Great Restorations - 13. Chapter 13

MARC woke to a dark room, lit with the pale light of a crescent moon. The house was quiet, but something had awakened him. Not a noise. A presence. When a shadow in the doorway shifted, Marc smiled. “I thought you‘d never get here.”

“Spare me,” Sawyer‘s voice replied from out of the dark. “You were dead to the world. I checked on you twice.”

Faint footsteps approached the bed. Marc waited for the telltale squeak of the loose floorboard by the nightstand, then reached out. His fingers connected with Sawyer‘s. They were captured and held tight. “What time is it?” Marc groaned and stretched. His head still hurt, but the pain was a ghost of what it had been. Woozy and disoriented, he pulled himself up when Sawyer sat beside him.

Sawyer pushed Marc‘s hair out of his eyes, and Marc leaned into the touch. The fingers lingered, brushing down Marc‘s cheek to his lips, then, with a sigh, Sawyer dropped his hand. His face looked unusually pale in the moonlight. “It‘s eight o‘clock. You slept about seven hours. How do you feel?”

“Like I slept seven hours,” Marc grumbled. “Kind of out of it.”

“Hungry?”

“Yeah,” Marc admitted after a moment. He was hungry. That was new. His stomach felt tight and just a little upset, like it did when he got caught up in work and forgot a meal. Maybe eating wouldn‘t be the impossible task it had been the past few days.

“Great,” Sawyer said. “‘Cause there‘s enough food downstairs for us to eat like kings for a year.” He pulled back the covers as he stood. “Grab a shower and come down.”

“Is it just us?”

“For hours now,” Sawyer confirmed.

He‘d have to get the story on that, Marc thought idly as he stumbled to the bathroom. The shower was an inspired idea. It cleared away the last of the vague confused feeling that he got every time he slept during the day. Sawyer had said they were alone, so he didn‘t bother with anything but an old pair of sweatpants before padding down the stairs to the kitchen.

Wrist-deep in a container of potato salad, Sawyer glanced up when Marc entered the kitchen, then promptly dropped the spoon on the counter. “Jesus, give a little warning if you‘re going to walk around half naked.”

Marc hid a smirk. Hooking a stool with his foot, he took a seat on the opposite side of the work island and watched while Sawyer scooped food onto two plates. “I‘m not half naked, I‘m half dressed.”

“Technicality,” Sawyer sang under his breath, but he did smile when their eyes met. “You look a little better.”

“I feel better. The sleep helped.”

With a nod, Sawyer slid one of the dinner plates across the granite, piled high with a mishmash of food: ham, pasta, and fruit salad. It looked delicious, reheated or no. Marc dug into the pile of baked ziti. He waved his fork at Sawyer. “Are you going to come sit down?”

Sawyer shook his head.

With an arched eyebrow, Marc patted the stool next to him.

Sawyer stabbed a piece of potato off his plate. “I‘m fine here,” he said.

“What are you afraid of?”

“Brat. There‘s no need to threaten my masculinity.” Sawyer pushed his food around the plate. “I just would rather you concentrate on your dinner instead of me.”

Marc covered his mouth to laugh. “I may have insulted your masculinity, but I certainly didn‘t damage your ego.”

Sawyer glanced pointedly at him. “But am I wrong?”

Stuffing his mouth with food was the only way out of that one. Marc chewed and ignored Sawyer‘s knowing smile. They ate in silence, although Marc spent several minutes weighing his next words. He wasn‘t sure how Sawyer would take them, all things considered. The subject of his coming out hardly ever ended well. But the sooner they dealt with this newest development, the better.

The irony was the timing of it all. Instead of anxious and scared, he felt relieved. For the first time in a week, grief took a backseat to another emotion. As soon as Sawyer took his plate, Marc slid off the stool. “Rachel saw us,” he blurted, gripping the counter tightly. In another ironic twist, he realized that how Sawyer would react to his words scared him more than anything else.

Sawyer froze, half turned toward the sink, before sliding back into motion. He set the dishes carefully on the counter. “I know.”

That derailed what Marc had planned to say next. “You do?”

Stepping around the island, Sawyer took Marc‘s arm and steered him across the room.

“Where are we going?” Marc asked.

“Someplace more comfortable,” Sawyer said. He paused at the bottom of the stairs, glancing upward toward the second landing.

“Bedroom?” Marc asked hopefully.

“Not a good idea,” Sayer mumbled under his breath, continuing into the living room. He sank onto the sofa, pulling Marc with him. There was an awkward moment, when Sawyer didn‘t seem to know what to do with his hands. Feeling more confident than usual, Marc scooted closer and ducked under his arm. “So how did you know?” he asked, as if there hadn‘t been a lull in their conversation.

“She told me.”

“She told you?” Marc parroted.

