Chapter Twenty-One
Martin sent off his last applications early in the morning. Daylight poured hot and crisp through his bedroom window, and even though his limbs were heavy with a familiar dread, Martin was very nearly cheerful. He slammed down the lid of his computer and sat back, listening to the creak of his chair as he pressed his hands together over his lips. Then he let out the breath he had been holding.
If he didn't get in, then he was in the same position that he was in now. If he did, then his life was finally back on track.
For the first time in months, when his dad called through the house that he'd polish off breakfast unless the seats around the table were filled, Martin vacated his bedroom with a skip in his step. He even tapped one of his models and let it swing on the way. When he had shared some small talk with his family – and listened to Simon waffle on and on about a potential promotion – Martin hurried outside and made his way to the airfield, dressed in his steward's uniform of ill-fitting trousers and a waistcoat. He didn't even grimace at himself in the mirror.
Even though he wasn't being paid anything more than a pittance – and far below minimum wage on the basis that he was an intern and not an employee – Martin was learning to enjoy working on GERTI. He had spent months feeling like he was on the wrong side of the flight-deck door, but now he could appreciate that this was a stepping stone. He was sometimes allowed to sit in the jump-seat and listen to Herc and Nigel as they talked to ATC, and during take-off when Nigel wasn't in a strict mood.
When he wasn't doing that, he was in the back with Arthur.
Today they were flying to Pisa and back with a group of elderly clients who were on some kind of European bingo tour.
For the first hour or so that he was there, he and Arthur hung around the porta-cabin, not doing much of anything. While Arthur lay back with his feet up on the tattered sofa, Martin spun around on the wheelie-chair, and it was just like old times.
Then the baggage turned up and, under the watchful eye of a member of the grounds crew, they stowed it away in the hold. Carolyn didn't let them greet the clients – she never did. Apparently they needed to see a face that they trusted when first approaching the company, and Martin had to concede that neither him nor Arthur instilled much confidence. It would be different when he was in his proper uniform, with epaulets to prove how capable he was, but for now he could accept working behind the scenes.
One thing Martin never did was serve the pilots coffee. That was Arthur's best thing. He watched from the galley as Arthur wobbled slightly but stayed on his feet, delivering the drinks without spilling a single one.
"Thank you, Arthur," he heard Herc say.
The he watched the Captain reach for the intercom, and the metal box beside his shoulder buzzed.
"You alright in there, Martin?" Herc's voice was grainy but cheerful. "Not coming up front today?"
Martin pressed the button and spoke into the speaker.
"I might later. I-it's quite busy back here at the moment," he replied.
"Alright then. Whenever you're ready."
A moment later, Arthur reappeared at his side, rubbing his hands together eagerly. His eyes flickered towards the cabin and his expression adopted a more determined elasticity. Catching his gaze, Martin knew that he was feeling the same determined dread – the anticipation of a challenge that could go horribly wrong.
"You ready?" Arthur asked.
"As ready as I'll ever be," Martin replied, thinking of the legion of old ladies that awaited them. They had cooed over them both when they arrived, pinching Arthur's cheek as he wasn't quick enough to duck out the way.
They were even keeping Carolyn busy. She hadn't been back into the galley since take-off. The ladies filled every seat, and most of them had proved quite the conversationalists, even though most of them weren't listening to one another so much as making side-eyed quips about their misspent youths and each others' ailing children.
About half way through the flight, while Carolyn was having a heated discussion with the woman in the front row, and Arthur was pouring elderflower water into plastic glasses, Martin found that he couldn't hold his tongue any longer. It wasn't like he had been keeping anything quiet – more like something had been sitting under his skin and he was itching to share it. He waited until Arthur was two thirds of the way along the aisle before wandering over, pretending to check the baggage compartments.
"S-so I sent off my applications this morning," he said. "All I can do now i-is wait."
"That's brilliant, Martin," Arthur replied. He was bright and sunny as he ever was, thrilled to be surrounded by so many people – especially people that called his handsome and complimented his enthusiasm. "Do you think you'll get in this time?"
