2021-01-01 - Ghosts of New Years' Past

Dante has been sleeping like the dead after he's officially on a two-week vacation. Well, a vacation from the restaurant, but the final draft of his manuscript has been sitting unread for a few weeks. But that's a problem for a few days from now. Right now it's time for decompression.

After a nice dinner, a movie and a shag, he passed out like a light. Then he drifted into sleep next to Cris. The Dream only lets them sleep for two hours or so before it pulls them in.

Suddenly, they find themselves at a party in a palatial room that looks ancient and very...English. There's a muskiness in the air, as well as a tang of salt. It's a cocktail party, but the faces of the people are indistinct. Their clothing is posh, but from no particular era.

Dante finds himself in an adult version of his Eton uniform, holding a martini in one hand and a cucumber sandwich in another.

"...you really should get rid of that beard, dear," says an elderly woman to him, "It makes you look old and too much like your father."

Dante stares at her a moment, squints. "Grandmum?"

Cris may not be on vacation as such, but now that he's officially 'moved in' to the apartment, he can be here for such quaint slice of life activities like a random movie night and dinner, and best of all not even thinking about where he's going to spend the night or where he'll wake up. Well, unless the Veil gets involved. One minute he's the small spoon and the next, he's holding one over a cup of tea, frowning down at the delicate bone china with floral pattern wondering if he had one or two lumps of cocaine and forgot about it. The dark grey wool of his tweed suit is itchy and the collar far too tight because of an ascot.

"Uh.." Cris looks up at a man with a fantastically manicured mustache who asks the latino, "Thank you for the tea, good man, but servants shouldn't linger. You shouldn't be seen or heard."

"Grandmum, you're...."

"Dead? What of it?" says the elderly woman. "I can still have an opinion, you know. At least your posture is good." She upnods in approval.

Dante and his grandmother aren't too far from Cris. But space seems rather....relative.

Before Cris can get too far, an arm loops into his. "Don't be rude, Percival. He's not a servant." The woman who loops her arm in his is dressed as a nun. She has dark eyes like Dante and a Spanish accent. Her skin is duskier and her features more delicate, but the resemblance in the eyes is uncanny. "Come, Cristobal." She steers him away.

There is that uncomfortable feeling in the pit of Cristobal's stomach as he realizes the here and now is actually 'there and whenever'. He can do little but lay his over the top of the nun's, muttering a, "Yes ma'am. I mean Sister. Ma'am." His eyes roving intently until he can lay his gaze on Dante and be assured that he's here in tandem and unscathed only to realize the eyes he's searching for are mirrored beneath a habit. His head ducks slightly, "Is your blessed name Sister Gabriella, by any chance?"

The rosary hanging off the nun's belt certainly looks familiar. "Yes indeed I am. And it does my heart good to know that our Dante is marrying a man of God." There's a warmth to her, especially in the way that she grips his arm. It's a strong grip, but not constricting. She nods towards Dante who is now in an argument with the older woman. "My daughter. His grandmother. A clash of wills. Both defiant. And she is so very judgmental." She tsks. "Fortunately for you she, like me, is quite dead." A twinkle in her eye now, something like the mischevious look that Dante gets.

At that, Cristobal ducks his head guiltily, "I don't know about that, Sister. We're all children of God. And I have faith. But to call me a man of God does a disservice to the vows you and others have made." His gaze, now mostly downcast flicks back to Dante, watching the argument without picking up the particulars. "So I take it she would have been the type to...disapprove of our relationship?"

"A man of faith, then," says Sister Gabriella. The people around them are indistinct, except those closest to Dante or ones Cris passes closer to. Then, like characters in a video game, they get sharper. She eyes her great-grandson, then looks up at Cris with a lifted brow. "Mhmm. Quietly disapproving, yes. She was always worried about him and pressured Dante's mother. Ah, did you know..." she brightens. "I must tell you a secret." She pats his arm. "His name. You might have heard some story about how his parents met in Italy and his name is because of that. But it's not true." She leans in, "Dante is the name of a man who nearly made me give up my vows. I entered the convent after my husband died and my children were grown. But almost as soon as I did, I met a man in the town who wanted me to run away with him."

