1. Shadows in the Corners
October returns, bringing with it memories of Eric. Jason’s counselor, Steve, says that’s perfectly normal. October was when Eric left. But Steve doesn't know about the other things: Jason imagines seeing him—in the kitchen, getting coffee, or at his office door, in his boxers. More often it’s just glimpses as he passes corners.
And there’s more.
Jason hears whispers when he’s in the shower. Cabinet doors stand open that he'd sworn he'd closed. The floorboards creak in familiar footsteps—Eric's particular gait, the way he favored his left foot after that soccer injury. And things turn up, moved from where Jason left them.
Sometimes he thinks his phone is vibrating, but there’s no caller. When it happens Jason opens his contacts to look at Eric's. He never deletes it. Never blocks it. Just in case.
There isn’t a prescription for that, is there?
In his sightings, Eric is as handsome as ever. Jason takes in the visual details the way other people do scents: the line of Eric’s jaw, the way the light catches the gloss of his black hair. His compact athletic form. Smooth cheeks. Boyish. Grinning.
Jason recounts only the dreams to Steve, carefully omitting the whispers and the feeling of being watched.
When he does, Steve leans back in his worn leather chair. There’s a thoughtful furrow in his brow. “So, Eric’s presence in your dreams… it’s a comfort, perhaps? A bittersweet one, I imagine.”
"Bittersweet," Jason thinks. Code for 'you're not crazy, but let's keep an eye on that.'
Eric used to always look happy. Uncomplicated. The least neurotic person Jason has ever known. But now it’s like being haunted by a cocktease, Jason jokes. What business does an apparition looking like that?
“Couldn’t it at least be a sex dream?” he asks, half serious.
“How is your sex life?” Steve asks.
Jason just looks at him with a raised eyebrow, deadpan. “Nonexistent. I… can’t. I don’t even jerk off.”
“Why are you denying yourself even that?”
Jason shrugs.
He doesn’t want to say, because he knows how it would sound. “Saving myself for Eric” isn’t just sad, it’s practically a punchline. But if he jerks off it might desensitize him and he’s afraid he’ll dream less of Eric, seeing him at least there.
Steve says he’s concerned about Jason self-isolating. He lives alone, works from home.
“How are your relationships?” he asks.
“My relationships? Great,” Jason answers. “Really great. Friends. Family. Everyone’s been super supportive.”
But the truth is he stopped responding to all of them long ago. He can’t remember when he last got together with someone. He means to, always. He’ll follow up on the email or phone call, when he can work up the energy.
It’s just that he’s so tired. Listless. His memory is going; just this morning he found the front door slightly ajar and couldn't recall opening it. He can’t remember if he fed the dog or not, or why he sometimes finds the burner on the stove set to low. But he doesn’t tell Steve any of this. It’s nothing counseling can help with.
After his session Jason passes through the shared counselors’ waiting room. He spots the ginger bearded man there, waiting to see his own counselor. They’ve passed each other there a few times before, often enough to recognize each other.
Once, both sitting near each other waiting for their respective appointments, the ginger bearded man asked, “What are you in for?” As if it were a prison.
“Broken heart,” Jason replied. “Life sentence. You?”
“I have this thing where I ask strangers inappropriate questions,” the man answered, blushing.
Jason doesn’t know the man’s name, but he looks about Jason’s age, with hair just thinning and kind eyes. When he spoke he had a deep, warm voice.
As he pushes through the door to leave, Jason hears himself chuckle—just a small sound, but surprising. He can’t remember the last time he laughed at anything real. It lingers with him, the light feeling strange, all the way to the car.
2. The Forager
Jason met Eric not long after grad school, at a mutual friend’s party. It wasn’t love at first sight.
Sure, Eric was good looking. Hot. But when Jason got into a friendly debate about changes in federal policy, he noticed Eric’s leg bouncing, his thigh sunkissed golden. Just a pretty boy with more biceps than brains, he thought with a bemused eye roll.
He was surprised when the topic shifted to a historic precedent and Eric came alive. It was a hobby of his. So: maybe more brainy than he first seemed.
Jason was new in town, Eric a local, and there was talk about where to eat. Eric offered to introduce him to his favorite bánh mì spot and Jason was all in. If there was anything he liked almost as much as politics, it was eating.
When they met there Eric took the lead, ordering for them both.
"I hope you don't mind," Eric said. "I know what’s good here."
And he did.
Eric asked Jason if he liked matsutake mushrooms and said he was going foraging that week—that Jason should come.
“Sure.”
He arrived to pick up Jason early, grinning. "Time to go."
Jason, who considered 8am a personal affront, grunted and grabbed his jacket.
The mountain was a tougher climb than he expected. The soil was soft underfoot, and logs that appeared solid were sometimes desiccated inside and crumbled under his feet. Jason liked to know where he stood.
After an hour Eric suggested a snack break. He handed Jason one of the onigiri he packed for the hike, stuffed triangles of rice in nori wrappers. The ones filled with curry were his mother’s special ones. "She always makes extra," Eric said. "Like she's feeding an army.”
His grandfather used to forage the mushrooms, he told Jason, bringing a bounty to Eric's mother. When he did, she'd hold them up to her face to inhale the fragrance. "She's so Japanese," he said, shaking his head. "Everything has to mean something."
But her father passed away a few years ago, and she'd had none since. Eric hoped to find her some.
