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Fuck fuck fuck. This was a bad idea. A ridiculous idea. Douglas was never going to let him live this down.
Martin stared at his reflection in despair. He looked so much paler like this. And his eyes looked weird. He checked his watch again where it sat next to the sink. Another bang on the door and the demanding cry of several students told him time was up. He was going to have to go in to work like this.
Keen to avoid as much teasing as possible, he wrapped a towel around his head and dashed back up the stairs to his attic.
Finally dressed and hair scraped back as tightly as possible, cap shoved down as far as it would go, he surveyed his appearance. He’d have five minutes, tops, before Douglas noticed and said something. The courage and confidence he’d summoned up to do this seemed to have washed away with the excess dye and conditioning treatment. But another check of the clock confirmed there was no time to do anything about it.
He slunk down the stairs and out to the van and hoped that remaining hunched would keep him invisible for just a little longer.
***
Douglas… hadn’t said a word.
Not even when Martin had caved to the inevitable and removed his cap in the flight deck. Douglas had clearly noticed – even Martin could see the flash of acknowledgement over his face – but he didn’t utter a syllable on the matter, simply carried on methodically going through the pre-flight check list.
Not even when Arthur had come in and asked “whether Skip had done something to his hair”. Martin had flinched, waiting for Douglas to make some kind of disparaging remark but…nothing. Which meant Martin had to explain himself to Arthur. Which was itself awkward and resulted in as much stammering and incoherence as if he had been confronted with a barrage of teasing.
Arthur, of course, had not even noticed his nerves, declaring his hair brilliant, before disappearing to make coffee.
Douglas hadn’t even come up with a pointed word game, seemingly content to fly in peace for a change.
It was absolutely unbearable.
“Go ahead, Douglas. I know you’re dying to.” Martin winced at the accidental word play.
“What?” Douglas looked genuinely confused. But then, he was a consummate actor.
“Don’t give me that. I’m sure you’re dying to tease me. I’m sure you’ve got a whole…routine worked out. I’d just… Can we get it over with, please?”
Martin tugged pointedly on his own hair as he looked at Douglas, who was blinking in apparent consternation.
“In case sir has forgotten, I have been known to dabble in the arcane arts of follicular enhancement myself. I’m hardly one to cast judgement.” He flicked his gaze over Martin’s head. “Although…”
Martin slumped. “What.”
“No, nothing, I was going to say it…it suits you.”
Martin just about avoided gaping in astonishment as Arthur materialised with the cheese tray.
***
It suits you . Douglas cringed at the memory as he watched Martin standing at the hotel bar, apparently oblivious to the young lovely who was trying to catch his eye.
It’s not as if he hadn’t appreciated his co-pilot’s ginger locks, but now they were dyed a cool chocolate brown Martin somehow had a little more… presence . The little pang Douglas had been deliberately ignoring for months was metaphorically dragging a tin cup across the equally metaphorical prison bars of his subconscious, demanding attention. Douglas had had a devil of a time keeping his eyes where they were meant to be during the flight: facing out the window, not glued to his captain.
He returned his attention to his own lonely table and took a swig of his orange juice as the determined blonde finally caught Martin’s attention. Douglas drummed his fingers a little but couldn’t help looking back up. He could read the woman’s body language from here and really, unless Martin really, properly cocked it up, he was onto a sure thing.
He swallowed bitterly. The light wasn’t even that good in here. Not like in the flight deck where the surrounding glass meant Martin’s skin glowed pale and interesting against his new barnet.
A tinkle of laughter accompanied a pushy arm tap as the blonde leaned in to allow Martin to appreciate the cleavagey view. Martin glanced around the room, laughing nervously in response. Cheeks already fetchingly pink.
Their eyes met and Douglas raised his glass wryly in a salute to Martin who looked… Downright panicked.
The girl leaned even closer, in danger of falling off her stool at this point. Martin pulled his arm out of her grip as his drink finally arrived and nodded his head in an awkward bow of farewell, before almost running over to Douglas’s table.
“Well, I think we can safely say the new look is a hit, Captain.” He nodded over to the bar where the blonde was looking a little put out. “What happened there?”
“Oh—” Martin looked delightfully flustered as he ran a hand through his hair – the dye treatment having apparently defeated even his best efforts to keep it scraped back and in check, leaving him with an endearingly full and fluffy head of bouncy curls, of which Douglas was sure he was unaware.
