Holiday Passion: A M/M Holiday Romance

by Tara Simon

  “Oh, all right,” Martin says, kicking off his blankets, “all right.”

  He pulls on a jumper, buries his feet in a pair of socks and leaves his room, padding across the landing, where the noises are louder. He veers towards the stairs. A hulking shape sits at the bottom of it. Martin descends a step. The person sitting on the bottom rung turns, and thanks to the moonlight seeping in through the fanlight, Martin recognises Luther.

  “You up?” he says, as he goes down the rest of the way and sits next to him on the bottom step.

  “No, I’m sleepwalking,” says Luther, his eyes bright in the dark because of some trick of the light.

  Martin snorts a laugh, bumps shoulders with him. “Idiot.”

  “So you too, eh?”

  Martin looks away, a smile stretching his mouth. “Let’s say the background noise kept me up.”

  Luther gives him a knowing look. “Were you having all sorts of improper thoughts about your mates?”

  “Yes, Luther, yes. I was wanking to thoughts of Leon and his cardigans.”

  “You’re a twit.” He lets Luther ruffle his hair but then turns his head to shake him off.

  “How did you even manage when this place was a B&B?” Luther asks.

  “I had the soundproofing taken out when I reconverted the house to a proper home,” Martin says. He hasn’t reconsidered, but having guests has become interesting. “I didn’t know noise would carry quite like this.”

  “This puts things in a brand new light,” Luther says, shoulder nudging him.

  Martin frowns. “How?”

  “Oh come on,” Luther says. “You were an adolescent at one point. You must have wanked.”

  Martin feels the sides of his face warm up. “Well, yeah.”

  “So your mum must have heard you.”

  Martin whines. “Please, don’t let me think about that.”

  “And then there was that time…”

  “Oh, my God,” Martin says, burying his face in Luther’s shoulder. “She never said.”

  “She wouldn’t have,” Luther says, rubbing his shoulder. “Your mum was a pretty special woman.”

  Martin hangs his head. “Yeah, she was.” He falls silent, and Luther doesn’t say anything either. They stare in the same direction, faces angled at the door. At length Martin says, “How’s Uther?”

  “He’s fine,” Luther says. Then he amends, “He’s better. I mean for a time there I thought…”

  “You were scared,” Martin guesses for him.

  “Yes,” Luther says, jiggling his foot. “But now he’s learning to take things more easily and it seems he’s all right.” Luther shakes his head. “I mean he’d probably like to go back to his former rhythms and there’s no doing that, but compared to before… It’s fine.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “You know,” Luther says, “we wouldn’t be where I am now if not for you.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “No,” Luther says, “you single-handedly patched up my relationship to my father. We wouldn’t be where we are without you.”

  “Luther,” Martin exhales, shaking his head, “I just agreed to a silly escapade when we were sixteen. The rest is up to you and your dad hashing it out.”

  “Which doesn’t come easy to Harrisons,” Luther says, nodding. “Talking about things.” He meets Martin’s eyes and even in the dark they shine with meaning. “But that doesn’t mean we don’t value those things.”

  “I never thought so,” Martin says. “That you didn’t.”

  Luther looks away, drums his fingers on his thigh. “No. You probably knew all along. You’ve always known me, haven’t you?”

  They share a silence that Martin feels is tenser than the one from before. Martin shifts. The stairs creak under his weight. “Are you hungry?” Martin asks. “I think I’m hungry and I don’t particularly want to go back upstairs.”

  Luther sucks his lower lip in. “Neither do I.” He stands. They’re clipping shoulders now. “So what are you suggesting?”

  “I’ve still got a few eggs left…”

  “The last of the food between us and starvation?”

  Martin rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “I’ll run to the village before that bunch wakes up.” He nods in the direction of the upper floor. “Are you telling me you’re against crepes and ice-cream?”

  “I could never say no to crepes and ice cream,” Luther says, waggling his eyebrows and thumping into kitchen after him.

  Martin takes down the recipe book. It’s thick and its cover is red, the spine cracked, a thousand little raised lines running along it. It’s full of earmarks his mother put there. There are pressed leaves hiding among the pages. The book smells like her too, a soft lingering scent like clementines.

  He opens it on the table, finds the recipe he was looking for. Luther nods. Together they try to operate the crepe machine. Before they manage to actually set to work, Luther has started a Luddite rant and questioned Martin’s intelligence at least twice. “How did you even get your guests breakfast when you were running a B&B?”