"Matsutake like to grow in pine needles," he said, scanning the hillside. "They smell like pine... and like... cinnamon."
"Funny thing. I have no sense of smell," Jason told him.
It seemed incredible to everyone he told, so he usually didn't bother. It was easier to pretend. But like blindness or deafness, anosmia was real. He'd never smelled a thing in his life.
He prepared for Eric to ask the usual barrage of questions: How can you taste? What if it's something really strong smelling? Can you smell a gas leak? Spoiled food?
Instead Eric just said, "Wild." Unimpressed, as if it were just one of the ordinary things you learn when you're just getting to know someone, like preferring crunchy peanut butter.
Jason pointed out a few mushrooms underfoot, yellow sickly-looking things. Eric poked at them with the tip of his knife and said they weren't matsutake. Not even edible. Not if you wanted to live.
"I'll keep that in mind," Jason replied with a smirk. “Don’t piss off the forager.”
Matsutake come up out of the earth veiled and moon-white, Eric explained. They're the most precious mushroom among the Japanese. They can’t be cultivated, and you must always cut them, rather than pulling them out of the soil, to not damage the underlying growth.
"The Ghost of October," he said. "That's what my grandfather called them. They appear when they choose to, and only to those who know how to look.” He paused, studying the ground. Like all precious things, they take longer to find.
Seeing nothing worthwhile, he folded up his little mushroom knife. "You want to always keep the blade closed when you're walking," he said. "In case you fall."
"Noted," Jason replied. Good advice. But he wouldn't be foraging again. He looked forward to getting back to the city, to cafes and movies and music and bookstores and friends.
Eric turned and headed up the hill.
Jason trudged behind him, watching how confidently Eric moved through the mist, as if he belonged there among the ghosts and shadows.
3. Domestic Remains
Jason is supposed to be drafting a policy paper. The words once flowed through his fingertips, but now he's adding them one at a time, positioning and repositioning them, like bricks, building a wall.
His office is at home, in the house they bought together, a small craftsman, over a hundred years old. Eric was excited that it was plumbed so he could have a gas range, and a small yard where he could grow tomatoes. Jason liked that it was in the city, close to all the shopping and restaurants, the lake path where he liked to run. Close to people.
They joked at the time that the second bedroom might one day be a kid's room. But when the responsibility of a dog turned out to be too much it went without saying that having a kid was unthinkable. The second bedroom became their dressing room, and after Eric, Jason's office.
Even still, he refers to the closet in that room as Eric's. It’s filled with the things he left behind. If only he’d taken them with him.
Jason’s eyes glaze over and the words on his laptop screen go hazy. His sleeping hours are spent half awake, and his waking hours half asleep. His phone sits face-down on the desk, in case.
He hears Eric’s voice first. “You work too much. You need to get out of here."
Eric's grinning, leaning in the door frame. There’s the familiar curve of his lips. His snug t-shirt and boxers. The cotton hugs his biceps and thighs. One leg is curled under him, the sole of his foot turned up. The posture when he wanted to entice Jason away.
Then he’s gone and Jason sighs.
“Someone’s got to pay the bills,” Jason mutters. “And it’s not you.”
It must be time to feed the dog—theirs once, his now. Sirius is a leggy black standard poodle. Big enough and, with his curls shorn, boyish enough. Chosen due to Jason's allergies.
He wasn't the one who wanted a dog. Oh, he thought he did, for a couple of weeks. They'd come out of a particularly bad patch, which to this day Jason thinks of as the very, very bad time. They patched things up and had a nesting phase, which included getting a puppy.
By the time Jason realized the responsibility of a dog wasn't for him, Eric was already in love.
It weighed on Jason, how to be a good dog owner, how to give Sirius the best canine life. “I want him to be happy.”
"He's just a dog," Eric said, at the time. "If you just love him, he's happy."
Eric had a way of making things sound so simple.
Later, after Eric left, Jason sat on the ground and said to the dog, "It's just us now."
Sirius licked his face, distressed at Jason's tearfulness.
See, Jason wanted to say, just loving someone isn't enough to make them happy.
Of course, Eric wasn't there to tell.
It’s not lost on Jason that if he’d had his way and not kept the dog, he'd be even more alone. These days Sirius is the only one who sees him regularly, who knows when he's been up all night, who notices when he wanders his home aimlessly.
The dog watches him now from the doorway, head cocked. He doesn’t like to come into the office.
Even the plants Jason suspended in the windows wither and die, one by one, though they have adequate light and he waters them appropriately. Everything he touches seems to fade lately.
4. The Politics of Attraction
Looking back, it was that day foraging for matsutake that Jason first began to fall for Eric.
The unseasonable warmth had them shedding layers as they climbed—first Eric's rain jacket, then his crewneck sweatshirt. By the time he was down to just his t-shirt and shorts, the fabric clung to him, dark with sweat down his back and under his arms. Jason found himself watching the way Eric's muscles worked, how his chest filled out with each breath, his tawny calves flexing as the hill steepened. When Eric’s shirt rode up, it exposed a faint café au lait birthmark at the small of his back—a secret Jason hadn’t yet earned the right to, but couldn’t help staring at.
Not long after the hike, Jason admitted to Eric that he had a thing for him. He downplayed it, grateful later that he had, because Eric didn't feel the same. Not even a little, Jason wondered? They were gay men, after all. How much spark did you need? And they got along. Laughed at the same things. Sometimes they'd just read together, more comfortable in shared silence than apart.