Something teetered in Douglas’s chest.
“—She was just…” Martin shrugged in lieu of an explanation.
Douglas smothered a smirk behind his glass as Martin sat down. “Yes, sir. I could see she was… just .”
Martin looked pained as he inspected the stem of his wineglass with unnecessary focus.
“I didn’t… I’m not used to…Well. You know.”
Douglas sighed. “It never ceases to amaze me how systematically you manage to ruin your own chances, Martin.”
Martin glanced up from under his eyebrows, and the unexpected silver, where he was used to blue-green, knocked the teetering thing into an actual swan dive.
How such a puppy-dog gaze of bewilderment could smoulder, Douglas had no idea. He waved his empty glass. “Let me just get a top-up and perhaps I can guide you in the ways of a successful Casanova.”
He ignored Martin’s panicked huff of protest and strode across to the bar. The walk did nothing to shake off the feathery flutters that were coiling up from… From his stomach, he decided, firmly. Certainly not any lower.
He waved down the barman and placed his order, then turned to the blonde who was still sulking into the dregs of her martini. “Get you anything there, madam? Another drink? Dinner? The phone number of a dashing pilot?”
She looked up and Douglas could see the precise moment she decided against telling him to get stuffed.
With the sort of timing that would only happen to Douglas Richardson, the barman delivered Douglas’s orange juice and – Douglas waved a debonair hand at the blonde – the fresh martini he’d ordered at the same time.
“You’re with…that cute guy.”
“That cute guy?” Douglas drawled. “Do you mean my eponymous captain?” He nodded his head at the table where Martin was sitting with furrowed brow.
“Ah. Your captain. So he’s not… you’re not…?” she flicked her fingers in the air in the international dating community’s signal for “together”.
Douglas forced a deep, dark chuckle. “No, indeed, my lady. He’s just a bit…” Douglas took a sip of his drink as he turned to look at Martin again. “Bashful.” He swallowed the juice along with the renewed flutter in his throat.
“So you’re what?” She threw down the last of her original drink and pulled the new one closer with a smile at Douglas. “His wingman?”
“Both figuratively and literally, yes.”
She laughed. Didn’t seem to notice the tightness of his smile. “All right, so…?”
“Well, I was going to take my time over this, but if the lady wants to…speed up proceedings. I can give you his number, or…”
“I’m not really that kind of girl,” she said silkily, plucking a serviette from the dispenser next to the till. “But you could give him mine.” She scrawled a phone number onto the tissue, then signed it, very unsubtly, with a lipstick kiss pressed beside her name…along with her room number. She handed it over with a flourish to Douglas, then raised her glass to they could clink a teasing toast.
“Well, thank you—” Douglas looked at the paper “— Leanne . It has been a pleasure.” He tilted his glass in a final farewell and sauntered back to Martin.
For the benefit of his audience, he placed his drink on the table before lowering himself to one knee and proffering the napkin reverently; head bowed, both hands raised as if presenting a sword to a monarch. Her tinkle of laughter rang gratingly across the room again and he glanced up to see Martin, flushed furiously red, waving the serviette with an odd little smile at the woman.
But, as Douglas lifted himself to standing and slid back into his seat with a smug grin, he noticed Martin didn’t take the opportunity to head over and re-engage in conversation with the bombshell still waiting expectantly by the bar. Instead, he was glowering at the table, face half hidden by a fall of that luscious dark hair, hands gripping dangerously tightly to the glass in front of him.
Actually furious, then.
“Why. Did. You. Do. That?” He sounded like he was forcing the words out through gritted teeth.
“Because, m’laddo, you looked like you needed all the help you could get.” Douglas settled himself back in his chair, ignoring the first tremor of misgiving. “I’m starting to realise why you always end up stuck on the plane on unexpected stopovers. Your chat-up technique is appalling.”
Martin’s eye twitched as he let out a breath in an angry hiss. “I wasn’t trying to chat her up.”
“Maybe not. But she was certainly trying to—”
“—I know what she was trying to do, Douglas. I might get flustered, but I’m not blind . She’s not…”
“Not what, sir?”
“…Not…not my type.”
There was no accounting for taste. Douglas glanced back over at the bar, where Leanne had given up watching them and was just picking up her things to leave. She blew a flirty kiss to their table and walked out to the lifts. Her dress swished just so, her straight blonde hair a shimmering waterfall down her back. She was stunning.
