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.