And Jason wasn’t bad looking—an endurance runner, lean and in good shape. He’d had admirers—enough that he thought nothing of declining their overtures. Boyfriends too, though none ever challenged him. Why wasn’t Eric at least a little into him?
If they'd been a rom-com, the credits would have rolled three times before anything happened. Timing was never their strong suit.
The two hung out over the next twelve months, going to movies, eating out together. Jason liked to research new spots—a dumpling place where the chef made everything from scratch, a Syrian place run by an immigrant family.
“We should check this out,” he said, sliding his phone across the table to show Eric. “The food looks good, and we can help them get a good start.”
It was always the impact on people’s lives that interested him most in his work.
They each had their own flings and hookups. When Eric spoke about his bad ones, Jason listened, maybe a little too closely.
The following October, Eric asked Jason out for a drink. Sitting together, Eric said he’d been thinking—maybe they should give it a go.
"What's that about?" Jason asked, both offended and aroused. It was like being rejected from a job, then called a year later for a second interview.
Eric shrugged. "I just realized what a good guy you are. Maybe I made a mistake last year."
Jason had mostly moved on. But he wanted Eric so much he couldn’t say no.
At Jason’s door, their hug lasted longer, their lips lingered and parted, and then they were inside, undressing each other, sweaters and jeans to bare skin. Their bodies weren’t the same, but they fit—Eric’s athletic build, Jason’s sinewy frame. Both of them flushed with want. Their cocks were hard and leaking—Eric’s thick and straight, Jason’s with a graceful arc. When they pressed together, it was like a live wire between them.
They kissed, deep and hungry, Jason’s hands roaming Eric’s back, Eric grinding against him, letting out a low, sighing sound. Jason laughed, breathless, as Eric’s mouth trailed down his neck, nipping at his collarbone—the kind of bite that left a mark.
Jason rolled them onto the bed, pulling Eric on top, his legs wrapping around Eric’s waist, greedy for more. He spat into his hand, slicked Eric’s cock, and guided him in. “You sure?” Eric whispered, voice rough.
“Shut up and fuck me.” Jason positioned him, and Eric pushed in—slow at first, then all at once, spreading him open, making Jason gasp and arch up. The stretch was sharp, but Jason craved it, and Eric’s weight on him felt like he belonged there.
Eric started to move—slow, then fast, then slow again, hips grinding, every thrust sending sparks up Jason’s spine. Jason clung to him, nails digging in, kissing him so hard their teeth knocked. “God, you feel so fucking good,” he groaned.
“Yeah?” Eric was grinning now, sweat beading at his hairline, eyes wild. “You’re so fucking tight, Jase. Gonna make me—fuck—”
“Not yet.” Jason grabbed Eric’s ass, bucking up, meeting every thrust. Their bodies slapped together, Eric’s cock hit that perfect spot, again and again, until Jason was shaking, desperate, almost there.
Then, with a sudden move, Eric pulled out and flipped positions—now astride Jason, not missing a beat. He sank down onto Jason’s cock, riding him, gasping at the fullness, the look on his face open, hungry, surrendering.
Eric’s hips rolled as he fucked himself harder on Jason’s cock, taking all of him, deeper and deeper. Jason watched—transfixed—as Eric rode him, sweat-slick and so intense, hands braced on Jason’s chest. Then, to Jason’s shock, Eric shuddered and came, his cock untouched, shooting stripes across Jason as he gasped out a helpless sound.
Jason didn’t stop—kept fucking up into Eric, chasing his own climax, and when it hit, he came hard, spilling deep inside, the pleasure blinding. Eric collapsed on top of him, sweaty, spent, both of them laughing breathlessly in the dark.
Eric groaned, "Fuck, I never did that without even touching myself before."
"New to me too," Jason replied, pushing his wet hair back. The air between them crackled.
They stayed tangled like that, sweat cooling, hands roaming, lips brushing skin. Eric’s voice was a whisper in Jason’s ear: “No one ever made me feel like you do.”
“Maybe we should just keep at it,” Jason murmured, pressing a kiss to Eric’s jaw.
Eric responded with more kisses. They didn’t leave the bed until morning.
5. Eric’s Closet
His policy paper undone, Jason’s eyelids are heavy. He can hear hissing whispers again, and creaking on the floors mimicking the familiar rhythm of Eric's uneven gait. There’s a sound at the front door and he thinks it's not even Halloween yet. But when he gets up to answer it there's no one there.
While he’s up, Jason pours some leftover curry into a pot and sets it on the stove. As he turns the knob, he hears Eric’s voice—cheerful, impatient—“Let’s go.” Eric’s silhouette flickers at the edge of the kitchen, just out of reach.
The ignition clicks and there’s a sharp whoosh—an eruption of blue flame that flares high, before settling down to a trembling orange.
He turns back to the door, but Eric’s already gone, leaving the kitchen colder than it should be, the flame still wavering uncertainly beneath his dinner.
It's as if they have parallel lives in the same home, only catching glimpses as they pass each other.
“I feel like I’m the ghost,” Jason says to Sirius. “This isn’t a Sixth Sense thing, is it?”
Sirius cocks his head.
“I’m talking to a dog. Not a good sign, buddy.”