"W-well, that's kind of the point," Martin said, eagerness dimming slightly as they swapped places, squeezing past one another without going so far that they couldn't talk. He wasn't sure what kind of reaction he had hoped for. Plastering on an enduring smile, he followed Arthur a little way. "Wh-what about you? This is the time of year you could plan ahead."
"Actually, I think I'll stay where I am. I'm really happy here," Arthur said. He grinned at an old lady with hair dyed dark, and poured her some water. "I just love all the people and the flying to different places."
"Really?"
"Yeah, and I reckon if I do really well, and become a proper steward, Mum'll start letting me make decisions," Arthur continued.
"What sort of decisions?" Martin asked, biting back an amused smile.
"Well, the safety demonstrations a bit boring, isn't it?" Arthur said. He glanced over Martin's shoulder, glancing at his mother before lowering his voice and going ever so slightly red in the face. "I think maybe, if I'm good, she'll let me write a new script for it. I've got loads of ideas about how to sound more professional."
"That sounds... w-well, it sounds great," Martin replied. He could just imagine what sort of thing Arthur thought was professional. He had already spent most of last week fashioning himself a hat out of paper.
"It is great," Arthur agreed wisely. "I didn't take English A-Level for nothing."
Leaving Arthur to his thoughts, Martin wandered along the cabin some more before ducking into the galley. If anyone asked, he was checking the catering instead of heading onwards to join Herc in the flight-deck. His mind was elsewhere, tangled up in the churning in his stomach. It wasn't excitement and it wasn't dread.
He could just imagine what Douglas would say if he heard Arthur... could almost imagine. It had been so long that he wasn't always sure anymore. It occurred to him then that that was what he had wanted when he had told Arthur about his applications – Martin wanted to know what Douglas thought. He wanted to hear his voice and see what he had to say. A year before, they had been so close, so filled with camaraderie.
Now, Martin wasn't certain.
He'd call Douglas tonight, he decided. He had made the decision entirely on his own, without anyone else's help, but this... he wanted to share this, even if he wasn't sure what to expect. Maybe they could have a laugh over the passengers as well.
Martin got back to work with a nervous knot of warmth in his chest.
If Douglas heard one more person speak, he was going to scream. He was doing his best to be outwardly mellow, to smile a strained smile in the right places and respond coolly when talked to, but inside he was itching to get home – get home and get his head down so that he could ease some of the weight that was pressing on the inside of his skull.
It was with this in mind that he excused himself from the theatre troupe's practice, giving one last flourish on the piano before making his way back to his flat. He dodged GW's attempts to ask if he was alright – the bags under his eyes were from lack of sleep for which they were both responsible, and it had just been a long day in general. When he reached his room he resisted the urge to collapse on his bed and instead went to his desk, where he laid out the books and the papers and opened his laptop just in case.
He had to write up the practical they had done two weeks ago. He could remember it clearly – could recall the way he had wrinkled his nose and blinked through the headache – more out of disgust than any real difficulty with the subject matter. What was harder was finding the right words – finding the right structure on the page once he had those words. If his tutor wanted him to explain it out loud, Douglas was sure that he could have done a good job.
He wanted it in ink.
Douglas knew that he would have an easier job of it if he wrote in his own handwriting and then typed it up, which meant twice the work.
At some point in the past month, Douglas had gone back to his methods of old – he had retreated into Martin's revision techniques. Now his walls were plastered with 'key words' and explanations which he could recite when prompted. There were diagrams on the ceiling above his bed, which made him glad that he didn't currently have anyone nearby that he could invite over for the night – even Martin would have trouble concentrating with those pictures looming overhead.
Douglas' mind wandered – it had been so long since he had... at first he had missed the hand holding. Now he missed the kissing and so much more. Then Douglas cursed aloud and gripped the pen more tightly, etching notes into the page.
They had barely talked in ages, he and Martin. Douglas wasn't even sure what he would say. There was nothing Martin could do to help. Lately, when they did speak, Douglas felt like he listened to what was going on in Fitton, missing the place desperately, then reported his lectures and tutorials and his nights out with his flatmates like reading from a newspaper – and then they ran out of things to say.
It was impossible to tell whether he would be doing better with Martin there or not.
