Married Ones

by Matthew J. Metzger

  “Nah, sod it,” Mike said. “Hotel. I want to take my time.”

  “Could do both?”

  Mike raised his eyebrows, and the grin widened.

  “Find us a likely spot and get me off, then you can drag me back to the hotel room and do it properly. Yeah?”

  Mike curled his fingers around Stephen’s wrist.

  “Fuck yeah.”

  * * * *

  They got up late the next morning.

  Mike had left the do not disturb sign on the door, and the blinds open. Hot Spanish sun streamed through the glass until Stephen kicked the sheets off, but they still didn’t get up. They dozed like lazy cats. Mike had morning breath that could kill a skunk, and Stephen had gone a bit too long without a shower, but the heat and naked proximity worked anyway, and they had an idle, messy shag before Stephen finally lurched off the bed and staggered for the tiny bathroom, mumbling something about a piss.

  Mike got up and made coffee.

  The little balcony was sunlit, and they sat out with their coffees, Stephen blinking sleepily. The narrow street below was quiet, but they could hear the grumble and chatter from La Rambla easily enough. A couple of manky-looking pigeons were having their own shag on the roof opposite. The balcony was nice and private, so when Mike lifted an arm, Stephen peacefully slid in for a hug, and they ended up dozing again, coffee forgotten on the glass table, bare feet side-by-side on the railing and catching a burn.

  Sod the Maldives. This right here was paradise.

  Eventually, hunger drove them out into the world. Barcelona was a tourist trap, heaving with broken languages and cheap tat. They wove through the narrow streets to the beach, escaping the crowds in the shade between ancient stone buildings before breaking out onto sunny sand. Stephen—of course—took his shoes off.

  “Asbestos toes,” Mike complained.

  “Wade then.”

  They walked along the beach in the surf for a little while, their feet white and oddly flabby-looking under the water, before finding a beachfront café. Stephen’s ankles were turning brown as he dried them in the sun, and he chatted up the waitress with some broken fragments of Spanish he’d scraped out of his memory from secondary school.

  “She can probably speak perfect English, you know,” Mike said when she vanished with their orders.

  “Yeah, but it’s nice to try. Hey.” Stephen kicked him under the table. “I want to go see La Sagrada Familia later.”

  “La what?”

  “The big church.”

  “The cathedral with all the spires?”

  “It’s a church,” said Stephen.

  “Fine, but you’re not dragging me round every museum in the city.”

  “Think you’ll find I am.”

  Mike groaned.

  “I’m a history teacher, I can’t come to Barcelona and not look at the history.”

  “I don’t have to do biology every time I go somewhere.”

  “You did this morning.”

  Mike grinned smugly. Stephen just rolled his eyes.

  They spent the afternoon exploring. It was a long time since they’d been abroad together, and Mike found himself enjoying the novelty of that more than the novelty of a new city. He’d been to Seville and Madrid as a student, and found Barcelona a bit too much of a pandering experience. It catered slightly too heavily to the foreign tourist, and it sucked some of the experience out of it. Still, it was nice enough. They didn’t have to wander too far off the beaten track to find some proper Spanish history and culture, instead of standard stuff they could have seen at home, and although Mike dutifully bitched, the museums were interesting enough. They bought souvenirs for the family, and wrote out a postcard to Aunt Alicia. When Stephen wasn’t looking, Mike picked up a tiny model of a flamenco dancer to send to Jane and her new husband as a wedding present. It was garish and ugly, and wouldn’t fit at all in their luxurious new life together. Which meant it was perfect, to Mike, and he bought another one to join their ugly cactus pot on the windowsill.

  They headed over to see the big church in the late afternoon. Mike’s feet hurt and he was thirsty, so he sheltered in the blessed cool of it just long enough to be acceptable, then left Stephen to it and took himself off to a bar across the street. Personally, he thought it was just a big ugly church. Nothing special.

  Mike relaxed in the shade, sitting outside the bar and nursing a pint of lager. The surrounding streets were chaotic and noisy, and it all flowed so smoothly it felt oddly peaceful. Everything was too close and too warm, but the lager was cold, and he toed off his sandals to let his swollen feet get a little air. A soft breeze was blowing through the trees.