He reaches for the corkscrew, then stops. Hadn't he just opened this bottle last night? He rummages through the recycling bin, finding three empty wine bottles. Three? He could have sworn he'd only had one. But missing wine isn’t even the strangest thing to happen lately.
He knows smell is the scent most associated with memory, and not having that, he’s wondered if his recall is less rich than other people’s—or if that’s why he focuses so much on the visual, or is so comforted by resonant sounds. But he’s never wondered before if it made his memories less accurate.
Sometimes things are better when Jason leaves home—to see Steve or to go grocery shopping. Things seem clearer. Lighter. But when he returns, he would swear he can see a white haze around the house. But he has nowhere else to go.
Even Sirius spends more of his time outdoors, exiting through his doggie door into the tiny back yard.
After dinner, Jason drifts off on the sofa. He’s just sinking into that perfect half-awake zone when he tries to turn—gravity reminding him it’s still in charge. He lands with a soft thud on the floor.
Smooth move. Nicely done.
He groans, sits up, glances at the dog, who’s giving him the “Really?” look that only a dog can perfect.
Jason shuffles toward bed, passing his office, yawning. And there it is: Eric's closet, the door open.
His heart races a little as he steps up to close it. Inside are all the things Eric left behind, like a museum exhibit no one asked for.
Jason used to joke that his husband should open a shop called Eric's Closet, from which he could sell all the supplies and equipment he bought for each passing new interest: soccer pads and cleats, bonsai shears and pots, a little hammer for digging up fossils, an archery set. It seemed like sometimes the thrill of getting the gear was enough for him to move on to the next interest. The next thing.
Jason spots Eric's foraging knife, the one with the little brush on it, He picks it up and opens it. The blade is curved like a scythe. He folds it shut, opens it again, and folds it shut once more before putting it away.
At the bottom of the closet are rubber bins which contain another of Eric's interests, the sex toys he'd started acquiring in the latter part of their marriage. Still here, as if they were just another hobby he walked away from.
6. The Bad Season
Years after their first fuck, Jason would wonder if he projected too much onto Eric's silences.
Maybe they should have just been friends with benefits. Maybe things wouldn’t have gotten so complicated.
They’d seemed so alike in the beginning, but every year their differences showed.
Jason was persistent. Steadfast. Eric burned through his hobbies like a fireworks show—bright, loud, and over way too soon. Climbing. Archery. Racing his bike like he was in the Tour de Somewhere. He’d go full throttle, no brakes, no apologies.
"That’s life," Eric would say, flashing another wound. A torn rotator cuff from rock climbing too hard, road rash from cycling like he owned the road, bruised ribs from a mountain bike stunt that was probably a bad idea.
Eric mentioned deadlifting once, his newest obsession.
"Everyone deadlifts," Eric said like it was a law of nature.
"I don’t," Jason reminded him, deadpan.
Their sex life shrank to scant and then to nothing.
Jason jerked off alone, and Eric got into sex toys that he kept in bins in a closet.
Given the intensity with which he chased his interests, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that the toys got bigger, more demanding to take. At night, Jason would hear him emerge from the other room and get in the shower, running the water so hot the mirrors would fog up completely. He'd emerge pink-skinned and sated, his limits tested.
At least he wasn't fucking around with other guys, Jason consoled himself. Though some days he wished Eric would—he might know how to compete with that.
For his part, Jason focused on his work. His only pastime was running. He started earlier and earlier in the morning, well before sunrise, in solitude. He said it was his time for himself while most of the world slept, before the pressures of work could intrude. Often by the time of his return, Eric would be mounting his bike to go to the gym.
It seemed they were both living in the same home only coincidentally. Like ghosts passing through the same spaces.
Then they had the very, very bad time. Jason still thinks of it that way. The very, very bad time.
That’s when they first went to counseling—to see if there was anything left to save.
"There are ebbs and flows in relationships," the counselor said. Eric nodded, but his leg bounced like he was trying to outrun the conversation.
Eric said he felt abandoned by Jason, replaced by a sad ghost of the man he married, lost in work and numbing himself with food and drink.
“I was being buried alive. How could you think that was me?” Jason shot back. “How could you not know me better?”
They were stuck.
They surprised themselves and each other at how eagerly they approached their counselor's assigned exercises, even though they seemed silly and embarrassing.
Asked to tell each other five things they found attractive about each other, Eric began, "Your shoulders. Your lips. Your smile. Your long legs. Your tenacity. The way you make me laugh."
When Jason told him that was six things, Eric grinned. "Oh, well." For a moment, he looked like his old self again.
Jason replied, "Your eyes. Your smile. Your chest. Your laugh. How you can do... anything. Your disregard for instructions."
They both laughed. A small victory.
After a lot more work, they tentatively tried to be intimate again.
Jason slid into Eric warily. But there was something about how Eric approached it—like one more athletic challenge. And the pleasure on his face, in his body, was so intoxicating, with everything about him hardened—his tits, his cock—but his mouth open and yielding to Jason's tongue.
When Jason began to unknot in him, his release mounting, Eric came. His grunts were so intense, the clutch of his hole so tight, it made Jason shoot his own load too. Even afterwards, Jason stayed in him, Eric’s smooth chest rising and falling, his lips softly gasping. It was a revelation.
They lie there panting and laughing, both surprised to have found each other again.
They'd made it through the very, very bad time. Their hearts were better than before. Stronger.
At least, that's what Jason had thought.