Meanwhile, Dante's argument with his grandmother is getting more heated. He turns and walks away from her, and she stands there, quietly disapproving in that Very English Way (TM). That's when he catches sight of Cris, but he squints like he's in a fog. He moves towards him with purposes. "Is it really you?"

Cris can't help but smile when the at his side imparts a secret, though it's vague little thing that is unsure about its status on his lips. "So your grand daughter named her son after the man who stole his great grandmother's heart. Your life alone could be the story of a great telenovella." But then Dante is peeling away from his grandmother and heading in their direction, and he straightens if only to give his finance the appearance of a safe and sure harbor. "I think so?" He's offering a subtle extension of his hand, unsure if he should actually reach to grasp Dante considering their surroundings. "Hard to tell." His finger hooks into his neckchief, giving it a little tug.

"Mhmmm hmmm. I think Sophie," Dante's mother, "...remembered me saying his name when I told the story to her as a child. His parents did spend time in Italy, but that's not where the name comes from. There you go. A little something just between us, hmmm?" She gives his arm a squeeze.

Dante gets closer and the distress on his face is more apparent. "I think I'm surrounded by ghosts of my past. What about you?"

There's a gentle squeeze on Cris' arm, but when he looks over, Gabriella is gone.

"Well I think..." Cris goes to answer Dante, glancing aside at the squeeze on his arm to introduce him to his great-grandmother and left to double take at the empty air at his side. A soft noise escapes his lips akin to a sigh. "Just know you Gabriella approves even if your abuela does not. You okay?" He asks, stepping in tight to Dante and decorum be damn, he grabs him by the waist and halls in in tight. "It's alright, it's just a Dream. We'll make it out of here, Mi Luz."

"Gabriella?" It takes Dante a moment to piece it together. He looks around for anyone nun-shaped, but she's gone. He's very tense when Cris moves in tight, but he seems to welcome it. "Welcome to Bowthick Manor, by the way. It didn't look like this last I was here. This room was crumbling apart." His family home in Cornwall.

"So this is him, huh?" comes a voice from just behind them. There's a woman standing there in marathon runner gear in contrast to the fancy-looking people around them. She's petite and about 5'4", blonde, no makeup, and a very athletic body that when combined with a sports bra, no makeup and unstyled hair could easily be mistaken for either gender.

"Bethany," Dante breathes.

Cristobal frowns deeply as he told Dante's family home is now crumbling in the real world, something about that striking a chord he didn't care to have plucked. His arm only tightens instinctually when someone else approaches, as if he could shield Dante from these ghosts. "And Bethany is...?" He asks beneath his breath while trying to fix a sort of neutral smile on his mouth.

"His ex," says Bethany, hands on hips. "Not dead, by the way. Not everyone here is. He doesn't know that many dead people as it turns out." She looks him up and down. "Not who I expected he'd end up with. The waiters he used to oggle didn't look like you."

Dante tenses visibly and grips harder on his waist. "I am not going to rehash old arguments with a figment of you, Bethany. It was an absolute bore to do it with the real you."

Bethany is not looking at Dante. She's got her eyes on Cris. "He lies to himself, you know. An absolute champion at it. And you forgive him because he believes his own bullshit."

And Cris' grin slowly splits to show more teeth, the smile becoming mirthless, "The ex, huh." The comment about the waiters doesn't even seem to faze him. "That counts two of us that are a bit surprised. A tall drink of Brit like this, I would've thought he'd have married a supermodel. You know, leggy blonde. Vapid but somehow more sense between the ears. I see you at least tried to attempt to appeal to his homosexuality with your grooming habits, good on you. But you scared him away from women completely, and I got to really nail it home for boy's team, if you know what I'm saying." He crooks his finger at Bethany to get her closer, but even if she doesn't close the distance he leans. "Maybe why your marriage failed is because you threw those lies back in his face, instead of trying to help him unravel them."

