Chapter Text
When Chris looks back on that summer, he does so without regret.
***
“You remember that the new guest is checking in today?”
Chris pauses as his mother’s voice reaches him, halfway down the wooden stairs, one hand still on the railing. “Yes, mom.”
“And you’ve got the bed made with that lighter summer blanket?” His mother asks, bustling down the sunlit hallway.
“Yes, mom.”
“And you put fresh towels in the bathroom and the linen closet?”
Chris rolls his eyes. “You know I’m not actually the housekeeper here, right?”
Mrs. Colfer stops and fixes Chris with a hard look. “You want to run that one by me again?”
Chris flushes, chastened. It’s not exactly true. Chris’ parents employ a fulltime housekeeper who keeps the Inn in tip-top shape, but Chris has been helping out every summer vacation for the last ten years, ever since his parents bought this big house on the beach in Santa Monica that they rent out to vacationers.
“Sorry,” he says, contrite. “Yes, everything is ready.”
“This one is staying with us a while, so I want to get off on the right foot with him,” Mrs. Colfer says, as though Chris hadn’t been the one to process the reservation when it came through.
Darren Criss. Billing address in New York City. Paid with an American Express. Staying for six weeks. No food allergies or special requests.
He’s one of the easier ones already.
Chris’ mom is a teacher, and every summer since Chris turned nine the family escapes to Santa Monica for long, lazy blissful months at the beach. The house is steps from the water and too big for just the four of them (three this year, since Chris’ sister is taking a summer course abroad in London), and to pay off the mortgage faster, Chris’ parents opened the spare rooms to travelers, sightseers, vacationers, and even sometimes more long-term boarders.
“Everything’s good, mom,” Chris stresses, but he trudges back upstairs just to be sure.
The Windward Inn is more of a bed and breakfast than a hotel or a vacation rental. Chris’ dad cooks breakfast and dinner for the family and any of the guests who want to join them for meals. Sometimes Chris eats alone in his room, if he’s tired or if the guests are slightly too weird to deal with. It doesn’t happen often - usually the people who stay with them are nice enough or keep to themselves – but it has happened.
Chris doesn’t mind that he’s sort of grown up among strangers, and most of them adults at that. He and his sister had each other to torment, and to stay entertained. More often than not the guests are hardly in the house at all, too eager to hang out on the beach or go into town. And now Chris has his own friends to spend his days and late nights with. It all works out.
This morning Chris has already made sure everything’s ready for the guest, for Mr. Criss, to check in later in the afternoon. But he does another sweep of the bedroom, making sure the sheets are neatly tucked at the corners and the bathroom mirror is clean of toothpaste flecks. Even though the housekeeper cleans the rooms after each guest leaves, and tidies up day to day, it’s always been Chris’ job to help out. The fact that his parents pay him for his labor doesn’t hurt.
The major downside to having a long-term boarder staying is that Chris’ mom always puts them in the room next to Chris’. It’s the biggest guest suite in the house, with a sitting room, an attached bathroom (shared with Chris) and a private balcony that looks out towards the ocean lapping just yards away. The bed is comfortable and the view is breathtaking; Chris thinks it’s well worth the weekly rental fee.
Chris supposes it does sort of suck to sometimes have to share a bathroom with a complete stranger, but he’s gotten used to it over the years. The big bathroom has two doors – one to Chris’ bedroom and the other to the guest bedroom – and each have their own lock. Chris has never had a problem with it.
***
It’s just after four o’clock in the afternoon when an older, dusty blue BMW pulls up to the house. Chris can see it from the kitchen window, easing up the long driveway from the main road. The car has California plates, but doesn’t look like a rental.
The man who gets out of the car is smaller than Chris expects, though he’s not sure why he was expecting anything at all. He’s wearing pink shorts that end several long inches above his knees, a green t-shirt that’s a size too small, and flip-flops. He’s got wild, dark hair, aviator sunglasses, and even though there’s no surfboard strapped to the roof of his car, he looks every inch the part. (Of course, they advertise on the website that surfing and diving equipment comes with renting a room, so he might still be a surfer.) Chris watches as the man – Darren – stretches, reaching his arms over his head, and the movement pulls his t-shirt taut across his chest. Chris swallows heavily.
That’s never been a problem before either.
Darren pulls a yellow pack and a guitar case out of the back seat, slinging them around his body, and a couple of pieces of luggage out of the trunk. It doesn’t seem like enough for six weeks, but if this guy’s wardrobe consists of shorts and t-shirts then he’s probably going to be fine. And besides, one of the many amenities of the house is laundry.
