Holiday Passion: A M/M Holiday Romance

by Tara Simon

  “Either way perhaps a bit of discretion wouldn’t go amiss,” Luther says.

  “I only pointed out the obvious.” Lin hoists her glass at Tristan and Sarah. “And they’re a couple. There’s nothing to hide.”

  Tristan steps into the fray. “It’s all right. Lin was just yanking our chain.”

  Luther dips his head. “Have it your way. I was trying to teach my sis manners, but I see that’s an impossible task.”

  “Oh, Luther, stop being so patronising,” Lin says. She takes a measured sip of her wine. Luther’s head whips round. “I’m not patronising, Martin, am I?”

  Lin clears her throat against her fist. “Martin would be the wrong person to ask. He thinks you’ve hung the moon and stars.”

  “He believes that of you too,” Luther says.

  “But in my case he’s right.”

  Before Martin can call for a time out, Sarah and Tristan have seated themselves around the fire, each of them cradling a glass of wine. “So,” Sarah says rabbiting into a comfortable position, “Lin, tell us how you became a model.”

  “Oh, it was luck mostly,” Lin says.

  “Lin is being far too humble,” says Jacob.

  “Which is not exactly typical,” Luther says, narrowing his eyes at his sister.

  “Fie, Luther.” Lin nudges at him with her foot. “I’m always nice.”

  “That is debat—”

  Because he doesn’t particularly want a sibling squabble on his hands, Martin pinches Luther.

  “Why do you think that?” Sarah asks, leaning forwards, her hands cupping her wine glass.

  “I was working at our local music shop – Martin knows the place - and a guy from London noticed me. At first I thought it was utterly bogus, especially as I’m not really model tall. But it turned out it wasn’t. He was the real thing, a scout.”

  “That must have been such an exciting time for you.” “Yeah,” says Lin. She smiles.

  “Lin got offered a part in a mini-series,” Jacob says, nodding at Lin. “She’s branching out.”

  “How do you know?” Luther asks Jacob. “About the mini-series. I only knew it was an acting gig.”

  “Train together,” Jacob and Lin say at the same time.

  “I knew,” Martin offers.

  “Martin was the very first person to know,” Lin says, a little red in the face as she toasts him.

  “I’m your brother,” Luther says, looking at the others for support. “Shouldn’t I have been the first one to know?”

  “No.” Lin sticks her tongue out at him. “Martin’s always going to be my first choice.” “Well, that’s stupid,” Luther says, veritably pouting. “I’m family.”

  “So you’re telling me Martin’s not the one you confide in first,” Lin asks, twisting her mouth into a smirk. “He’s not the only person you ever talk about things – as in real things — to?”

  “That’s different,” Luther says, lips pursed, brow furrowed.

  “Tell me how,” Lin says, prodding Luther with her foot. “How is my relationship to Martin different from yours?”

  “I—”

  “So you do agree it’s different,” Lin says, cocking her head, her eyebrow pointing upwards in a severe arc. “Because that’s what I’ve been trying to get you to—”

  Jacob places a hand on Lin’s shoulder. “Lin.”

  Lin turns her head towards Jacob, mimes the word, “What?”

  “You know what,” Jacob says, massaging Lin’s shoulder. “I think we talked about it.”

  Lin sighs. “You’re right, I suppose.”

  Though she has let go, Martin can sense how tense Luther is. It’s in the iron line of his shoulder, the cast of his face, in the hollows in his cheeks from the teeth grinding he’s doing.

  He wants to bring the smile back to Luther’s face. To crack a joke and see Luther soften.

  He wants to touch him and infuse some manner of comfort into him, but realises now’s not the moment. Not what Luther would want. “Who’s into singing a carol?” Martin says, moving over to the piano and lifting the lid. “Lance, how about some accompaniment?”

  Chapter 9

  2002

  The credits roll and Luther turns off the telly.

  “Wow,” Martin says, looking to Luther sitting next to him. “Your mum was good.”

  “I told you,” Luther says, smiling wide.

  “Yes, well, I had no idea how good.”

  “You know,” Luther says, ducking his head, toying with the remote, “when Father brought the reels, I hesitated.”

  Martin breathes out. “Why?”

  “I was afraid,” Luther says, “that… Oh, it makes no sense.”

  “I know most of what you think doesn’t make sense,” Martin says, nudging Luther’s shoulder, “but I’m sure this does.”

  “It’s just,” Luther says, pursing his mouth, looking away, then back down. “It’s just that I was afraid I wouldn’t like them. Or that I only would because they are my mum’s.”