  Martin snaps back, “Well, I had Freya to do that!”

  Luther becomes quieter after that and much more collaborative. They prepare the batter together.

  Luther insists on using more sugar than the recipe says, and Martin only consents after he’s ribbed

  Luther about his sweet tooth. “Really, Luther, really,” he says and makes little snorting noises.

  For his pains he gets flicked with the batter. It sticks to his skin; he even has some in the corner of his eyes. “I ought to make you lick it clean.”

  “Who says I wouldn’t?” Luther says, neck reddening. He whirls round, bowl in hand. “It’s sweet, isn’t it? So I’ll like it since according to you, I’m Mr Sweet Tooth.”

  Martin lets out a little breath. “That would make you sound like a model on some kind of sexy calendar.”

  “I could easily feature.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure. You’re the new Brad Pitt.”

  Luther’s body bumps his. “Brad Pitt is old? I’m much more—” “Sprightly?”

  Thanks to their combined efforts, they succeed in making crepes. They’re not as soft as Freya’s used to be, but they’re golden, and covered in a fine rain of sugar.

  They ladle ice-cream onto their respective plates and move into the lounge, where they turn on the telly. Night-time programming is absolute shit so they proceed to take the piss out of it, the more so when the presenter of a docu about iguanas starts talking about breeding season in a sultry voice, “That’s one sexy iguana!”

  “You wanna mate with it?”

  “Shut up!” Luther says, kicking his foot. “Oh my God they’re showing it. That’s iguana sex, Martin.”

  Martin chortles at the screen where two iguanas tangle together, the male on top, grasping the female’s neck and biting it. The commentary, delivered in an epic style, is so ridiculous Martin may die with laughter.

  With prime material such as that, it’s impossible to avoid laughing till they’re red in the face.

  Helpless for breath, they look at each other, then start again, tears in their eyes.

  At some point though they must have fallen asleep because when Martin wakes, there’s a plate balanced on his chest, light is flooding into the room, and Jacob and Lin, bearing their luggage are standing in the doorway.

  “Martin.” Lin’s gaze travels on to Luther. “Luther, hello.”

  Chapter 7

  2002

  The drive narrows and Uther slows the car, parking it under the shadow of a tree and in sight of Martin’s home. Uther kills the engine and looks into the rear-view. “I’ve spoken to your mum and explained things to her.”

  Martin twists his mouth. “Thank you, sir. I still think I’m in for a good telling off.”

  “I can’t help with that,” Uther says. Then looking into the rear-view mirror he says, “But I thank you.”

  Martin releases the door handle and meets Ut
her’s eyes. “W-what for?”

  Chapter 7

  “For being there for Luther.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Luther says, “for making me sound like an idiot.”

  Uther turns to Luther. “Luther…”

  Luther’s shoulders go up at the same time his head goes down.

  “Thank you, sir,” Martin says, then kicking the back of Luther’s seat, he adds, “See you, at school.”

  Martin gets out of the car, slips his hands into his pockets and slogs towards home. The patter of feet down the drive sounds loud in his ears. Then Luther tackles him, grabs him by waist and shoulder and turns him round. “I just wanted to say,” he tells him, “chin up, okay? I mean she’s probably going to be a bit angry.”

  “You don’t say,” Martin says, pushing up an eyebrow.

  “But I’ll tell her,” Luther says, running a hand through his hair from base forwards. “I’ll tell her what… How much I owe you.”

  “Luther, you owe me nothing,” Martin says, because he can’t really deal with his heart softening at the edges when he’s about to get the dressing down of the century. “You know, that.”

  “I know what I know.” Luther waggles his eyebrows.

  “Is that an attempt to sound deep, you tosser?”

  Luther rumples Martin’s hair, then says, “No.” His lips quiver. “Bye, Martin!” he adds, before jogging back to his dad’s glossy car.

  Martin sighs and walks the rest of the way home. He opens the door gingerly, somehow hoping his mum will have gone to sleep. But he finds her in the lounge. She’s sitting on the sofa, hands on her lap, her stockinged feet resting on the rug. “Martin,” she says, “what the hell were you thinking!”

  “Er,” Martin says, scuffing his toes against the carpet. “I don’t think I was thinking.” “Martin, you broke into someone’s property!” she says, standing up, hands on hips.

  “Technically, we had a key so we didn’t break in,” Martin says, biting his tongue when his mum’s eyes flash. He isn’t sure he’s ever seen her quite this angry before. “Right, shutting up now.”