He arched a brow at Martin. “Blonde?”
Martin had also watched her leave. At Douglas’s query he clenched one hand into a fist. Perhaps not so accidentally also crushing the serviette as he did so.
“Female.”
Oh.
Oh .
***
“I’m sorry, Martin, truly.”
Douglas had caught up with him at the lifts, completely undermining his attempt to storm out.
Of course the lift arrived at the same time. Of course. Cursed Richardson luck. Martin swore under his breath.
“Don’t be sorry, Douglas, just…for once…let it go.” Martin stabbed the button for his floor and retreated to the other side of the elevator, refusing to meet Douglas’s eye.
They had the lift to themselves. Douglas managed to keep schtum all the way to Martin’s floor, but when he got out without a word, Douglas followed.
“Martin…”
“No.”
“But—”
Martin stopped dead outside his room, keycard ready, then turned to face Douglas.
“Enough, don’t you think? I hadn’t really planned on… coming out tonight…but you had to force the issue. Well. Congratulations. You humiliated me, you probably humiliated her – although she seemed the type to bounce back quite quickly – and you made me reveal something I…wasn’t quite ready for you to know. So. Douglas. ENOUGH . I’ll see you tomorrow.” Martin had ended his speech with his eyes shut, but he prayed Douglas recognised how desperately he wanted to go into his room. He was hanging on to his composure by a thread.
“Of course. Martin, I’m… I’ll see you for breakfast?”
Douglas’s voice was soft. Regretful. Martin opened his eyes and nodded once, then turned to go into his room. Slumping back against the door as it shut behind him.
Well. That was that, then. Wouldn’t be long before Douglas figured out…everything else.
He pushed off the door and wandered into the tiny bathroom. Its only saving grace was the fact that he didn’t have to share. He looked at his reflection, stark and sickly under the unforgiving fluorescent light. His hair looked… Fake and over-dark. His ridiculous auburn eyebrows, which he hadn’t dyed, stood out a touch too pale against his drooping fringe and highlighted the black circles under his eyes. He rubbed a hand over his rough chin. At least the small amount of stubble that grew in tended towards the darker side. He grimaced and turned away to start the shower. Perhaps he could wash the evening away.
No such luck. He slept fitfully and met Douglas in the hotel bistro the next morning. Any regrets he’d had about his dye job were enhanced when he discovered he’d left brown streaks all over the threadbare hotel towel he’d used to dry his hair. For once he’d actually used the room’s hairdryer, paranoid about dripping onto his pristine white collar.
He’d ended up with much more of a bouffant than he was accustomed to, but he was too nervous to pat it down with water.
“Not a word,” he said to Douglas, dumping his jacket over the back of one of the chairs, and picking up the plate to take it over to the self-serve buffet.
Douglas merely blinked at him and lifted his full coffee cup in a wordless, submissive greeting.
Arthur was already lining up at the bain-marie, apparently reloading his plate. “Wow, Skip! Your hair looks—”
“I know , Arthur.”
“—amazing!”
“Oh. Ah, thank you.” Martin managed a small smile as Arthur handed him the tongs for the bacon and watched as the other man piled an obscene quantity of mushrooms onto his pancakes.
He felt, if it were possible, even more self-conscious now. Arthur was hardly his first port of call in the world of hirsute fashion, and if the steward felt the need to comment then his hair must look really weird. He ducked his head and wished he’d worn his cap down to breakfast.
Douglas looked at him consideringly as he slunk back to their table in Arthur’s wake and hunched down in his seat.
“If you’re trying to…avoid someone in particular, Martin, you should know that,” Douglas darted a quick look at Arthur, who was far too involved with his pancake stack to pay attention, “she was here earlier. And has already left.”
Actually, Martin had almost forgotten about the woman, for all she’d been the catalyst of last night’s…whatever it was.
Douglas seemed to realise this even as he finished speaking. “Oh. Forgive me. I can see that’s…well.”
Martin poked at his bacon and soggy egg. Discomfited by Douglas’s…discomfort.
“No. Thank you. That’s not…I…” He ran his fingers through his hair and caught Douglas’s eye. Managed a slightly sheepish half-grin that wasn’t entirely honest. “I might have made a bit of a mistake with this.” He flicked his gaze up to indicate the hang of dark fringe over his eyes.
Douglas just stared at him. Didn’t return the grin. Martin faltered. Let his hand drop and slouched a little lower in his chair. Managed another mouthful of egg.