  “And,” Martin says, cocking his head so he can gaze at Luther’s profile. “Did that happen?”

  “No.” Luther smiles. “No, it didn’t happen. I loved her ideas and the way she executed them. It was

  a silly fear.”

  “It wasn’t silly,” Martin says, worrying his lower lip with his tooth. “It wasn’t silly at all. I get it.”

  “There’s something else.” Luther puts the remote down on the floor and turns towards Martin.

  “Go on,” Martin says, though for some reason his heart beats faster. Maybe Luther’s tone has caused that reaction or Martin’s just being overly sentimental. “What is it?”

  “I know it’s early to talk about it,” Luther says. “Lin said it isn’t…” “Luther, you’re hedging.”

  “I want to study film production in uni.” Luther huffs. “I know it’s two years away but… I think I’ve made my decision.”

  “Luther, that’s great!” Martin says, cracking a smile.

  “Yes,” Luther locks eyes with Martin. “Father said I should think about it. I guess he’d prefer it if I did Business like him. But he’s not against it.”

  “You should really do what you like, Luther,” Martin says, considering the situation from all angles. “Not what you think your dad would like.”

  “I know,” says Luther. “I’d really like to do film.”

  “Good,” Martin says. “Good.”

  Luther jiggles his knee. “I was wondering…”

  “What?” Martin asks, placing a hand on Luther’s knee, stilling it.

  “Would you like to come too?” Luther says. “To the same uni I go.”

  Martin breathes hard. “Luther…”

  “I’m sure they’re going to have a variety of programs,” Luther says, the words stumbling quickly out of his mouth as he reddens. “You could do whatever you like…”

  “Luther.” Martin blushes to the roots of his hair because he feels that what he’s planning to say is the most solemn thing ever. “Even if we go separate ways, we’ll always stay in touch. We’ll always see each other. Even if I have to walk to wherever you are.”

  Luther brightens, his eyes all colour and his smile splitting his face. “Deal, you sentimental pillock,” Luther says, presenting his palm.

  “Deal,” Martin says, grabbing Luther’s hand even as his heart balloons in his chest.

  * * *

  It must have snowed overnight because the front drive has gone white all over. Mounds of snow pile in patches here and there. Thinner crusts cover the short yellow grass, veil the front steps and pepper the wreath hanging from the door, drowning out the red and gold trimmings. Luther comes down the steps and joins him. “Up early?”

  Martin breathes in the sharp air, light with frost. He lifts his face, so the pinprick of it bites at his skin, at his cheekbones, at the tips of his ears. “It’s Christmas Eve, Luther.”

  “You sound as excited as a little kid,” Luther says, stomping hands an
d feet.

  “I like the atmosphere,” Martin says, shrugging. “That’s all. I want to… remember it as it is.”

  Luther gives him a prolonged look, then shakes his head. “You’re strange, Martin.”

  “Maybe,” Martin says, itching to speak up, but knowing now’s not the time. He wants Luther to have brilliant memories of this Christmas festivities. “Maybe not.”

  “Nope, you’re weird.”

  Martin breathes out, and the exhale takes shape in a cloud of steam. “Want to walk to your old place?” He shrugs at the house. “The others are still sleeping.”

  “Yeah,” Luther says, looking ahead as though he’s readying for a quest. “Why not?”

  By silent agreement they don’t take the bikes, but walk all the way. Since Luther has the keys, they don’t need to use the back entrance. The lawn is carpeted in undiluted white, a few flowers and grass stems pushing through the frost. As they climb up, it starts snowing. At first it’s just a light shower glittering like spun sugar. But soon fat white flakes fall over their heads and shoulders.

  Luther’s nose has gone red and Martin’s feels like it’s no better off. They should probably walk back since hanging out in the snow is none too wise an idea, but Martin doesn’t want to. So he says, “Remember the year we had the snowman contest?.”

  Luther’s eyes spark. “And we covered the lawn with snowmen?”

  “Yes!” Martin says, taking off his gloves and stuffing them in his pocket. “Then Lin joined in and she made an ice ballerina and it definitely looked better than all our specimens.”

  “Well, it was artsier,” Luther says, “but my snow Robocop was great.”

  “As was my Gandalf,” Martin says, kneeling down so he can scissor his arms in the snow. “Definitely the winner.”

  “Winner, my arse,” Luther says, hunkering down. “Let’s see who wins this time.”

