Holiday Passion: A M/M Holiday Romance

by Tara Simon

  Tara Simon

  Holiday Passion

  A M/M Holiday Romance

  Copyright © 2020 by Tara Simon

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  First edition

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Also by Tara Simon

  Chapter 1

  The constant dripping sound brings him to. He lies there with his eyes closed, but aware of the cadenced noise. Still, sleep fogs his brain, his body feels heavy and appropriately warm, and he’s experiencing no urge to wake up. He flips and buries his head in the pillow, plastering his face against the case. He tries to concentrate on soothing thoughts, but the noise persists in thwarting all his attempts at dozing. With a loud sigh, he throws off his blankets, splays his bare feet on the floor, stretches and, with a yawn, goes to investigate.

  His gaze shifts around the room. After a quick study of it, Martin recognises the source of the noise.

  Between the cupboard and the desk, the ceiling slopes into a cosy nook. A damp stain stretches from one side of it to the other. At the centre, where the stain is at its darkest and showing a constellation of greenish mould, a leak has sprung. Water is dripping in a puddle on the floor.

  Martin rakes his hand through his hair, makes it stand up on end. “Crap,” he says, before padding into the hallway. He opens the utility cupboard and bends down to retrieve a tin pail. It’s hollowed and battered at the sides, but it will do.

  He places it under the leaky spot, and instead of on the floor the water slowly drips into the pail.

  Seeing as he’s wide awake by now, he makes a beeline for the bathroom. His skin pimples the moment he sets foot in it. However, as that is par for the course, he doesn’t even try and fix the windows shut. He knows why he’s freezing his balls off anyway. It’s the old draught back in place. The silicon layer he framed the window with must have come off. So now the tiles feel like they have developed a stratum of ice and sub-zero temperatures have developed, rendering the room a fit habitat for polar bears. The last time he checked Martin wasn’t one. Unless he calls in a repairman, the situation won’t change either.

  It doesn’t matter anyway. All he needs to do is a shower and once he’s enveloped into a cloud of steam, the temperature of the room won’t matter much.

  With a quick shimmy, he doffs his long-sleeved tee and boxers and steps into the shower cabin. With a creak of metal, he turns the tap full blast. And yelps when a wall of cold water slaps his chest. It freezes his lungs, driving all the breath out of it in one painful exhale. And nearly stops his heart. Yanking the shower stall open, he staggers backwards, shrieking, “Bloody buggering fuck!”

  It’s only after he’s buried himself under a shield wall of towels and his body temperature has climbed back to something closer to human and less akin to that of Otzi the Iceman that he tries washing again. He goes to the kitchen, wamrs water, then dunks two kettlefuls of it into the basin.

  Draped by a pair of joggers and a flannel jumper, he ventures into the boiler room. He turns the light on but it’s so feeble down here that he also shines his torch on the old contraption. The light reveals patches of rust eating away at the tubes running into the boiler. The red is off.

  “Fuck,” Martin says, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I should’ve known.”

  Instead of repairing the cranky boiler, there being so much Martin can take in the course of one morning, he makes himself breakfast. He places a cereal bowl and steaming mug on his desk in the office and turns on his computer. As it boots up, he munches on. Spoon into his mouth, he opens his e-mail client. He expressly avoids reading the message coming from his father. He knows it by heart by now and there’d be no point. He opens Lin’s though:

  From: linz@gmail.com

  To: m.emrys@mail.com

  Re: NY

  Aw, darling, I knew you were going to miss me. Anyway that’s not going to happen for a while yet.

  It’s as far away as the end of January. I do promise to send you a lot of pictures. (Luther will get a cartload of those too.)

  Btw, I wanted to ask you if you’re going to Gwen and Leon’s wedding? I think a double defection would be too much. They both love you dearly. Plus, if you go I’ll find you a hot date. I don’t know that many models for nothing.

  Let me know what you decide.

  Smooches,

  M

  Martin minimises the window, takes a sip of his tea, hums a little, then goes back to his mail. He opens Gwen’s next.

  From: gwenwhyfar@ymail.com

  To: m.emrys@mail.com

  Subject: Wedding

  I have sent all the invitations out. I signed them by hand with the result that it now hurts. I hadn’t thought that was possible, but there it is. What can I say? I now understand the plight of mediaeval scribes?

  I suppose though that a little suffering is nothing compared to the joy of having my loved ones near. At least I’m positive I’ll feel all warm inside once the cramps have subsided.

