Esterfield I think."
"And getting a pretty thorough ass fucking?"
He burst into giggling. Despite--or because of-- his size, Marc couldn't help but find it rather adorable, "Yeah... now that you mention it..."
"I'm guessing the guests don't share that one too often."
"No, no, can't say that they do," Ryan stared off into the distance for a moment, "I think I was sixteen or seventeen, the first time. It was... intense."
Marc bit his lip before continuing, "Didn't figure you for much of a bottom."
Ryan grinned, "Not usually no, more of a top these days," he turned back to Marc, gray eyes sparkling, "what about you?"
"More bottom-verse I guess."
There was a palpable moment of silence, and Marc was painfully aware of how thin the fabric in his PJs was, and how tight the tshirt Ryan was wearing.
"So you're having the dreams. It only happened a handful of times for me, everything was pretty scattered."
"It's happened both nights I've been here so far."
"Wow."
"Yeah... I... uh... saw the ring in my dream... and the garage at the caretaker's house."
"Huh... I could never remember much detail. Besides... ya know...."
Marc shrugged, "Honestly maybe you should put that on the website."
"Enjoy Waverton's lovely rooms, English gardens, and spectral gay sex?"
"Maybe you can pack this place for Pride."
Ryan laughed loud enough he had to put a hand over his mouth.
With his tea done, Marc bid Ryan goodnight. He thought about staying longer, but Ryan did look busy, and he didn't want to wear out his welcome. As he pulled the covers over himself, he couldn't help thinking, the weekend may be just what he needed.
Marc's steps up the creaking wooden stairs were hesitant, each step heavier than the last. From below he could hear the sounds of music and laughter, but he felt only fear. When the attic door shut behind him, the world grew muffled and close. His nose tickled at the dust in the air among the crates. Winston Esterfield set down a lantern before him, throwing strange shadows on the man's face. He looked older, more severe than in his portrait, his mustache had wisps of gray. His eyes were narrowed and his lip was curled.
"Honestly David, if you insist on embarrassing yourself at every family event, I shall have to confine you to your rooms."
"Good." Marc's voice was slurred.
"Were you trying to ruin your chances with Gwendolyn?" Winston gave an errant wave, his ring flickering in the light, "No matter, there are more Astors where she came from."
"May I retire now?"
"No you may not retire. You are twenty two years old David. You should be looking to succeed me. But look at you! Where's your ring?"
"M-missing,"
"A lot of missing jewelry going around these days," Winston sneered, "You're a shame to the family! A dissapointment! I should," He lifted his fist, Marc winced preemptively. But, Mr. Esterfield slammed his fist into the wall with surprising force instead, splintering wood, and impressing his signet into the wall.
"Get out of my sight," he barked, and Marc fled. Back down the stairs, down through servants stairs and into his room. As he stumbled towards the bed, he caught a quick glance in the mirror by the dresser.
A man with floppy brown hair, blue eyes, in a disheveled evening suit stared back at him. His expression was mournful, and he seemed to whisper something Marc couldn't hear.
Marc woke up shaking.
As soon as he was dressed, Marc made his way downstairs. While most mornings, the smells of coffee, maple syrup, and bacon were irresistible, he made a beeline for parlor. Ryan was seated behind the desk, he beamed when he saw Marc.
"Marc, how are you?"
"I--I had another dream."
Ryan chuckled, "Damn, didn't know I could be jealous of the dead."
Marc blinked, but before he could fully process that statement, he pressed on, "No, this was different. It was... can I ask you a favor?"
Ryan bit his lip, "what can I do for you?"
"I wanted to check something... in the attic."
"Uh... sure. There's a couple coming in soon, see you in about an hour?"
Marc nodded.
Almost a century later, the stairs still creaked and the attack door, now locked, was still heavy and foreboding. Ryan flipped on the lights as they entered, the exposed bulbs sputtered to life, revealing a room filled with boxes, crates, and bric a brac.
"Are you sure about this?"
"Yeah, I think. In my dream Mr. Esterfield punched the wall."
