The Butler - 27. Chapter XXVII

June 29^th, 2011, Greenwich, CT.

It was rather ironic that it was around Independence Day when I, very willingly and quite happily, gave up mine.

The holiday itself was normally not an event the family celebrated together since I had joined old Mr. Montgomery here; one year it was Seth and Kat coming over, another was William, one where both were present but never all together and Greg had never visited for it. I didn’t expect this year to be any different. None of them had indicated wanting to come over, which they usually would’ve communicated by now, so I was quite surprised a visit was imminent; with all of them attending. Because the 4th fell on a Monday this year an extended weekend was in the cards, and apparently this was reason enough for Greg to finally celebrate it with his family, something he had not done in the last half decade, he admitted.

“Why not?” I asked on a balmy evening at the end of June, in the week leading up to the weekend. We were on the patio out back, having a nice cool drink after quite a hot day. Well, he stole my drink, to be honest; until then, he’d been cooped up in the study. It was still 72 degrees outside and it promised to be a humid night. I’d dressed down considerably, wearing only Speedos after a nice refreshing dip, and even Greg had changed into a short-sleeved thin and cool shirt, foregoing tie and jacket; a rarity, I’d come to find. “You have a family. And no idea how special that is, apparently. Coming from someone who’s been alone long enough without any, trust me, it is.”

That came out a bit more...passionate than I intended. Some pent-up longing, perhaps, for something I’d never had.

“You miss them. I know you do. You wouldn’t react the way you do, whenever I tell you Will has been here, or Kat with the kids.”

The only indication he gave, that he’d heard, was a slight nod of his head, looking toward the shore some distance away. It was rapidly growing dark. Taking another sip of the cool drink, he swallowed and set it on the table.

“I do. But when Father and I…” he halted there, staring unseeing at one of the candles I’d lit. He always referred to him as ‘father’. Never ‘dad’, like Will or Seth did. “The last time we really spoke was when I brought the PI’s evidence and tried to convince him to fire you.” He inhaled deeply. “He already knew most of it, but he said I was wrong. That the PI was wrong; that you weren’t a gold-digger, not like Paul. I called him naive and a dim-witted old fool who had clearly lost his mind due to age. I had the evidence. He refused to even look at it, which made me even more angry, but he wouldn’t budge. Misplaced loyalty, in my mind, and I told him as such.” Exhaling through his nose, his picked up the glass again. “It’s the only time, in my life, he ever told me to get out.”

Emptying the glass, he reached for the pitcher and refilled it.

“I just never felt... welcome, after that. He invited me, every year, but I always declined, because I knew you were still here. I had to visit, sometimes, because of company business; the one thing he never gave up, until his death; controlling interest in Montgomery International. It forced me to come here.”

I hadn’t known old Mr. Montgomery had done that; inviting him, every year. I’d handled the invitations myself, each year, to Seth and Will by phone, either to their acceptance or decline due to other commitments, but never seen a letter or request to contact Greg with one.

“Each time I was forced to come here, I felt...not myself, uncomfortable, nervous; feelings I’m not used to and I resented him for it. He refused to let me send Alan.” He smiled pensively. “Father was the only person in the world who wouldn't take my shit.” He raised his glass to the sea, somewhere in the dark, its sound heard but not seen. “And the only one in the world who could see right through me.”

Setting his glass down again, he rose to stand. “I’ll be right back.”

**********

When Greg returned, he held an envelope in his hand and came over, holding it out to me. “I want you to read this.”

“What is it?” I asked, curious. There was some vibe in the air, aside from the humidity, that slowly became oppressive.

“Just...read it.” Accepting the envelope, I opened it and pulled out a letter that had obviously been read several times; its once neat folds were softened by multiple unfolds and reads. The script was familiar, even by candlelight and nearby illumination from the house.

Gregory,

My son. I am proud of you. To this day, I cannot imagine the struggle you have had to endure. I, altogether, do not really understand it. All I’ve ever wanted is happiness for my children and for one to have to come to his father, in a time when he is still finding himself, must have been incredibly hard. Yet you did, revealing a part of yourself so intensely private, that you gained my instant respect. That took strength, strength I do not think I possess. It must have come from your mother!

You’re your mother’s son, with her temper and resolve, Gregory. I do not think I would be lying if I say she is proud of you, the man you have become. As am I. Extremely proud.

But you and I, we’ve had our differences.

I admire your character, strong, generous and caring, but when it failed you, it was wrong to me and certainly to Chris, the focus of your ire. Arrogant and unbecoming a son of mine and it disappointed me. We both said things and I, for my part, regret them because you did not allow a repair later on. You refused to speak about anything other than business, cutting off any approach I tried. Stubborn to a fault.

