Married Ones

by Matthew J. Metzger

  It was the moment Mike had said, “I don’t do chat-up lines. You’re fit, I’m single, fancy going back to mine?”

  Stephen had smiled.

  Not the brittle, tight one he gave his family. Not the sly smirk that had Mike popping a boner before Stephen said a word. But his smile. His proper smile. The one he’d delivered along with a couple of cold ones, fresh out of school, on the first evening of freedom this summer.

  No, Mike thought as he shouldered his way into the gents’. Stephen had known from the very beginning what he was being offered. And he’d wanted every last inch of it.

  And preferably, back then, down his throat.

  “Oi.”

  Stephen was washing his hands. Mike clapped a hand over his arse, and dropped a kiss on the back of his neck.

  “Come on. Stairs have got me all worked up.”

  “Not a chance,” Stephen said.

  “On your knees then?”

  “Very romantic. Gonna take a bit more than that.”

  Mike leaned in close as a drunk uncle wandered in, unzipped, and completely missed the urinal in favour of his own shoes.

  “Maybe I feel like marking my territory.”

  Stephen grinned. “Oh aye? What’s caused that then?”

  “Stupid sodding comments.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like how someone like me scores someone like you.”

  “The Mills and Boon level romance obviously,” came the flat reply.

  Mike laughed.

  “On second thoughts,” Stephen said, turning to face him and leaning back against the sink. “I think it might have been the bouquet of two-dozen roses.”

  He snorted. “Good luck getting those. Useless bloody things.”

  “Nope, I got it. It was the charm.”

  Mike rolled his eyes. Then blinked as Stephen leaned back a little further, and twisted his chin to expose his neck.

  “Go on then.”

  “Seriously?” Mike was never allowed to bite above the collar.

  “You want to mark your territory, then do it. I don’t fancy you pissing on my leg.”

  “Not your kink, eh?”

  “Defini—ah!”

  The yelp turned into a deep, guttural groan that did nothing to help the state of Mike’s dick remain decent. Hands scrabbled at his shoulders, and the soft sigh when he relaxed his jaw and sucked soothingly on the new bruise was near-enough the sound of an orgasm.

  “That’ll do,” he said, admiring the vivid imprint.

  “Fuck,” Stephen mumbled, a little glassy-eyed.

  “Later,” Mike promised, steering him back out of the bathroom by the belt. “C’mon. Another drink?”

  “Drink and a dance.”

  “Eh?”

  “It’s a wedding,” Stephen said, brightening up a little as he touched the new bruise. “Got to dance.”

  “Usually can’t get you to dance if I pay you.”

  “If you actually paid me, I would.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, twenty quid a pop.”

  Not actually a bad deal. Stephen had been a good dancer in their university days. Issue was just keeping up with the bugger.

  Grace had disappeared, and Stephen was giving off serious privacy vibes. He cosied up, and the moment he had a drink down his neck, towed Mike onto the little dance floor and hooked both arms around his neck. It wasn’t even a slow song, but who sodding cared.

  The crass remark faded away here. Sure, Stephen was a pretty face and a nice arse, but he was also a right grumpy fucker, bore grudges for his country, and made Mike suffer through waiting at marathon finish lines every year. Who the hell would put up with that crap? Mike was a saint for marrying this bloke. Stephen wanted someone like Mike because Mike was God’s gift to grumpy bastards, and Stephen knew he wasn’t going to get better than that. Underwear modelling capabilities or no underwear modelling capabilities.

  Mike said so. Stephen laughed.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Who else would let me put my cold feet on their bollocks in the night and not maim me?”

  “See? You know what you got.”

  “A fat furnace.”

  “Damn right.”

  Stephen kissed him. It wasn’t some fancy romantic type, just a peck on the mouth, but it was more than Mike usually got in public, and he mentally groaned. Christ. They’d only gone and done it. Only come to a wedding, and gotten all loved up like a couple of tarts.

  “You know something,” Mike said as they were finally allowed a slow song.

  “What?”

