Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
Kit
Kit didn’t want to let go of Quin. He wound his arms around him, linking his hands at the back of Quin’s neck. It was a good thing Quin didn’t seem to want to let him go either, because Kit was certain he would permanently die if asked to move off him.
“Shall we go to our own room?” Quin murmured, his hot breath gusting over Kit’s ear.
“Mmm,” he responded. It was all he was capable of in that moment.
“I’ll take that as a yes, baby.” Quin stood, and Kit wrapped his legs around Quin’s waist to stop himself from falling.
It occurred to him that they were both naked, but the brief self-consciousness faded quickly.
He had, after all, just come in front of the triad and witnessed them all do the same.
Once such experiences were shared, modesty was no longer a concern.
“Don’t forget aftercare,” Rake said as Quin pushed the door open.
“I won’t,” Quin assured him.
Kit drifted as Quin got him cleaned up and ready for bed. The sun would rise soon, sweet oblivion beckoning. He burrowed under the duvet whilst he waited for Quin to sort himself out in the bathroom, his head enjoyably empty of thoughts.
Quin slid in behind him, the heat radiating off him warming Kit down to his toes. A strong hand traced up his bare arm, soothing his muscles.
“That feel nice?” Quin asked.
Kit hummed an affirmative response, craning his neck to give Quin more access. Dutifully, Quin slid his hand up further, thumb rubbing circles above Kit’s spine.
“He didn’t need to remind you to do this,” Kit said lethargically.
“Huh?”
“Rake. His instruction about aftercare.”
“Oh. No, he didn’t need to, but I don’t mind. I think it’s just his way of showing he cares about you.” Quin dug his fingers into Kit’s shoulders, and Kit melted into the mattress. They lay there in a cosy, comfortable silence until Quin spoke again. “They all do. Care about you, I mean.”
Kit snorted with laughter. “Exhibitionism as a demonstration of friendship is very them.”
“Are you feeling okay about it?” Quin asked.
Kit didn’t need to consider it. “Yeah. It was…hot. Fun. A good distraction.”
Quin’s fingers paused momentarily, and Kit braced himself for another question. But it didn’t come. Relief would, however, only last until morning. Tomorrow, Kit would have to face his past.
Knowing that he’d be facing it alongside his friends and boyfriend, though, let him fall into sleep far easier than he’d have imagined.
It took them around twenty minutes to get to the manor house.
Kit sat with his shaking hands under his thighs for the entire drive.
When they parked, he stared ahead, dread settling in his gut like a heavy stone dropped in water.
He startled when Quin reached out and touched the side of his face, gently turning him around.
“You ready for this?” Quin asked.
Kit didn’t answer immediately, picking through his mind until he came to a conclusion. “Yeah. I don’t think I would have been able to face it a couple of months ago. Now, though? I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
Quin leaned over and pecked him on the forehead. “Let’s go then. I’ll be with you all the way.”
Kit looked up at Quin, meeting his gaze. “I know you will.”
Quin swallowed, his throat clicking. “Let’s go.”
Kit stepped out of the car, getting his first proper view of the manor in forty years. Quin joined him, and they looked upon where Kit had been imprisoned.
What remained didn’t match Kit’s memories.
It had been magnificent in its heyday, with architecture that even Kit had been impressed with: light grey stone covered in crawling ivy; symmetrical chimney tops reaching proudly into the air; grand columns on either side of the entrance standing sentinel; and small balconies on the upper windows with dainty, twisted railings.
But no more.
The entire west wing of the building was destroyed, blackened and burned away, exposing the innards of the house like a deep wound.
The front door hung off its hinges, looking fragile enough that the slightest touch would have it crumbling to dust. All the windows were damaged, some smashed and cracked and others gone from their frames altogether.
Neon graffiti blighted the more intact side of the manor, which Kit hadn’t expected.
Nobody ever came out to the house back when he’d been kept there, but it seemed it was a secret no longer.
“Bagsy not going into the cellar,” Shaun said, coming up beside them. There was a bright moon that night, disappearing behind the fast-moving clouds that sliced along the sky and cast dancing shadows across Shaun’s pale face.
“Lawrence really thought he was some sort of lord, didn’t he?” DJ said as he slammed the car door shut. “This house has total post-apocalyptic Downton Abbey vibes.”
“It used to be impressive,” Kit said. He was unable to stop from cataloguing every little detail that had changed.