Douglas seemed to shake himself, still staring at Martin. “No. I don’t think you made a mistake. That is to say… I think it looks…rather good. Your hair.” He cleared his throat and shifted a little. Was it Martin’s imagination or was Douglas actually blushing?
Damn it all to hell, Martin felt his own cheeks flush in response and heard Douglas cover a laugh with the scrape of his chair legs against the floor. “I’ll meet you two in reception when you’re ready.”
He paused by Martin’s chair as he passed and muttered, just above a whisper, “I’m not the only one.” Martin stared in confusion until Douglas tilted his head back a little to indicate the rather attractive businessman pretending to read the paper at the table diagonally behind them. The man gave Martin a little wink and Martin swallowed tightly, shifting his gaze immediately.
He definitely didn’t imagine the brush of a hand against his shoulder as Douglas left.
“I told you,” said Arthur, apparently apropos of nothing, not even looking up from his plate as he cultivated the perfect forkful of pancake, bacon, mushroom and tomato.
Martin straightened up a little. “What’s that, Arthur?”
Arthur’s fork emerged triumphant from his mouth and he somehow chewed and beamed before replying. Waggled his knife at Martin’s face. “Your hair. I told you. Looks brilliant. Douglas can’t stop staring at you.”
He delivered this statement so matter of factly that it took a moment before the meaning hit and Martin felt his blush return in full force.
“Ah…” Such coherence.
“Pancakes,” Arthur went on, gazing happily at a syrup-dripping morsel he was waving in the air, “are also brilliant. I wonder if we could have them on flights?”
Martin breathed a sigh of relief at the conversational reprieve and returned Arthur’s happy grin, giving up on his breakfast and getting up to leave. “I’m not sure whether your mother would go in for freshly made pancakes… but you could probably do something with the pre-packaged ones.”
Arthur’s eyes widened in disturbing glee.
“Just um, maybe don’t tell her I told you that, though?”
Martin grabbed his jacket and headed back to his room, leaving Arthur mid-pancake ponder.
***
“I wanted to say I’m sorry, Martin.”
“Douglas—”
“No. Last night. I was out of line. Look, I admit I was teasing you a bit with the chatting up business. But I didn’t mean to humiliate you. Embarrass you a little, certainly,” he flashed his patented rogue grin before returning to sincerity. “But not humiliate. And I…I certainly didn’t intend to force you into false confidences. That was unforgiveable.”
Martin sighed. “It’s all right, Douglas. Really. I’m not… look, it wasn’t really a secret exactly. I’m… out. I just. Well, it’s work, isn’t it? Seemed unprofessional to sort of—”
“Of all the industries, Martin, I would think this is one of the—”
“—No. I know. But that’s part of it, isn’t it? That reputation. I didn’t…I suppose I just didn’t want there to have to be a whole thing . It doesn’t change anything. I’m just as rubbish at chatting up men. It’s just… When you didn’t know, it was a lot easier to just…ignore.”
Douglas opened his mouth but Martin held up a hand, shaking his head.
“It doesn’t matter. Really. I was…upset last night, but it doesn’t matter. It’s done and I…well, I can see already you’re not going to be like my last co-pilot about it so let’s… just forget it.” His grip tightened visibly on the yoke. “As to the humiliation, well. That’s my own fault, really. I shouldn’t have dyed my hair. I don’t know what I was thinking and I’ve been completely self-conscious since I did it.”
Douglas turned away, belatedly realising he’d been staring – gazing, really – at Martin through his whole speech.
“For what it’s worth, I really don’t think you need to be self-conscious. But… I understand why you would be. It’s ah… certainly quite a change. As to the other. I hope you know I would never hold that against you.” He snorted. “As far as that goes… well. It’s a bit like the colour treatment, really.” He willed Martin to catch his eye, but Martin was staring determinedly out the cockpit window. “I can’t exactly cast stones there, either.”
He turned back to face forward and caught Martin in his periphery whipping around to look at him.
“You…?”
“Not quite straight as an arrow, either. There have been a few… deviations between the Mrs Richardsons.”
“Huh,” said Martin, looking a little shell shocked.
Douglas grinned, glad to have confused Martin’s expectations once again.
***
Any little hiccup their friendship had suffered seemed to weather out over the next few weeks. Word games were back on, and Douglas even managed to talk Martin – Martin – into a few different pranks at the airfield.
