A Long Weekend at Waverton

"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 own the 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.