"Cris," murmurs Dante softly, in warning.

That seems to slam very hard on figment-Bethany's buttons. Her face contorts. "I'm an athlete, you dick. I don't walk around every day dressed like this." She radiates insecurity.

"I once complimented her tone before a marathon and she spent the next three days asking her if I liked her better that way. I was simply trying to..." he starts off addressing Cris, but then turns to his ex, "I was simply trying to express support for how much hard work and training you had done. No matter how many times I told you you were beautiful, it was never enough, was it? I was always saying the opposite. Or lying. Or that I liked you better because you were somehow less feminine."

"Because you never stop fucking flirting, Dante. With everyone. How was that supposed to make me feel? And all the times you lied to me about being gay."

"I never said I wasn't gay. I said I wasn't cheating on you. And you asked so often, that you made me tell you. And then you resented me for telling you. Bloody hell, Bethany. There was no winning with you."

He's raising his voice quite a bit now and it's drawing the attention of the shadowy figures. Then, a commanding voice rises from the fringes. There's something menacing about it. Gruff. A voice to be listened to. "Don't talk to your wife like that, boy."

Dante visibly curls inward. His shoulders drop. He sucks in a breath.

Cris has that look on his face like he smells blood in the water despite Dante's soft warning, "So what you are is a bitch who let her insecurities ruin her marriage and can't let bygones be bygones, but don't you worry sweetheart, I'm fulfilling all his needs now, so why don't you wander over to the dessert buffet and help yourself to some shut-the-fuck-up-cakes."

His arms tighten in his suit when someone calls Dante 'boy', and it further raises his hackles. There is a subtle unbuttoning of his suit jacket, despite the fact he's horribly aware he's not wearing his shoulder rig for his trusty weapon, but if he needs to throw a punch to defend his fiance, it's better to have a little more ease of movement. He shifts one step to the side and in front of Dante, interposing himself between him and the forming figure. "In case you didn't get the memo, that's his ex wife, but I'll be happy to tattoo it on your jaw with my knuckles."

"Cris," says Dante gently. Bethany is just quietly seething. But he's more distracted by that voice. He suddenly looks...smaller. And the man who emerges from the crowd looks about seven feet tall. He clearly can't be that tall, but it's indicative of how this figure makes him feel small and vulnerable. He's a burly man with dark hair and light eyes, and impressive beard. Hard to tell if there's any resemblance in face as the beard obscures his jawline.

"So is that why you decided to fuck men, son? So you'd havy someone to fight your battles for you, ay?" The man's accent is less refined, and more rural sounding, even to someone who doesn't know regional accents well. There's a gruffness to him, but a proud bearing as well.

"You're in for it now," says Bethany. When they look back to her, she's suddenly in a red bodycon cocktail dress, with her hair and makeup done. Between that and a push-up bra, she looks significantly more feminine, though the dress can't hide the deep muscle tone or the broadness of her shoulders.

"You're not actually him," says Dante, a bit breathlessly.

It takes nothing more than a shrug for Cristobal to shed the wool suit jacket now, letting it pool by his feet. "No, the reason he decided to fuck men is when I take him from behind, I can hit this sweeeeet little spot that makes him moan until he's breathless. That and we give better blow jobs." His thumb rubs along the edge of his nose like an old timey boxer getting ready for a brawl.

He tilts his head slightly toward Dante without taking his eyes off the bearded form. "No, it's not. It's the Veil's attempt to dig into your thoughts and toy with your emotions. So whoever this Jolly Green Fucknut was in your life, this is just the shadowy version of them. But either way, I'm gonna kick his ass."

Dante recoils at the image of the large, bearded man. "Cris..." he murmurs, "That's..."