Martin , who had, despite his initial paranoia about his new look, apparently decided to maintain it after all.
Douglas was getting better at pretending dark-haired Martin had no effect on him whatsoever. It was easy to hide a crush one was pretending didn’t exist, so he managed to keep it secret and played up the contradictory part of the successful, thrice-divorced lothario, even as he spent all their layovers alone.
Martin, on the other hand, seemed to have finally worked out that all the new attention from strangers wasn’t actually at his expense. It didn’t, from what Douglas witnessed, make him any better at chatting people up…but he was getting a bit better at BEING chatted up.
Douglas’s dental bill had gone up from all the teeth grinding he found himself indulging in during such occasions…though publicly he merely alternated between teasing and advising Martin on his potential romantic interludes.
If they mostly seemed to fail, Douglas had nothing to do with it.
Mostly.
And then there was the unexpected landing.
***
Martin was flirting. Successfully.
It was possibly the only thing that could have distracted Douglas from the sight of Martin’s forearms, flexing free in the Spanish sunlight where his shirtsleeves were rolled up. The arms in question had been a thankful distraction from the tempting flash of collar bone and sparse tawny hair revealed by the open collar, unbuttoned unprofessionally low in the heat of the afternoon.
Douglas had not allowed himself to look directly at Martin’s face, flushed and beaming as it was, and shielded by aviator shades that ought to have looked ridiculous but actually. Well. Did Things to Douglas when coupled with Martin’s jaunty grin and unexpectedly cocky attitude.
Martin, it seemed, was basking and confident in the face of Arthur’s frank (though not unusual) admiration and “Diego’s” easy charm. He even prevented Douglas, already irritable after being forced to wash a car, from making any comment about his not-actually-laughable shades.
Sweaty, sticky, and frustrated, Douglas might actually have appreciated Martin’s singing and good mood if it hadn’t been entirely directed at the sloe-eyed Spaniard sprawled over Gertie’s wing.
The Spaniard who, he couldn’t help noticing, harmonised rather well with his captain…and didn’t offer a word of complaint or mockery when the technical fault turned out to be nothing more than a dodgy connection in their warning light. Who pressed unnecessarily close to a responsive Martin to rap the light fitting and thus fix the connection.
Douglas was just working himself up to the sort of fuming sulk he’d never admit to when Martin dismissed Diego, seemingly without a second thought. Apparently as keen as Douglas to continue their journey and win the bet with Carolyn.
Still oozing confidence, Martin hadn’t bothered putting his jacket back on, and Douglas was trying not to notice how very thin and see-through his shirt was as he slid back into the flight deck after the world’s fastest walk-around. Whatever feelings he might have quashed over the past few weeks had broken free of their moorings, which lay tattered and useless under the force of jealousy and unexpected arousal that flared in the wake of Martin’s sudden self-assurance.
It was a shame then that, as ever, Martin’s confidence was to be short lived, shot through the heart with the firing of a wine bottle through a BMW windshield.
Douglas had never seen anyone deflate so fast, and he tried not to wince as Martin crushed his own beloved sunglasses in his forlorn frustration.
They did not make it to Johannesburg on time. It took several hours to resolve the debacle at whatever the Godforsaken, tin pot little airfield called itself, and they missed the curfew. They’d already gone over budget and lost the bet, so Douglas didn’t complain when Carolyn gleefully added the cost of an overnight stay to their list of costs. At least she only booked two rooms.
By the time they arrived at the hotel, Martin had faded from deflated frustration to utterly listless. He’d barely made a sound, shuffling after Douglas into the lift and following to their cheap room.
Still slightly grimy and soap-sticky from washing the ill-fated BMW, Douglas could think of little more than the pleasure of a shower and fresh clothes. He gathered up his supplies and towel as Martin threw himself wordlessly on the twin bed nearest the wall. Douglas sighed sympathetically as he shut himself in the bathroom and started the shower. Martin still hadn’t spoken or even looked directly at Douglas. It was clear he’d locked himself in a mental loop of self-criticism. Even his initial attempt to blame Douglas for the wine bottle had been half-hearted, halted fairly early on by Douglas’s incredulous tone and Carolyn’s blunt assessment that he should have been “concentrating on doing his job properly, rather than showing off”.
Even Douglas had winced at that one, he remembered, leaning into the hot spray and re-lathering his arms to get rid of the insistent black grime that wouldn’t scrub off. Probably the last time Martin would relax enough to try flirting for a while.
