Bound by Memories

by Kaje Harper

  “Hello? Dad?” Darien clutched the phone to his ear.

  “Darien?” Over the crackling line, he heard his father’s unmistakable voice. “How are you, son?”

  “I’m all right.” He pulled in a breath through his nose. “How are you?”

  “I’m doing better. Got a job with an English-language newspaper, extended my work visa. I’ll be moving to a better apartment.”

  “Good. That’s great.” He realized he had no idea what his father had been doing for three years. He’d clearly had a small apartment, a different job? “Did you get my letter?” He scrunched up his eyes as soon as he said the words because no kidding, Dad had Silas’s phone number, ergo, stupid question.

  His dad said, “Arrived yesterday. Made me realize how far we’d fallen out of touch. You left school months ago, and I didn’t even know. If something had happened…”

  Losing touch was both our faults. And something did happen. After a moment, silent except for the hiss and sizzle of the line, Darien realized it was his turn. “Yeah, I left school but I’m studying and I have a great new place.” He bit back a nervous giggle and didn’t say, in a damned castle.

  “I saw you reconnected with the Thornwood boy. I always thought he’d go far.”

  Darien pressed his lips together. Thornwood boy, the necromancer. Slays demons. Probably not what his father expected. Not something he could say, either. “Yes, he’s giving me house-room.”

  His father added, “The other reason I called you is, I’ve met someone. Marie Thibault. She’s a widow. It’s, well, early days yet, but she made me see how much I’d disconnected from life. She urged me to get back in touch. I sent a card to your dorm room.”

  “It may get returned to sender.” Bitterness colored his tone. “I moved several places, after that.”

  “Oh, well, a call is even better, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so.” Quit being a sour bastard, Darien. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  “I can’t talk long. Calling America’s expensive, even at this hour. But I wanted to give you my phone number and new address, and to say merry Christmas.”

  Darien groped for the little pad on the counter, and Silas handed him a pencil. He threw Silas a grateful smile. He always has my back. “I have something to write with. Go ahead.”

  Once he’d written down the information, he said, “Merry Christmas to you too. And—” He hesitated. Tell him something? Hang up? He’s been absent for so much. An arm’s length away, Silas leaned on the counter, all his attention on Darien, a tiny crease of worry marring his forehead. I have someone who cares, whatever Dad says. He reached out and took hold of a fold of Silas’s sweater, and said, “I’ve met someone too.”

  “You have?” His father’s voice sounded genuinely interested. “Who is she?”

  Silas met Darien’s eyes, but Darien couldn’t read a hint in there. Tell him? Don’t? “I don’t think I’m ready to share that with you,” he said. “But maybe one day.”

  “Oh.” There was a long pause. Darien wondered if Dad was remembering his blurted confession of homosexuality, the one Dad had walked back as nonsense. Or maybe he just felt hurt. I’m not trusting you with Silas yet. “Well, I’m glad for you anyway,” Dad said finally. “I hope you’re happy. Just remember, the key to a good relationship is trust.”

  “Yes, Dad.” Silas eased an arm around him, and he leaned hard on that supportive strength. With my life.

  “Merry Christmas, son. Give my regards to Thornwood. Write to me.”

  “Ditto. Merry Christmas.”

  The static of a transatlantic line was replaced with the dial tone. Carefully, he set the receiver back in the cradle.

  Silas pulled him closer and said against his hair, “Are you happy? Or sad?”

  “Bit of both.” Darien sighed, and some long-held tension left him with the breath. “He’s doing well— that’s some comfort. He wasn’t there for me when I needed him most, but I don’t need him like that anymore. It’s all right if he’s just a voice on the phone, and a letter here and there.”

  Silas’s hug tightened. “You can be sad about that, too.”

  For a second, tears prickled Darien’s eyes, but he dashed them away. “It’s a start, right? Better than silence.”

  “I hope so. I’m still sorry you felt you couldn’t reach out to him, when you were at your lowest.”