  “Martin, you could have come out of this with a criminal record!” she says, tapping her foot against the carpet. “Have you any idea what that means?”

  “Uther wouldn’t have reported us.”

  “You were lucky, Martin,” his mum says. “Uther isn’t your dad and you were on his property!”

  “I know he isn’t,” Something inside him flares up at mention of the word ‘dad’. All the blood rushes to his head. “After all, I know nothing about my real dad, do I?” Tears are flooding his eyes by now and he can’t stop himself from giving in, breathing too quickly or turning his face into a mask of misery. So that his mum won’t see, he rushes upstairs, yelling, “I know he isn’t.”

  And it’s stupid and absurd, because it’s not as if he wants Uther Harrison for a dad. The thought’s never entered his brain. And it’s not like Luther isn’t in the same boat as him. He lost a parent, too. But Martin’s just overflowing with these feelings and he can’t stop them from working their way through him, from pushing out by way of ugly sobs and tears. He doesn’t want to let them out but it looks like he hasn’t got a choice.

  He leans his weight against the door to his room to open it and slams it shut behind him. He throws himself face down on the bed and releases frantic sobs.

  He’s been soaking his pillow for a few minutes, when the door creaks and the mattress dips. A hand settles on his shoulder. “Martin,” his mother says, “I didn’t mean to say that…”

  “I know,” Martin says, sitting back up, shoulders heaving.

  “I just worry,” his mum says, running a hand up and down his back. “You’ve never done anything so… so silly before. And I thought, there, adolescence’s catching up with him.”

  “I’m sorry I acted stupid.” Martin wipes at his nose. He looks down. “But I can’t say I wouldn’t do it again. I mean it was important for Luther.”

  “Luther,” his mum says, seeking his gaze.

  “Yeah.”

  “Martin, I know you care about him very much,” she says, “and I understand wanting to do everything in your power to help someone you feel that for, but I can’t help but wonder whether you understand what it is you feel.”

  “Of course I do,” Martin says, head snapping up.

  “Well, if you say so,” his mum says, grabbing his face.

  “Yeah,” Martin says, shaking her off because this is getting embarrassing. “You don’t think… You don’t think it’s wrong, do you?”

  “No, I don’t think it’s wrong,” his mum says. “It’s a beautiful thing. But I hope… I can only hope you two are on the same page.”

  “Yes,” Martin says, brow creasing. “Luther likes to take the mickey out of people and act like he’s too cool for school and can’t possibly be your friend. But he is… If you were there when we hang out, you’d know he’s my friend. I mean I don’t only think it. He is.”

  His mother sighs. “Yes, I wasn’t… I’m sure you know best.”

  “I do,” Martin says, trying to pour all the passion he has for the subject into the delivery. He finds it’s quite a lot. It’s a bit of a whirlwind of feeling that leaves him adrift in a way he doesn’t quite understand. He catches his breath. “I do.”

  “All right,” his mother says, her eyes gentling and Martin has a notion she’s taken pity of him. “I just want you to promise that no matter what you feel, you won’t rush into doing something as thoughtless as what you did today.”

  Martin can’t promise that, not if Luther’s the one doing the asking. But he can reassure his mother. “I promise I’ll always think before doing stuff.”

  His mum huffs and stands. “Now try to sleep, Martin. God knows you need it after the upset you had.”

  She exits the room, closing the door softly.

  * * *

  Martin hasn’t even had time to blink sleep off, so he barely understands what Lin’s saying. “Uh?”

  “I asked,” Lin says, “if you slept on the sofa, but I don’t think you need bother answering after all. The question is why?”

  Not wanting to involve his friends and reveal fairly ‘personal’ details about them, Martin settles for saying, “Er, we just fell asleep on the sofa.” He picks up the discarded remote. “Watching telly.”

  “You call that watching telly, do you?”

  Luther wakes with a snort, grabs the dish that was about to slide off his chest, then clocks onto the new arrivals. “Lin, Jacob. What are you doing here! Why are you here together?”

  Lin scoffs. “I suppose you do know Martin invited me over.” She hugs Jacob by the waist. “I met him on the train over.”

  “Oh,” Luther says, mouth sliding softly open.

  “You two need a shower,” Lin says, turning her nose up. “So maybe you’ll wake up.”

  “I’ll help you with the luggage first,” Martin says, placing the dirty crepe dish on the side table.