Marc shut his eyes for a moment, letting the nauseous wave of deja vu pass. He walked down halfway through the attic, leaving footprints in the dust. He studied the wall, pushing aside boxes and scooting shelves. Ryan, with deft hands, caught a tumbling vase.
Long minutes passed, Marc's fingers traced along the wall. While he had gone to the lake and the garage unconsciously, he tried to focus on whatever had pushed him there. A longing perhaps. Eventually he came to a large painting leaning against the wall. Marc tried to move it, but the frame was too heavy.
"Allow me," Ryan declared, hefting it aside. But, the cover slipped, and sent out a cloud of dust.
When the coughing subsided, and they had blinked away tears, both Marc and Ryan stared silently, agape. There at chin height, one of the polished boards had been splintered. The circular imprint of the signet was still visibly etched on the wood.
"Holy shit." Ryan gasped.
"They aren't dreams. They're memories." Marc had the distinct impression that the world was spinning, and he shut his eyes. This was too much. He felt ill.
"But who's memories?"
"His." Marc said, gestured to the revealed painting behind him. Between the figures of Edith and Winston Esterfield stood a young man with brown hair, and blue eyes. The man in the mirror. Their son. David. "They're David's memories."
"Huh... I guess that makes sense... I think. David died young."
"How?"
"Not sure, I would have to call Aunt Clara."
"But why? Why am I seeing this?"
"Do ghosts need a reason?"
"Yeah... usually they kind of do."
"I guess." Ryan shrugged, "I feel like I would have remembered if David was murdered. And it's not like he's stashed in the walls somewhere, he's buried in the Esterfield crypt in Boston."
"I wish I knew."
Ryan had work to do, and left Marc with the promise of dinner together. The thought cheered him considerably, but he still wasn't sure of what to make of the man. Maybe he just wanted to hook up. As far as he knew, he was single. Marc wasn't sure, he would have been happy had his boyfriend spent three months away without plans to visit.
Maybe that's why Jamie broke it off.
Marc pushed thoughts of Jamie out of his mind. He had yet to respond to any texts, but he posted a few pictures of the woods and the lake on social media. Didn't read anything, but also he didn't fancy having people call to bombard him with questions. He had enough questions.
Foremost among them, why the fuck was he haunted by the ghost of David Esterfield?
Unfortunately, an issue with one of the housekeepers cut dinner with Ryan short, and Aunt Clara hadn't answered his calls. So when Marc stripped down for bed, he was no closer to figuring things out then when he stood in the attic.
His phone buzzed. It was Jamie.
Please come home. We need to talk.
Fuck. Marc grumbled and pulled the covers over his head.
Marc's vision was blurry, he couldn't focus. Blinking, he felt hot tears roll down his face. A quick glance in the mirror was greeted by David's reflection. His eyes were puffy and his skin sallow. Marc could feel the bone weariness that came after sobbing for hours. He knew that sensation well.
Marc reached behind a vanity and produced a pile of papers tied together with twine and a heavy envelope. Both he crammed into a wax lined metal box. There was a paper on the table. Marc tried to read it, but his vision was still too clouded by tears. He tried to breath, but his nose was still heavy with mucus. Marc watched as he took the paper on the table. Folded it gingerly and placed it on top of the bundle and envelop. He closed the box, and left his room.
The woods were so dark. But he ran. He knew them well. He had spent his entire life exploring them. He knew the way.
The lake was high, it had rained recently, and the ground was soft. Kneeling down, he reached into the muddy earth on the side of the hill. He dug, fingernails breaking, until he had a wet grave for the little metal box. He buried it. He was whispering but, but Marc wasn't sure what he was saying. All he could feel was pain.
Jamie was gone. He was never coming back. It was over. It was all over. What was the point anymore?
Marc took walked into the lake. He let the waters overtake him. They would be together again. As it should be.
"MARC!" Ryan lifted him from the lake.
Marc gasped, and coughed, water clearing from his chest. He collapsed against Ryan's broad shoulders.
"Marc! Say something!"