  “Maybe I could’ve. But I didn’t want to pull him down with me, if he’d found some peace over there.” And I didn’t want to hear him say no. Silence was better than rejection, when I was circling the drain. Perhaps he hadn’t given his father enough credit. Perhaps he would’ve hopped on a plane— No, no second guessing. I survived, and look at me now. He tipped his head back against Silas’s shoulder, and breathed the faint scent of clean skin and aftershave.

  “My father died alone,” Silas said. “A heart attack.”

  Darien murmured, “So sorry.”

  “I’d left home by then to study with Harrowsmith. For years afterward, I wondered, what if I’d stayed in his house, or at least visited more often? If I’d been closer to him, could I have saved him? Sometimes that failure still haunts me, but I try to let go of the what-ifs and stop looking back. I’d done the best I could. You did what you thought was best, too. And perhaps you weren’t wrong. After all, here we are.” Silas laid his cheek on Darien’s hair.

  “That’s what I was thinking. I ended up alive, sane— well, mostly— and here with you, and he sounds happy.”

  “You’re a good man, Darien Green.”

  “And I’m done with gloom.” He turned and pulled Silas down for a long kiss. “Dad said a relationship is about trust. Well, I trust that your potato-leek soup and fresh bread will be edible tonight, and you’ll take me to bed afterward and make me forget all about sadness.”

  Silas kissed him back, soft and slow. “I can’t guarantee the soup, but my bread’s reliable, and I promise you the bed.”

  “Not a doubt in my mind.” Darien kissed Silas again, losing his thoughts in the soft, warm pleasure of Silas’s mouth.

  Chapter 7

  Silas pulled the plug on the tree lights, sighing softly as the hallway dropped to near-darkness. He didn’t hate the tree at all. He and his father had spent some of their best moments beside a much smaller one with a string of bulbs that never wanted to stay lit, seeing what Santa had brought him. He’d given up the tradition, but not the memories.

  Doing a tree for one person would’ve been an exercise in pathos the past decade, even if he hadn’t set his childhood aside, but with Darien around, tonight was sweet nostalgia. I grew away from you too fast and too far, Dad. But I’m grateful for the time we had.

  He and Darien had enjoyed their soup and fresh bread, laughed while eating the warped ginger cookies, and only failed to roast chestnuts by an open fire because they had no chestnuts. Also because he didn’t trust any of the mansion’s fireplaces without the attentions of a good chimneysweep. And because chestnut-roasting was apparently some arcane tradition he’d never learned. British, maybe. They’d made fun of the odd lyrics in other carols too.

  He’d even concocted hot cocoa of sorts, from a scavenged chocolate bar. The sweet taste lingered on his lips, though no sweeter than the memory of Darien’s smile when Silas presented him with the treat. Then Darien had licked out the inside of his mug with very suggestive sweeps of his tongue, and left Silas to deal with the plates and the lights while he went upstairs to get ready for bed. That wicked smile had been just as appealing as the sweet one. Silas tugged at the tight placket of his slacks, thinking of Darien, up on their bed, waiting.

  Grim said by his knee, “I assume I should keep the pup occupied for an hour?”

  Silas jerked his hand away from his slacks and huffed a laugh. “I’m sure Pip knows what Darien and I are doing.”

  “Well, the smell is a giveaway.”

  Silas winced.

  “But I don’t want to answer questions about the sounds.” Grim pitched
his voice high. “‘Why is he calling for Jesus, Grim? Is he scared?’ Nope, I’m taking advantage of this big house.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Silas quipped. Then more seriously, “I mean that, Grim, I—”

  Grim smacked his shin with a paw, heavily but without claws. “Don’t let all this tradition make you sentimental.”

  “The heavens forbid.”

  “I’ll go get the puppy. We might work on running staircases in the dark. I can sit at the bottom of the tower stair and critique.”

  “Don’t break Darien’s familiar.”

  “He’s half made of rubber. He’ll be fine.” Grim voice was almost a purr. “Don’t worry, we’ll both keep our youngsters happy.”

  “What a year, huh?”

  Grim’s tone shifted, thin and oddly cadenced. “Just wait till next year.” He cleared his throat. “Ah, don’t mind me. Go make Darien happy; tell him it’s his Christmas gift.” He dashed off, paws suddenly silent on the hardwood. A flicker of movement behind the treetop showed him reaching the landing above.

