The Ring

Fiction short. A young man misses his departed boyfriend.

Rated T, 5k, M/M. Tragedy and horror and ghosts in this one — note CWs for different kinds of domestic violence implied throughout, infidelity, death and references to suicide and self harm.

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He puts the flowers on the bed of Marcus’ grave which was grown over with grass now. Except for a slight roundness to the earth, a change in level between the ground and the grave grown over with grass, you might believe no one was buried there at all.

But Marcus was there, of course.

Six feet beneath him, laid back in the coffin in the nicest of his suits, the one with the blue-and-green checked waistcoat to match the lining of his suit jacket.

No tie.

Marcus always hated wearing ties.

He’d worn his father’s old ring, too, which he never took off even though he’d hated his father — he’d worn it out of spite, knowing the old man would hate that he had it on him, and because he liked the weight it added to a punch.

Rein had used to play over the polished stone in it with his thumb at night.

It was threatening to rain but nothing had come down yet so Rein stood at the gravesite with his umbrella loosely held against his thigh staring down at the headstone that read MARCUS GRISHAM-WATFORD, LOVING BROTHER AND DEVOTED PARTNER.

His mother hadn’t wanted that last bit on the headstone, but she didn’t have any control over it and Marcus had made sure in his will that was the case — Toni, Marcus’ sister, had insisted on it, on having Rein and their relationship mentioned, even though Rein had said it was okay, that it shouldn’t be there, if it was causing so much upset.

Rein appreciated it, the effort. The care.

His memories of Marcus were starting to fade, which made him ache in a tired, hollow way. He couldn’t remember the way Marcus used to smell, the honeyed, woody scent of him, and he was starting to forget how it had felt when Marcus held him back against his breast.

It was all fading, just like Marcus had.

Rein wondered if his memories were rotting away with the body beneath his feet, if as soon as Marcus himself was bare bones picked clean by bugs and worms, he’d be left only with the memories to fit them.

It was cold, but he didn’t feel ready to move just yet. He knew it wouldn’t change anything, knew that staying rooted to the spot staring down at a gravestone wouldn’t make Marcus come home, wouldn’t make him feel better, wouldn’t matter. Ryan hated it when he got like this, when he got stuck and he wouldn’t move on, when he was like a lingering ghost instead of a real person.

He just wasn’t ready yet.

* * *

An hour later, on the bus home he was shivering a little from the cold and the wet — it had started to rain and he still hadn’t convinced his feet to move — and his phone rang. He was slow and clumsy pulling it out, his fingers stiff, a few drips of wetness on the screen, and dread bubbled in his belly the more seconds ticked by, the longer he took.

“Hi, Ryan,” he said softly once he had the phone up to his ear.

“Where are you?” Ryan asked sharply.

“On the bus. I’m coming home.”

“On another walk?”

“Yes.”

Rein could almost imagine Ryan softening as he heard him sigh. “I’ll have something ready for you to eat,” he said quietly. “And I’ll make a hot water bottle for you.”

“Thank you,” Rein said, something twisting in the base of his gut. “I know I don’t deserve it.”

Ryan clucked his tongue, and hung up the phone.

When he got home, Ryan held his arms out for him, and Rein fell between his spread knees onto the sofa, falling against his chest and relaxing as Rya wrapped his arms around him, squeezing him tightly.

One hand wound up into Rein’s hair, the other hand settling possessively on his arse.

“Were you at his grave again?” asked Ryan softly, his breath hot on the shell of Rein’s ear, and Rein closed his eyes, leaning in closer, pressing his face against the heat of Ryan’s chest. “Christ, Rein.”

Rein liked the way Ryan said his name. Some people said “Rein” the same way they said Ryan’s, or said to rhyme with shine, or sometimes people asked if he liked kings or the monarchy, if it was like reign.

“I’m sorry,” said Rein. “I know you don’t like it.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it, sweetheart, it just hurts for you to keep feeling bad over him when he treated you so badly.” Ryan stroked his back in a slow, rhythmic fashion, his palm moving up and down, up and down. “He still has power over you even now.”

“It’s not power,” said Rein. “I can be sad he’s gone.”

“Are you sad he doesn’t lose his temper all the time anymore, throw stuff at the walls whenever something pisses him off? Scared he doesn’t punch the fuck out of any guy that looks at you anymore?”