“Chris!” His mom calls through the house, startling Chris out of his staring.
“I’m coming!” He calls back, and then mutters quietly, “Jesus, I can see the fucking car.”
He rushes down to the front door. When he was young, his parents thought it was cute to have him greet the guests when they arrived, this little kid with chubby cheeks and floppy hair welcoming people to the house. Now it’s just a habit.
Chris opens the door just as Darren is dragging his suitcase up the steps to the wide porch. He looks up and the smile that stretches across his face is astonishing. Chris feels himself blush right down to his toes. His bare toes. He absolutely forgot to put on shoes in his haste. He blushes even brighter.
“Hi!” Darren calls out, waving. The strap of his bag has stretched the V-neck of his shirt and Chris is definitely not staring at the solid line of his collarbone, or the dark hair on his chest.
“Uhm, hi.” Chris squeaks and then clears his throat. “You must be Darren.”
“I am.” He sets his suitcase down with a thump and pulls his sunglasses off, squinting under the bright summer sun at Chris. “And are you the owner of this fine establishment?”
Chris presses his lips together. “Oh yeah, that’s me. Proud property manager. I’m Chris.” He squares his shoulders and offers a hand out to Darren to shake. He can do this; he’s used to playing the host. Just because Darren’s eyes are huge and bright, and just because his thighs are tightly muscled, and just because his teeth aren’t perfect as he grins at Chris, doesn’t mean he’s going to forget how to welcome paying guests.
“Anyway, come on in.” He reaches for Darren’s suitcase and big duffle bag to bring them inside, but Darren’s there before he can get to it.
“Oh no, I got it.”
“It’s ok,” Chris reassures. “Part of the service here.”
Something flashes in Darren’s eyes and he opens his mouth, but hesitates to say anything in response. Then he shakes his head, just a shiver of a movement, before he grabs the handle of his suitcase and hefts his duffle back onto his shoulder.
“Thanks, dude, but I can’t ask you to do that.”
Chris raises his hands in defeat and steps back into the house, holding the door open for Darren. “Come on in, I’ll show you to your room and then give you the grand tour.”
He barely makes it halfway to the staircase before his mother emerges from the kitchen.
“Hi, dear!” She greets, bustling over to shake Darren’s hand as well. “Hope you had a good journey here.”
Darren nods. “Yeah, yeah, the drive was nice.”
Chris wants to ask where he drove from, this man with a New York City billing address and a car with California plates, but he doesn’t.
“Good, good. Oh, let us get your bags for you, dear.” Mrs. Colfer nods her head meaningfully at Chris, who opens his mouth to tell her that he already tried, but Darren pulls his bag closer to himself.
“Oh no ma’am, that’s okay,” he protests. “Like I already told Chris here, that’s very kind of you, but I can’t ask you to do that. Not that I’m hiding something weird in my bags or anything, but my mom would never let me hear the end of it if she found out I didn’t handle my own shit. I mean, my own stuff. And believe me, she’d find out.”
Mr. Colfer smiles fondly at him. “Well then, my son will show you to your room. Don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything. Anything at all. Will you be staying in for dinner tonight?”
Darren nods. “Yeah, I was planning on it. Is that okay?”
“Oh of course, hon, we’re happy to cook whenever you’d like. This is your home while you’re here.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Darren says, sincerity etched deep, and Chris can tell that he means it. Either that or he’s an amazing actor.
“Come on,” Chris says, before his mom can sidetrack Darren into the kitchen right then and there. “Your room is just up here.”
Chris trudges up the stairs, awkward with his empty hands while Darren hefts all his own things.
“So, this is your room,” Chris leads them through the doorway into the guest suite.
“Wow,” Darren breathes, setting his things on the floor, and Chris watches him look around the room with wide-eyed appreciation. “This is way better than the pictures on the site.”
“Uhm, thanks. This is your sitting room, I guess, and over here is the bedroom. That’s your balcony.”
Chris watches as Darren strides through the bedroom and over to the double French doors that lead outside. He pushes the heavy curtains aside, letting in the warm golden sun, and presses his nose right up to the glass.
“Fucking amazing view.”
Chris nods to himself, pulling his eyes away from the generous curve of Darren’s ass in those ridiculous pink shorts. He knows the view on the other side of the glass well. The Pacific Ocean stretches unimaginably vast, from the clean sand beach all the way to the horizon and beyond.
“Through there is the bathroom,” Chris points to the closed door on the other side of the bedroom. “Uhm, you share it. With me.”