  Silas followed more slowly, and as he reached the bedroom door, Grim came out, followed by Pip.

  “I was sleeping,” Pip said. “But I’m awake now. Are we having an adventure?”

  Silas bent and stroked the dog’s head, then rubbed a finger on Grim’s cheek. “Have fun, you two. If you get bored, there’s a package in the fridge, wrapped in brown paper. A nice, thin slice of steak apiece, fresh from the butcher.”

  Grim’s purr vibrated against his hand. “What a pleasant thought. But you’ll have to earn it, pup.”

  “I can do that. Is steak better than tuna?”

  “A dog might say so. Come along.”

  Silas waited until the familiars had descended the stairs, then slipped into his room. In the mellow light of one small bedside lamp, Darien lay stretched across the covers, bare except for a pair of flannel pajama pants.

  “There you are.” Darien sat up on his elbows. “I’ll have you know, looking sexy is tough in this drafty mausoleum. I was more naked ten minutes ago.”

  “You keep calling our house that—”

  “You’re telling me it’s not a giant, stupidly-ornate building founded on ghosts?”

  “A mausoleum has a tomb at its heart. This house has you.”

  The grin disappeared from Darien’s face, leaving his eyes dark and wide. “Every time I think you’re not a romantic, you say something like that.”

  Silas tried for what he was afraid was ponderous humor. “I’m told the way to prevent chilblains is shared bodily warmth.”

  Darien’s smile returned. “It’s not my blains that are chill. But that sounds like a good plan. C’mere.” He patted the bed beside him.

  Silas closed and locked the door, and began methodically stripping off his clothes. Or, perhaps not methodically. Perhaps he bent a bit more deeply to remove his socks, and rotated his shoulders longer, taking off his shirt. Foolishness. But the heat of Darien’s eyes on him made him want to be foolish.

  He knew his body could still be called decent, lean but not thin, still taut-skinned and with a width of shoulders. I’m only thirty. He hadn’t felt young in a long time. Not since the power transfer when Harrowsmith died. But with Darien, suddenly all things were possible.

  He sat on the bed beside Darien and bent over him. That full mouth begged for a kiss, and he gave it several. Darien murmured against his lips. “A good start.”

  “Are you going to provide running commentary?”

  “I might.”

  He couldn’t hold back a snort. “Lie back, and get rid of those damned pajamas. I want to see you.”

  Darien did as he was told, and Silas knelt on the bed, looking down at him. How has he become so dear to me so fast? He laid a hand on Darien’s chest over his heart and imagined the throb echoing up his arm and into his own chest, linked to his own heart as no other man’s ever had been. Darien’s eyes dilated and his lips curled up in a smile that left Silas breathless. Darien’s nipples pebbled tighter at his touch.

  “An inch to the left,” Darien murmured.

  “Hush, you.” He bent and kissed Darien’s mouth firmly. When Darien would have deepened the kiss, Silas moved on, brushing his lips against the sharp rise of elegant cheekbones, the straight nose, the fine eyebrows and the tiny crease just beginning between them. Darien’s eyes fluttered shut and Silas took the invitation to feather a kiss to each lid, then one on the little collection of laugh lines at each corner. Battle scars.

  He kissed the determined jut of Darien’s chin, and then slid his mouth down the column of his neck. When he reached the collarbones, he pressed his tongue in the hollow and sucked there. Darien murmured and shifted on the bed.

  Silas sat up and swung a leg over to straddle Darien’s hips. Below him, evidence of Darien’s interest rose proud and tall, but he ignored it to lean forward and kiss each rounded shoulder, then back to Darien’s chest. His ribs were less painfully sharp than they had been, healthy flesh filling in now he was eating and sleeping. Mostly. He still has nightmares.

  At the reminder, Silas lifted Darien’s arm to press his mouth over the burn scar that marred his skin. What did not kill him made him stronger. But the rough skin under his lips brought a pang to his chest, and he lavished attention a moment longer. Then one nipple and the other, firm nubs between his lips. A dusting of hair grew between them, where none had been just a few weeks ago. The low light glinted off one silver strand. Badge of courage. Silas secretly kissed that one.