The overgrown bushes. The uneven flagstones, disrupted by crawling tree roots.
And the smell of decay coming from deep within the bones of the house, as if the manor itself had become a rotting corpse.
“So, where to first?” Shaun asked.
Kit bit his lip as he considered his answer.
“His bedroom should have something personal to him. But I can’t judge the extent of the damage, or whether it’s been looted.
” He pointed at the graffiti. “Looks like people have been here at some point. So, I suppose we could start with the bedrooms and then head to the parlour in the east wing.”
“What even is a parlour?” Quin asked.
“A reception room,” DJ said. “A fancy living room with art and stuff.” At Quin’s surprised expression—he clearly hadn’t expected DJ to give an explanation—DJ shrugged. “My mum’s always enjoyed period dramas, so I’ve watched pretty much all of them.”
“The real question is, are you more of a Darcy or Heathcliff kinda guy?” Kit said, eager to delay their entry for at least a few moments.
“Easy: Darcy,” DJ said.
“Heathcliff forever,” Shaun said.
“Neither,” Rake said.
The triad all looked at each other in unison.
“Neither?” Shaun said to Rake, appalled.
“I’ve never seen or read either of them.”
“You’re one to talk, Shaun,” DJ said. “Heathcliff over Darcy? That’s just wrong.”
“I’ve never claimed to be someone with great taste in men,” Shaun said.
“You’re so in trouble for saying that,” DJ said. “Rake, tell him he’s in trouble.”
“You’re both in trouble,” Rake said, sighing. “Deej, you’re not allowed to decide when Shaun’s in trouble. We’ve established this.”
Before the trio’s argument could devolve further, Quin asked Kit, “So, what about you, then?”
Kit quirked his lips into a smile. “Knightley, obviously.”
“That wasn’t an option!” Shaun complained.
“I feel like our mission is getting derailed,” Rake observed.
“We’ve got time,” Quin said. “Just as long as we don’t run into any crazy exes hidden in the attic.”
“The worst part about you saying that, Quin,” Shaun said, “is that there is a chance of that happening.”
Kit’s legs felt like liquid as he took a tentative step towards the house.
His survival instinct yelled at him to turn in the other direction—to leave and never come back.
Only Quin’s steady presence beside him and firm hand in his own kept Kit upright.
He made it to the door and was the first to slip inside, Quin fast on his heels.
The fire had affected the entryway, but not so much that it seemed likely to collapse. It was bare of furniture.
Kit had expected to hear the scratches of rats or mice under the floorboards, or cooing pigeons roosting in the rafters. Instead, the eerie silence, broken only by their footsteps and Quin’s breaths, welcomed them like a cold embrace.
“Well, this is creepy as fuck,” DJ said.
“How apt for Lawrence,” Shaun said.
The crystal chandelier that had once been the pride of the hall was in a million tiny pieces, scattered down the grand staircase and across the dusty floor. Kit looked at the peeling wallpaper and cracked sconces and wondered how quickly decomposition had set in.
“Where’s the cellar?” Shaun asked. “So I know where to avoid.”
Kit pointed towards a corridor to their left. “It was under the pantry, beside the kitchen. All destroyed in the fire.”
Shaun nodded, staring at where the pantry had been, as if he wanted to confirm for himself. Kit didn’t comment on it.
“Upstairs first, then?” Quin asked Kit. “Do we think the stairs will hold us?”
“They seem solid. We should be fine.”
Still, Kit went first. He was halfway up the stairs before a sick feeling of déjà vu washed over him.
He hadn’t even needed to glance down at the steps as he ascended; his feet remembered each one as well as he knew the sight of his own face.
The realisation had him missing a step, tripping with his toe skimming the stair above him.
He flailed, jerking back and over-correcting, which only led him to pinwheel backwards.
But Quin was there behind him, strong hands holding him upright.
“I’ve got you,” Quin said. “Are you okay?”
Kit nodded, conflicting emotions keeping his words locked down tight.
“We go together,” Quin said, not letting Kit argue as he clasped their hands. The stairs creaked where Quin stepped, but they made it to the top hallway with no further incident.
Kit turned to the right, looking down the long corridor that stretched out in front of him. It was a walk he’d done so many times before, the familiarity an unwelcome visitor in his mind.
“His bedroom is down there,” he said, pointing.