"Ryan." His voice was barely a whisper. And the world shifted.
Marc came to as he hit the bed. It wasn't his bed. Ryan was standing over him. Peeling of his tshirt and his boxers.
"Christ you're cold."
"W-what?"
Without hesitation, Ryan tore his own shirt off and climbed into bed with him. Ryan's bare arms felt hot against against his skin, but the feel of his broad chest against him felt so good. "Is that better?"
"Yes." Marc answered, and promptly fell unconscious.
Marc woke to the sun streaming in through the window. He yawned. He felt rested. He felt so warm. He began to nuzzle deeper into Ryan's chest. The sudden realization jolted him, waking Ryan.
Ryan looked down, smiling for a moment, before his brow creased, "Hey... you OK?"
"Yeah. I think."
"I... I was working in the solarium again, I saw you leave. I tried to follow, but you ran. You... you were..." He shuddered
"Yeah. I was... David."
"Oh."
"He was in pain. A lot of pain."
"Jesus. Are you ok?"
"Yeah, but... wait...am I naked?"
"You were freezing,"
"Learn that one in boy scouts?"
Ryan chuckled, "yeah actually."
"Well thanks. I mean it. Thank you. You saved my life."
"We strive for service here at Waverton."
Marc shifted, and he felt something pressing against him. He reached down, and grabbed a handful of Ryan's crotch. He pulled away immediately.
"Oh shit, I'm... sorry, I didn't mean."
Ryan blushed, "I think you're ok. I mean.. You're the one who's naked."
Marc could feel Ryan's cock against his hip, he shifted again and felt him twitch through his basketball shorts. He was at full mast.
"Ok, that one was on purpose." Marc said, feeling bold.
Ryan leaned forward to kiss him. It was warm, and his lips were soft. His stubble tickled. Marc could only sigh, and kiss back, wrapped in Ryan's arms.
Ryan's kisses moved across Marc's cheek to his neck. Ryan's stubble dragged across his skin, and Marc inhaled sharply. Marc began to wriggle free of Ryan's arms, pulling himself up face to face. They kissed again, and Marc pulled away to stare into Ryan's warm gray eyes.
Ryan smiled, and Marc could no longer help himself. He dived down on to Ryan's chest, running fingers and nose through his chest hair. Ryan murmured softly, as Marc began to kiss across his chest. As Marc's fingers traced short circles around his nipples, he gasped. Marc smiled against Ryan's chest, before moving lower.
With lips and tongue, Marc worshiped Ryan's abs, and languished over the V-cut that had grabbed his attention before. With one fluid motion, he pulled Ryan's shorts off. Ryan's cock bounced free before hitting his belly with an audible thump.
Marc studied him for a moment. Memorizing the shape of him. Before he pulled himself lower, and approached Ryan's erection.
With not-quite kisses, Marc ran his lips over Ryan's cock. His fingers cupping his balls, and rolling them gently. Ryan's eyes rolled back, and made a sound deep in his chest. Marc left a few last kisses on inner thigh and hips, before finally getting down to business. He began to bob up and down on Ryan's hard-on. Fingers still teasing his balls, and tongue seeming to work on its own rhythm.
Ryan gave a full throated groan as Marc went lower and lower. Soon every time he pulled up, Ryan gave a soft buck to his hips. Marc looked up at him briefly before returning back to work, he kept a steady rhythm at first, but soon he began to go faster, his hold a little more intense.
Ryan's breath grew labored, and his toes began to curl. Only then did Marc, slow, leaving Ryan gasping.
Marc responded with an impish grin, "Do you want to..."
Ryan nodded, and reached over into the night-stand pulling out condoms and lube. He handed them to Marc, who despite having steady movements seemed to shake a bit.
"Are you sure?" Ryan asked.
Marc nodded. As he pulled himself up off the bed, and straddled Ryan's hips.
It had been longer than either cared to admit. So both moved slowly and with great care. Marc lowered himself down onto Ryan, relishing every inch. He was... thicker, and it took a bit longer to relax. But through it all Marc's cock was rock-hard, and began to drip precum on Ryan's stomach.