Sawyer opened and closed his mouth twice before answering. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “And she said to tell you to call her. When you can.”

Unreal. The world had turned upside down, yet nobody seemed very upset. Least of all him. Marc shook his head in wonder. “Was she mad?”

“I think she was… sad,” Sawyer said. ”Not mad.”

Sucking in a deep breath, Marc took the next running leap. “Reba. I think she knows too.” A glance at Sawyer confirmed it. His foot was tapping on the floor, and he was staring across the room, expression blank. Marc swallowed a groan. “She‘s not the only one, is she?”

Sawyer took his time meeting Marc‘s eyes. He shook his head.

So it was done. He waited for the usual burst of uncertainty and fear. It never materialized. Still… “Okay.” He blew out a breath. “Okay. But you know what? I don‘t think I want to talk about it right now.”

“That‘s perfectly fair,” Sawyer said evenly. “What do you want to talk about?”

Marc thought about it for a minute before it hit him. He wanted to talk about his aunt. For the first time in a week, his mind didn‘t scurry in the other direction when he remembered she was dead. “Did you know,” he began, taking Sawyer‘s hand in his, “that Aunt May could‘ve traveled the world. She had the chance to go with this guy who was totally in love with her. He wanted to marry her.”

“Go, May.” Sawyer propped his bare feet on the coffee table. “So why didn‘t she?”

“Because of my mother.” He couldn‘t quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. Even after all this time. “Her parents, my grandparents, died, and May was her only relative, so she took her in.”

Sawyer hummed his understanding. “Hard to go continent hopping with a small child in tow.”

The words, so similar to his aunt‘s, put a lump in Marc‘s throat. He nodded, then swiped at his eyes when Sawyer‘s fingers began to sift through his hair. “She should‘ve done it. Chances like that don‘t come around every day.” He turned to Sawyer. “He stopped writing after a while. Stopped sending the pictures and the postcards. I think she really thought that was the end. She used to tell me that he must have found another woman to love. Had a family. She said she was happy for him, even if I think the idea broke her heart a little. But you know what?” Marc turned to face Sawyer. “He came back.”

Sawyer blinked in surprise. “He did?”

“Yeah. Years later. To see if she still wanted him.”

“Persistent,” Sawyer said with a chuckle. “So did she go?”

“No.”

Sawyer cocked his head. “What stopped her that time?”

Marc sighed, the familiar guilt washing over him. “Me. She had me by then.”

“Wait, I‘m confused,” Sawyer said. “Where were your parents?”

“That‘s the irony,” Marc said, thinking of a red leather photo album with gold embossed letters. “Everywhere this guy went, he sent back letters and pictures, trying to convince Aunt May to join him. My mother spent her childhood hearing about his travels. She was obsessed with them. As soon as she was old enough, she took off to see the world. Two years later, she met my father teaching English to children in Kenya, and the rest is history.”

A deep frown had settled over Sawyer‘s face. “So what happened when you were born? Did they still travel all over the place?”

“They kept it up for a while, but it got to be too much, I guess. They came back here” —Marc gestured around him— “and tried to settle down.”

“Tried,” Sawyer repeated.

“It didn‘t suit them, I guess.” He flashed Sawyer a wry smile.

“What didn‘t? Staying in one place?”

“Parenthood,” Marc clarified. Sawyer, apparently struck speechless, just stared at him. “So, anyway,” Marc continued, “they started traveling again. Just short trips at first. Then they‘d be gone for a month. Then longer. Finally, I just moved in with Aunt May.”

“Jesus, Marc.” Sawyer looked lost. “I‘m sorry.”

Tipping his head back onto the cushion, Marc shrugged. “Don‘t be. Not every story‘s a fairy tale.”

“And your aunt never found love with anybody else?”

“If she did, I didn‘t know about it.”

***

THEY stayed up until after two watching the original Star Wars trilogy, during which Sawyer spilled the truth about his crush on Luke Skywalker and Marc confessed he had a toy lightsaber in a box in the attic. The movies provided exactly the sort of mindless stimulus Marc needed. His chest loosened, the muscles in his neck and shoulders unlocked, the air moved more easily through his lungs. For the first time in a week, he felt able to draw a full breath. Sawyer stayed close, but not too close, and he kept his hands to himself, a perfect balance of intimacy and comfort -- at first. But by the end credits of Return of the Jedi, Marc’s grief had taken a backseat to a more pressing physiological response.

Sawyer yawned as they climbed the stairs, but Marc vibrated with nervous energy. When Sawyer tried to detour to the guest room, Marc yanked him back. “No. With me.”

“Probably not a good idea,” Sawyer said, sounding honestly disappointed. “Not tonight.”

“Don‘t leave me.”