Rein gently traced the scar on Ryan’s shoulder where it adjoined his neck — he remembered the crack his nose had made when Marcus had punched him, and the way Ryan had sailed backward, how he’d fell into the wire potto basket in the kitchen. It had almost seemed animated, or as if it was in slow motion, the movement had been so obvious and so dramatic — there’d been so much blood, afterward, Rein was sure he’d die.

Marcus had stormed out as Rein had called the ambulance, and he’d been so panicked he hadn’t even pulled his clothes back on, had still been naked except for Ryan’s blood when the ambulance arrived.

They’d thought he was hurt too, but he wasn’t. Marcus never hit him, not once, never hurt him even by accident. He couldn’t hurt Rein, he said — Rein was too precious. That annoyed Ryan, Rein thought, in the scheme of things. It would have been easier if Marcus had hit him.

He remembered how upset he’d been when Ryan insisted on pressing charges, even though they were in Marcus’ kitchen, Marcus’ flat, Marcus’ bed. Ryan had said the lease was in Rein’s name and he had the right to do what he wanted, but —

It was his fault.

All of it was his fault. It didn’t matter that Ryan said otherwise — it was his fault. He’d been lonely, sometimes, what with the hours Marcus worked and how unpredictable they were, and it had seemed safer, somehow, easier, to let Ryan come closer, than to ask Marcus to come home more. It had seemed easy to let Ryan kiss his neck and slide his fingers under his waistband, to let Ryan creep into his life and his affections.

If he hadn’t — if he’d told Ryan no, if he told Marcus he missed him even when they were sitting together, if he’d told Marcus it frightened him sometimes, when he raised his voice, if he’d just said —

He wouldn’t have fought Ryan. He wouldn’t have run, afterward, and no one would have chased him.

He wouldn’t have died.

He thought. Maybe.

“You know no one loves you like I do, right, sweetheart?” Ryan asked, his voice soft in Rein’s ear, but his grip was a little too tight around his wrist, but he couldn’t say so, because Ryan got upset if he said things like that. He said it made him sound like he was as bad as Marcus was. “You know I always loved you more than he did?”

Rein let himself be repositioned like a puppet in Ryan’s lap, let Ryan slowly rock his hips up against his arse, sighed, leaned back against him.

“If I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t have risked it,” he said softly, grazing his teeth over the lobe of Rein’s ear and making him shiver.

“Thank you,” Rein whispered.

“Going to show me you love me?”

“I love you.”

“Going to show me?”

Marcus had never made him do this, had never asked after the first time he’d tried and choked on it.

Rein slipped onto the rug and knelt between Ryan’s knees.

* * *

“Other people think you’re broken,” said Ryan that night, spooned up behind him, and it made Rein’s stomach twist, something clenching inside him. “Because you never react to anything, because you’re so blank. But I know you’re not, baby — I understand you.”

The clenching discomfort morphed into a delicate warmth, one that felt tender and fragile. He pressed back against the muscular bulk of Ryan’s body, encouraging him to squeeze his arms more tightly around his waist.

“I’m not broken,” he said.

“I know,” Ryan assured him, kissing his neck. “I’m not like everyone else.”

Rein was awake for hours later, held in Ryan’s arms. It took him ages to fall asleep.

* * *

He found it in a box of Marcus’ old things. Ryan had been quick about throwing most of it out, saying that Rein didn’t need that sort of negativity in his life, and he’d weakly objected, but what would he have done with it all, anyway?

He’d never been as cultured as Marcus was — Toni had taken his books and his suits and his little busts, and Ryan had thrown the rest out. This was in the back of the wardrobe, where Ryan hadn’t looked just yet.

He stayed over a lot, recently. The flat was Rein’s now, without Marcus in it, but sometimes, he felt like it was Ryan’s. He felt like he was Ryan’s, except for the times that he didn’t.

The box in the back of the wardrobe was full of trophies and medals — Marcus had done sports at school. He’d been a runner and he’d played tennis, and he’d done team sports too. It had always seemed somewhat unfair that he was so good at sports and at academics at the same time when Rein had never been much good at anything.

One of the trophies was for some sort of university quiz, and Rein stroked over the text carved into the metal, feeling the cool texture of it. He’d wanted to display them, put them up on nice shelves, but Marcus had laughed at the suggestion.

“No, Rein,” he’d said, kissing his cheek. “I don’t think we need to tell everyone how fast or smart I was as a kid. It’s old news, not impressive.”