  “Still love you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  Stephen fixed him with a flat stare. “You think so.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t get on your knees earlier.”

  “Try me again in the morning, after you bring me breakfast in bed.”

  “Fat chance.”

  “Then fat chance of a blowjob. See? There’s a system here.”

  Mike laughed, and Stephen caught the edge of his mouth in a sharp kiss.

  “Probably still love you, too,” came the surprisingly sincere reply. “That do?”

  “Yeah,” Mike said softly. “That’ll do.”

  Chapter 3: Jo

  Jez called in the morning.

  “Get me away from my sodding girlfriend, or it’ll be my mugshot in the morning papers. And nobody wants to see that.”

  “Tell him to fuck off,” Stephen mumbled from somewhere in the vicinity of Mike’s armpit. “Nobody buys a paper anymore anyway.”

  “I heard that!” Jez shouted.

  Mike flinched, jerking the phone away from his ear.

  “Some of us were busy last night. Take your domestic somewhere else.”

  “Mugshot! Paper! Help me.”

  “Don’t want to see his mug at all,” said the lump in the pit. “Paper’s better.”

  “Sorry, mate, no help here.”

  A bang sounded downstairs.

  “Not even for a bacon butty?”

  “I swear to God,” Mike said, even as he heaved himself free and dumped the duvet back over Stephen, “that if you’ve just put your steel toe-cap through our front door…”

  “It’s only a small dent,” came the sulky reply.

  Thankfully there was no dent. And he’d brought monstrous butties from the sandwich shop at Hunter Bar’s roundabout.

  “No other half?”

  “He’ll be down when he smells the bacon. What’s up with Jo?”

  Jo, being a fellow teacher, had been the first friend. She and Stephen went way back to their first year at Edinburgh, and a fortuitous meeting at the running club. And Mike really was to blame for Jez. Jez’s old man had been a plumber, and Mike’s mam’s first port of call when something was up with the pipes. Jez had taken over when Bill had retired, Jo’s washing machine had spilled its soapy guts all over her new kitchen floor, and Mike had had Jez’s number.

  About two hours later, Jo had his number, too, and the rest was history.

  “Yesterday, she tore up all the origami she’d made for the tables, and started again because they were the wrong shade of blue.”

  Unfortunately, it was a bit of a rocky history.

  “Uh,” Mike said.

  “Last night, she had a barney with me mam because Mam’s outfit clashes with the colour scheme.”

  “Er.”

  “And then this morning she throws a sodding mug at my head and tells me if I invite Ryan, she’ll not marry me at all!”

  “Right,” said Mike around a mouthful of bacon when the histrionics seemed to have tapered off. Which was actually a shame, because a six-foot, rat-faced plumber in offensively short shorts having said histrionics on his sofa was a funny sight. Even if the shorts were showing Mike a bit more of Jez’s knob than he’d have liked. “So what do you want me to do about it?”

  “I don’t know. Tell me what to do about it.”

  “She’s your girlfriend
. Why would I know what to do?”

  “You got married,” Jez whined just as shuffling footsteps announced that the smell of bacon had done its work. “Give me sage old married couple advice.”

  “I married that,” Mike said, jabbing a finger at Stephen as he lurched sleepily into the room like a drunk zombie. He was one hundred percent naked, and scratching his bits. Jez coloured faintly and looked up at the ceiling, still not quite used to it. “We had a registry office do. In our crap clothes. Really weren’t thinking table decorations and your knobhead brother.”

  Stephen snatched his bacon-scented gift off the coffee table and shuffled wordlessly back out into the kitchen.

  “Brew would be great, cheers!” Jez shouted after him.

  “Piss off!”

  “See?” Mike said conversationally.

  “I dunno, that was pretty Jo-ish.”

  Stephen swore at them both.

  Mike heard the click of the kettle going on and the rattle of bottles as Stephen opened the fridge.

  “Fancy a cuppa?”

  “Yeah, go on then.”

