Holiday Passion: A M/M Holiday Romance

by Tara Simon

  “Martin,” Luther says, knocking knees with him, covering Martin’s hand with his and giving it a light pat. “I’m really sorry I asked.”

  “No, that’s okay.” Martin swallows. “You were asking for a reason though. About the lies.”

  Luther nods quickly. He stares ahead and says, “The other day Lin found a key. It has a little tag attached to it that says Ygraine. I thought it was something important. So I asked Father. He said he doesn’t remember what it opens.”

  “And you don’t believe him?”

  Luther flips on his side. “No.”

  “You know maybe he’s just like my mum,” says Martin tentatively. “He just can’t bring himself to talk about it.”

  Luther’s eyes round. They get a little misty. He sniffles even. “I have a right to know. She was my mum.” He wipes at his nose with the back of his hand. “I want to find out.”

  “I get that,” Martin says, because he does. He’s spent plenty a sleepless night wondering about his dad, what kind of person he is. He suspects that’s why Luther’s sought him out today, because he knows Martin’s in the same boat. “I… Luther, if I can help—” He makes sure he picks the right words. “I’m there okay. I want you to know I’m there for you.”

  “I know.” Luther nods quick, decisive. “I know you are.” Luther lowers his gaze. “And I realise this is going to be asking a lot.” Luther’s Adam’s apple takes a deep plunge here. “But will you help me find out?”

  “Yes,” says Martin without even thinking. “Yes, I promise.”

  Luther laughs. “That’s decided then.” He picks himself up with a hop, dusts himself off. He reaches a hand down to Martin. “Let’s go now or we’ll never get back in time for dinner and your mum’ll be cross with me.”

  Martin lets his fingers close around Luther’s palm and is up with a little bound. “My mum’s not anal.”

  “Neither is my father.”

  “He did send you to boot-camp that one summer.”

  Luther claps Martin low on the back. “That was the Scouts and it’s a family tradition.”

  Martin makes a show of crossing his eyes. “Oh, yes, I forgot, it’s a time honoured tradition in your family that goes back to the crusades era.”

  “Shut up, Martin,” Luther says, picking up the bike and giving him a shove. “Blah, blah, blah,” Martin says as he and Luther start back towards the village.

  Chapter 3

  As he roots into his pocket for his mobile, Martin takes his gloves off with his mouth. He goes to contacts and presses dial when the icon he searched for appears. The line is engaged so Martin sends a text.

  Oi, Luther, I was thinking how about a Christmas get together?

  Not thinking he’ll hear from Luther till he’s back home, he pockets his mobile. Before he’s halfway over, he gets a return text. It says: Count me in.

  * * *

  Martin pushes the door open with his foot and tucks the stepladder under his arm. Watching out for the snow covering his threshold, he takes two steps down, then places the ladder on the stairs. He tries the ladder and it doesn’t wobble, so humming under his breath, he goes back into the house and carts the boxes out.

  He takes out the wreath. It’s old and a little worse for wear. Some of the ribbons and pine cones have come off over the years. But it doesn’t look half bad and this was him mum’s favourite decoration. Smoothing the ribbon out, Martin hoists the wreath up. One-handed he searches for nails in his pocket.

  He’s nearly hammered a two inch nail into the lintel, when someone brushes behind him and grabs the ladder’s sides. “Steady there,” Luther says, an undertone of amusement threaded into his voice. “You wouldn’t want to fall.”

  Martin cranes his head back so he can see Luther. He looks good. His hair is shorter than it was when Martin’s last saw him, his face is relaxed, and his smile, a slightly smug one with its sideways twist, plays upon his lips. “You idiot,” he says, “you startled me. I might have fallen right off the thing.”

  Luther tuts softly. “I was there to catch you.”

  “You still don’t startle a man on a ladder!”

  “Well, normally men on ladders know what they’re doing.”

  “I know what I’m doing!” Martin says, hammering the last inch of nail into the wood of the door frame.

  “Of course you do,” Luther says, repositioning himself, but not letting go of the ladder. “Of course you do.”

  As he centres the wreath, Martin asks Luther. “By the way, what are you doing here?”

  “You invited me for Christmas.”

  “It’s not Christmas yet.”

  “Well, no,” Luther says in a higher tone than before. “I thought I’d come before the others.”

  Martin steps down the ladder but Luther hasn’t let go of the side rails, so Martin finds himself within the circle of his arms. He flicks a little side-look at Luther, clears his throat.

  Luther shifts his weight, tips his mouth to the right. His eyes are a notch wider when he steps back.

  “Let me show you inside,” Martin says, folding the ladder. “It’s cold out here.”