A small corner of his subconscious begrudgingly acknowledged that he would prefer not to have to watch Martin flirt. At least, not with other people. A much larger part wanted to see Martin buoyant and confident again.
He let the water hit him full in the face for one last burst before turning off the taps and emerging into the steamy room to dry off. Took a little extra time to dress and comb his hair properly, before heading back into the room to see if Martin had unwound.
He had. Sort of.
He was still in a vague sprawl on the bed, but he’d managed to find the remote control and was flicking with apparent disinterest through various non-English channels on the ancient TV. He’d consented to undo his shirt completely to combat the stifling heat of the small, un-airconditioned room.
Christ almighty.
With Herculean strength, Douglas hauled his gaze away from the startlingly well-defined chest displayed before him and took refuge in his flight bag on the other side of the room.
“Fancy going out to dinner, Captain?”
There was a long pause. “Not particularly.”
Douglas turned at the soft thump of the remote hitting the mattress and watched as Martin rubbed at his face.
“You have to eat. We might as well get something decent after this disaster of a day.”
Martin let out a whistling sigh and dragged himself off the bed. “I suppose.” He disappeared to the bathroom, towel in-hand, without another word.
He emerged fifteen minutes later, still damp from the shower. Towel knotted around his waist. Hair wet, curling and messy; dripping enticing droplets down his neck. And chest. And back.
Douglas’s brain stuttered to a stop. Unfortunately his mouth didn’t. “Jesus Christ.”
If it wasn’t for the shuttered look on Martin’s face, he’d have looked completely shaggable. As it was, Douglas was fighting the urge to just… lick Martin dry.
“Sorry,” Martin muttered, bent over and foraging around in his own bag, not sparing Douglas even a glance. “Forgot to take my stuff in with me.”
Gazing inappropriately at Martin’s backside, indecently outlined by the tight-wrapped, damp towel, Douglas could hardly complain and managed what he hoped sounded like a dismissive grunt, but which sounded to his own ears more like a squeak.
Martin didn’t seem to notice, disappearing with his armload of clothes back into the bathroom…and returned a few moments later as buttoned up as Douglas had ever seen him. Even without the uniform. Shirt buttoned up to the collar, wet hair combed mercilessly, wincingly back.
Douglas resisted approaching any closer and clenched his fingers against the unpermitted urge to ruffle the locks into relaxation. “Ready then, sir?”
Martin shrugged, picking up his wallet and shoving it into a pocket as he walked to the door.
Douglas guessed that was the most enthusiasm he could hope for at this point, and followed Martin out and onto the street, where he steered him away from the cheap and nasty looking cafes and toward a more cosy looking restaurant that had some unobjectionable live music playing and didn’t seem too boisterous or too touristy.
Deciding Martin needed to be coaxed into eating, Douglas insisted they have tapas, which had the benefit of being sharable and also encouraged a little talking. Gradually, gradually, and with the help of a little wine, Martin began to relax. This was good and bad – it meant he talked a little more, but what he talked about were mostly his perceived failures. At work. In love. In life.
Douglas was able to talk him round from some of them, but others were just…so… Martin . Prideful and stubborn and ever unwilling to ask for help, he really did get himself into ridiculous situations. He resolutely ignored the clench in his chest as he looked at Martin, whimsically candlelit, staring at the tablecloth – no longer morose, but slightly wistful as he drew patterns with the breadcrumbs. Douglas managed to pull his gaze away from Martin’s long, pianist fingers just long enough to call for the bill.
They had a brief scuffle over payment – that Douglas won. Then ambled back towards the hotel, a little more companionable than they had been on the way out.
Martin had lightened up enough to kick a stone playfully up the road as they made their way up the street, and he’d loosened his collar a notch too. It was enough to remind Douglas, with an amused twinge, of the sight of Martin, Arthur and whatever-his-name-was on the baggage cart careening out of the sun towards the airfield, singing joyously at the top of their lungs.
Martin turned a little at Douglas’s ill-suppressed chuckle.
“What noise did you say cockerals make, Martin?”
That prompted a grin, as Martin replied, “ki-kiri-ki!” just a little too loud. Enough to make Douglas guffaw even as Martin flushed red with embarrassment.
They’d made it into the hotel by now and were headed for the lifts as Douglas realised Martin had turned a little introspective. He nudged him with his shoulder as he pushed the button for their floor.
