"Thirty-six, sir."
"Considering you're only one year older than me, stop calling me sir."
"I doubt Mr. Roche-Winston would appreciate that, sir."
"Don't bother with what my father says."
"I can't afford to lose my job, sir, I love gardening and this is a gardener's paradise."
"And if we keep our friendship secret?" Colin suggested.
Bert stared at him before speaking. "Is it really friendship you're offering, sir?" he asked, serious.
Clive hesitated. That gorgeous young man made his head spin. But he couldn't tell on which side Bert was, his gay-dar was blinded by lust. He went around the bush, hoping to get a hint on the other's body.
Bert rotated his chest to follow him with his eyes, but didn't move his feet, showing a great ass in spite of the loose working pants.
"I know about you, sir," Bert continued in a lower voice. "My uncle told me. You can be honest."
"Your uncle told you... what?" Clive asked, surprised, stopping on Bert's left side. The profile showed a bulge on Bert's groin, but it wasn't a hard-on.
"About the boys you take to the park during parties," Bert smiled indulgently.
Clive gulped. The old gardener knew, had always known of his secret passion and nightly escapes but he had never said a word. Clive felt grateful to the old gardener, then looked again at the gorgeous nephew who didn't look very upset at the idea of becoming his lover.
"Are you gay, Bert?" he asked bluntly.
"Yes," the blond angel answered without hesitation. "But I will not be the sex-toy of the rich and bored son of my employer. I don't want to lose this job for that."
"You could lose it for refusing me," he threatened. He wasn't used to being turned down.
Bert moved his feet to turn completely and face him. "Clive, don't play with me," he said, serious. "You have everything, I only have this job, this lodging. Don't break my heart and ruin my life."
Clive hesitated. He only wanted to kiss Bert blind. He pulled the gardener in his arms.
"Don't you think I could fall in love with you?" he whispered, taking off the baseball cap with one hand to dive his fingers in the golden hair. "You're so beautiful..."
He kissed Bert, sliding his tongue between lips that opened to welcome him. A very long, passionate kiss that left them both breathless.
Clive let him go, panting. He wanted Bert right now. He knelt in front of the handsome gardener and unzipped his pants, gobbling Bert's sex with hungry passion.
Bert gasped and let him blow him. Clive made him come and kept exploring the other's lower part until Bert collapsed against him, hard again but ready to be fucked. Clive took him and they came together.
"Sorry," Bert whispered, breathless. He had spread his cum on Clive's shirt.
"It's okay," he replied laying Bert down to kiss him. "I'll come to you tonight," he said tenderly. "Leave the door open. I must go now, but we'll talk again."
"If you call this talking," Bert grumbled, pulling up his pants.
Clive grinned, brushed Bert's lips again and got back on his feet. He had never felt so happy.
***
Clive crossed the moonlit garden at a steady pace. He could have kept his eyes closed for how well he knew every nook and cranny of it. The light in Bert's window appeared from behind a bush and he felt his heart beat faster.
At dinnertime his father had suggested again he should marry, but he had managed a vague answer. Until he had turned thirty-three it had been easy to procrastinate on marriage with the excuse that Christ had died a celibate, but by now it was harder to convince his father he didn't really need a wife. Mr. Roche-Winston wanted him married so he could produce an heir. Clive couldn't tell him he'd never marry.
By visiting Bert, he put both in danger – himself, who would be disinherited if his father discovered his homosexuality, and Bert, who would lose his job. But he wanted the gardener so much, he was ready to risk it.
He knocked on the little house door, and Bert immediately let him in. Clive hugged him, kissing him voraciously, but could feel Bert stiffening in his arms.
"What?" he asked, holding Bert tight.
"I'm scared," Bert admitted with a sigh.
"About what?"
"Your whim."
"It's not whim. I've never wanted anyone like this."
"It's lust. You'll get bored. You don't even know me."
"I'll pay you if you want."
"I'm not a hustler."