“I wasn’t smart as a kid, or fast. It’s impressive to me.”

“You’re smart now.”

“I don’t have a medal.”

“I’ll get you one.”

Rein reached up, absently wiping the tears that had formed at the corner of his eyes. He’d have to hide the box until he could give it to Toni — he didn’t want Ryan to throw it away, but Toni understood. She never blamed Rein, even though perhaps she should.

At the side of the box was a wide board, and he thought it was another plaque until he pulled it out and turned it over. The alphabet was spread over the wooden surface, painted on in ornate, dark letters, with YES, NO, HELLO, and GOODBYE at the corners.

He’d never liked the Ouija board. He remembered the first time he’d seen it. Marcus had seen his face and his fear, had teased once, and when Rein had very seriously shook his head, he’d promised never to touch it again. Rein hadn’t seen it since.

Here it was, in the back of the wardrobe.

A fresh wave of guilt ran through him as he reached into the box for the planchette.

It had a shirtless demon drawn on it, with a visible bulge in his boxers. For all the fear building up inside him, it made him smile. Marcus had been good at lots of things, but drawing he hadn’t been quite as good at — the demon’s eyes were lopsided and its face didn’t look quite right.

Ryan wouldn’t be home from his shift for another few hours.

Rein had time.

He closed the blinds and turned on the desk lamp instead of the ceiling light, and sat down with the planchette on the board. He moved it slowly, circling it on the board, feeling how easily it rolled.

“Is anybody there?” he asked, feeling the hair stand up on the back of his neck, embarrassed and scared all at once. He kept slowly rolling the planchette in easy circles, feeling no tug or pull or catch, wondering if he was an idiot for expecting it.

“Hello?” he asked.

The sound of it was soothing, rhythmic.

“Marcus?” he asked in a tiny voice. “Marcus?”

The planchette stuck, and Rein felt like he’d been drenched in ice water.

Rein looked down at the board and read the word the planchette pointed to: HELLO.

He burst into tears in earnest, this time.

“Marcus,” he said softly. “Is it you?”

The planchette tugged his fingers as it slit to the word YES. Rein sniffled, and the planchette moved fast, his fingers barely touching the wood as it slid one way and then the other: DONT CRY.

“Sorry,” he whispered, and he bit his lip, hearing a creak in the corridor and thinking it was Ryan, but it wasn’t. Just a neighbour in the hall.

“Are you — Are you okay?”

MISS YOU, said the planchette, letter by letter. Rein’s chest ached, his whole body ached. NEED YOU.

“Need me?”

YOUR HELP.

Rein paused, his lips falling apart. “What with?”

MY RING.

Rein stared down at the board, feeling baffled, suspended in a sea of confusion, as he tried to think.

“Your — Your ring? Your dad’s ring? But, Marcus, you were buried with it, I can’t just — ”

The planchette moved fast enough to make a louder sound on the board, a sort of sharp scraping. It wasn’t the same as a real shout, but it still made him flinch back, and when he opened his eyes again, he saw the planchette hovering over the word NO.

“You were,” he said. “I remember, you were — ”

WAS I?

Doubt flooded his brain. He felt like he was swimming in it.

“You were,” Rein said slowly, wanting to pull his hands into his lap and make himself smaller, to curl in on himself, but he didn’t dare pull his hands away from the planchette. “You were,” he said again, more softly. “You were, because me and Toni talked about it, and your mo — ”

The planchette moved fast, and even counting out the letters, he felt as though he could hear Marcus’ tone, hear the dark and dangerous way he would talk sometimes, the way that made Rein want to fold back into his own bones.

YOU THINK IM LYING?

Rein’s eyes watered.

“No,” Rein said quickly when he realised he’d been quiet for too long, trying not to sniffle as though Marcus wouldn’t know if he couldn’t hear him cry. “No, no, I’m not saying that, but I remember, I remember how it looked wh — ”

6 MONTHS AGO?

“Yeah, but — ”

YOU SURE?

Rein felt himself crumple, and the planchette made circle after circle around the board before coming back to the question mark, again and again. It reminded him of how Marcus would tug open a cupboard door sometimes and keep letting it drop back against its magnet before tugging it open again.

He’d do that when he was impatient and was trying not to be angry, when Rein was taking too long and being too slow and too stupid, and it made him feel as though he were about to explode, too much pressure on his too-full skull.