And that marked the end of Sawyer‘s protests. He followed Marc down the hall and into his bedroom. Hesitantly, he shed his shirt. The jeans he tried to leave on, but Marc vetoed the idea, then purposefully pawed at Sawyer’s belt until Sawyer groaned and slapped his hands away. “Stop. I’ll get it.”

“I liked the running shorts better.”

“I changed while you were sleeping,” Sawyer muttered, fingers fumbling over the buckle.

“Sorry I missed it.”

Sawyer fought him every step of the way, and a mini wrestling match ensued over his underwear until Marc pinched him behind the knee. Sawyer hissed and lost his grip on the garment. “That was dirty,” he scolded.

“You don’t sound too upset, so I’m not stressing about it,” Marc said as he pulled the boxers down. Obediently, Sawyer kicked them aside. Marc stared at him as he shimmied out of his sweatpants, not missing Sawyer’s sharp indrawn breath, and slid between the sheets.

Naked, Sawyer climbed in beside him and settled into the pillows. When he looked as though he’d resolutely stick to his side of the mattress, Marc pounced.

“Marc,” Sawyer moaned, making a halfhearted attempt to fend off the roving hands. “Is this what you really want tonight?”

“You seriously didn‘t just ask that, did you?” Marc surged forward and kissed him, swallowing Sawyer‘s soft exclamation of surprise. And in case that didn‘t get his point across, he reached down to palm Sawyer‘s cock, before curling his fingers around it in a firm hold. “Please, Sawyer.” He kept his grip but rolled onto his back and let his legs fall open. “Please.”

Sawyer’s breath whooshed out of his lungs in an audible gasp. “For the love of-- No.”

“Yes. I want it.”

“I believe you.” Sawyer unwrapped Marc’s fingers and lifted them to his lips to kiss them. “And you’ll get it. A million times over, if I have my way. But we’re not going there tonight. Not until I’m sure your head’s where it needs to be.”

With a frustrated groan, Marc leant up again, tongue darting out to trace Sawyer’s lips before he took them again.

“Okay,” Sawyer rasped, pulling out of the kiss. “Okay.” He caught Marc‘s other hand, circling both wrists in a firm grip. “Fine. But we’re doing it my way. Turn over.” Marc‘s heart missed a beat, and Sawyer‘s grip loosened, but the strained edge in his voice grew more pronounced. “Trust me.”

Marc obeyed, rolling onto icy sheets, but the chill didn‘t last. Sawyer moved in behind him, tucking Marc into the curve of his body. Breath coming in short gasps, Marc wriggled, trying to get even closer, and Sawyer hissed. He clamped a hand over Marc‘s hip, squeezing his fingers into the soft skin there. “Stop that.”

A string of whispered curses escaped Sawyer’s clenched teeth and danced against the back of Marc’s neck as he laid his hand flat on Marc‘s stomach, inches from his straining cock. “God, I can‘t believe I finally have you like this,” he muttered thickly. He thrust his other arm under Marc‘s shoulder, then curled it around his chest, holding him tight “Finally,” he repeated as he rolled backward, just a few inches, but far enough to lift Marc from the soft sheets and steal all his leverage. It was a deeply intimate embrace, both tender and erotic. They were pressed so tightly together that there was no way Marc could miss Sawyer‘s own intense arousal.

“Sawyer,” he begged.

“Okay,” Sawyer said again, the word stretching out on a deep exhale. “Shhh.” He pressed a line of kisses down the side of Marc‘s face. “Relax.”

“Not going to happen,” Marc groaned. He arched his back, testing Sawyer‘s hold. Sawyer wrested him back into place.

“It is going to happen,” Sawyer said. “Or you won‘t get what you want.” His fingernails scratched through the patch of hair at the base of Marc‘s cock, tugging playfully, and Marc groaned and writhed, desperate for something other than cool cotton against his dick.

“Please, Sawyer.”

“Trust me. I‘ve got you.”

Then, like Marc wasn‘t riding the edge of a sexual need intense enough to make him hyperventilate, Sawyer began to rock him. The motion was so subtle, so small, that by the time Marc noticed, he was already lulled into a daze, the sharp taste of lust his only concern. Everything else fell away. The remnants of his headache. His exposed secret. His heartache.

Sawyer‘s other hand started to wander, caressing one of Marc‘s thighs, then the other. His breath washed over Marc‘s neck, as shallow and erratic as his movements were slow and calculated. Slowly, he eased Marc‘s legs open until Marc was sprawled on top of him. The rocking never stopped. The lighter-than-air bed sheet became a point of torture, a glaring counterpoint to the hot cock that ground against his ass with every to and fro. Marc bucked up against the cotton, but there was no friction to be had. Groaning, he kicked it off and reached for himself.