Ryan responded without hesitation, wrapping fingers around Marc's dick and brushing a thumb over the tip, relishing the sticky smoothness. Marc moaned, and with one last push, he dropped all the way to Ryan's hips.
They stayed there for a moment, staring at each other, before Marc began to rock his hips back and forth. Ryan soon found the tempo and his hips were rising to meet him.
At first Ryan merely held Marc's cock, letting the motion move him through Ryan's fingers. But now he began to move again, one hand slowly jerking him, the other resting gently on Marc's hip.
They never went very fast. Occasionally Marc would plead to be fucked deeper, and Ryan obliged, earning moans and groans. Ryan's hands grew sticky with precum.
"Getting close." Ryan whispered, and Marc leaned forward and picked up the pace. Each thrust ending with a little roll of his hips.
Marc's face contorted, and his fingers grasped Ryan's biceps. Almost without warning he came, shooting all over Ryan's chest.
The sight was too much for Ryan, and he pushed as deep as he would go, coming hard.
The pair collapsed in a heap of sweat and seed. With Marc chuckling against Ryan's chest.
"What?"
"You know," Marc said, "I don't think I ever asked for your last name."
Ryan snorted, "It's Graham."
"Nice to meet you Ryan Graham, I'm Marco Rosini, but you can call me Marc."
After a shower, Marc crept downstairs following the sounds of Ryan in the kitchen and the smell of coffee. His clothes were in the dryer so he had only a pair of overlong basketball shorts. Ryan assured him that neither guests nor staff usually stopped by the Caretaker's House unannounced.
Marc stopped to take in the menagerie of photos down the stairs, paying special attention to a young Ryan who seemed to have gone through an unfortunate punk phase in his early teens. But, one faded photo in particular drew his eye.
It was a couple, seated. Their expressions were somber. Behind them stood a young man in driver's garb. Their son. His long expressive hands draped easily over their shoulders.
"Shit!"
"What is it? What's wrong." Ryan called, dashing out of the kitchen.
"Nothing. I think. Who's in this photo?"
"Uh... that's the Petersons, I think they were the first caretakers at Waverton. Why?"
"Get a shovel, I think I've figured it out."
It wasn't hard to find the box. A little bit of digging beside the oak tree, and they found what they were looking for. The box was still well preserved by the wax, but it still took a hammer to pry it open.
At the top was a letter, the ink was faded and blotched. The wording was in terse capitals.
MR AND MRS ARTHUR PETERSON,
WE DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SON, GABRIEL PETERSON, WAS KILLED IN ACTION ON THIRD JUNE 1918 IN FRANCE. PLEASE FIND ACCOMPANYING PERSONAL EFFECTS: ONE GOLD RING.
DIR OF RECORDS, US EXPEDITIONARY FORCE
Marc handed the letter to Ryan. Beneath it he found the stack of papers, wrapped in twine. Letters, written in two hands, one long and languid, the other short and cramped. A quick thumb though, confirmed his guess. Letters passed between David and Gabriel. The signs of a relationship that stretched at least two years.
At the bottom the final heavy envelope. Pulling the twine gently, he saw the same long lettering, David's handwriting, scrawled across the tab: Liberty Fund.
Marc opened it and gasped, and drew Ryan away from reading the letters. Pouring the contents out, Marc revealed a wealth of sapphire and diamond necklaces, brooches, earrings, and bracelets.
"Fuck, Mrs. Edith really did have lost sapphires." Ryan gasped, "I thought Aunt Clara was joking."
"Ryan," Marc whispered, "these are worth millions. You could..."
"Settle Waverton's debts with more than enough left over." His eyes grew wet, he leaned down to kiss Marc.
Hours and another round of sex later. Ryan was in the other room chatting excitedly with Clara over the phone. Marc stared at his phone. Jamie's texts waited unanswered.
Can we talk?
Please come home. We need to talk.
*We can talk later. I'll be at Waverton a bit longer. *