“I’m sorry,” Rein said thickly, loudly, because he just wanted it to stop, and when the planchette stopped moving he almost sobbed with relief.

GET MY RING, said the planchette.

Rein swallowed.

PLEASE?

Rein swallowed again, throat feeling too full, and nodded his head.

The planchette turned in his hand to point the way, and he very carefully put the board and the box back into the wardrobe, kicking it to the back before he pulled on his coat. The planchette shifted in his hand, impatient, and he held it in a loose grip as he stepped outside.

They’d made him identify the body.

Antonio had been up in Aberdeen, hadn’t come back down south yet, and so they’d made him come because they weren’t married but they were each other’s next of kin and all the pigs knew Rein by sight even though they’d never arrested him. He and Marcus had been in each other’s wills even though Rein had nothing to leave behind.

It had been horrible, seeing him. He’d gone down to the train lines, was probably walking out to the woods like he always did, and Ryan had told the police that even though Rein had said not to, and Ryan had left a bruise, shoving him back from the door to keep him from going out to find Marcus first.

Not on purpose.

He’d been stressed out about the police coming to take another statement, because he’d had to have stitches at the hospital and was hazy from the drugs, and he hadn’t even realised until later, then he’d kissed the mark on Rein’s chest.

Rein knew it wasn’t on purpose — it was Rein’s fault, Ryan had said once, because he had such delicate skin, because he bruised so easily.

Marcus had been twice Ryan’s size, and he’d never even left a bruise during sex.

He’d looked very cold laid out on the mortuary bed. He’d been scaling a chain link fence, one that Rein knew he knew a way around but it was a half mile up the line and he was probably in a hurry to get up and over, to make sure they couldn’t catch up.

They said he’d hit his head falling over the other side. Instant. Quick.

It hadn’t looked so quick on that metal table, under the blue-white lights and the reflection off the dark green tiles. His skull had been smashed, he’d landed right on a rock, and it had looked —

The planchette tugged him back, hard: he’d crossed into the road without thinking and a food truck roared past him, leaving him standing on the curb, breathing heavily as he tried to catch his focus back. The planchette felt warm in his hand, and he wished he remembered what Marcus’ hand felt like.

He held it up to his chest for a second, hugging it against him as he waited for the traffic lights to change, and then he crossed the road, glancing down at his boots as he made his way forward.

Marcus had bought them for him. He’d said that last week, that Marcus had bought them for him specially and that was why they fitted so well, and Ryan had let out an irritated sound and walked out of the room.

He didn’t think he was broken. He just put up with things he shouldn’t sometimes.

Rein was a forgiving person — Ryan said that, that he was a forgiving person, too forgiving, but he’d never quite understood who Ryan wanted him to forgive and who he didn’t, because he always seemed to get it wrong.

It was easier to let Ryan decide.

His boots squelched in the mud as he walked down the dirt path toward the train tracks, their wide bend before the track caught up with the station, although they passed through a little valley cut into the hillside first, stabilised with brick on each side.

When they were teenagers, it used to be that they’d slide down the bricked up bank on damp days, sitting on the back of a tray, and Rein was always frightened to do it himself — Marcus would always go down first and catch him when he skidded to the bottom, lift him up into a kiss.

It used to dazzle him in those days, and for a second he stood at the top of the tall bank, looking down at the rail track on the bottom. This was a utility trail, really, the stairs leading down for tunnel access — there was a proper path further away — but this was a shortcut.

A sign read DANGER — KEEP OUT, but the gate wasn’t very high, was barely a stile to hop over. The planchette tugged him forward, and as his feet dropped down onto the topmost metal panel of the stairs, he smelt a woody, vanilla scent, smelt Marcus, and lingered.

It encompassed him in a cloud, made him close his eyes and hover for a moment, and holding the planchette to his chest he imagined Marcus was with him, arms wrapped around him, smelling his cologne —

His phone rang.

“Hi, baby,” Ryan said when he answered. There was a slightly stiff note to his voice, and Rein pulled the planchette closer to his chest, as if Ryan could see it. “Where are you?”

“Just walking,” said Rein. “I needed to get out of the house.”

“You at the graveyard again? Jesus, Rein — ”

“No.”