That pulls Darren’s attention away from the view. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows on his face, highlighting his cheekbones and darkening his eyes, and Chris’ stomach feels tight.
“With you?” He asks, tilting his head, but he doesn’t sound upset.
But still, Chris can feel himself blushing once more. “Yeah, uhm, my room is on the other side. So we share the bathroom.” He tries not to think about Darren showering just on the other side of the door from him and fails. Miserably.
“Oh, like a dorm,” Darren says, something that isn’t quite amusement in his voice.
“Is that going to be okay?” Chris rubs at the back of his neck and feels the heat radiating off his own skin, like a new sunburn. “If you’d rather have private bathroom-”
“-no, it’s fine-”
“-the site does say that this suite has a shared bath-”
“No, I know,” Darren interrupts. “I just…assumed it would be with another guest.” He grins. “We’re kind of going to be roomies for a couple of weeks.”
Chris huffs an almost-laugh. “I guess.” He’s never thought of the guests as anything other than guests. “Uhm, dinner’s usually around 7pm. So you have a few hours to unpack, rest, whatever. There’s another couple staying this week, on the other side of the house. They’re nice, quiet. You might run into them.”
“You get many people staying as long as me?”
Chris shrugs. “Not really. Usually it’s for a week. 10 days. Or just the long weekend. We had someone stay the whole summer once, but I don’t think she left her room more than like, a dozen times?”
“With that big beautiful ocean right outside?”
Chris shrugs. “I don’t question the will of our guests.”
Darren laughs. “Fair enough. Well, I certainly won’t be staying in my room the whole time.”
Chris bites his lip. He wants to ask what Darren is even doing here and why he brought a guitar and why he’s staying so long, but that’s not really any of his business. He’s just supposed to tidy up and make sure his parents’ guests are enjoying their stay. Sometimes he offers suggestions for places to eat, or things to do around Santa Monica. Occasionally he’s acted as a tour guide, but mostly he tries to stay out of the guests’ way and make his own fun during the summer. It’s hard to want to really get to know any of them when they all eventually leave.
“Anyway, dinner’s at 7pm. Uhm, your reservation said you weren’t allergic to anything…?”
“Nope, all good. I’ll eat almost anything.” Darren pats his stomach through his shirt and Chris tears his eyes away from the sweet curve of his narrow waist.
“Seafood okay? I know dad got some fresh salmon this morning from the market.”
“Sounds delicious. Honestly, Chris. I get that this is a full service deal, but you don’t have to like, cater to me. I’m easy. Promise.”
Chris shrugs. “We’re a bed and breakfast; it’s what we do.” It might not be Chris’ future, but he takes it seriously while he’s there.
Darren nods, but there’s something else in his face that Chris doesn’t know how to decipher.
“So yeah,” Chris continues. “Unpack. Get settled. If you have any questions or anything let me or my mom know. It was nice to meet you.”
Chris turns and quickly escapes, carried by shivering tension in his belly and closing the door to the suite behind him. His cheeks are burning red and he’s not entirely sure why, though it probably has something to do with Darren’s bright eyes and surprisingly thick eyebrows, and the corded muscles in his thighs exposed by his ridiculous shorts, and the way he looks right at Chris when he talks. And a dozen other things he doesn’t want to think about.
Chris sighs and rubs his hands over his face. They’ve had cute guests before, but Chris was younger then, and not at all interested. He can’t say the same now. He shakes it off and trudges back downstairs to help his dad get dinner ready.
***
Chris is just setting the dining room table when Darren shuffles in, yawning and scratching his belly. He looks like he just woke up from a long nap; his hair flattened at the back and a mess everywhere else, and his eyes heavy lidded with sleep. His feet are bare now, flip flops left somewhere in his room, and the casual, comfortable intimacy of it pulses low in Chris’ stomach.
Chris swallows and looks away, back to the forks and plates and other less complicated kitchenware.
“Something smells good,” Darren comments.
“Hope you’re hungry,” Mr. Colfer says, coming in from the deck with a tray covered in tinfoil. He brings with him the scent of buttery salmon and the warm ocean air.
“Famished,” Darren responds and Chris watches Darren’s gaze follow the tray of food all the way to the table, eyes alighting with interest.
Chris’ mom comes bustling into the kitchen and she smiles warmly when she sees Darren. “Oh good, you’re up. It’ll just be us for dinner; our other guests have gone out for the evening.”
“Can I help with anything?” Darren asks sincerely and Chris gets the distinct impression he was raised well.
“Don’t be silly,” Mrs. Colfer tuts and touches him on the shoulder. “Have a seat. We’re just about ready.”