“At least you got out of washing a car. Carolyn watched me do that.”
“Yes, well, she would, wouldn’t she?” Martin’s face was in danger of dropping again. “I should have arranged to blow it up before you put all that work in.”
The smirk on his face was faint at best. His brow already starting to furrow.
The lift doors opened and they made their way down the hall. Douglas already had his keycard out as he turned to Martin and said very deliberately and in a tone of great suffering: “She had a deckchair .”
It was late, even for Spanish time, and the hallway was near silent. Thankfully Martin’s bark of laughter was muffled by the door that swung shut behind him… and then swallowed completely by Douglas, who found himself helpless to do anything but draw Martin in for a bruising kiss in the face of such fleeting, bright joy.
He pulled back almost immediately. Shocked at his own lack of self-control. But before he had time to stammer out an apology, Martin had caught him and pulled him back in.
It was all the permission Douglas needed and he released weeks (months) of pent-up desire in a searing kiss. Finally allowing his fingers to run through Martin’s hair; deliberately mussing up the restrictive styling and letting the silky curls twine round his fingers. He couldn’t help the deep, dark, groan that escaped as Martin’s wine-tart tongue caressed his own, but from the way Martin shuddered as he tightened his fingers in his hair, it wasn’t going to be a problem.
Douglas sucked that tempting, plump lower lip into his mouth and nibbled at it, pressing himself closer against Martin, who was pushed up against the door. It rattled and creaked a little as Martin wrapped one arm around Douglas’s shoulders and the other round his waist, pulling him in even tighter so they could both feel the hardness of each other, before arching a little to free his mouth a bit and breathe. Or gasp.
Douglas chanced a quick look to make sure this was passionate consent and was overcome at the sight of Martin panting, pink-cheeked and lust-glazed, at the ceiling. Another moan slipped unpermitted from Douglas’s own throat as he leant to pay closer attention to Martin’s, nipping at the Adam’s apple as it bobbed beneath his lips. Any worry he had that this wasn’t what Martin wanted drifted away as Martin’s hand slid from his shoulders and into his hair, pressing Douglas’s face down into his throat with a whine as they writhed against each other.
The door was rattling distractingly now; the safety chain offering unwanted, clattering punctuation to the proceedings. Douglas finally pulled back and stepped away to look at Martin, deliciously ruffled and kiss-flushed; hair a perfect mess and hanging into his eyes.
Before Martin could recover from his addled state and start to second-guess the situation, Douglas put his hand out in invitation, gratified when Martin accepted easily, swaying forward into his arms and gracefully, sinuously walking Douglas back across the room to fall onto the bed.
And wasn’t that perfection? Douglas’s arousal spiked at Martin’s sexual confidence, and was simultaneously sated and frustrated when Martin followed him into the fall, landing in perfect alignment as he ground his rock-hard erection against Douglas’s.
This time they moaned in harmony, but Douglas allowed only a moment before he was frantic, almost tearing Martin’s shirt off him in his haste. Martin was slower, sitting back on his heels and carefully undoing each one of Douglas’s buttons, dropping a kiss on each new piece of revealed flesh, lowering himself back down when the shirt was completely open so they were lying half naked, skin to skin, chest to chest.
Something more than arousal pooled in Douglas’s stomach as he ran a hand down Martin’s back. “Christ. The sight of you…” he leaned up to push a less frantic kiss against Martin’s plush mouth. “You have no idea… this afternoon… all day …” With a rough moan he pulled Martin down properly and flipped them over so Martin was lying, slightly shocked and breathless, beneath him.
Martin’s eyes fluttered shut as Douglas cupped his cheek and leaned down to kiss him again… then fluttered open as Douglas’s other hand ran lovingly down his sternum, stroking lightly at the treasure trail of hair that ran in a line under his navel towards his waistband. His breath hitched as the same hand detoured to his hip, gripping firmly, before running down his outer thigh. Douglas distracted him with a deep, wet, kiss, entangling their tongues repeatedly before giving Martin a firm stroke right where he most obviously needed it.
Martin’s moan sounded almost agonised, and Douglas kissed him again and again, alternating strokes with fumbling attempts to remove Martin’s straining trousers. Eventually he was forced off the bed to stand at the foot and tug them down and off, disposing of his own at the same time before throwing himself back on board and into Martin’s outstretched arms.
