by Tara Simon
“Yeah.” Luther smirks. “I know you’re going to miss me something wicked.”
“I’m not going to miss you at all,” Martin says, locking his jaw and looking up, letting his eyes do the talking. “Not one whit.” He pushes his heels against the ground, hard. “Look after yourself, all right? And try not to get too big a head training to do films.”
Luther knuckles Martin’s head, causing his hair to rise in a nest, then he claps him on the shoulder and turns around. He steps on the train, then hops back down, grabs Martin by the neck and pulls him into a hug. “I’ll be back.”
Martin’s heard all this before; he knows that Luther means to come every term break. They have made plans to get together, though Martin’s not sure they’ll take place. Uni changes you and you make new friends. It wouldn’t be odd if Luther forgot about them. But he smiles all the same. “I suppose you’ll bore me to tears with tales of your exploits.”
“My tales will be brilliant,” Luther says, breathing Martin in before stepping away. “You’ll see.”
This time when he boards the train he doesn’t get back down. He gets the window seat. As the trains slides out of the station he makes silly faces at Martin.
Martin raises a hand, but his face falls even if he wants to smile. He wants Luther to see him beaming, to know how proud Martin is of him for trying to make his dreams come true. But his heart cracks at the seams and he’s not able to.
By the time the train’s gone, Martin’s eyes are wetter than they ought to be.
* * *
When Martin throws open his bedroom’s door, Luther is shoving balled up shirts into his bag.
“What the hell was that?” Martin asks, facial muscles straining he’s frowning so hard. “Just tell me what that was!”
“Nothing.” Luther turns, walks to the wardrobe, grabs a second pile of clothing. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Oh, come off it!” Martin says, swallowing hard. “You’re packing up.”
Luther twists the mound of clothes he has in his hands, then lobs it at the bed and whips round. “I’m going, all right!”
“But why!” Martin asks. His voice is low with anger, but his eyes are tearing up and the anger itself is just a feeble thing he’s fanning because he can’t not. If he stops he’ll have to consider Lin’s words. They can’t be true, can they? “Why? I don’t get it!”
Luther grunts, lowers his head, then rethinks it and tips it back, jaw locked so that it looks entirely punchable. “You lied to me.”
“I never did!” Martin says, voice climbing.
“All right then,” Luther says, face clenched. “You lied by omission.”
“I meant to tell you!” Martin says, flailing his arms about. “The day you first came. At the pub. But then I thought… Why put a dampener on our reunion. I’ll tell them all in January.”
“Dampener.” Luther snorts, eyes vacant, the compression of his mouth putting hollows at his cheeks.
“Luther!”
Luther shoves a few more items into his bag and zips it up viciously. “No!” he says. “No, you don’t get to do that.”
“Do what, Luther?” Martin stops Luther from tearing out of the room with a hand on his arm.
“I’m waiting for some sort of excuse.”
Martin lets go of Luther. “You know, I was thinking of apologising. But I don’t see why I should.”
Luther scoffs.
Martin says, “True, I didn’t tell you as soon as I decided, and I should have, but I don’t see what difference it could have made!”
“No difference, right,” Luther says, pushing past him.
“Luther, I need to go!” Martin says, desperate for Luther to see, to understand the position life’s put him in, even though he doesn’t want to spell it out.
Luther drops his bag by the door. “Okay, let’s play this game. Why?”
“Because I’m completely broke, Luther!” Martin says, shame burning his face. “I can’t afford to keep this house anymore.”
Luther gasps for breath and his eyes go wide. “I could’ve helped.”
“It would not have been fair,” Martin says, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead and looking away. “I didn’t want to beg.”
“I don’t care about the money,” Luther says, shaking his head as if that’s obvious and Martin’s silly for not understanding.
“Yes, well, but I do,” Martin says, chest caving as he inhales sharply. “That’s a good job my dad’s offering me.”
“I thought you didn’t want anything to do with him.”
“I was a teenager when I said that,” Martin says, shaking his head. “So all right meeting him isn’t going to be the same as if it had happened when I was a kid, but he wants to get to know me and he’s offering me a chance. And I need it.”
“So you’re okay with getting help from your absentee father but not from me.” Luther bobs his head, jaws sticking together.
“Luther, it’s a good, honest job,” Martin says, repeating something he’s told himself time and time again. “I mean I know next to nothing about vineyards, but it has plenty of flesh air.”
“Fresh air.” Luther stares at him with pain and disappointment written in his eyes and Martin just wants to stop it because he’s used to something else from Luther, a softer look that’s always made Martin feel… loved.