“No, you don‘t,” Sawyer said. He peeled Marc‘s hand away. Before Marc could protest, he replaced it with his own. Marc cried out, straining to pump his cock through Sawyer‘s fist, but even though Sawyer‘s grip was tight and possessive, he didn‘t move, just held Marc in his hand while he continued to rock him back and forth, planting soft, open-mouthed kisses across his throat. “Do you have any idea how long I‘ve wanted to do this to you?”

Mouth too dry to answer, Marc shook his head.

“Since that first morning I saw you standing on my porch. When you apologized for May. Wanted you so damn bad and I didn’t even know your name yet.”

Marc huffed a laugh, feeling his impending orgasm dial back a few notches. “You weren‘t the only one.”

Finally Sawyer moved his hand. He kept his fist tight and his strokes slow and long. “Watched you all day.” He jutted his hips against Marc‘s ass. “Had hot, dirty fantasies about bending you over the back of your truck.”

“Jesus. Me too.” Marc‘s eyes rolled back, and he gave up trying to control Sawyer‘s rhythm. “Tell me.”

Sawyer‘s hand stuttered to a stop for a moment. “Not tonight,” he said, speeding his strokes. “Right now I just want you to come.” He nipped Marc‘s ear. “In my arms. And all I want you thinking about is how amazing we are together.”

Obeying was easier than Marc imagined. He stopped fighting Sawyer‘s maddening, teasing touch and let it carry him forward. His orgasm built slowly, his body tensing in increments that Sawyer surely felt. He groaned into Marc‘s hair. “That‘s right,” he panted. “Come on, Marc.”

Sawyer‘s rocking had long since devolved into the steady thrust of his erection against Marc‘s willing body. His hand flew back and forth on Marc‘s cock at the same pace, his earlier finesse absent. And when he jolted and arched off the bed, carrying Marc with him, calling his name, Marc‘s release hit, pulsing out of his cock and up over his stomach. He thought it might never end, and when it did, he was almost glad. He was shaking all over, hypersensitive. Every touch threatened to set off more tremors, but Sawyer nursed him through them, his voice tender and soothing, until Marc fell into a light doze.

An indeterminable amount of time later, Sawyer pulled away.

“Where are you going?” Marc asked, cracking one eye open.

Sawyer gave a wordless grunt. The bed shook as he shimmied to the edge and grabbed his discarded T-shirt. “Getting this.”

“Want a towel or something?”

“Hell no. I’m not moving more than two feet and neither are you. This will do fine.” He scooted back over against Marc’s sated body. “So much for my grand plan of self-control. Being around you is like being fifteen all over again.” He cleaned them and retucked the blankets around their bodies. “I know you just had a marathon nap, but do you think you can sleep?”

Surprised as he was to admit it, he thought he could. There was no mistaking the fatigue in Sawyer’s voice, so even if Marc managed to do no more than to lie quietly in his embrace, he’d be content to do so. “Yeah.”

“Sweet dreams, baby,” Sawyer whispered in his ear. He stretched out beside him and slung a hand over Marc‘s stomach. His breathing evened out immediately.

Marc shifted closer. “Sweet dreams.”

***

MARC was awake, drifting drowsily, when he heard the front door open and close. Voices echoed through the foyer and up the stairs. He squinted at the clock. Barely seven a.m. Curled up beside him, Sawyer slept on, oblivious.

Part of Marc wanted to ignore the intrusion. Not just anybody would invite themselves into his house, and despite everything, he wasn‘t sure he was ready to face Reba and whoever else now knew about him.

But something niggled at his brain. The baritone was too deep to be Rick‘s or Tim‘s, and the woman‘s voice too high pitched to be Reba. Or even Karen.

What the hell?

Marc extracted himself from Sawyer‘s arms and found his discarded sweatpants tangled in the covers at the foot of the bed. He shot a look toward the dresser before deciding against a shirt. It was his damn home, after all.

The voices had moved to the back of the house by the time he‘d reached the bottom of the main staircase. He followed them down the hall and into the kitchen. Two people, a man and a woman, were standing near the bay window that framed the breakfast nook, pointing at the yard beyond. The woman wore a long, flowing paisley skirt and peasant blouse. A thick mane of curly, blond hair fell halfway down her back.

No, it couldn‘t be. The strength went out of Marc‘s knees. “Excuse me,” Marc said, voice low and dangerous. “What are you doing in my house?” Giving a startled yelp, the woman turned, wobbling on her thick clogs. The man steadied her, and then he, too, turned around. Marc‘s stomach twisted. “What are you doing here?” he repeated.

“Oh, Marc, honestly,” the woman scolded, brushing off the man‘s hand. “Is that any way to greet your parents?”

“And don‘t you mean, what are we doing in our house?” his father asked.