Then, speak of the devil – Martin's icon appeared at the bottom of the screen and the video-call dial-tone grated on Douglas' nerves. He was pleased to see him –of course he was – but he couldn't put down his pen and now Douglas couldn't concentrate. He ached to just collapse into Martin's arms but Martin was so far away and saying so left a sour taste on his mouth.
It wasn't fair.
So Douglas carried on with his work, humming and 'ah'ing as Martin described a flight out to Italy, bright and vaguely cheerful, with something else on his mind. Douglas almost hoped that he didn't expand on it, in case he had to pay him proper attention and set himself back another hour.
He really needed to sleep.
And then Martin said something and Douglas felt himself sigh – bone-deep and weary and a little bit frustrated – even as he nodded. He didn't turn his eyes to the screen as he scribbled away, sensing his written articulation slipping.
"So I-I... I just sent them," Martin was saying. "It's all done and dusted now. All I can do is wait a-and see if they'll have me this year."
"Good... good, that's fine. Well done, Martin," Douglas muttered. He had to be careful not to let his nose touch the page, in case Martin see how engrossed he was. After a moment's silence, Douglas was distracted enough to realise that Martin could see, and that he needed to answer quickly. Clearing his throat, he shot freckled face on the screen a hasty glance. "I'm sure you'll be fine. Nothing to worry about."
"You don't think that at all," Martin replied, an edge to his tone despite the glumness. "Douglas, is this a good time?"
"Yes, it's a fine time, Martin," Douglas tried not to snap.
No time was a good time. If they didn't talk now, they wouldn't for ages. He'd wanted comfort, not more stress.
"I can see it in your face," Martin insisted. From the corner of his eye, Douglas could see him shifting to sit nearer his own laptop, expression grainy. "I-I was expecting a bit more enthusiasm, you know? A smile, maybe?"
"I said well done," Douglas sighed, through gritted teeth. His hand was beginning to ache but he didn't dare stop, even as he lost the train of his thoughts. "Trust me, Martin. I've just got a lot on my plate. I am listening."
"Y-you don't think I'll get in," Martin said, and this time the sadness in his voice was undeniable. Douglas' hand stopped moving and his turned his eyes to the screen, where he could see Martin starting back at him. Could he see how hard he was trying not to frown? If he could, Martin didn't mention it. "I-I know what you're thinking. This is just like last year, a-and it's not going to be any different."
"Maybe that's what you're thinking."
"M-maybe it is," Martin stammered. "M-maybe I thought you'd..."
"That I'd what, Martin?" Douglas shot back. He gripped his pen so tightly that it hurt. "I'm behind you one hundred per cent of the way, but I don't know what else you want from me. I'm miles away – I've got all this – this-" Douglas threw his arms up to encompass the mess of notes atop his desk. "I'm sorry, Martin, I really am, but my problem is a little bit more immediate than yours right now."
"What problems?"
"What do you mean what problems?" Douglas exclaimed.
He sucked in a heaving breath. His hand shook where the pen cut into his palm, and he made a pointed effort to get back to his notes. He couldn't remember what he was supposed to be writing. He could hear Martin spluttering all the way from Fitton.
"Y-you haven't told me anything," Martin said. "I-is there something wrong?"
"No... there's nothing wrong," Douglas muttered. He dropped his head onto his non-dominant hand and tried to recall where he had been.
"Th-then what are these problems that you're not telling me about?"
"I'm not telling you, Martin, because you're too busy worrying about your jobs and your applications," Douglas seethed. "You're miserable enough as it is – is it too much to ask that we talk about nice things for once?"
Martin didn't respond.
Then he kept not responding, and Douglas couldn't look at the twisted, miserable expression on his face any longer. He turned back to his notes, doing nothing more than staring at the irritable blur that the words became. He could almost hear the way Martin used to tap his pen when they studied together, even though there was nothing at all – not even music from the other rooms – to distract him.
Martin took a deep breath, and Douglas' heart sank with relief at the chance to argue it out and apologise.
"I-I think we should take a break."