“Luther, I can’t stand you hating me for it,” Martin says, raking both hands through his hair, shoulders going down. He wants to be proud. He wishes he could be above needing Luther. But he’s not really. He’s always had him as a friend and the thought of having lost him because of a stupid mistake makes him cold, leaves him floundering.
“I don’t hate you,” Luther says in a very low voice.
“Then why are you being like this?” Martin says, gesticulating at Luther’s pose, the tautness of his face and body. “You’re not angry with Lin for getting a job in New York!”
Luther nearly roars. “I don’t need Lin!” He looks away.
“Luther,” Martin says, taking one single faltering steps towards him, Lin’s words ringing into his ears. “Luther, what are you saying?”
“Does it even matter?” Luther says, dragging the words out as if saying them tires him. “Yes,” Martin says, his heart bumps and cracks along the seams. “Yes, it matters.”
Luther’s shoulders go down as if he’s lost the fight. He sighs, eyes misty. “I care about you.” He shakes his head, thrusts his jaw out, rolls his shoulders back. “No, no, that’s not right.”
Martin feels as if the ground has been swept away from his feet and he can’t stand. He’s drowning in his own thoughts, in his own thudding heartbeat. He hadn’t realised it would be like this, that losing Luther would do this to him. He’s always thought… “I always thought that whatever happened, I’d never lose you, but…”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Luther says, walking to him. “I never said that we
weren’t…”
“You said…”
“That I don’t just care for you,” Luther says. “I love you.”
Martin smudges a hand across his mouth. His thoughts stop. His heart blazes with emotions Martin can’t control. He grips Luther’s arms to steady himself, blurts out. “You, you… love me.”
Luther’s nostrils flare, his lips quiver. His gaze slides onto Martin then back down. “Yes, you’ve always been… The only one I really thought of with… with that kind of love. I know I shouldn’t have said it, but—”
Martin surges forward, grabs Luther’s face in his hands and touches his lips to Luther’s. Luther makes a husky sound deep in his throat, wraps a hand around him like his life depends on it, and opens his mouth. The helplessness of it pierces Martin to the quick, riddles holes in his soul, works him nearly to tears.
Martin slips a hand in Luther’s hair and tilts his head back, deepening the kiss. Luther groans, pulls him to him so there’s no space left between them. It’s perfect and a little
bit mad and everything that Martin’s ever wanted. Because this is Luther and Martin’s heart has always been his.
Luther untucks Martin’s shirt, slips his hands under it, roams them across the notches of his spine.
Martin feels himself melt, wants Luther never to stop touching him.
He sobs, slows the kiss, licking along Luther’s upper lip, brushing his lips softly with his, teasing the edges, his mouth moving slowly over Luther’s until he’s whispering against it, “I hope this clears matters up a little,” he says, and his smiles a bit, though he’s choking with feeling.
“Is that some kind of declaration?” Luther asks, chest rising quickly, his words couched in a would-be drawl that becomes much less casual because he’s panting. “Because in that case I’ll have to tell Lin she’s got it all wrong and that’s not me who’s emotionally constipated.”
Martin snorts, shakes his head, nods his head. He doesn’t quite know what to do. He’s a little afraid of leaking love from every pore but Luther needs to know. “I’m really fond of you.”
“Fond enough to kiss me?” Luther asks, tilting his head just so that Martin has to push his lips against his in a shower of small presses.
“Yeah,” Martin says, afraid the silly smile he’s wearing will stay in place forever and ever.
“Fond enough to have sex with me?” Luther asks, flicking the buttons of his own shirt till it’s hanging open, showing a hint of pectorals, a dusting of light chest hair, and his flexing muscles.
The words stop in Martin’s throat when he first tries to say it, but then he manages to say, “Yes.” Luther cups his face, kisses him slow and tender. “Fond enough for you to stay?” “Luther,” Martin says with a sigh. “I still can’t keep this place. The maintenance alone…”
“We’ll find a solution,” Luther says, kissing the side of his face, trailing his lips down Martin’s jaw to his neck. “Unless you just want to go?”
Martin breathes hard through his nostrils. “I don’t want to go, I love it here. This place is home in a way that’s written in my body.”
“Martin,” Luther says, thumbing his cheek.
“I love the village streets and the bleeding lake, and the house, the house my mum was so proud of. But I don’t know what to do to keep it!”
“We’ll find a way,” Luther says, fitting his mouth to his. “There must be options.”