  Mike migrated into the kitchen, leaving the nudity-shy plumber on the sofa. Stephen had shrugged on an abandoned T-shirt from the clothes rail—one of Mike’s, judging by the shoulder sticking out of the neck hole—and Mike slapped his bare bum with a loud crack.

  “Oi!”

  “Woke you up didn’t it?”

  “You wish,” Stephen said, and yawned.

  “Mind out, think you missed a few flies.”

  “Naff off.”

  “Charming this morning aren’t you?”

  “Fancied a shag, not a visitor.”

  “Bollocks to that, you nearly threw my back out last night.”

  “Didn’t hear you complaining.”

  In reality, they hadn’t even had a quick one off the wrist—they’d fallen over in a heap on the stairs, laughing like total twats, and then crawled into bed and dozed off having a cuddle, a right pair of old farts. Christ, maybe Jez was right. Sage old married couple. Jesus.

  Still, visitor. Appearances to be kept up and all that.

  So Mike said, “I’m complaining now, you heavy twassock. You keep lead weights in your legs?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  “You can make it up to me with a brew.”

  Stephen gave him the world’s most put-upon sigh. But it worked. Mugs came out of the cupboard, and the good teabags followed them. Jez followed them into the kitchen at the sound and relaxed once he saw that most of Stephen’s backside was hidden under the long fall of cotton.

  That just made Mike want to bunch it up and be a twat about it, but Jez had brought bacon, so he let the urge slide.

  “So are you going to hide out here all week until the wedding or what?”

  “Was hoping for advice,” Jez groused.

  “Put up with it or get out,” Mike said flatly. “She’ll only be worse when you get her pregnant.”

  “I’m not getting her pregnant!”

  Stephen rolled his eyes. “Haven’t heard that one before…”

  “I mean it, Jez, suck it up. You proposed. If you don’t want to marry her right now, it’s kind of the time to back out,” Mike said.

  Jez pulled a face. “It’s not that bad.”

  “Then get out of our kitchen and piss off back home,” Stephen grumbled and put one of the mugs back in the cupboard.

  “What crawled up your arse and died?”

  “Dunno, you mind checking for me?”

  Stephen braced his arms against the counter and leaned forward. The shirt rose minutely—and the effect was immediate. Jez shot out of his chair and was in the hall before Mike could blink.

  “Show up to your quiz night and stop her being a bitch!” he shouted over his shoulder—and then the front door slammed.

  “That,” Stephen said, “is going to be an ugly wedding.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I predict a fight in the first ten minutes.”

  “I’m going for one of them not turning up, personally.”

  Stephen pulled a face. “Some people shouldn’t get married.”

  Mike laughed. He wasn’t wrong. “Old married man comment, that.”

  “Twat.”

  “Charming,” Mike said, and smacked the extended arse. “I repeat the question, though. Got up on the wrong side of the bed?”

  “My pillow got up on the wrong side of the bed,” came the tart reply, and the waistband of Mike’s pyjama bottoms got tugged. “Come on. Brew in bed and then back to sleep.”

  “Lazy Sunday morning?”

  “Damn straight.”

  * * * *

  They actually skipped quiz night.

  When Jo rang Stephen on Sunday evening and bent his ear for a good hour about wanting to strangle her own bridesmaids because they hadn’t bought matching shoes, Mike quietly packed the boot. The second Stephen hung up, Mike took the phone away and shepherded him towards the car.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Camping.”

  “What about Molly?”

  “Already texted Vikki.”

  “Still.”

  Stephen stopped off long enough to give the cat a quick fussing—who, being a cat and therefore a miniature fluffy god, was supremely uninterested in it—but then climbed into the passenger seat without further argument, and mildly suggested stopping off at the petrol station to fill up and get Pringles.

  “Pringles?”

  “Midnight snack!”

  “I have something else you could snack on.”

  “Not if you’ve packed baked beans.”

  “Course I have!”

  “Then not a chance, Chernobyl. Getting gassed mid-blowjob is not on my to-do list.”

  Mike cackled with laughter.

  “Alright, you cheeky sod. Where d’you wanna do this. And don’t say Mam Tor.”