“Are you fucking lying to me? It’s bad enough you want to worship your dead ex, but to then — ”

“I’m not lying,” Rein said. “I’m not at the graveyard. I’m going to the woods, I’m just at the train tracks.”

He heard Ryan exhale.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I get angry sometimes, that it’s not fair. I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t mean it. I just — I get so angry, thinking about how he hurt you. You understand that, don’t you?”

He wasn’t my ex, Rein doesn’t say. I didn’t want him to be my ex.

“Yes.”

“You know I love you, that I want to protect you?”

“Yes.”

Rein could smell Marcus’ cologne, and the air felt warm although the day was cool, and the planchette was a hot weight on his chest, against his palm.

“I’ll drive over to you,” said Ryan.

The planchette jumped in his palm, and he squeezed it hard to keep it still.

“Okay,” he said quietly in a small, tight voice. “In — In ten minutes, fifteen? I’ll make it there. To the other side.”

“I can walk with you, just give me — ”

“No, it’s so muddy, Ryan,” Rein said, forcing himself to smile so that Ryan could hear it in his voice. “I don’t want you to ruin your shoes. Meet me on the path in the woods, it’s okay.”

A beat passed.

“Okay,” said Ryan. “I’ll meet you in five.”

“Uh, I’ll be ten, I think, maybe — ”

“Five.”

“… Okay.”

He hung up the phone and moved quickly on the stairs, gripping tightly against the steel railing, because he remembered when they’d been kids and Chloe J had slipped on the metal plate while it was wet, the corrugation making no difference at all, and had sprained her wrist.

He wondered if Marcus would have been okay, if he’d slipped here instead of going over the chain link. It would rain soon, he thought, and the plate would be even wetter.

The planchette pulled him forward, on along, and he stepped carefully between the wooden slats of the tracks. They seemed so small, now — still big, of course, big enough for the train, and he knew not to touch the metal sides in case he electrocuted himself, but they’d seemed so much bigger when he was young.

The tunnel loomed ahead of him, a dark and hungry mouth.

The planchette suddenly stopped feeling like anything, and he paused, distress rippling through his body as he thought Marcus had abandoned him again, but then he saw the little stone beside the track, saw the shine of the ring.

The stone wasn’t even broken, although the ring was muddied and wet with rainwater and the silver was starting to tarnish. He felt as though something had been torn out of him as he dropped to his knees to pick it up.

Rain was beginning to come down in fat, heavy drops, landing on his shoulders.

Marcus had been telling the truth, then. Rein had misremembered, had been stupid again just like always, and he felt so guilty and so pained, like a part had been torn out of him. Kneeling there with the rain rushing down on him and sinking in against his skin, he polished the ring with the sleeve of his hoodie, trying to clean it off.

Marcus’ arms were warm around him, squeezing him tight like they always used to, and he couldn’t see them, but he could feel Marcus’ hands over his, gently squeezing his wrists as he turned the ring over.

“I’m sorry,” Rein whispered. “I’m sorry, I’ll put it on your grave — ”

“You wanted something to remember me by, didn’t you?” Marcus asked in his ear, and Rein felt safer than he’d ever known, felt like crying, felt like he was about to fall to pieces. “Do you remember me now?”

Rein, teary-eyed — or maybe it was just the rain — nodded his head, squeezed the metal in his fingers.

“It’s not a metal,” said Marcus. “I’m sorry it’s not a medal, I know you wanted one — ”

Through the tears, Rein nodded his head, breath hitching, gasping.

“He take care of you?” asked Marcus, voice lower, darker. “He take care of what’s mine?”

It felt like a trap.

“Not like you do,” whispered Rein, hoping this was the right answer: he was rewarded by a tight squeeze, but not one so tight it was painful, and he wondered if Marcus’ cologne would catch on his skin, if Ryan would be able to smell it on him. It was still a sore point, and he had no one else to tell — maybe that was why he said, “He said I’m broken.”

“You’re not broken,” said Marcus immediately.

“He said people think I am.”

“No, no one thinks you’re broken,” said Marcus. “They just think you’re kind — too kind for your own good, maybe, but not broken. There’s nothing wrong with you. Never has been, I promise.”

He kissed Rein’s temple and Rein closed his eyes, leaning into him. “Did it hurt?”

“No, not really. I was drunk, and I think it killed me as soon as I hit the floor.” His voice was quiet, gentle. Rumbling like an affectionate bear. “I just hurt because I was missing you, thought you hated me.”