"His father," says the giant bearded man who seems to loom over them both. "And I won't tolerate that kind of blasphemous talk in my house." There's something about this figure that inspires dread and fear, and a visceral sense of menace. He's like something out of a dark fairytale. Many of Dante's books have this sort of menacing father figure in the background,and this figure embodies that feeling jsut as vividly as his writing.

Meanwhile, the shadow figure of Bethany seems downright delighted. She laughs mirthfully and bites a maraschino cherry off the end of a plastic sword.

His father. And for some reason that seems to make Cris' lip curl with disdain, possibly by the effect he's having on Dante. "Well, I'd say it was a pleasure to meet you, sir, but you seem like a real ass, so I'm just going to go ahead and say way to go on Dante growing up to be a remarkable man despite your best efforts to apparently treat him like a black fucking sheep. As for blasphemous talk, I got the nun's approval so yours seems a little...well. Insignificant."

Dante is normally a confident, swaggering peacock but all that evaporates in the face of this figure. He reaches for Cris' hand and grips it with a ferocity that might bring a bit of pain. He turns his face away and inhales. His shoulders are hunched, like he's expecting to be cuffed at any second.

"A fucking Catholic nun from his mother's side. A family of blasphemers. You're a trifle, boy. A passing fancy. He'll smarten up. Or he'll be dragged down to Hell with you." His father has an aura of pipe smoke and old leather around him.

"Cris, leave it be. It's not worth it," says Dante in a small, broken sort of voice. He isn't a man to be cowed easily, but he seems cowed by this figment.

Cris holds up his middle finger towards this father figure in a 'wait on second' indication as he turns to Dante, an arm wrapping around his shoulder and hugging him tight. "Babe. If ever you wanted to tell your father to shove it up his ass sideways with barbed wire, now's the time to do it. This isn't him, he can't control you here. But I'm damned well not going to sit by and watch anything treat you like this, Dream or no."

"You couldn't control yourself. Couldn't keep your fucking sick urges to yourself. And you ruined a completely fucking fine marriage with a good woman. I am bloody ashamed, boy. What you're thinking of doing with him is not marriage. It's a farce. Like a cat in trousers. And you you bloody well know it." The figure of Dante's father seems to loom larger still.

Dante coils against Cris and pinches his eyes closed. Off to the side, Bethany starts to laugh, like someone high or at least thoroughly enjoying herself. The rest of the party starts to laugh, too. Shadowy figures pointing and cackling.

"Enough!" Cris' voice cracks like lightening against the rumble of laughter. He has his face tilted upwards like he's talking to someone at the controls instead of those in the room. "You wanna come after someone, you come after me. You leave Dante the fuck out of this!" He cuffs the back of Dante's neck, curling him in tight but the other finger points accusatorially at the rest of the 'party'. "You all would rather have him go back to his old life. Live in a loveless marriage of mistrust and mediocrity. And why? Not because it's holy or traditional, but so he'd be as miserable and sackless as the rest of you. C'mon, mi Luz. We're getting the fuck out of here, one way or another."

"What are you? A fucking dalliance," says the figure of Dante's father to Cristobal. "Sin made flesh." He advances on them both, burly and larger than life. "You represent his every weakness. A rot in him. One that's been there since he was a child. I had hopes when he married her," he motions to Bethany, "But then he sabotaged it." The disdain is thick in the man's voice. "Are you going to let him fight your battles for you, boy? Are you going to hide? Be weak? Let others fight your battles for you? You're a bloody Taylor, boy. Of royal fucking blood."

Dante turns, squeezes Cris' hand tight. He turns to face the spectre of his father. "You just can't fucking handle anything that isn't the same as it always was. You cling to tradition, and it's dragging you down like a weight chained to your neck." Dante's accent mirrors his father's. It's more distinctive, rougher. It's Cornwall, versus London and the received pronunciation. "No wonder mum fucking left you."

