So I'm up to my eyeballs in my own novel at the moment, but now and then I cough up a couple of fanworks... all TP fic is on hold for now, my apologies, but have this silliness in the meanwhile. :)
A First Time for Everything
"I-I don't understand," Martin stammers, tongue heavy and thick in his mouth as he tries to understand what he's seeing.
At his side, Henry rocks back on his heels as bashful as a boy, hands deep in his pockets. "It's a plane."
An obvious statement, but one that Martin can't quite wrap his head around. He tries again. "Yes, I can see it's a plane. Why is it in your front yard?"
"Our front yard," Henry murmurs, and a bright crimson flush steals up his neck, insinuating itself under the dark stubble that had left small reddish patches on Martin's porcelain skin earlier that morning. "I just, I… I thought, you know, that you'd like it."
"It's a bloody plane," Martin moans, and for some reason he's shaking.
One of Henry's loafers scuff along the floorboards, and his eyes follow its progress as if it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. His tongue snakes out to lick too-dry lips, but nothing comes out.
"Oh god." Martin again, palms dragging down his face dramatically, giving his reflection in the glass French doors a Quasimodo effect. "What the hell am I supposed to do with it?"
"Well fly it, I should think," Henry retorts. His voice is a little too high, and he clears his throat. "It's not a fucking 747, Martin, I don't see what the big deal is."
Martin seems to be grinding his teeth, and he's transferred his sweaty palms to the outside of his worn jeans. "It's too much, Henry, I can't - I can't accept this, I'm sorry, I -" His voice breaks abruptly and without ceremony, and he takes the opportunity to turn around and make for the bathroom. Not the most adult of places to take refuge, perhaps, but it's convenient. Besides, his stomach is churning uncomfortably, so it's not an entirely impractical choice.
After a year of dating and six months of living together, Henry knows him well enough to give him space. So for ten minutes Martin slumps against the door, bottom on the tiles and knees drawn to his chest, taking deep breaths. Inside his head, the mantra too much, it's too much, I can't, it's too much runs on replay, and it's only when his time is nearly up that it begins to quiet.
Ten minutes and forty-two seconds after Martin fled the scene, a light tapping comes on the other side of the door.
"Martin? Can I come in?"
Henry's voice is as soft and uncertain as Martin can remember it being; as soft the night he stammered out an invitation to see the show Cats while it was touring at the West End, or the dinner where he'd finally broached the subject of living together. It calms Martin's frantic thoughts, and so he scoots away from the door and mumbles some kind of affirmative.
Henry edges in self-consciously and sits opposite Martin, his back against the claw-foot tub. "I'm sorry," he says, playing with the pen he keeps in his pocket at all times. "It's too much, you're right, we can take it back and forget about it and never talk about it again." It comes out in a sort of rush, but Martin understands it perfectly. One of the perks of dating another person with communication issues.
Martin sighs heavily, and scoots across the pristine white tiles to curl up next to his boyfriend. Henry puts his arms around him, but it's Martin who ends up with Henry's head on his shoulder, stubble brushing his collarbone and soft breaths ticking his skin.
"Don't take it back," he says finally, scooping slow circles on Henry's back with his fingers.
"Are you sure?" Henry's voice is muffled slightly in Martin's shirt, and the uncertainty in it breaks Martin's heart.
"Absolutely." He stops and swallows. It's not the first time he's taken charge of their relationship, but it never fails to astound him that Henry - stupidly rich and utterly, charmingly handsome - can be so self-conscious and directionless. "After all, it's not just a present for me. It's for both of us. I can take you up on calm days and show you the whole moor."
The tension in Henry's shoulders melts away, and he sits up a little, bright-eyed. "And we can take picnics, and when you get some time off from MJN we can pack some overnight things and take a jaunt to Wales."
He's so impossibly happy that Martin can't resist. He cups Henry's face in his hands, thumbs following the overly-obvious curves of his ears, and kisses him soft and slow. It's a far cry from the heated, teeth-edged, happy-birthday passion they'd shared earlier that morning, but just as precious. Henry responds eagerly, as he always does, suckling the sharp hills and valleys of Martin's upper lip, and when Martin licks the corner of Henry's mouth with a tentative tongue, Henry hums in appreciation and slides his broad hands up under Martin's shirt.
"Happy birthday," Henry whispers, grinning through the kisses Martin drops generously along the stretch of his smile.
"Thank you," Martin tries to say, but his words are stolen from him as Henry drops his head to nuzzle his slender neck. He's quite willing to go with the flow, fingers digging into Henry's solid shoulders with eagerness; and so when Henry pulls back, he can't quite stop the moan of disappointment.
"I have an idea," Henry says, eyebrows dancing suggestively.
"Oh, all right then." Martin tries to sound aloof, but fails miserably, earning a pinch on the bottom from his lover.
"Don't sound so disappointed. Just wait until I tell you." And Henry leans forward and whispers into Martin's ear.
It's quite a nice idea. Such a nice idea, in fact, that Martin agrees to try it at once. Which is how he finds himself being towed through the house and out onto the lawn toward his new present, reflecting that he's never had sex on a plane before.
There's a first time for everything, he thinks, rather giddily, and doesn't try to stop the laughter that bubbles up as Henry opens the door with a flourish.