7. Heartstruck
It’s an unseasonably warm fall day, so Jason and Eric have a picnic outside the city. Jason can see Eric’s mother, her back to them, but he knows it’s her. They must be foraging. For matsutake. Her father used to bring them to her. Then only Eric—there he is.
He’s playing with a bow and arrow. That’s funny. Archery is one of his long list of hobbies, but why bring that to a picnic? Still, he looks so beautiful, with the muscularity and grace of a racehorse.
Jason spots something in the grass and wonders if it’s a matsutake. It’s white. He digs at it and sees it’s not a mushroom. It’s a knob. Bone. He feels queasy.
Where did Eric go?
But Eric isn’t gone. He’s right there. He pulls the bowstring back, tongue between his lips. There’s a tremor in his forearm and he releases an arrow—not with real intent, just playing around. Eric and his hobbies. The sun catches his profile, makes him look almost translucent.
But where did the arrow go?
Jason feels an ache and looks down. The arrow is buried in his chest.
“Oh,” he says. That’s all. Oh.
Time slows. He slumps back and watches his shirt bloom red around the shaft like poppies opening.
For a long moment, he lies still, unable to move, the weight of the world pressing down.
Then, slowly, he becomes aware of Eric beside him—sitting with his legs pulled up, smooth thighs and calves golden in the soft light, a blade of grass lazily twirling between his teeth. The bow and arrow lie forgotten at his side, like props in a play, no longer needed.
Jason manages a weak smile. “You and your hobbies.”
Eric chuckles softly, the sound light and familiar. “You never liked that one.”
Jason lets out a dry laugh.
Eric turns to him, eyes soft. “It was an accident.”
“I know,” Jason replies. And he does.
But he also knows the arrow has passed between his breast bones, the tip scratching at his heart.
He can tell he’s mortally wounded—not in a way that will kill him right away, but a damage he’ll never recover from, not fully. The scratch will plague him, and sometimes his heart will flutter like a bird in a cage, as if it's dying, even if the rest of his body won't.
“You need to get up,” Eric says—his voice warm, steady. “It’s time to go.”
Jason sighs. “I will. After a rest. I’m just a little tired.”
Mosses and lichens creep up from the ground onto Jason’s limbs and sides. The earth seems to be drawing him in, like it’s reclaiming something it has lost.
The bird in Jason’s chest trills. It sounds like bike chains in motion, then the screech of braking—sharp, sudden, and too fast—a sound that cuts through the stillness like a reminder of life’s relentless motion.
Eric stretches his legs out, settling back on his hands, serene and almost otherworldly. “I didn’t want to go,” he says softly.
Jason’s voice is gentle. “It’s okay.” It’s not okay, but what else can he say? “It’s just a dream.”
Eric looks at him, confusion flickering across his translucent face. “Why do you think this is a dream?”
“Because I’ve dreamt it before,” Jason answers. And his sleeping eyes open.
He’s in his bed, with Sirius snoring at his side.
He can make out Eric in the dark, sitting on the edge of the bed, luminous and still—like a memory caught between worlds. In the moonlight, Jason can almost see through him.
“It’s time to go,” Eric says, and then he’s gone. Again.
8. The Scratch on the Record
“I’m not a Freudian,” his counselor, Steve, says. “But this recurring dream—the intensity and how often it shows up. Do you see it as your mind trying to process losing him?”
Jason shakes his head. No, it’s not processing. It’s like a scratched record stuck on the worst track. You know, the one that won’t stop playing.
“The ‘very, very bad time’ you mentioned,” Steve says, leaning forward a little, “you said it felt like the floor fell out from under you. Can you tell me more about that?”
Jason has brought it up before, but never really explained. Maybe it’s time.
“We’d been together about seven years then. I had my first leadership job. Making good money. But I was in way over my head. The stress was crushing. I managed it by overworking, overdrinking, shutting down. Basically, I was a walking disaster. If there was an Olympic event for self-sabotage, I’d be on the podium.”
“Eric’s answer was to dive deeper into his hobbies. More time at the gym.” He takes a breath. “He looked better than ever.”
“But I could feel his... disdain. In small ways. Short answers. Disinterest. You know when someone’s done with you. To be sure it wasn’t as bad as I thought, I asked Eric if he was even attracted to me anymore.”
“And?”
“He said no. Just no.”
Steve sighs in sympathy.
“I just said, ‘Oh.’ Like, thanks for clearing that up. No warm-up, no explanation. Just a flat no.”
“That must have been brutal. Where was Eric during this?”
“He was there,” Jason says. “He was... noble. He wouldn’t leave me. And that almost made it worse.”
Steve waits while Jason pulls himself together.
“It was... the hardest thing I’ve been through. Feeling like everything was a mistake. But it shook me awake. We went to counseling. I changed. We both did. I never thought we’d be okay again. But bit by bit, we were. Better than before, mostly.”
“Mostly?” Steve asks.
“We were happy. At our best. But what Eric said... it stayed with me.”
“Later he apologized. Said it was the lowest point of his life. But I didn’t know how to trust it wouldn’t happen again.”
Steve leans in. “Were you able to forgive him?”
“I had nothing to forgive him for,” Jason says. “It was me I couldn’t forgive. For not being who he wanted.”
They sit quietly. Outside, fall leaves skitter across the window.
“And then Eric left me.”