  “But it’s gorgeous!”

  “Also bloody high and bloody windy. Pick somewhere nice.”

  “How far?”

  “Far as you want. Told Vikki we’d be gone two or three days.”

  “Coast,” Stephen said immediately.

  “Direction?”

  “East.”

  “Yorkshire or Northumberland?” Mike asked.

  “Oh, push the boat out. Northumberland.”

  “Better get a lot of Pringles then.”

  It was a long drive. Stephen was one of those annoying cunts who could work anywhere, and sat tapping away on his tablet, making lesson plans all the way up to York, which didn’t help the time go any faster. He didn’t want to bother stopping for lunch either, saying something about interactive timelines and using the playing fields for a re-enactment.

  “With your lot, just make sure it’s not a battle, or you’ll have a real murder to solve,” Mike groused, but was ignored.

  The dull drive was made even longer by the ever-present roadworks on the A1 heading north, and the inevitable crush of angry Geordie drivers around Newcastle, shouting at each other in their version of English. The horns and heat managed to finally disturb the historian, and Mike got his kicks when Stephen leaned out of the passenger window and screamed, in a harsh Scottish brogue closer to Glaswegian than his native Highlands, that a BMW driver was a ‘stupid bloody bawsack.’ They stopped off just north of the city for a comfort break—a phrase Mike had always found disturbingly similar to comfort women—and after the promised Pringles, Stephen was persuaded to drive the rest of the way to Berwick-on-Tweed.

  “I am not staying in that hostel again.”

  “Fine. Pick a campsite,” Mike said. “Wherever you like.”

  Stephen squinted at him. “Why are you buttering me up?”

  “Can do that, too.”

  “Watch it, Romeo, might get ideas you like me.”

  “Can I be Mercutio?”

  Stephen nearly crashed. “Fuck me, a classical reference you didn’t cock up!”

  “Naff off, I watched th
e film.”

  “The poncy one with tights, or the stupid one with guns?”

  “Guns. Obviously.”

  “Don’t ruin the trip by getting shot on a beach. I’ll have to pack up the tent on my own.”

  “Watch it, Romeo,” Mike echoed. “Might get ideas you’re sick of me.”

  “Sick of that tent, more like…”

  He picked a campsite just shy of the town, right on the sweeping coast and in a breezy field. The weather was glorious, and by the time they wrestled the tent up, sheltering it on one side with the car and leaving it open to the roaring sea and endless sky on the other, Stephen’s fair skin had pinked under the sun’s abuse. Mike decided slapping the expanse of salmon Stephen had for a bare back wouldn’t be worth the matrimonial ice age that would follow, and instead suggested a Sunday pub dinner down by the water somewhere.

  “Walk or drive?”

  “Sod walking in this heat.”

  “It’s nice!”

  “Fine, you walk, I’ll drive.”

  Stephen unsurprisingly wasn’t keen on that arrangement, and so they ended up driving, but with the windows down as a compromise. They enjoyed their roast, faithfully telling Mike’s mam it wasn’t as good as hers when she texted after their whereabouts, and Stephen offered to drive back so Mike could have his customary post-lunch pint.

  “Can’t drink anyway, doesn’t mean you have to suffer.”

  Mike squinted at him. “You’re being far too bloody nice.”

  “Because I’m going to drag you along the coastal path tomorrow.”

  “That doesn’t sound too ba—”

  “You can’t drive it.”

  “Ah, shit.”

  Their phones miraculously lost signal when Jo tried to call, and then Mike begrudgingly allowed himself to be dragged down onto a windy, sandy beach, and demanded a windy, sandy kiss as compensation. Tasted salty, too. And not for the good reasons.

  “What is it with you and bloody beaches?” he grumbled as Stephen showed off his heritage and waded knee-depth into the freezing water. He looked bloody nineteen, not twenty-nine, and it wasn’t sodding fair.

  “What is it with you and avoiding them?”

  “Sand.”

  “That’s the best bit!”

  “You want sand on your knob, be my guest.”