And that's when a hand swings out, aimed at cuffing Dante on the side of the head with ferocity from a place of anger.

The line of Cris' jaw tightens when he's called a dalliance, teeth setting against each other in a clench. He's about to snap some hot tempered response when Dante's hand squeezes his and speaks up. While not able to anticipate that swing, he was primed for it, hand snapping out to catch him from striking Dante at just the last moment. Thought it's a clash of strength, Cris holds on Dante's father's wrist, grinding his grip into bones and the pressure point there, saying a simple but firm, "No."

The spectre of Dante's father tries to push through Cris' grip on his wrist. But the force of the resistance starts to break apart the Dream. Slowly, the space around them starts to flake apart, like the artifice it is. It starts at the edges, as some of the laughing faces fall away. First, the anonymous ones, then the more distinct ones. Then, eventually, Bethany and some other relations. Finally, Dante's father himself starts to split apart, to fade away into nothingness.

The two of them drop backwards into the bed at the condo, as the last of the illusion shatterns around them. They're left breathless in bed, in the early hours of the morning, with nothing but the quiet of the posh condo around them, and the distant jingling of Diva's collar.

In the semidarkness, Dante gasps. It's a sharp intake of breath.

Cris is rolling to his side the second he gets his bearings in the familiar surroundings, up on one elbow and reaching for Dante to clasp him across the chest on gripping his shoulder. "Are you okay?" The question comes, but his own features are tight and tense, his mouth in a thin line of worry and distress.

Dante rolls tightly against Cris and clings to him. His breath is ragged at first, but he slowly gets it under control. He buries his face against the crook of his neck, and after a moment, he murmurs, "I'm...sorry you had to see that." And then, "I fucking hate this town sometimes."

"I'm not." Cristobal says gruffly as he palms the back of the Dante's hair, turning his face to give a quick firm kiss to a dark lock. Then, after a long breath, he gives the man a rough nudge towards the edge of the bed. "C'mon. Lets both get a stiff drink in our stomachs. And then maybe we'll defile that memory the best way I know how."

Dante groans softly, resistant to getting out of bed. He wants to collapse in on himself like an old star. Something about the way he's reacting suggests...embarrassment. "We should just sleep," he mumbles, though the words are half-buried against the pillow as he fetus-curls up on himself.

There's a long pause from Cristobal, but finally his body shifts away only to tug up the blanket around Dante's shoulders and tuck him in. "Yeah, sure." He murmurs, but his weight is lifting off the mattress behind. At least one of them won't be sleeping for some time. And he really needs that drink.

"Cris..." murmurs Dante in a way that is uncharacteristically needy. He wriggles out from under the covers and out of bed. He stands up and holds the shorter man from behind, gripping him tightly, face nuzzled against the curve of his neck. "My whole family isn't like that," He murmurs. "My mother, my sisters. They'll be delighted to meet you. You know how it goes with these Dreams. They're fucking with us. They're showign you the worst of them." He sounds like he's trying to convince himself as much as the other man.

Cris ducks his head slightly, arms folding on top of Dante's and rubbing his thumbs along the man's forearm. "They better, because if they're coming to the wedding in El Paso, they'll be facing an entire fucking village of Cruz' and Ybarra's who will defend both of us until their asses are torn wider than the Guadalupe, and heaven protect them if the tamales get cold in the mean time."

Dante gives the other man a fierce squeeze, and rubs his hands in slow circles against his back. "I would never invite anyone who I felt would fuck it up. I had all of them at my first wedding, so that's all the bigots and the close-minded people get." He pulls back and looks him in the face, gently pawing at his cheek. "I want us to start on a positive note. That means no one gets invited out of protocol."

Cristobal reaches up to nab Dante's chin and direct it down for a firm kiss. "Because this is for us, and nobody else. And anybody that pisses on our parade is going to be missing some teeth." He gives a little up nod. "Now go keep my spot warm, I'll bring the scotch to bed."