Wyatt was dreaming of the past again, remembering. This time he and Samuel were sitting on the couch. Samuel had told him he wanted to be a writer, and Wyatt had confessed he wanted to go to art school and become a photographer like his mother had been before his father had left, and he was showing him prints he’d made in his mom’s darkroom.
There were photographs of a mouse in the alley, of Mrs. Morgan from downstairs feeding birds out her window, and one of Samuel blowing a kiss at the lens.
Samuel had laughed, his eyes crinkling, and Wyatt had remembered thinking, for the very first time, that he was in love.
When Teddy came home and asked them what they were laughing about, Wyatt had told him girls. Samuel had given him a look that said he understood but he didn’t. Not really.
Wyatt woke to the sound of the ocean. It roared in his ears and he could smell the salt in the air and feel the heat of the sun as it beat down on his face.
He smiled and opened his eyes to a darkened room. The curtains of the window above him blew in with a cold breeze, rain drops coming in with each gust. He was freezing.
A movement drew his attention away from the open window and he found a man watching him. Wyatt jerked up, startled, banging his head against the wall in his hurry to be upright and the man watching him took a silent step back and laughed.
“Fuck.” Wyatt squeezed his eyes tight, rubbing the spot at the back of his skull. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“But then, I don’t think you’re particularly brave.”
“Huh?” Wyatt stopped rubbing and opened his eyes. The man was…well fuck, the guy was naked.
Wyatt watched as he walked on bare feet around him where he sat on the floor of the unfamiliar room. One of the dead man’s rooms, he realized, and grimaced. “I’m sorry about Mr. Walters.”
“Are you?” The guy stopped and studied Wyatt a moment as if trying to gauge the truthfulness of his statement. A trail of blue smoke drifted in a lazy and hypnotic way from his nose, creeping down his body to swirl around the wrist of his right hand, weaving playfully between his fingers. It was quite a trick, like how Wyatt’s grandfather had been able to breathe out donut shapes with his cigar smoke. “I’m not.”
With that he turned around and silently padded out the room, leaving Wyatt where he sat on the cold floor.
When Wyatt realized he wasn’t coming back, he pushed himself up and noticed that the shelf he’d knocked over the night before had been tipped back up and everything returned to its place. Slowly, he ventured out into the rest of the apartment. The rooms were much the same as his in that they had a similar floor plan; small eat-in kitchen, living room, a short hall that held a bathroom, a bedroom on either side. Beyond that, it was nothing like his own place. Instead of old carpet, the floors were warm dark wood with colorful rugs. The woodwork was a bright, clean white and, unlike Wyatt’s place where it had been replaced years before with something cheap, looked like it was original. The walls were a neutral cream. What you could see of it anyway, as each and every one was covered in sketches and tapestries, and paintings in large ornate frames.
He maneuvered around the obstacle-course of furniture, following the sound of activity down the hall and into a bedroom where he found his host hunting through a chest a drawers, pulling out pants only to discard them on the floor.
“Who’s that?” Wyatt asked pointing at the painting the hung above the dresser.
“Raphael’s Portrait of a Young Man.”
“The painter?” Wyatt knew how stupid the words were before they were out of his mouth, and from the look on the naked man’s face, he agreed. Embarrassed, Wyatt looked away from his eyes, only then realizing what his host was doing. “Mr. Walters’ pants aren’t going to fit you.” The old man had been taller for one thing, and bigger around.
“No,” the naked man agreed. “But they will fit you. And I want yours.”
Wyatt looked down at his old sweats with their elastic waist and drawstring. “You want to wear mine?”
“Yes. Tell me to.”
“Tell you to what?” Wyatt rubbed at his head again. Was there a bump or was he imagining it?”
“Tell me you want me to wear your…”
“Sweats.” Wyatt supplied.
“Exactly. Tell me to wear your sweats.”
“What’s your name?”
The man blinked. “What?”
“Your name? What’s your name?”
His brow furrowed—dark brows over darker eyes—and then he shrugged. “Saalik. But someone I used to know called me Saal.”
“Okay, Saal, I would like you to wear my sweats.”
* * * *
Wyatt changed his clothes in the bathroom, handing his sweats out through a crack in the door before pulling on the pair of pants he’d been handed. They fit mostly. They could have been tighter around his waist, an even an inch or so longer, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Though, Wyatt wasn’t sure how exactly he’d become the beggar.
When he finally stepped back out into the bedroom, Saal was gone.
He followed the quiet sound of music and found him sitting in the middle of a comfortable looking sofa, his eyes glued to the television.
He didn’t look up from the screen, and after being ignored for several long seconds, Wyatt asked if he could sit down.
Saal didn’t answer but pointed to a chair.
Wyatt took the seat and debated what to say. He could explain why he’d broken into Mr. Walters’ house, but Saal didn’t seem to care. Or ask why Saal’d not been wearing clothing, but then, it wasn’t like Wyatt had been expected.
“Watching a movie?” He knew the answer of course, but it seemed like a nice neutral topic.
Saal’s eyes flicked to his and then back again. “I find it helps pass the time.”
“I like those old horror movies. You know, the ones that aren’t really scary.” Wyatt didn’t really have any particular preference but again, he was searching for something to say. “How about you?”
“I like dramas. Preferably the ones where the characters you don’t like die at the end. This was just getting to the good part when you fell through the window.”
“Oh.”
They sat without saying anything else until the credits rolled and Saal snapped the television off and placed the remote on the cushion next to him.
“So, what is it you want?” He looked at Wyatt curiously.
“Um…I’m sorry. I know this must be a bad time.” Wyatt rubbed at the back of his head again. “But I live downstairs and someone broke into my place. You probably heard all the commotion. Anyway, I climbed out my window to get away.”
Saal just blinked at him.
“So…is it all right if I stay up here awhile? Let them find what their looking for and leave? It shouldn’t take very long.”
“You’ve been here for ages already.” Saal nodded to the hallway. “Sleeping.”
“Really?” Wyatt didn’t think it could have been very long. The sun was just coming up. I don’t—”
“It’s Friday morning.”
“Friday?” It couldn’t be Friday, if it was, that meant he’d slept for three days. “Are you sure?”
Saal didn’t bother to answer, just continued to stare at him. It made Wyatt feel self-conscious.
“Did I do something wrong?” Okay, well, he had broken in, but hadn’t he given Saal his sweatpants? Didn’t that make up for it, at least a little? “I mean, to upset you?”
“Not yet. I’m just trying to figure out if I’ll regret my choice.”
“Your…” Wyatt didn’t know exactly what they were talking about.
Saal got up and paced the floor in front of him. The sweats were too big, but he’d cinched them up tight, and even cuffed the elastic ankles. “Do you know how this works, or do I need to explain it to you?”
“Um…” Wyatt was sure he looked every bit the idiot Saal probably thought he was. “Are you Mr. Walters’ grandkid or something?”
“I served Abel.” Saal stopped all the moving, and sat down on the coffee table across from him. He was very handsome in his own unnerving way. “Abel is gone, and now you’re here. So, it’s my turn to serve you.”
“I don’t need to be served.” Maybe he was a housekeeper? The place was extremely clean. “I do all that stuff myself.”
“No. I do things you can’t do for yourself.”
“Saal?” Wyatt thought of all the ass-grabbing he’d endured at the hands of Mr. Walters since moving into the downstairs apartment at sixteen. Maybe he’d had a type. “Were you…like Mr. Walters’—”
“Yes.” Saal looked relieved that Wyatt had put two and two together. “I was his Jinn.”