  He sat back, and watched the world go by.

  They’d not been abroad since starting on the treatment. Been too busy paying for it, for one. But was this the future? Life afterwards, when the clinic was over and the treatment done? When they had their baby, however they had it, would he spend his summers in hot foreign countries, wrestling with buggies and always carrying a sports bag full of fresh nappies? Would he have a week in dull places with beaches and British expats and nothing else, because the littl’un wanted a beach and would throw the mother of all tantrums if one wasn’t dutifully provided? Would their children burn like him, or tan like Stephen?

  Mike shook himself. Bloody stupid to be thinking so far ahead. They had to get a baby before they could start taking holidays with one.

  Evening was drawing in by the time Stephen emerged from the church, armed with leaflets. Mike waved. The leaflets vanished into their souvenirs bag, and Stephen to the bar. When he returned, a glass of something-or-other in hand, he was smiling lightly. Freckles were breaking out across his nose, and his dark blue eyes seemed lighter by comparison.

  “It’s beautiful,” he said. “And so much—”

  “History?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Take some pictures?”

  “‘Course.”

  Mike flicked his finger against the glass.

  “Just juice,” Stephen said. “Just in case. Look,” he added, pointing up at the towering church columns, black in the growing night. “Bats.”

  Little shapes jerked and flittered through the sky. Pipistrelles, by the size. Mike watched in fascination. There had to be an entire colony nesting in the church, and they darted about high above the lights and traffic, silent and swooping. He’d have to see about that nest box he’d been meaning to put in the roof. He’d like a bat colony, flitting about their herb garden in the dusk.

  Would their baby like history, like Stephen, or biology, like Mike? Or could they manage both?

  It was there, watching the bats swirl in the tranquil evening, that Mike said, “I know we agreed not to talk about it…”

  Stephen’s eyes were unreadable pools of darkness in the gloom.

  “I was thinking about names.”

  A sigh. “Mike—”

  “However it happens,” Mike said determinedly, “we’re going to have a baby. Whenever we manage it, however we manage it, it’s going to happen. So we’re going to have to pick some names eventually.”

  “I guess so.”

  “So if we have a boy, I want to call him John.”

  Silence.

  And then Stephen’s fingers were warm on his wrist. “Okay.”

  Mike swallowed, a lump forming in his throat. “He would have—he would have loved to have seen this.”

  The church, the bats, them.

  “He’d have loved to have seen you,” said Stephen, who was a sodding psychic.

  Mike smiled. Sitting here on holiday with his husband, a house back home, with a doctorate and a steady salary? Christ, yeah, Dad would have loved to have seen it. Seen them. He’d been all swollen up with pride when Mike had learned to swim. Seeing him like this? Dad would’ve full-on burst.

  “Yeah, he would. Would’ve liked you, too, eventually. And he’d have been chuffed to be a granddad.”

  “I think John’s a nice name.”<
br />
  Mike squeezed his fingers.

  “What about his middle name?”

  “Leonard.”

  Stephen raised his eyebrows.

  “He’s not my dad, and he never will be,” Mike said, “but he’s been great for us. He’s good for mam, and he was good to me, too. Never tried to replace Dad, never made out I ought to forget him, but he was there when I needed someone on my side, you know? When I needed a dad, and my own couldn’t be there.”

  Stephen hummed softly.

  “I meant what I said at the wedding. And he’ll be our littl’uns’ granddad, whether they’re boys or girls, however we have ‘em. So I want—if we have a little lad, I want him to have both his granddad’s names. Blood and family.”

  “John Leonard Parry,” Stephen said, sounding it out. “I think that’s a good name. And a great idea.”

  Mike coughed a little, and Stephen rubbed his knuckles soothingly until the embarrassing swell of emotion passed.

  “So I get to choose if we have a girl, right?”

  Mike laughed wetly. “Fair’s fair.”