“Died,” Steve corrects gently, as he sometimes does. His voice carries weight. “It wasn’t a choice. It was an accident. Eric didn’t leave you. He died.”
The words don’t fit together. Eric and died. Like magnets pushing away from each other.
“I think I’m haunted,” Jason admits.
“We can be haunted by words. By memories,” Steve says.
But that’s not what Jason means.
9. Séance
Why are we haunted?
Because the departed long for something they miss from life?
Eric was always so in his body. It must be hard for him not to have that. He must want something physical. Something extreme to feel.
Jason pulls open the rubber bins at the bottom of Eric’s closet. There were so many passions in there. The closet overflowed with them. But Jason suspects no book, no hobby, tested him, touched Eric’s core—literally—the way his toys did.
He sifts through the dildos. Some shaped like human cocks, only much larger. Others in eccentric, cunning designs meant to reach deeper places.
He lifts one, feeling its weight—solid and real in his palm. The silicone shifts from deep purple to black, satiny and smooth. He wets the suction-cup base with his tongue, then presses it firmly to the floor, anchoring it with slick warmth. Maybe some bodily fluid is necessary for a ritual like this—one of his own invention. A muscle bottom séance.
“Come out, come out, you beautiful bastard,” Jason whispers, holding the toy at its base. The word bastard is tinged with anger and longing.
“Come on,” he says louder now. “Come. Fucking. Out.”
The air crackles. He can just make out Eric in the doorway—one leg bent beneath him, foot curled.
“Is this what you want?” Jason whispers, letting the stallion cock sway. “Is this what it takes?”
Eric always knew what he wanted.
“You gonna just hold it?” Eric’s voice teases in Jason’s mind.
The luminous figure crouches, body fluid and sure. He centers the toy between the firm cheeks of his ass, and lowers. The head presses in, parts him open, a small gasp on his lips. Inch by inch, it slides deeper, filling him with a long descent. Every shift of Eric’s face is a new story—a flush, a moan, a tightening of muscles—as the dildo probes further, stretching, opening.
Jason watches, heart pounding, heat pooling low in his belly. Eric's core shifts, steadying as he takes what seems impossible and makes it inevitable.
As Eric nears the base, Jason releases his grip, hand trembling back—like touching might break the spell.
Eric rides with a grace that stops Jason’s breath. His thighs flex, chest rising and falling in sharp rhythm. The tilt of his head, the silent moans from his parted lips. The way his thick, veined cock bobs, his balls rise and fall, heavy with his pleasure. “Oh fuckkkk…”
The sight sears into Jason’s skin, stoking a raw ache that tightens and burns deep.
“Look in my eyes,” Eric whispers in that voice only Jason knows, the invitation clear, the rhythm rising. “I can feel you in me.”
Jason’s own body answers—cock leaking precum against the soft fabric of his pajamas.
“Oh fuck. Oh fuck,” Eric gasps, taking it in full, riding it. His face is open and vulnerable—at his most beautiful as he nears his release.
The luminous Eric shudders as he cums with a deep, phantom grunt. His chest heaves, and bliss radiates from his face and body, tensing and easing in waves.
Jason’s hand shoots out, an instinctive grab, but the image blurs, edges flickering. His fingers close on nothing but air. “Don’t you dare go,” he whispers, his voice cracking.
But there’s only Jason’s own breath, and the cold silicon tower wavering on the floor.
There must be something more. But what else is there?
He looks up at Eric’s empty bike rack on the wall. The space remains stark and bare.
Every other hobby, every passion, every piece of Eric’s life still filled the house: the soccer gear, the foraging knife, the history books. But the bike—Eric’s favorite escape—is gone.
“What do you want?”
Sirius whines softly from the doorway, head cocked.
10. The Ghost of October
“Why do you think this is a dream?” Eric asks.
“Because I’ve dreamt it before,” Jason answers. And his sleeping eyes open.
It’s the same dream. The picnic, the arrow, the fluttering bird and the spinning bike chain. The sudden, terrible brake. Eric telling Jason again to get up. He has to get up. It’s time to go.
But this time, Jason thinks he knows what Eric wants. What he needs Jason to do.
At 3 a.m., he slips out of bed and gets dressed.
He makes his way to Eric’s closet to get the foraging knife. The dog watches, head cocked, as Jason opens and closes the scythe-like blade.
Jason wonders if he can leave the dog at home but decides against it. He’s been left once already. “Come on, boy.”
If he can’t get Eric to come to him, he’ll go to Eric.
An hour later, they arrive at the mountain, veiled in mist shimmering under the full moon. Sirius is thrilled to run off leash, sniffing at messages in nature invisible to Jason.
As they hike up the steep side, Jason realizes how poorly he’s dressed. It’s colder and wetter than he expected.
Eric would have known better.
Another hour later, Jason pokes at several mushrooms with Eric’s blade—the yellow ones. The ones you eat if you don’t want to live. They spiral out, once you see them.
But, no. Not today.
Sirius watches him carefully, whining softly.
Jason passes them by, climbing higher. But soon he loses his footing and slides down a steep swath of damp soil, grasping at twigs that wouldn’t support a bird.
When he stops, he’s on his back, covered in dirt and pine needles.
He aches already, but his hand is strangely warm. When he looks down, he sees why—he’s cut his palm with the open blade.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It won’t stop bleeding, and when he tries to wipe it, he just gets dirt and pine needles in it.