  You should find your invite in the mail. Tell me if you haven’t received it yet. I’ll send another copy.

  Waiting for your answer,

  Gwen.

  Martin’s hovering with his mouse on the answer button when his screen goes black. When he looks up, he notices that the power has gone. Another fuse must have blown. He’ll have to check the mains again. But before he does that he picks up his mobile. He stares at the number for several seconds, for so long that the screen goes dark. He swipes his thumb across the screen once more and after a few more seconds dawdling he presses dial.

  “Llewellyn and Baines Estate Agents,” a musical voice answers. “How can I help you?”

  * * *

  The avenue is lined with ancient shade trees. In the pale morning sun, the colour of their bark coalesces into a solid grey that seemingly smooths out the ruts and striations that run alongside it. Their branches are bare and stacked with snow. Rings of frost surround the roots.

  As he slogs down the path, Martin’s shoes sink into the icy sludge and he has to watch out so as not to slip. He knows this patch of road, though. He remembers where the potholes are and where the asphalt has grown thin, more likely all iced over. He knows all the twists and turns by heart. He knows the spot where it bends the most, a threat when indulging in nocturnal cycling. He can picture the area coasting the blanket bog with his eyes closed. And he can picture the turn that leads up to big gates of the Harrison estate with great clarity. Martin isn’t going to get lost here. Ever.

  He was bloody born here. He has the place in his blood and in his nostrils, written in his memory in bright colours he doesn’t think will ever fade.

  Not even if…

  As he sighs, his breath mists up. He can’t pretend it’s not because of the cold. The air is after all sharp and cuts at his cheeks and his bare hands. He stuffs them into his pockets and lowers his chin s
o that he can bury it in his turned up collar.

  On his way over, he meets only old Alice. She too is wearing quite a lot of layers. She’s in fact hidden under a pile of scarves and a woolly knit hat that has sunk low onto her brow. She’s bearing two shopper bags plus a third one marked with the logo of the local toyshop.

  “Starting on the grandkids’ wish list?” Martin calls out.

  “Yes,” Alice shouts back. “Christmas is near. Wouldn’t want to disappoint them!”

  “I’m sure they’re getting everything they ever wanted.”

  “They’re not that spoilt,” Alice says with a rich chuckle. “But they’re getting their fair share.” She hoists her bags higher up on her forearm to show him. Then she looks back at the path she came from. “Are you going up to the old house?”

  “Yeah,” Martin says, looking down at his shoes, the sludge shored up against them. “Yeah.” “Well,” says Alice, “that’s always good, memory lane.”

  “Yeah,” Martin says, realising he’s inadvertently put on a hand on his heart, which he immediately drops. “Yeah.”

  “Well, have a good day.”

  The rest of the walk doesn’t take him long. Martin doesn’t trudge up to the main gate. It would be closed anyway. He slogs along the back lane rather, the one skirted by the wisteria-clad brick wall. The sun, now a bit further up, shines palely over its rim, its rays spearing in between a drapery of heavy clouds. Hand on the lock, Martin pushes the wicket gate open, climbs the path leading to the house. The grass has grown over the tiled walkway and sturdy tufts of it cover the muddied lozenges of marble.

  When he’s halfway up the knoll, he can see the house. The curtains are drawn. Over the chimney sits a nest.

  Martin makes his way a little further up, and sits on the swing. The chains that hold the seat creak, but the thing doesn’t fold, so Martin rests more fully on the planchette. Feet out, he starts swinging, looking at the house, letting the memories wash over him.

  Chapter 2

  2002

  In a screech of bells, the bicycle stops an inch away from Martin. Luther grins at him. “You know, you shouldn’t walk and listen to music.”

  Martin lowers his headphones, kiling off ‘Yellow’. “You wanker, how was I supposed to know my manic friend would try and run me over!”

  “And how are you supposed to know if a hit and run driver is about to plough you into oblivion?”

  “That’s different!” Martin splutters, rooting into his sports bag to shut down his CD player. “That’s completely different.”

  Luther arches an eyebrow. “I don’t see how. You should just pay more attention to where you’re going.”

  Martin’s about to retort, but Jacob and Tristan spill out of the sports building and catch up with him. “See you Thursday,” greets Lance. “Great final lap, Martin”, says Tristan, clapping Martin on the back before rejoining Jacob further down the lane.