Martin doesn’t really want to think about how broke he is right now, or how he’s failed at almost everything he lent his hand to. He wants to grab all the happiness he can with both hands, treasure the moment, and forget about his less than bright prospects. “No more talk,” he says, walking Luther to the bed.
“Martin—”
He silences Luther with a kiss, presses him on the mattress, following him down, bracing himself on hands and knees.
Luther’s hands slide up Martin’s back, warm and firm. He rucks up Martin’s jumper and takes it off. He unbuttons his shirt, palming Martin’s sides and chest as he strains up to kiss him. He catches him under the chin first, raising a huff that’s really half a moan, then his lips centre on his mouth and it’s hot and wet and more perfect than any kiss should ever be.
It softens Martin in places, warms him, makes him ache with a softness that has got nothing to do with pain and everything to do with longing.
Martin’s the one who deepens it. When he can no longer breathe and his heart kicks in his chest, he pushes his head into Luther’s neck. He breathes hard when Luther slips his hands between them and kneads his cock through his trousers.
He puffs out a startled, “Luther.”
Luther rubs and presses, palms him.
Need takes Martin’s breath and his heart hostage. His hips shoot forwards and he’s grinding against Luther. It’s like he’s helpless, like this ball of love that he’s had bottled inside for years and years is making him act out of a desperate instinct he can’t suppress.
With his mouth, Luther skims Martin’s neck, fiddles with Martin’s zipper until he’s lowered it and Martin’s cock is growing in his palm. Martin pushes into it in short jabs, finds Luther’s mouth again, rubs their lips together, and dips his tongue in. And though the angle is decidedly awkward, Martin clings to the kiss, mouth poised open over Luther’s, who licks into his mouth and drives him crazy.
Luther bucks up against him, and Martin bears down.
“Wait, wait,” Luther says. “Trousers.”
Martin stops moving, blushes. “Sorry.” He snorts a laugh. Moves off Luther and to the side. “You’d think I’d have got the mechanics of this down at my age.”
“You’ve always been rather slow on the uptake,” Luther says, unhooking the buttons of his jeans the moment Martin’s off him. With a pull he shucks them off, together with his shoes.
“Shut up or I won’t put out,” Martin says, making a big production of folding his arms.
“Well, in that case,” Luther says and presses his lips together, pushing his boxers down his legs and discarding them. He arches an eyebrow but adds nothing else.
Martin flushes, looks down, works his underwear past his knees and off, before climbing back on top of Luther, kissing him, until Luther’s tipping his head back into it, and the kiss gets warm and wet and a punch to the heart.
Luther makes a low noise in his throat. His lips are hot with friction, his tongue slick, sliding under Martin’s and along his palate in wonderful strokes.
Luther’s hands span the whole of Martin’s body, warm, broad. They mould themselves to the shape of him as they move up his back, down his arms, as they settle at his hip. Martin loses his breath over it. Love crowds his lungs, floods his heart, fuels a series of nonsense words he hopes Luther won’t pay too much attention to.
And perhaps he isn’t because he’s busy scattering kisses over Martin’s throat, intent on sucking his earlobe into his mouth, very taken with brushing his mouth across Martin’s temple. His legs fall open and then Martin’s not thinking, not properly. When it sinks in, he asks, “Luther?”
Luther noses his face. “Come on, Martin, do you need a written invitation to fuck me?”
“No?” Martin says a little hysterically, he asks, his belly tightening with anticipation. He laughs, shakes his head, flushes. “No.”
“I’ve got,” Luther says, licking his lips as though it’s their cracking that is making it difficult for him to speak, “I’ve got lube and condoms in my bag.”
“I’m not asking why,” Martin says, as he pushes off Luther. The air is cold and plasters itself to his body now that he’s no longer warmed. “Should I suspect you of having designs on Mr Kealey?”
“Hew, you’re killing off my libido,” Luther says, scrunching his nose up and pushing off of his elbows.
“It takes so little, does it?” Martin says, rooting inside Luther’s canvas bag.
He finds the supplies, hurries back to the bed, cock liberally swinging, so that he feels like a bit of a twit. He stumbles at the foot of it, lands on top of Luther with an oomph.
“Sorry,” he says, depositing lube and condoms on the duvet next to Luther’s head.
“What for?” Luther asks breathlessly.
“Squashing you,” Martin says, burying his head in Luther’s neck and breathing out the words against his skin. He waits for his face to stop flaming.
“I like being squashed,” Luther says, and if he’s trying for humour it’s a bit lost in the breathless delivery.