“You have to get up,” Eric says in the dream. But it’s so tempting to lie there.
“It’s too much,” Jason says, looking up at the starry sky framed by black treetops. “I can’t do it. I’m too tired.”
Your tenacity, Eric said once.
Sirius arrives at his side, lapping at his face. As Jason turns, he sees it.
On the slope near the creek, forcing itself out of the black earth, hooded and white as snow, one precious matsutake. The Ghost of October. They appear when they choose, only to those who know how to look.
He breathes hard to pull himself together and sits up. He strips out of his jacket and then his t-shirt, wrapping it around his bloody palm and ties it as best he can. He pulls the jacket over his bare chest and rises.
The slope above the creek is steep. Almost vertical. There's no way to climb it, especially not with the soil so loosely packed and so wet from the rains.
As Jason tries different approaches Sirius stays back. He sits on his rear, at a distance, and whines.
If even a dog thinks it's too dangerous, he probably ought not to do it, Jason thinks. But he needs to.
He spots an exposed tree root jutting out from the steep slope. Testing it carefully, he grips it with his bloodied, wrapped hand. He presses his feet hard against the loose earth, using the root to steady himself.
Stretching out with his free hand, he inches closer to the mushroom. It’s still just out of reach.
Holding tight to the root, he shifts his weight and swings his body like a pendulum, using the momentum to bring himself nearer. His fingers brush the mushroom’s cap, but it’s not quite enough to grasp it fully.
Sirius whines softly behind him, shifting nervously on his rear. He wiggles his hips against the soil, tail thumping lightly. The quiet is broken by a long, slow fart that hangs in the crisp night air.
Jason’s lips twitch. A chuckle escapes before he can stop it.
“Don’t make me laugh,” he says, voice rough but lighter. “This is hard enough.”
Sirius whines softly behind him, shifting uneasily.
He swings once more, pushing off the slope with his feet to gain extra reach.
Fingers graze the mushroom’s surface.
A creak sounds beneath his grip. The root snaps, gives way.
Jason falls backward, tumbling down the muddy slope until he lands hard near the creek.
Sirius is on him in an instant, licking his face.
"I'm sorry," he tells the dog, "I'm okay. I'm okay."
And he is.
He looks down into his lap. His shivering hand is holding the matsutake, perfectly formed. White as the moon and big as his fist.
Eric would say you should always cut them, not break them from the root. But Eric’s not there, and it's done.
Jason trudges back to his car, cradling the prized mushroom, increasingly giddy, laughing to himself. Sirius trots around him in figure eights.
11. Star Dog and Pancakes
He brings the dog in with him to urgent care. The person checking him in eyes Sirius. Jason says, "He's for emotional support."
The receptionist is appropriately skeptical, but Jason, still covered in dirt and pine needles, is too certain, too steadfast, to pick an argument with.
A medical assistant brings him to an exam room and takes his vitals. "Your heart rate's a bit elevated," she notes.
He waits there until the door opens, and a nurse in teal scrubs enters.
"Oh hey," he says. It's the guy from Steve's office. The bearded ginger. He introduces himself as Sean. "What are you doing here on Halloween?"
"Oh, just trick or treating," Jason jokes, holding up his hand wrapped in a bloody t-shirt. "I might need stitches."
"And who's this?" he asks, scratching the dog's head.
"Sirius," Jason says.
"He doesn't look so serious to me," the ginger grins.
“It’s Sirius like the dog star. His breeder was an amateur astronomer.” Like Eric with his stargazing phase, Jason thinks.
He stops himself from saying more. He's out of practice sharing, and doesn't know what's too much to say, or what's too little. The last person he really talked to was Steve, and before that... conversations with ghosts don't count.
"Well," the ginger says, turning to his patient. "Let's take a look at that hand."
His voice is resonant, deep and soothing. It must be useful in his line of work. It sounds to Jason like what he imagines hot chocolate must smell like.
He gently wipes Jason's palm clean for a doctor to examine. She says no stitches needed, but adds that when Sean has finished cleaning, he can seal it up with surgical adhesive and bandage it.
While he’s at it, Sean pulls splinters and pine needles from Jason's hands. “Next time don't go so hard on the porcupine costume.” His touch is careful but sure, like he's used to handling broken things.
"I shouldn't do this, but since we know each other a little bit outside of here," Sean gestures around at the urgent care room, "would you maybe like to have dinner tonight?"
Jason looks at his dirt-covered clothes, his bandaged hand, his dog with pine needles in his fur. He thinks about his empty house with its ghost, and about the matsutake, found only when it chooses to be found.
"Yeah," Jason answers. The word feels rusty in his mouth, but good.
With his hand bandaged, he drives to another neighborhood. One he hasn't been to in almost a year. He's still dirty and covered in pine needles, but it can't wait.
Jack-o'-lanterns flank the steps and fake spider webs criss-cross the frame of the porch. When Eric’s mom opens the door she has a bowl of candy in her arm. It’s Halloween, after all.
She looks so much like him, even in her full moon glasses, that Jason's chest tightens. She has Eric’s mouth and eyes and coloring.
She’s happy to see Jason, but when he holds out the matsutake for her, her breath catches. She takes it with both hands and holds it up to her nose to take in the fragrance.
For the first time in a long time Jason wishes he could smell.
She brings him in, and he sits at her kitchen table while she fusses over Sirius and says what a good boy he is.
