They don't talk about it on the flight back to England, nor on any of the trips that follow. Whenever St Petersburg is mentioned it's always to rejoice at the knowledge that MJN Air is safe, at least for the time being; and if Douglas sometimes remembers the warmth of Martin's cheek against his palm, it feels more like the memory of a dream rather than something that actually happened.
(Martin – who had just landed the plane brilliantly, as Arthur would eloquently put it. Martin, that looked on the verge of a panic attack, until he was offered a soothing touch to ground him. Then a considerably sobered-up Arthur had stepped into the flight deck, and the moment was gone.)
They don't talk about it until Arthur discovers that rum truffles are, in fact, brilliant; as a consequence Douglas finds himself sharing a room with an unusually introspective steward, and one that isn't quite as oblivious as everybody seems to think.
"Being drunk is a bit brilliant," Arthur declares as he takes a careful sip of water. "I had so much fun when we were in Douz – well, and in St Petersburg too, but that was before I realised we were probably going to die."
Douglas reaches to steady the glass in Arthur's hands, ignoring the uneasy feeling that settles in the pit of his stomach every time he's reminded of his history of alcohol abuse. "I'm afraid it'll be far less brilliant in the morning. Though I still can't fathom how you managed to get yourself drunk on truffles alone."
"Just tipsy," Arthur announces cheerfully. "Can I have some more water, please?"
The glass is only half-empty, but Douglas knows better than to argue with a drunk. He simply pretends to refill it, then hands it back to the boy – and, yes, he knows that Arthur is nearly thirty, but he just can't bring himself to think of him as a grown man.
"Here you are," he says quite unnecessarily, watching Arthur as he stares at the tiny sparkles of light dancing on the liquid surface. "And I highly recommend you stick to Toblerones from now on."
"Why didn't you kiss Skip that time?" Arthur asks out of the blue, and all Douglas can do is blink in confusion. "He would have liked it, you know."
"Dare I ask you what you might be talking about?" he enquires at length, but it doesn't come out quite as smoothly as he'd intended it. Arthur gives him a knowing look, and he looks way soberer than he was a moment ago.
"When Skip landed the plane after the bird strike. He was amazing, Douglas – and then you were amazing, and I thought that maybe you'd forgotten to talk about it because you were so busy saving the day."
"That's ridiculous," he claims, feigning indignation. "Why should I want to kiss Martin of all people?"
Arthur shrugs, then successfully places the empty glass on the nightstand and settles back against the pillow. "Dunno. It doesn't matter. But I'll let you in on a secret."
He smiles, can't help it. "I'm all ears," he promises, secretly amused by the earnest look on the lad's face.
"Just because everybody else thinks something's stupid, it doesn't mean you shouldn't do it."
And just like that, Douglas is not laughing anymore; he knows that Arthur must have learnt this lesson the hard way, and he remembers with a pang of guilt all the times he called the lad a clot, albeit fondly. He runs a weary hand over his face, not sure whether he should apologise or simply admit that Arthur is quite right for once; then a soft snore makes itself heard from the bed, and Douglas shakes his head affectionately.
Arthur looks so very young when he's sleeping, young and perfectly content. Douglas tucks him in as he used to do with his daughters, then searches his flight bag for a book to read.