  Martin leaves tools and ladder in the hall and guides Luther into the kitchen.

  Luther takes a seat at the table and says, “I’ll have a tea.”

  Martin smiles, takes a bow, says, “Whatever you say, your highness.”

  “Idiot.” Luther balls up a napkin and throws it at him. “It’s freezing cold. I’d forgotten how the Welsh damp could get in your bones.”

  Martin turns around and puts the kettle on. “Shame, and you a native. London has corrupted you.”

  “Maybe.” Luther nods. “I’m back, aren’t I?”

  “Yeah,” Martin says, taking a seat opposite Luther, splaying his hands on the table.

  “So who else is coming?” Luther arches an eyebrow. “Aside from Lin. I know about Lin.”

  “Gwen and Leon,” Martin says, standing to take the kettle off the fire. “Tristan and his current girlfriend. I don’t know her. Jacob.”

  “Is that even a good idea?”

  Martin leans against the counter. “Jacob’s my friend too and, well… Most of the time he’s away. I thought it was my last chance seeing him.”

  “He’ll be back,” Luther says, his eyes gentling. “You know he always comes back from his roamings.”

  “Yeah,” says Martin, pivoting, puttering with tea bags and mugs. “Yeah, right.”

  “But I suppose you have every right to invite him, seeing as he’s your best friend,” Luther says, lips compressed around the last few syllables.

  Martin whips around, two mugs in hand, and chortles. He shoves the reindeer one at Luther.

  Luther slowly turns the mug around and watches the front with its smiling, red-nosed reindeer and seasonal background. He throws his head back and laughs, his throat working.

  Martin wants to come up with a witty piece of commentary but he can’t think of any. His heart lightens, expands, pushes at his ribcage from the inside. His eyes slit till he almost can’t see and he laughs too because Luther’s merriment is catching.

  “You’re still as ridiculous as ever,” Luther says, sobering, sipping at his tea.

  “You wouldn’t want me to be all prim and proper like all those ITV execs you deal with every day, would you?”

  “No, no, you’re right.” Luther’s gaze pools on him and warms Martin through and through. “I wouldn’t want that.”

  They sip their tea together. Luther complains about his secretary at work – unable to take messages –, tells him about this new pub he found close to his office – serving great new brews – and gives him the details of his last row with Lin.

  It’s easy talking to Luther like this. It’s something known, something he can fall back into with no effort at all. A sense of ease settles in his bones, centres him, makes him fit into his body. He finds his lips stretched into a smile more often than not and he’s laughing, laughing about the stupidest things,
sometimes even without a reason.

  “My god, I can’t stop,” Martin says at one point, wiping tears from his eyes. Luther’s voice is strained by laughter. “It’s bloody catching, that’s what it is.”

  “Yeah.” That’s all that Martin trusts himself with saying.

  “Actors do it all the time when they flub their lines.”

  Martin says, “Yeah, you’d know.”

  Luther points out to him that actors are spoiled brats, all of them. To the last one of them.

  “Even Lucius?”

  “Particularly Lucius I’m-theatre-trained-Jones,” Luther says, with extreme glee. “He’s such a pretentious twat.“

  “You’re only saying that to crash my dreams.” Martin kicks Luther under the table.

  “Far from me,” Luther says, fighting him back with a push of shoes. “You can retain your questionable tastes and nurture your crush in peace.”

  Although they could probably battle the point out all day long, Martin refrains from arguing. He offers to take Luther’s things from the car instead. Though Luther swears blind he doesn’t need any assistance shifting a canvas bag from point A to B, Martin is adamant. “Let me just play host properly,” he says, climbing to his feet.

  “That’s not like you,” Luther says as he follows him out of the house. “You’re a fuck propriety guy.”

  Martin stops by the boot of Luther’s car, eyebrow up. “Open it.”

  “Fine,” Luther says, lifting the boot of his Jaguar. “There it is. One canvas bag. And your present, which you mustn’t look at under any circumstances.

  Martin’s lips twitch. “Promise,” he says, and lifts the bag, letting Luther handle the present. Martin shows Luther his room. “It’s the biggest one I have.”

  “It’s sufficient,” Luther says, then when Martin’s face falls, he adds, “It’s great, Martin, honestly. I actually don’t understand why you’re not running the B&B anymore.”

  Martin scratches behind his ear. “It wasn’t working out, you know.” He makes a show of perking up. “But I’ve still got the fixtures.” He puts the bag on the foldaway stand. “See.”

  “Yeah,” says Luther.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to settle in a bit,” Martin says, rubbing his hands down the front of his jeans. He flashes Luther a smile. “Then we’ll try and sort lunch out.”