  “You’re moving kind of slow,” Darien said. “Need a manual?”

  “I want time to look.” To make love. He’d never thought of sex that way before Darien, but tonight, that was what this was.

  “Oh, you can look.” Darien arched his back, making his erection bob, then flexed his biceps. “Admire. Worship.”

  “Cherish?” Silas offered.

  Darien’s tone softened. “Cherish is a good word.”

  Silas went on kissing, licking, nibbling, yes, cherishing the gift of this man in his bed. By the time he rose back up from Darien’s ankles to his thighs, Darien was fidgeting and bucking, murmuring, “Come on, c’mon, Silas.”

  He moved up to quiet those mobile lips, and Darien wrapped strong arms around him, tugging him down flat over his body. Silas couldn’t resist thrusting down, his hard dick trapped against Darien’s skin, the rod of Darien’s erection prodding his stomach.

  “Like this.” Darien kept a hand behind Silas’s head and clamped the other over his ass. “Please.” He kissed Silas openmouthed, wet and needy.

  Silas had come to bed with plans, goals, but they evaporated in the press of Darien’s body against his own. He didn’t need fancy, just this. Darien’s mouth on his, tongue demanding entrance. Darien’s hand hauling him down tighter and tighter as they ground together. Darien’s breathy moans and grunts, and the slick rub against his belly where Darien’s hardness slid against him.

  He grabbed Darien’s head between his hands, holding him still for a longer kiss. Darien clutched Silas’s ass with both hands now, kneading and tugging, clamping down as he bucked up harder and faster against him. They panted, jostled, driving against each other, all technique lost in the need to kiss and thrust and get closer, harder— “Ah. Hells!” Silas came as hard as he could ever remember, spilling against Darien’s skin, his cock trapped in the tight space between them, friction so perfect he saw spots before his eyes.

  Before he could catch his breath, Darien cried out and jolted under him. Spurts of cum coated Silas’s stomach, sticky and wet and he wanted Darien’s essence even closer, all over him, in him. He cradled Darien’s head and kissed him, mouth and chin and jaw and mouth again.

  Darien laughed, his eyes bright. “Hell, yeah.”

  Silas buried his face in Darien’s shoulder and panted. “A man could… live on that alone.”

  Darien kissed his ear. “Not hardly. We haven’t tried Clarice’s Christmas cake.”
>
  Silas choked and laughed out loud. “You’ll be the death of me.”

  “I hope not.” The light words faded to something heavier.

  Silas lifted his head to look Darien in the eyes. “You are the life of me. Never doubt it.”

  Darien shook his head. “What does that even mean?”

  Silas had never been one to put feelings into words, but for Darien, he could learn new things. “My life, this house, they were… dusty and dry and lacking, until you brought life into them.”

  “The house is still dusty, man.” Darien’s lips were sober but a smile lurked in his eyes.

  “I’m endeavoring to craft a declaration of love here.”

  Darien waved a limp hand. “By all means. Carry on.”

  Sometimes simple words were best. “I love you. You came into my life like a bolt from the blue, and now I can’t imagine life without you.”

  “Less sex? Fewer pine needles?”

  “Well, that, indubitably.”

  Darien smiled and touched Silas’s cheek. “Crazy, right? I met you again, and everything turned upside down. And out of that upheaval, came this, this thing between us that feels so strong and so important. Like being tossed in a blender and coming out wearing a gold crown.”

  “Something like that. Yes.”

  Darien tugged at Silas and kicked and tugged at the blankets, until he had them settled facing each other, with the covers over them.

  “You’re doing the laundry,” Silas muttered, because he felt too full of sentiment.

  “You send out your laundry.”

  “I can change that.”

  Darien gave his pillow a punch and rubbed his cheek against it like a cat. “Nice bed, nice house, and you.” He yawned. “Sometimes this life seems like a dream, but I don’t want to ever wake up.”

  “Less like a dream when something’s trying to kill us,” Silas pointed out before he could stop himself. Good way to ruin the mood.

  Darien nodded. “True. You figure that’s going to happen again?”

  Silas remembered Grim’s light voice, vacant eyes, Just wait till next year. “It might,” he said cautiously.