“Where should I sit?” Darren asks it of Chris.
“Oh, anywhere.” The big table can comfortably seat eight, for those times when the house is full, but Chris has placed all the settings at one end. “We’re not that formal.”
Darren nods, oddly thoughtful, and takes a seat on the side of the table where Chris has placed two settings.
Chris sets the last glasses down on the table before helping his dad bring in the vegetables from the grill. He pretends like he can’t feel Darren’s eyes on him as he moves about the kitchen.
“And who is this?” Darren asks suddenly.
Chris follows Darren’s gaze to the floor, where Cooper, his dog, has appeared to sprawl in a graceless lump at Darren’s feet. “Oh, that’s Cooper.” It makes something in Chris’ chest tighten to watch Darren lean over and scratch behind Cooper’s ears.
“Well you’re a beautiful boy,” Darren coos and Cooper’s tail thumps happily against the floor.
“Darren, do you drink?” Mrs. Colfer asks and Darren straightens back up in his chair.
“Oh uhm, yeah, I do.”
“We’ve got a lovely white wine for the fish.” Mrs. Colfer holds up a bottle. “Do you like white wine?”
Darren shrugs. “I’m good with whatever you guys are having.”
“Our friends run a vineyard in Napa. One of those families, you know? But they bring us bottles whenever we see them so it’s hard to complain when they gift us with such lovely things. And we so love to share with our guests.”
Chris smiles to himself, shaking his head. His mother tells the same old stories to the new guests every summer. Next she’ll Darren about how the deck is made from the recycled timbers of an old tugboat, and how the thick carpet in the hallway was a gift from an Iranian guest five years ago, and how some C-list celebrity once stayed for a weekend with his illicit lover and no she couldn’t possibly name names.
When Chris looks over, Darren is watching him, and smiling.
The way Chris has set the table, there’s a place at the head for his mom, one left next to Darren, and one on the opposite side of the table. Stealing himself and feeling incredibly young, Chris moves to sit next to Darren, but Mr. Colfer gets there before him, settling down in the chair between Darren and his wife. Chris bites his lip and sits down in the last seat remaining, across from Darren. He does not miss the quick look Darren shoots him from underneath those long eyelashes. It makes his stomach flip.
“Hope everyone is hungry,” Mr. Colfer says, lifting the tinfoil off the fish to reveal a perfectly grilled salmon.
“So are you unpacked?” Mrs. Colfer asks Darren as fish and vegetables and rice gets dished up onto plates and passed around. “Did you rest?”
“Yes, thank you. Got some stuff put away and then I just crashed.” He accentuates the word with a fine slashing motion of his hand. He looks like a man who speaks as much with his hands as he does his mouth.
“You had quite the drive, is that right?”
Darren nods. “I did, yeah. Down from San Francisco.”
“I thought you were from New York?” Chris blurts and then blushes furiously when everyone looks at him. It’s not like he doesn’t have access to that information; he’s the one that processes the bulk of the reservations for the house. But it’s still embarrassing to reveal that he remembers Darren’s billing address.
“That’s where I live,” Darren notes. “But I’m actually from the Bay area. My parents still live there. I flew in, stayed the night, and then drove down. Figured it’d be nice to have my old car with me while I’m here, plus, you know, I like the drive. It’s…” He trails off, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “I guess I just find it relaxing.”
“So what brought you to us?” Mr. Colfer asks.
“Oh, well, I guess I just needed to get away for a bit. New York can be pretty crazy, right, but I love it. And I love what I do. But even still, it can get to be a lot sometimes. All that pressure I put on myself. Gotta come back to my side of the country once in a while, you know? Get in the water, wash off all that city grime. Clear my head a bit.”
Chris watches Darren’s face as he talks, notes the unsubtle twitch that tugs at the side of his mouth and the way something seems to be missing from his eyes. He’s not saying everything about why he came to Santa Monica when he has family in San Francisco and why he’s staying for six whole weeks. But those aren’t things Chris can politely ask about.
Mrs. Colfer nods like she completely understands. “An excellent idea. Well, we’re certainly happy to have you here,” she says, and Mr. Colfer chimes in with his agreement.
But Chris does not miss the way Darren’s eyes flicker across the table – just the barest of glances directed his way.
“Hand over your glass, dear,” Mrs. Colfer says. “Let’s get you some wine to celebrate your first night here.”