  Chapter 4

  2002

  Martin and Luther lean their bikes against the shed and enter Luther’s house by the French windows. They find Lin in the kitchen. She’s cradling the phone between chin and shoulders. As she delivers witticism upon witticism, she ladles ice-cream into a bowl. When she sees Luther and Martin, she raises an eyebrow.

  “Hi, Lin,” Martin says, waving at her.

  She mimes hello back. “Yes, no,” she tells the person she’s speaking to on the phone. You can’t do that.”

  Luther says, “Martin’s sleeping over tonight.”

  She arches an eyebrow, puts the receiver flat against her shoulder. “Does Uther know?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Luther says. “Whenever doesn’t he?”

  “He’s out of town.” Lin waggles her eyebrows, giving Martin a speculative once over while Martin tries to look completely innocent.

  “Yeah,” Luther says, as he raids the fridge. “I know. Not a problem.”

  “Have fun then,” Lin says, shrugging. She puts the receiver back to her ear and starts going on and on about a certain Cenred.

  Luther chugs milk into his mouth, tucks snacks under his arm, and thunders up the stairs. Not particularly wishing to withstand Lin’s scrutiny – because Lin’s always watchful –-, Martin dashes after Luther.

  He finds the door to his room open and closes it behind him. He drops his school bag on the floor and joins Luther at his desk.

  “Was Lin still talking on the phone when you came up?” Luther asks, nocking an eyebrow. “Yeah,” Martin says, moving a stool so he can sit next to Luther. “Yeah.”

  “All right, then, she’ll be at it for a while then,” Luther says and opens a drawer. Inside it are a few blank notepads, a collection of pens and rubbers, and a square box. He opens the latter and fishes a key out of it. “This is it.”

  Martin takes the key and turns it in his fingers. It’s an ordinary Yale. A tag with a label is attached

  to it. As Luther said, the word Ygraine is written across it. “And it doesn’t open any door here?”

  “The only Yale locks in the house are for the front door and shed,” Luther tells him, because, of course, he’s checked.

  “So it opens something else?”

  “Well, duh, Martin,” Luther says, though he’s neither scoffing nor rolling his eyes the way he ordinarily would if they weren’t talking about his mum. “We need to search Father’s study.”

  “Luther,” Martin says, mouth opening. “We can’t… We can’t do that! If he catches us…”

  “He’s not here to catch us,” Luther says, waggling his eyebrows.

  “But Lin is,” Martin points out. If he strains, he can even hear her walking about downstairs.

  “She’ll go out at some point,” Luther says, eyes sparkling. “Come on, Martin.”

  Martin hesitates, hums. If they’re caught and his mum finds out about it, she’ll be very disappointed in him. Martin doesn’t enjoy letting her down. Every time he does he feels sick to the stomach.

  “Martin,” Luther says, and all the joy goes out of his eyes, to leave behind a wet sheen. Luther isn’t pouting. He isn’t acting as though he’s disappointed. But there’s a tautness to his face and body, as if he’s holding everything in. That tells Martin he’s holding his feelings close to his chest. This really matters to him.

  And crap, Martin can’t take Luther’s unhappiness. There’s something cosmically wrong with it. It affects Martin too. Luther’s pain gnaws at his insides. Maybe it’s because Martin understands what it means not to have a parent. Or maybe it’s just what friendship is, sharing everything, getting your insides in a twist because your mate is feeling down. It doesn’t matter either way. Martin puts a hand on Luther’s. “It’s all right, I’ll do it.” He retracts his hand. “What are friends for?”

  Luther’s eyes go huge. A smile brightens his whole face; in its wake all the tension that had played around his jaw dissipates, giving way to a new light that is almost painful to look at it’s so full of unfettered enthusiasm.

  “Okay.” Luther leans close to him, so much so Martin expects him to whisper conspiratorially, except he doesn’t. Warm breath fanning Martin’s ear, and warming his whole face, Luther says, “this is what we’ll do.”

  * * *

  Snow is piling up in the back lane and forming mounds on the windowsill. It’s coming down in light flurries borne on by the wind. They whirl here and there, lighting on branches, on windscreens, on the roofs of the neighbouring houses, painting everything in a soft white.

  “Do you think we’ll be snowed in?” Luther asks, causing Martin to whirl round and drop the curtain. “Will we have to call in Mr Simmons with a tractor to rescue us?”

  “Hardly,” Martin says, scanning Luther. He has changed clothes. He’s now wearing a pair of jeans and a soft blue jumper. The ensemble looks cosy, but stylish nonetheless. A touch of London to the practical wear fit for the countryside. Thanks to the outfit switch though, Luther looks more like he used to when he lived here. And that makes Martin’s breath hitch and the memories flood back.