  “Well, if you want to name our son after his granddad’s, I think it’s only fair…”

  Mike groaned. “Oh God, you’re kidding. Stel—”

  “Alice Michaela.”

  Mike stopped talking.

  Stephen’s thumb was softly stroking his own, and his eyes were very far away. Mike squeezed, and they came back.

  “Alice Michaela,” he echoed gently.

  “Yeah. Our son after his granddads—the ones worth it, anyway—and our daughter after her dads.”

  Mike licked his lips, and glanced up at the church. The bats were gone. True darkness had fallen, and the heat was slowly following it down. He imagined a cot in the spare room. A buggy in the hall. Stephen, with their baby on his hip, rocking it like he absently rocked bags of flour queuing at the supermarket. A fat baby, with Stephen’s grip of steel.

  “John or Alice,” he murmured to himself, and the names fitted perfectly into his family. Both of them. “Stephen?”

  “Mm?”

  “Let’s have two kids.”

  * * * *

  They woke up early the next morning, still intertwined, and Mike could have spent the rest of the day right there, stroking his hand over Stephen’s flat belly and wondering if they were done with the clinic now, if they could have the answer they wanted at last, if they could start their future instead of just talking about it. Maybe the autumn would bring more than just the new term this time.

  But Stephen complained, because the sod was a complete freak with an inability to just be for more than twenty minutes at a time, and so Mike was roused from his happy post-coital stage, and bullied back out into Barcelona.

  Well, sort of.

  They spent the whole day at Montserrat.

  The monastery was beautiful. The views were stunning. They took a cheesy selfie with the Spanish countryside rolling away far below behind them, all toothy smiles and bad angles. They sent it to Mike’s mam, and then—when Stephen had gone to get a drink—Mike sent it to Damn Black, too. With the simple message, Congratulations to Jane, love Mike and Stephen, captioning their happiness.

  Then he switched the phone back off, just in case she tried to call.

  They stayed up there the whole day, heading down in the cable car as the sun began to sink towards the horizon, and catching a train that crawled back towards the city in a lazy sort of way. The streets were quiet, in the lull between day and night. The clubs hadn’t yet opened for business, but the shops had closed their doors. They walked down to the beach, pacing past sleeping backpackers and bums, to the edge of the water. The sea was glittering under a clear sky as the first stars began to glimmer in the abyss, and they waded knee-deep into the cool water.

  They stayed right there for over an hour, just listening in companionable silence to the sea. It was the most peaceful that Mike had felt in years.

  Before they turned to go, he caught Stephen’s fingers.

  “Better than the Maldives?”

  The kiss that touched his cheek was warped by a smile in the dark.

  “Better than the Maldives.”

  And then it was over.

  Just like that.

  They had to get up early for the flight home. The airport coffee was shite. The plane was late. Their seats were at opposite ends, and Mike found himself jostling another fat bloke for elbow room. The pilot was, judging by the flying, drunk. By the time they landed, Mike had a mood on, and the woman scowling at him in baggage reclaim wasn’t helping.

  Stephen did, though, when he sidled up and hooked a finger into Mike’s belt. He stood far too close, almost bracketing Mike’s leg with his thighs, and when the woman’s scowl deepened, Mike smirked and slid a hand around Stephen’s bum to hold him even closer.

  “Alright?”

  “Missed you,” Stephen said, and Mike tried not to laugh. Like hell he had. He hated flying with Mike, said he never got any leg room and always had to buy the snacks.

  “Yeah?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The kiss was open and dirty, the kind of kiss Stephen usually only offered when he was in the middle of being fucked stupid. Mike squeezed a cheek, and heard the woman ushering her kid away. And then, at once, Stephen let go, backed up a good two feet, and grinned like they were bloody students again.

  “What was that about?”

  “She took exception to my book on the plane.”

  “Oh, your seat neighbour, was she?”

  “Yep.”

  “What were you reading?”

  “One of my queer history books.”

  “And let me guess, it had a bright rainbow flag and the word queer on the cover.”

  “Dunno, might have done.”