  When their friends have disappeared, Luther says, “So fancy going to the lake?”

  “Right now?” Martin asks; his hair is still wet and the air is chill enough he mostly only fancies a quick walk home.

  Luther turns his face a little to the right so he’s not meeting Martin’s eyes, squints against the non-existent sun. “No, of course not.” He changes foot on the pedal, rights his bike. “I was just throwing the option out there.”

  Martin places his fingers around the handlebar of the bike. “Luther, I do want to come.”

  “I’ll have you know,” Luther says, raising his chin, “that I have a lot of homework to do.”

  “I’d love to go to the lake,” Martin says, screw the chill. “Honest.”

  A smile flickers around Luther’s lips though he’s biting one corner, fighting it. “Well, if you really want to go.”

  Martin rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I do want to go.”

  “In that case—” Luther dismounts, turns the bike around, and nudges it back onto the main road. “Let’s go.”

  Pushing the bike between them, they walk more or less at the same pace. They don’t talk much on the way over but their silence doesn’t feel strained. At least Martin doesn’t think so. Luther generally pouts when he’s in a snit and he isn’t now. Relieved they’re not at odds, Martin hums lightly to the notes of the song he’d been listening to before Luther interrupted.

  Luther shepherds the bike over the worst potholes. Before long they leave the town behind and cross rolling hills and steep vales clothed in moss. Heather, headed cotton grass and asphodels colour the landscape with wide swathes of crimson and white.

  At last they clear the bogs and reach higher ground, the shores of a mountain lake coming into view.

  Once they’re there, Luther puts the bike down. They walk the paths that go round the lake, lace their shoes up and toss them over their shoulders so they’re padding barefoot along the shore.

  The water is freezing. When it touches their toes, they yelp. And yet, trousers rolled up, they keep charging at it. When they can’t feel their feet anymore, they slip their socks back on and stomp around.

  When they’re warm enough again, they have an impromptu skimming stones competition. Martin wins and proclaims he’s definitely got the magic touch. Luther comments with much eye rolling and demands a rematch. When Martin refuses, Luther says Martin’s a bad sport, a terrible one. Martin says nope and starts sniggering like an idiot. It’s ridiculous really, but there you have it. Luther makes him do tosser things.

  Luther starts chortling too and for a bit they’re egging one another on, looking at each other with a dare in their eyes and bursting out laughing, but then they give up on that and sprawl on the grass. They ought to have brought a blanket. The grass is springy and wet and infuses cold into Martin’s body.

  But it doesn’t much matter because Luther cocks his head at him and smiles, the sort of happy smile that makes his eyes tilt and light up. Martin grins back, a little toothily perhaps. They keep looking at each other. The air gets lighter, expands Martin’s lungs in a weird way. It has a fizz to it. It sparkles. Well, not literally. It’s just that Martin’s body wired with a sense of expectation.

  It doesn’t last indefinitely. Luther sobers, places his palm on his chest and exhales. “Martin,” he says, studying his face as if it’s a book whose lines he’s trying to decipher, “have you ever…”

  “Yeah?” Martin prompts.

  “Wondered whether your mum was lying to you?”

  “What do you mean lied to me?”

  Luther rolls his eyes, but the lines around his mouth tighten, his neck cords. “Told you something you just know is not true.”

  Martin shrugs. “I suppose then yeah.”

  “I’m not talking about parents telling you you’ll grow world-record tall if you just eat all your spinach.”

  “Duh.” Martin says, rolling his shoulders so they nudge Luther’s. “I got that.”

  “Well then,” Luther asks, his gaze focusing on Martin’s. “Has she ever?”

  “Yeah,” Martin says, turning his head and diverting his gaze onto the sky. “When I ask about my dad. She either clams up or fibs her way out of it.”

  “So she refuses to talk about him?” Luther asks, “or does she… I don’t know really, lie?”

  “She said my dad is dead,” Martin says, a crease forming between his eyes. “I don’t really think he’s dead.” Though he’s considered the possibility countless times he always feels a little punch to the heart when he says that out loud. “I mean he might be, but I don’t think she knows for sure.”

  “Then why would she lie to you?”

  “Because she thinks it’ll be easier that way?” Martin says. “So that she doesn’t have to think about it? Because… she thinks I’ll suffer less if I believe the reason he isn’t coming back is because he can’t and not because he won’t?”