Lips hot and damp, they kissed feverishly, exchanging humid breaths as they stroked and rubbed and frotted, both still in their pants. The fabric, initially adding much-needed friction, soon began to irritate and chafe, but before Douglas could ease back, ensure they weren’t going too fast for Martin, he felt the elastic of his own underwear wrenched down and a hand grip his buttock. He knew Martin could feel him smile into the kiss as he groaned approvingly and worked a hand under Martin to do the same. In short order, they had both wriggled out of the last scraps of material and were squirming ardently against each other. Douglas sank down, resting his weight alternately between his hips, pushed against Martin’s; and his forearms, tucked near Martin’s shoulders – where he could keep his hands busy, threading through and pulling gently at Martin’s hair.
If the enthusiastic “Oh!” was anything to go by, Martin’s enjoyment of having his hair touched was as strong as Douglas’s fetish for touching it. One handful of Douglas’s rear became two as Douglas found himself quite forcefully clutched against Martin.
He didn’t, even slightly, object.
The rhythmic thrusting soon became erratic as thy each chased their own conclusion – and tried to help the other to get there first. Kisses became snogs became nips became smearing each other’s faces against the nearest body part as they panted and groaned and ground and pressed …
Martin jerked to a finish first, inhaling suddenly and silently, shoulders twitching as he pulsed hot against Douglas. It was enough to send Douglas over and his hands flexed involuntarily, possibly painfully, in Martin’s hair as he shuddered and near blacked-out.
He came to sprawled flat against Martin, hands still buried in his hair, heaving breaths into his jaw.
“Fucking hell. That was—”
Martin shifted a little and managed a small smile. “—unexpected?” Martin’s own arms were stretched loosely to either side on the bed; he was only touching Douglas by virtue of having become a human mattress.
Douglas could feel Martin’s heartbeat, fluttering more than a sated, relaxed man’s heart ought.
He felt the first flicker of concern as he slowly disentangled and peeled himself off. He stared down at Martin, who didn’t move and didn’t quite meet his eye. “I was going to say incredible.”
Martin eyed Douglas’s hand as it hovered ready to stroke gently down his face. Douglas let it drop and pulled himself to sitting. “Was that…?”
“A mistake?” Martin’s voice was soft. Douglas’s turn to swivel around and avoid his gaze.
“Oh.” He planted both feet on the floor, back to Martin. Had that little vocal crack betrayed him?
By the speed with which Martin sat up, it would seem so.
“No,” Martin’s voice was close and Douglas felt a hand on his bare shoulder. “I meant… it was a question …”
Douglas turned a little, causing Martin’s hand to drift to his neck where his thumb rubbed soothingly.
“I was going to ask you if it was all right .”
That small smile again. More genuine this time. “It was wonderful, Douglas. I just—”
“I’m in love with you.” Douglas interrupted. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I don’t know if that helps.” He directed his gaze at the somewhat rumpled bedding. They hadn’t even pulled the covers back. “But just so you know. That wasn’t… I didn’t…” He finally looked Martin in the eye, hoping he could finish the implied thought.
Martin’s smile dropped, then reappeared, bright enough to light the whole room. “You are?”
Douglas cleared his throat, dislodging Martin’s hand as he rubbed at his own neck. Strangely embarrassed and self-conscious, given the apparent pleasure his spontaneous declaration had aroused. “Yes. It’s, um…been coming on for a while.” He swallowed.
Whatever grace Martin had managed earlier had disappeared as he threw himself forward in a colt-like sprawl, forcing Douglas to catch him in his arms…and wrap him in an embrace.
Both their hearts were thundering now, and Martin pressed earnest kisses into Douglas’s throat, before looking up, eyes shining.
“Me too,” he admitted, finally. “I mean… I …you… that is…” Douglas kissed the stutter into submission.
“I’m glad.” He rubbed a hand over Martin’s increasingly dishevelled hair and sank a kiss into the curls.
Martin stiffened. “This isn’t just because… I mean you’re not…if I change my hair back…?”
“Oh, Martin,” Douglas wrapped his arms a little tighter. “I can’t deny I like this new look…even Arthur noticed that much. But I can assure you, I find you just as distracting and delicious whatever you do with the mop of yours.” To make his point, he ran a teasing hand through Martin’s lower, more russet thatch, and thrilled at the shivering squirm and answering twitch.
Martin tipped his head up, snuggling a little closer and pressing in for a kiss. “Good.”