"Then why did you open the door?"
Bert pushed him back, freeing himself from Clive's embrace. "Clive, I could love you even if you weren't rich, and that's why I don't want to be a pastime for you,"
"I'm not a child anymore," Clive replied. "I want a lifelong relationship too. I'll buy an apartment. We could move there together. I can't keep the truth from my father for much longer, thus I'd love to leave with you. I'm sure we can work things out."
This time Bert smiled, and Clive felt relieved. They could use the family money to get settled before being kicked out, so they better keep their love story secret for now.
Bert allowed him to make love to him again, returning passion with passion. Clive went back to his room at dawn, exhausted but happy.
***
Mr. Roche-Winston decided the date of his son's wedding and the lucky bride's name. Enough procrastination, Clive was making a fool of him.
The butler told him his son hadn't come down for breakfast yet, so he went to Clive's room. But it was empty and it looked like Clive hadn't slept there.
He screws servants, that's why he doesn't want to get married! Mr. Roche-Winston thought, furious.
He called all the mansion personnel, but none of them had seen his son. The only one missing was the new gardener, so Mr. Roche-Winston exited the mansion to look for his newest employee. But he stopped in the door of the little house at the back of the park, startled.
Clive was there, in the arms of the young gardener. They both lay naked on the carpet, only half-covered by a blanket. They were still asleep, oblivious.
"Clive!" Mr. Roche-Winston snapped out of his surprise to voice his indignation.
Both were startled awake, and Bert looked worried and guilty, but Clive didn't look upset.
"Morning, Dad," he grumbled sleepily, holding his lover tighter.
"Clive, go back to your room right now," Mr. Roche-Winston ordered sternly.
"I'm not fifteen anymore, Dad," his son reminded him, bored. He had closed his eyes, but his voice was steadier – Clive was definitely awake now.
"Clive, don't you dare... You'll get married next weekend!"
"Says who?"
"I say so!"
"Augh, oh great chief. I'm not following your orders anymore."
Clive opened his eyes and sat, staring defiantly at his father. His sarcasm and his determination proved he wasn't a child anymore. But he was also a damn faggot.
"You're fired," Mr. Roche-Winston told the terrified gardener. "As for you, if you're not at the altar on Sunday, you're out of this house forever! And don't even think you can take anything with you – you own nothing here!"
"The car, Dad." Clive scoffed. "It's in my name. You can keep the rest."
"You'll come back begging," he said through clenched teeth before storming out.
***
Clive sighed and relaxed. He turned to look at Bert who was still breathless.
"Hey," he said tenderly. "It's okay. You know how much a Porsche is worth? I can sell it."
"But we don't have a house or another job yet," Bert protested. "Oh, God, my uncle will kill me."
"Nobody will hurt you," Clive assured, hugging him. "Get your stuff, I'll grab the car keys."
The servants saw him rush by in jeans and T-shirt – brand new as his usual wardrobe had only suits. He didn't want anything from the house, his memories were of the boys that had spent some time with him – so it wasn't too hard to say good-bye to the mansion. As for the Porsche, i
t was just a car.
He sold it immediately to get some cash. They took a room in a modest residence and started looking for a house and a job.
Bert was calmer now. He called his uncle to tell him the news and Jeremy's comment was, "I knew it would end up like this." Clive told him it was his fault, but the old gardener answered that he knew that too. "Take care of my nephew, and call me if you need me," he concluded.
Clive hung up the phone, thoughtful. "I think he gave you his job on purpose," he told Bert.
"I think so too," Bert admitted with a sigh. "He knew how it would end before we even met."
"And he was right." Clive grinned, taking him in his arms. "Love you, Bert..."
Legacy
The refrain of Pet Shop Boy's Rent repeated itself in a loop inside Chris's head. The lyrics had been bouncing in his head since he had met John, but it was becoming an obsession now.
He stopped wandering aimlessly up and down the hills of San Francisco and headed for the Victorian houses. He had to do something, he was sick of waiting. He reached the address and rang the bell with his heart in his throat.