And then I figured it out. I remembered the first meeting between the two of you, so different and recall thinking -would it not be wonderful if you two hit it off?-. You fell for him then, didn't you? It explained the passion you showed when you came to me, demanding I fire him.

I am not proud of how I have handled our last ‘butting of heads’, if you’ll allow that description. Writing this now, it is a memory that is painful to recall, and certainly not a moment I think back on with pleasure. Rather with regret, to not have handled that conversation better.

Christopher does not deserve your animosity, son. A small miracle it was, when he came into my life. Chris has brought me joy and companionship when I least expected it, certainly at my age. In return, he became a true and dear friend.

The Chris I know is lively, kind, warm and friendly, a gentle young man desperately in need of care, support and warmth. His past is -his-, not ours to judge.

Do something for me, Greg. Recall that moment, relive how it felt; that was love and passion speaking, not hate. Give yourselves another chance; learn to get to know Chris and see in him what I saw; a lost soul, looking for nurture, guidance. A place in the world. Let him into your heart and he might give his, and more. Try?

Thank you, son. Find your happiness. That would be my last wish; your happiness.

Your Father,

G.

“Wow,” I uttered, blinking a few times. Fuck. Again?

“Hey, hey,” Greg’s voice sounded, closer than I thought he was, right behind me. Unseeing, I reached up wrapping my arms around his neck when he bent low, nuzzling my ear and whispered, “It’s alright. I didn’t mean to get you upset.”

“I know that,” I answered, ‘“fuck. You know, that’s the second time that man made me cry. I’m really starting to hate this family.” I got a soft bite in my neck for that.

“Including me?”

“No you idiot. You, I love.”

“What?” Christ, he almost choked me then.

“I said, that’s the second time that man…”

He growled and let me go, then rounded the chair and sat down on top of me. “Not that. The other part.”

“Oh. That. The ‘You, I love’ part?” Damn, I'd never seen a man actually quite that happy.

He grasped my face and pulled me closer. “Yes, that part.”

“You having hearing problems, Butternut?” I grinned there, using my private nickname for him.

The first time I’d used it, in the car back from Cape Cod, he’d pulled over, thinking I was mocking him; it’d taken a roadside blowjob to convince him otherwise and ever since, I’d been using it on and off, whispered here and there, only for him to hear, to indicate I was agreeing to something like a choice of wine at dinner or agreement of a purchase at a store. An endearment, if you wish. He liked it, too.

“No,” he answered, his mouth ghosting over mine, “Butternut hears just fine. He just wants to say he loves you too, boy.” The kiss he gave me was all consuming and hungry and I answered it with the same vigor, insanely happy myself to finally have said it and heard it.

One of his hands slid to the back of my head, holding me securely in place while the other traveled down. Hooking a finger under the waistband of my Speedos, he pulled it and let it slap back. “Take this off.”

“Here?” Really? Outside? It was dark, but…

“I really need to fuck you now, Chris. Give me your ass. Take it off.”

“Yes sir,” I grinned, bucking underneath him. He rose to stand and searched in one of his pockets for a packet of lube he always carried. When I’d found out, in the beginning, I’d called him a pervert in my mind but quite soon after had come to appreciate it.

While I struggled with the Speedos, he ripped his shirt off and got rid of his pants, quite at the ready and then growled when it took too long; taking off wet Speedos was not as easy as it sounded! “Up. Grab your knees, to your shoulders.”

Biting my lip, I did as directed, excited. We’d done this once before, in bed against the headboard, when he’d found out I’m quite flexible. Sitting down close, he ripped the packet open with his teeth and royally applied it to himself, then me. Throwing the empty packet beside the chair, he then set himself against me. “Watch.”

He entered me as we both watched, slowly taking me. “God yeah,” I breathed out, staring and enjoying the feeling as he filled me, moaning “Christ, your cock is so fat.”

“Shh,” he cooed and, once fully settled, beginning to slowly fuck. “You’re safe. I’m here. I love you, Chris. Let me show you exactly how much.”

Boy, did he ever.

The experience was incredibly overwhelming at first, all I could to do was just hold him close; cradle his head against mine, enjoying the rasp of his stubble against my neck as he moved, our breathing almost as one. "I don't wanna come yet," he growled in my ear, slowing down. "You're so tight, this way!"

The addition of spoken love seemed to elevate things from just very good sex to lovemaking, and Greg really didn’t hold back. Sweet, rough, gentle, it all came by. And when he did come, I went with him. All the way.