  Stephen rummaged in his bag to check. Mike escaped to pull his suitcase off the belt, and waited for Stephen’s to follow it round. History, queer or otherwise, wasn’t something he was about to get bored with when home was only a couple of hours away.

  Home.

  Mike longed for it as they struggled through the heaving airport with their bags to the train. Missed it as they fought through the underground to get to the station. Wanted it as they boarded the train to Sheffield, and had to kick a belligerent young couple out of their reserved seats.

  Had it, when Stephen fell asleep before they even left London proper, and dropped his head against Mike’s neck.

  Mind you, he couldn’t let it show. That’d overinflate the sod’s ego. So when the train slowed on the approach to Sheffield station, Mike disturbed the two hour nap with a sharp slap on a lax thigh, and pulled away so hard, Stephen nearly headbutted the armrest.

  “Come on, Sleeping Beauty.”

  Stephen’s venomous look was more Maleficent than Aurora.

  “Get a cab, or the bus to Eccy Road and a cheeky kebab?”

  “Kebab,” came the grumpy reply. “And you’re paying.”

  And so they arrived home, not eight hours after they’d been in Barcelona, to their draughts and wonky door handles, to their sulky cat and sulkier electrics, to their ugly cactus pot and battered sofa.

  Upon which Stephen flung himself, and remained.

  “Knackered?”

  “Mm.”

  Mike tugged at his belt. “Fancy a celebratory homecoming shag?”

  “Too tired.”

  “I could do with one.”

  “Wank, then.”

  Mike tugged Stephen’s T-shirt up, and licked. An eye opened and squinted at him.

  Then Stephen said, “Fine, but you’re doing all the work.”

  “Usually do, you lazy sod.”

  “Git.”

  “Oh, put a sock in it and get your trousers off.”

  Chapter 6: Vikki

  There was a thick brown envelope on the doormat when Mike got up the next morning.

  It was raining so heavily outside that even the marathon runner himself had decided against it and stayed in bed, and Mi
ke was quietly grateful for it as he picked up the wad of paper and saw the familiar logo. Stephen would have had his head for ordering this before the new term started.

  It was an information and application pack. From the council. About fostering and adoption.

  Mike knew Stephen wanted to wait until the clinic was over and done with, but part of him asked why. Why not go to a couple of the information evenings? Why not at least get the application ready? Then once the new term started, and they didn’t have to go to the clinic anymore, they could just pop it in the post and the ball would already be rolling. Right?

  And Mike had wanted kids since he was a kid himself. Waiting any longer just seemed…stupid.

  Still, it would make Stephen explode, so he tucked the envelope between a couple of large science books on the shelf in the living room, and headed back upstairs with brews and biscuits.

  Stephen was right where Mike had left him, face-down on the mattress and snoring. The only visible part of him was a hand on Mike’s abandoned pillow, and a bare foot stuck out of a corner of the duvet. Mike tickled it on his way past, and got a snort like a pig drowning in feathers.

  “Morning, beautiful. Cup of tea?”

  The face that emerged was anything but beautiful. Mike grinned and handed the tea over, nearly losing a finger by the speed it was jerked from his hand.

  “Love you, too, buttercup.”

  “Piss off.”

  Mike slid back into bed. Thankfully, sleepy Stephen could be pacified by a good stroke, and he scratched a messy scalp until the tea was done and the body slid back under the duvet and resettled.

  “Jetlagged.”

  “Can’t get jetlag to Spain, you muppet.”

  “Bloody can…”

  Mike laughed and left him to it, switching on the telly and enjoying his own brew. An arm snaked over his thighs and the snoring got pressed into his side and turned into a strangled sort of whiffling noise, but Mike was used to that. He just ruffled spiky dark hair whenever the whiffle got a bit too strangled, and left Sleeping Ugly to it.

  The rest of the day passed in a similar fashion. Stephen inexplicably knackered, and Mike in an idle sort of mood. He mustered up the energy to finish off his lesson plans when Stephen finally stirred around two and went down to the gym with Jez, and was disturbed hours later by a cold bottle of Grolsch being waved in front of his nose, and a sauna-steamed Stephen smiling at him from over the back of the sofa.