I have the right to be here, he repeated to himself to gather his courage, even if he knew it wasn't completely true.
A woman opened the door. She was tall, dark-haired and stared at him with a haughty expression. She wasn't beautiful, but she was very elegant. The house was obviously wealthy and she must be the lady of it.
"Good morning, Ma'am, may I see John?" Chris asked quickly.
She studied him, wary. "He's very sick," she answered bluntly.
"I know, Ma'am, that's why I'm here," he replied, trying to remain calm.
"And you are?" she asked.
"My name is Chris, I'm a friend."
"I'll let you in if you talk to me first."
Chris hesitated. He knew he was talking to Sylvia, John's wife. The only obstacle between him and John. If he wanted to see him, he had to agree to the conversation, no matter how uncomfortable he felt about it.
"All right," he said, staring at his feet.
She let him in and guided him to an expensive-looking living room.
"I know my husband has a lover," she said, walking up and down on her Persian carpet, oblivious to good manners.
Chris stood still. He didn't want to sit down anyway, he only wanted to rush upstairs and see John. Sylvia's words didn't really register with him, until she turned to look him in the eyes, determined.
"You're his friend," she said. "Did he tell you anything about that bitch?"
"I... I don't know, Ma'am, we didn't talk about that," he answered, embarrassed. "May I see John now?"
"I understand you're younger than him, so maybe he didn't tell you everything, but you're his friend and I've never met you, I sure hope you're not covering for that bitch. Because I'll get her, eventually, you can bet on it."
"I'm sure you will, may I see John now?"
Sylvia snorted, unaware of his heart threatening to explode, and guided him upstairs. Chris held his breath before looking at the king-sized bed.
John looked dried up, the shadow of his former self. It had been too many months since Chris had last seen him, and his heart started beating faster again. Damned cancer!, he thought with a lump in his throat. John's light was fading out way too quickly.
Oblivious of Sylvia, he sat on the bed and took John's skinny hand with both his. He kissed the bony fingers, like he had done so often when John was still healthy and smiled at him without pain.
Slowly John opened his eyes and focused on him.
"Chris." His voice was as frail as his frame. "I couldn't go without saying good-bye to you."
John smiled a pale reflection of the grin that had seduced Chris seven years before.
"Thank you for coming." The sick man closed his eyes again, exhausted.
You should have called me!, he wanted to scream. I'd have come immediately! I'd have taken you away from this mausoleum, I'd have taken care of you instead of staying out of your life only because you have a damned wife and two damned children!
His voice refused to come out, though. And John was sick enough without his scolding.
John sighed and opened his eyes again. "I'm sorry, Chris," he whispered, as if he had heard Chris's desperate thought.
Chris couldn't stop himself anymore. He leaned over John and kissed him with all the love he still felt for him, even if he was sick and dying, and had never been completely his.
***
Sylvia's eyes widened in disbelief at the sight of the handsome, dark-haired young man who was kissing her husband with a passion she herself couldn't feel anymore because of John's illness. She gasped. Now it was clear – John had a lover, and it wasn't a woman, but that Chris. Handsome Chris she had easily imagined surrounded by women because even if he wasn't a classic beauty, he was sexier than anyone she had met so far.
Twenty-two years of marriage to a total stranger, she realized, upset. He had cheated on her with a man. How did that happen, when, why? How long had that relationship been going on? How come she hadn't realized it sooner? And she would have never discovered it, if he hadn't told her himself when he was already bed-ridden.
"I had a relationship and would like to see that person before I die," he had told her one day.
"Forget it," she had answered bluntly.
She had started observing with suspicion and jealous curiosity all the women that had visited him since, but hadn't noticed anything. She hadn't really checked men, but she knew she would have noticed Chris if he had shown up earlier. Maybe he had friends who had kept him updated. Accomplices of John who had kept the whole story from her.