They talk about Eric and missing him. She asks if he'd like some pancakes.
"Do you... Do you have pancakes?"
Who has pancakes ready to go in the middle of the day? But she nods yes.
"Okay," he says, and his voice croaks.
They sit and eat together in her kitchen, with the Ghost of October between them.
12. The Other Side
Sean arrives early. “Hello, gorgeous.” He beams at Jason, standing in the doorway. “You clean up well.”
Jason steps aside to let him in. “Give me a minute to feed Sirius.”
Sean follows, but wrinkles his nose. “Do you smell that?”
Of course he doesn’t. Jason can’t smell a thing. He never has.
Sean’s nostrils flare as he moves through the apartment, following an invisible trail. In Jason’s office, he stops short. “You have a gas leak. A bad one. How long have you been living like this?”
Since Eric died?
In full nurse mode, Sean asks about symptoms—fatigue, disorientation, forgetfulness, paranoia, depression. Hallucinations.
A slow dawning. Yes. All of them.
“I’ll call to get it checked in the morning,” Jason says, voice oddly detached.
Sean’s gaze fixes on him. “You can’t stay here tonight. It’s not safe.” His eyes sweep the cramped room, then settle back on Jason. “You can come to my place. If you want.”
“I can’t leave the dog,” Jason replies.
“Bring him,” Sean says, scratching Sirius behind the ears. “We’ll grab some Thai takeout on the way.”
So they do.
Later, in Sean’s bedroom, they undress between slow, warm kisses. The takeout containers sit forgotten on the kitchen counter. Jason’s fingers trace lightly over Sean’s furry chest and belly, excited at each new reveal. Sean’s long, lean muscles shift under Jason’s touch—subtle abs tapering to a patch of reddish hair, and a pale pink cock that draws Jason’s gaze
“Wow,” Jason breathes, voice low and rough.
“You’re pretty wow yourself,” Sean replies, sliding a hand down Jason’s side to cup his growing hardness.
Jason’s back stiffens—a ghost of resistance. Then he exhales, the sound soft and steady, easing into it.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I haven’t… done this in a long time.”
He means so many things. Not with anyone but Eric. Not in a bed that’s not his. Not feeling like this at all.
“We can take it slow… we can stop, if you want,” Sean says, voice deep and soothing. “I’m just… if you can’t tell, really into you.”
He kisses Jason’s neck, collarbone, chest—each touch punctuated by soft sighs and the gentle slide of skin on skin.
Lower, Sean’s mouth finds Jason’s cock, licking and swallowing with thorough patience. When the head slips into his throat, Sean gulps, a wet, muffled sound that makes Jason gasp, “Oh fuck.” His breath catches, uneven but hungry, encouraging Sean to keep going.
Jason’s at Sean’s mercy when he looks up, watery-eyed, and rasps, "I want you to fuck me."
When Sean pulls his legs back, Jason’s hands hold them steady as he laps at Sean’s hole, making him moan softly—low, breathy sounds that fill the quiet room. It’s ringed by rust-colored fur, and the globes of Sean’s ass are creamy white. His entrance flexes under Jason’s tongue—wet, eager, and inviting.
When Jason finally slides inside, a sharp gasp escapes Sean’s lips. Warm, tight, hot inside him—Jason had forgotten all of it, but the heat of being in another man most of all.
It takes a few slow thrusts to find his rhythm. The bed creaks faintly beneath them. Then Jason pulls Sean close, their mouths meeting in a rough kiss. His grind isn’t urgent or rough. It’s a negotiation, learning each other’s bodies and signals.
Sean’s hands dig into Jason’s sides, pulling him deeper, with a desire so plain and raw it makes Jason’s heartbeat spike.
“I’m not going to last,” Jason whispers, breathless, thrusting deeper, driven by instinct.
Sean hooks his legs around Jason’s hips, lifting himself higher. “Cum in me,” he murmurs, voice thick and honeyed. His hole clenches tight, making Jason shudder, and they both laugh.
Jason’s breath catches. “I haven’t… cum in a really, really long time,” he admits, fighting the tightening coil in his cock, desperate to hold back.
“Lucky me,” Sean grins, voice low and teasing.
Resistance crumbles fast. Jason’s hips thrust harder and faster, surrendering to the surge. His body shudders and quakes as his cock erupts inside Sean, spilling again and again. His face burrows into the crook of Sean’s neck, gasping, raw and unguarded.
Even after his intense release, Jason stays hard, riding the edge. He keeps pumping while Sean jerks himself against Jason’s belly, their bodies moving in sync.
“Oh fuck yeah,” Sean groans, muscles clenching tight around Jason’s cock as he shoots volley after volley onto his flushed, furred belly and ruddy skin.
It feels so good, and Sean is so gorgeous, Jason thinks he might cum again. He grinds into him slowly, savoring the fading heat, until their erections soften and they collapse, sweaty and spent.
They kiss, intertwined, the quiet room filled with their mingled breath and the soft thump of their hearts. Afterwards, they lie there and talk. Sirius lies curled on the bedroom floor, sleeping peacefully, his steady breathing a comforting rhythm.
Sometimes they laugh, and Jason notes that Sean’s laugh is even deeper and richer than his voice. He wants to hear it again and again.
At midnight, the bedside alarm clock flips to 12:00.
Sirius stirs, lifts his head, and looks up.
Sean turns to Jason and smiles. “It’s November.”
END
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