“I didn’t hate you,” Rein said, his own voice choked and sharp and ugly, but Marcus stroked his hands. “I didn’t hate you, I just — It was just hard to talk to you sometimes. To tell you things. It was easy to talk to Ryan, he’s just, he was better at it, at talking.”

“Good at other things too,” rumbled Marcus, and Rein’s breath hitched, but Marcus hushed him. “No, Rein, I’m not angry at you, I’m not having a go, I swear. But you never have to do anything you don’t want to, you know. Don’t have to suck him off, don’t have to go to his work drinks when the women there treat you like you’re his pet chihuahua or their gay best friend.”

Marcus was stroking up and down his wrists, thumbs sliding smooth over the skin, and it was comforting, gentle, even though the rain was cold.

“You can call Toni if you need help getting out. You know that, right?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t want to.”

Rein bit his lip.

“It’s okay if you want to stay with him,” said Marcus. “I just want you happy, baby.”

“No one else would want me. And Ryan loves me, he says he loves me — ”

“Of course someone else would want you,” Marcus whispered. “Don’t you see how precious you are?”

“It would be hard to go. To leave. I don’t know how.”

“You don’t know how? Rein, all you need to do — ”

“I just want it to go back to the way it was,” Rein blurted out, gasping in a breath, pressing his cheek hard against Marcus’ shoulder, the shoulder he couldn’t see. “I miss it. I miss you. It’s all my fault, I should never have…”

Marcus squeezed him even tighter, so tight he almost couldn’t breathe for a moment, but then Marcus relaxed his hold.

“I love you,” he said. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

“I love you too.”

“Yeah,” said Marcus. “Yeah, I know.”

The rain seemed very loud, and Rein wondered if it would storm later, if the sky would split apart with thunder and lightning. He could barely see when he opened his eyes, the rain was coming down so heavy, and he was soaked to his skin.

“Rein!” shouted Ryan, and he looked up.

He could barely see him except for the tall lamp up behind him, frantically waving his arms, and Rein winced and put his finger in one of his ears at the loud roar of the rain, squinting up at him.

“Rein, baby, come here, come up here,” Ryan shouted.

“No, it’s okay!” Rein called back as he stood up, the planchette dropping to the ground, and held up the ring. “I have Marcus’ — ” He stared at the band of plain, rusted steel in his hand, a ring pull off a can or maybe a keyring once, now too rusted to tell.

“Oh,” he said lowly, feeling confused, his head all full, his brain spinning in his skull He’d just been holding it, the ring, hadn’t it? He’d held it and the stone had been so polished, and —

“Rein, baby, get off the tracks,” screamed Ryan, too loud through the cotton wool stuffed in his ears and behind his eyes. “Rein, just come here, just come up — ”

The train was so loud, and its light was too bright as it came through the thick curtains of rain, and he put his arm over his eyes to shield them.

It happened quickly, and then it was done.

* * *

Marcus picked him up, and this time Rein could see him, feel him, touch him, smell his cologne.

“I have you, I have you,” Marcus said, catching him in a kiss. It was tender, and he had to bend over to do it, to reach. “Don’t cry, why are you crying? I hate it when you cry.”

“That was wrong of you,” said Rein, heaving in a sharp, shuddered gasp. “You made me feel crazy, I hate when you make me feel crazy, it’s why I never told you things, it’s why — ”

“No, no, you asked for it,” Marcus told him, cupping his cheeks. “Didn’t you? Didn’t you say you wanted it like before?” Marcus’ thumbs slid through the tears and despite it all, Rein felt a crushing, painful relief.

He fell against Marcus’ chest, and Marcus kissed him.

“You’re mine, Rein,” Marcus whispered. “You think I’d let dying change that?”

Rein shook his head, and Marcus held him.

“Can get a tray,” he whispered against the top of Rein’s head. “Or something like it. Run down that old hill like we used to.”

“You have to catch me.”

“It’s not like you’ll get hurt.”

“Catch me anyway.”

Marcus sighed, but leaned back, cupping Rein’s cheek in one big, meaty hand. Rein could feel the weight of his ring against his skin, and he leaned into it.

“Always,” Marcus promised. “Always.”

FIN.

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Want another tale of painful, awful love between men dead and not? Try:

https://johannestevans.medium.com/letters-to-the-dead-1ccc3dc20ae7