She averted her eyes, jarred by the kiss. Betrayed by a man, with a man. She wondered how old Chris was. She understood Chris's embarrassment when she had interrogated him, now. But she had thought he could be sent by the mysterious lover, that she imagined younger and more beautiful than she was – and female, of course. Otherwise John's relationship didn't make sense.
Now that it was clear, it made even less sense. What did John find in that young man that she didn't have? Since when did he have homosexual tastes? And why had he kept up the marriage if he loved that Chris so much? For their children? Wendy and Larry were grown up now – but they must not know. It was too humiliating that her rival was a man.
She noticed Chris was crying, his face in the pillow next to John's head. John seemed asleep. She observed Chris's shoulders shaking with sobs, the hand still squeezing John's bony one as if he didn't want to let him go. The damned young man looked very much in love and desperate.
And John's pale face was way too still.
***
It was a strange funeral. Most people hung around the widow and grown-up children, but there was also a smaller group of men of all ages that surrounded a dark-haired young man who looked more dismayed than the family.
Larry observed him with curiosity. The young man kept his eyes low and looked overwhelmed by sorrow. A strange intruder to his father's funeral... Larry glanced at his mother, but she was expressionless. Still, sometimes she glared at the stranger.
Interesting, Larry thought. Suddenly he understood a lot about his father's veiled feelings. He looked at the coffin and smiled. You could have told me, asshole, you know I'd have understood. They had been very close – who knew what sort of discretion had prevented his father from telling him about the handsome young man.
He looked at the stranger again. I wonder what his name is! The discovery made him feel so close to his father, it was as if John wasn't dead. But he must be careful, as his mother obviously knew the truth too.
Strange she had allowed her rival to attend the funeral. Larry glanced at his mother again, impressed. She hadn't earned his respect yet, but she had come one step closer. He sighed. She was the only one left, that woman so full of herself and the family prestige and... Dad, I'm not surprised you cheated on her, he thought looking at the coffin again. He looks so sweet...
&nbs
p; He contemplated the mourning stranger again, oblivious of the priest's words. The coffin went down, and his mother elbowed him. Good-bye, he thought concentrating on his father's mortal remains one last time. I know you're still with me. He threw his rose on the coffin and glanced, irritated, at his seventeen-year-old sister who sobbed shamelessly.
He looked at "the other". No tears, but he was very pale.
I really need to talk to him.
But when people started moving, his mother was quicker than him.
"Chris!"
So that was his name. Oh, well, he'd probably see the handsome stranger at the opening of his father's will.
Except Chris didn't show up. Larry wondered if his mother had told him not to at the funeral.
He was very disappointed until he was told his father had bought him a small apartment.
"For when you finish college," his mother told him sternly. "It's rented at the moment. I'll make sure the lodger vacates it as soon as possible."
Larry shrugged – he was looking forward to live on his own, but a few months wouldn't change much. Eventually he'd be free and could use the apartment with his boyfriend – when he found one. Pity Chris hadn't come today.
Larry wondered where Chris lived, where he worked, what he was doing now. He didn't dare ask his mother, but Chris must have received the notice about the will. If he hadn't shown up, though, maybe he was already gone.
***
"Chris!" Sylvia called.
He stopped to wait for her, but didn't turn around.
"I want to see where you met," she demanded. "Show me your love nest."
"I live here," Chris objected weakly.
"And who pays your rent?" she asked bluntly.
Him. You. He opened the door of the condo for her, feeling more and more empty and lonely. Not only was John gone, but he had left him in the hands of a nosy, harpy of a wife.
He could imagine her disgusted thoughts as they went up with the old lift in the dismal condo where he lived. Of course, there was no comparison with the Victorian house. But he and John loved the tiny apartment where he had stayed for the past years.
He let her in, to the small living room kitchenette. A tiny bathroom and small bedroom completed the apartment. He pointed at the couch without looking at her, he didn't care what she thought of him and his "love nest".
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