She pops open the bottle with practiced ease. Chris pushes the wine glass he’d set for himself towards her, ever hopeful. She doesn’t like it when he drinks, even in the house. Chris has made his argument about being 19 and how responsible he is over and again, but it seems to fall on deaf ears more often than not. It’s the same argument he’s given since he was 16 and wanted the same spiked eggnog at Christmas that everyone else got.
His mom doesn’t say anything, but Chris can see the warning in her eyes, and it makes him feel all the more the child. He glances meaningfully towards Darren, silently begging his mom not to embarrass him.
She sighs, but fills his glass, and he takes it gratefully.
***
Darren is yawning by the end of the meal and Chris doesn’t blame him. There’s too much food, too much wine, and his parents know how to keep a conversation going for hours.
“Can I help with the dishes?” Darren asks, already standing from his chair while Chris is gathering up dirty plates.
“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Colfer chides, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t even consider it.
Darren looks helplessly at Chris, who just shrugs.
“You heard the woman,” he says, but he offers Darren a small smile.
“No need to stand on social graces,” Mrs. Colfer says, hands on her hips. “You had a long drive and this is your vacation. We don’t really run on a schedule here, so if you’d like to get to bed you certainly don’t need to worry about offending us.”
Darren opens his mouth to say something, but just ends up yawning again, wide and loud and shameless.
“That’s what I thought.”
“Well, thank you all for an amazing meal,” Darren says. “This really was a great way to kick off this trip.”
Mr. Colfer nods. He looks incredibly pleased; a proud chef and a proud host. “Happy to hear it. And remember, anything you need, just ask.”
“I will, thanks. Well, goodnight.”
“Goodnight, dear,” Mrs. Colfer responds, nodding fondly at him.
Darren shuffles out of the dining room. As he passes by Chris, who is carrying the last the dishes to the sink, he lightly brushes Chris’ elbow with his fingertips.
“Goodnight, Chris,” he murmurs, a throaty whisper that makes Chris start as his bare skin shocks at the unexpected touch and his heart lurches painfully in his chest.
“Night,” Chris croaks in response, hardly able to breathe for it as his blood rushes in his ears. And then Darren is gone.
“Such a nice young man,” Mrs. Colfer is saying, when Chris can hear anything but his own racing heart again.
“Think he’ll be an excellent guest.”
“What do you think?”
Chris blinks. “What? Oh, yeah. He’s great.”
His mother chatters to his father as they clean up the dining room and kitchen, but Chris hardly hears any of it at all, just replaying the spare words Darren had said to him. Over and over.
Goodnight, Chris.
***
Even though the dinner went long, and preparing for new arrivals can be stressful, Chris knows he’s not going to be able to get sleep right away. He’s too keyed up from that barely there touch and the sound of his name spilling from Darren’s lips in such a way.
It’s a beautiful night though, warm with a fresh breeze coming off the ocean, and Chris takes off his shoes to go for a walk along the beach. This late, the sand is cool and feels nearly damp under his feet. Chris breathes in deep and lets it clear his mind.
He grew up much farther inland, and despite spending every summer at the ocean, he never gets tired of it. He revels in the fresh, salted air and the sound of the waves relentlessly lapping at the shore, and the full dark quiet that falls at night.
When Chris looks back over his shoulder he can see the lights of the Windward Inn glowing warmly, and the darkened windows of Darren’s rented room.
He’s found guests attractive before, certainly, he’s only human after all, but it’s never been like this before. He’s never felt this nervous, this out of sorts around anyone, like he’s some fumbling kid who doesn’t know how to control his own hands. It’s ridiculous and he hates it. He doesn’t know Darren at all. The guy was perfectly charming at dinner, but charm can be learned and it can disappear quickly in the face of familiarity.
Chris is pretty sure Darren is a little older than him, a few years, maybe, but not so much that it really means anything. And there’s something about the easy grace of his body, his wide-knuckled hands, his laughing eyes. Chris can excuse his attraction for what it is.
But he can’t excuse the way Darren’s fingers had slid across the thin skin of his elbow, a touch he could barely feel, yet one that branded right down to his bones. And he can’t excuse the unsubtle looks Darren passed him across the dinner table as he sat between Chris’ parents, those fleeting glances from under long lashes. Chris doesn’t know what those looks could mean, what that touch could mean. Darren is just a guest. He’ll be there for the summer and then he’ll be gone, back to New York and back to whatever it is that he does for a living.
Chris doesn’t want to think about the acceptance letter to NYU that’s sitting on his desk at home and the welcome package that he’d received months ago. He’s never been one to give over to groundless flights of romanticism and he’s certainly not going to start now. Chris shakes his head at himself and kicks at the sand.
The beach stretches on for miles and the night is long.