  It’s not as if they have had such a massive snowfall they can build a huge snowman. But they do manage to erect two scrawny ones. Martin’s has a head that comes in the shape of an ovoid, and rather thin arms. Luther’s is much squatter and shorter and gets a branch for a nose.

  “Yours looks like an alien,” Luther says, turning his nose up at Martin’s snowman. “And yours looks like a troll.”

  “Well, unlike your overextended construction over there,” Luther drawls, “mine isn’t going to crumble at the first gust of wind. It’s simple engineering.”

  “Engineering, my arse,” Martin says, shoving Luther.

  Luther shoves back and Martin topples backwards and into the snow. “I’ll have you for this,” he says, fitting snow into his palm and shaping it into a ball he lobs at Luther.

  The missile hits Luther square in the chest. Luther blows air through his mouth, impersonates a fish, yells, “Prepare to pay for that,” and throws another missile at Martin.

  The handful of snow hits Martin’s square in the face, taking his breath, icicles dripping down his neck and under his clothes. “Aaaaargh,” Martin yells, both because he’s trying to negotiate the shock and because Luther’s got another one coming. With a push he’s on his feet, chasing Luther around the property hurling snow balls at him.

  Martin’s not the best shot ever, but he does manage to land a volley or two, snow spray dusting Luther’s jacket. Luther, however, is canny and ducks into the thicket. Martin searches for him, craning his neck left and right, but the bastard must have found some prime hiding place because Martin can’t see him. “Oh, hiding then,” Martin says.

  Something grabs him by the waist and careens into him, driving Martin into the ground. Hands press his shoulders down, legs bracket his, a weight in his lap.

  By the time he’s got his breath back, Luther is shoving snow into his face, and worse, under his collar. Ice laps at his skin, pebbles it, and Martin yelps at a ridiculously high pitch.

  Luther’s bracing over Martin, arms taut. He’s gone slant eyed with glee, and there’s a smirk painted on his lips, high colour on his cheeks.

  The breath goes out of Martin, leaving him gasping. He feels like his flesh has been stripped from his bones, as though all that he is is there for Luther to see. He swallows.

  Luther’s throat works too. He moves, Martin thinks he’s shifted imperceptibly closer. He can’t establish whether that’s true or not because the garden door creaks and someone says, “I was late doing the garden.”

  Luther moves off Martin and is on his feet in a blink. “Mr Simmons! I thought you only came Tuesdays.”

  “Well, I should have,” Mr Simmons says, shifting from foot to foot. “But I didn’t come this week, and so I thought I’d do some hedge pruning this morning before visiting my daughter.”

  “You shouldn’t,” Luther says, brushing himself off while Martin picks himself up. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

  “It’s my job, Mr Harrison,” Mr Simmons says, doffing an imaginary hat.

  “Well, if I can’t persuade you otherwise,” Luther says. “I’ll wish you a Merry Christmas.”

  “Thank you, Mr Harrison and Happy Holidays,” Mr Simmons says, before disappearing into the shed.

  Luther and Martin walk back home. It’s stopped snowing, but the temperature has dropped and the sky closed in, heavy clouds low on the horizon. The snow they threw at each other has melted completely, drenching their clothes.

  Midway over Martin gets the shivers but for some stupid reason he can’t stop laughing. Luther hooks an arm around his shoulders and pulls him to him. Given that Martin had no prior warning he goes stumbling and nearly knocks Luther off his feet.

  “Clumsy,” Luther says when he recovers his balance.

  “A little warning goes a long way.”

  “So I have to warn you every time I make a grab for you?”

  “Yes, you must ask formal leave.”

  “I’ll write my request on parchment next time.”

  By the time they come upon the house, Martin can’t feel his fingers anymore and his toes are no better off. Given that Luther is moving as stiffly as C3PO, Martin has reason to believe that he too is freezing. He’s about to suggest the first thing they do upon getting inside is light a fire, when they run into Gwen, standing in the drive.

  “Oh, there you two are,” she says, eyeing them from under raised eyebrows. She blinks when she takes them in. “Why are you so wet?”

  Martin and Luther look at each other and burst out laughing.

  “No reason,” Luther says.

  “None at all.” Martin grins.

  Gwen rattles out a sigh. “Boys. Well, the delivery lad came round, there are two big turkeys on the kitchen table waiting for you to magic them into dinner.”

  “Oh,” Martin says, mouth sliding open. “I totally forgot.”

  “I suppose I’d better roast it myself then?” Gwen asks.