Douglas thought the world stopped for a moment. Just a moment, then it returned, crashing down as his agitation was washed away by a downpour of sheer cold – his pen hit the desk as his brow furrowed and he turned to see Martin's face. There was no pleasant flush, just pale skin stark against his freckles and a watery frown.
"What?"
"I-I think we should give it a rest – us I-I mean," Martin said, choking momentarily on a lump in his throat.
Douglas shook his head.
"You're breaking up with me?"
"N-no! No, I'm not – I-I love you, I do – I-I want to be with you-"
"Then what are you going on about?"
"I think we should break – t-take a break, a-and then... and then come back together, wh-when it's all over, f-for both of us," Martin explained. His voice was like nails. "I-I don't think... w-we're not doing this very well, th-this couple thing. N-not when we're so far away, a-and it's just causing more stress-"
"W-we're just not talking enough," Douglas cut across him.
His voice caught in his throat. He leaned towards the screen, as close as he dared, almost gripping the side of the laptop but he couldn't go closer. For once his head was completely clear and yet it was screaming, threatening to collapse inwards.
"T-talking makes it harder," Martin said, shaking his head. "I-I was so nervous calling you today, e-even though I wanted to tell you about the applications. D-don't tell me you don't... don't tell me it's not easier to just let it be, Douglas."
Douglas sniffed, eyes burning as he shook his head more frantically. His mind leapt to how much he had dreaded Martin calling, just to avoid the strain of having to make conversation with everything else that was piling up. But without Martin – without the look in his eyes when he saw his face and the warmth his cheeky smirk – his fond exasperation – Douglas didn't have anything to look forward to. Being a doctor was a sour prize – it was more hard work than he had ever anticipated.
"Martin... becoming a doctor takes years... becoming a pilot could take just as long-"
"I-I know..."
"Th-then how can we 'come back together'?"
"I-I don't know, Douglas," Martin insisted. If Douglas weren't aching, trembling and holding his tongue as best he could, he wouldn't know that Martin was doing the same on the other side of the screen. "B-but I... w-we'll still be friends – w-we'll always be friends. W-we'll always see each other a-and talk, but we... this is too hard, Douglas."
"But I love you."
"A-and I love you," Martin exclaimed. "B-but you get it, don't you? I-I can't sit here and snipe at you when you're... it's not like when we're here a-and we can fix it quick. I-I can't be annoyed at you from so far away. Y-you get it, don't you?"
Douglas wanted to say no – no, he didn't get it. He didn't want Martin to go. He'd be nice – he'd be the best he could possibly be. But Martin was still talking and Douglas kept shaking his head.
"A-and I know you're trying hard – I-I know you're trying to be the best you can, a-and you can't do that with me distracting you. Y-you've got to prioritise-"
"Fine!"
Douglas didn't know what made his say it, other than the sickening flurry of ice that ran through him. Martin's shocked eyes, wide and glistening, taunted him from the screen and he scrunched up his nose to stop from letting tears fall. He didn't want to take a break. He didn't want to lose the only reason they really had to talk anymore – not when he was so far from home.
"W-what?"
"I said fine!" Douglas repeated. Sniffling, refusing to admit it, he gave in to a flush of anger – at himself or at Martin, he didn't know. "Let's break up – thank for checking in!" he snapped, letting sarcasm seep into his tone. "I s'pose I'll see you when it's all over."
Then he slammed the screen shut, turning it dark. Martin's hasty shout was cut off and Douglas hated that it was – now all he could hear was his own erratic breathing and the thunk as he dropped his head on his desk, sending pens flying.
Sender: Arthur Shappey
Recipient: Theresa Bonaventura
Hi, Theresa,
I'm sorry to hear your signals not brilliant at the moment. And I'm really excited to hear you're heading back towards England – so that's East? Or West? One of the directions at least. I can't wait to see all the pictures.
Actually, I wanted to ask you a question. I might as well ask instead of waiting for you to email me back saying I can, and then I'd have to send another email, and it'd get really silly. I was wondering whether you've spoken to Martin?
I've spoken to Martin, obviously, cos we work together. But I don't think he's been talking to Douglas. So I was wondering whether it's just Douglas, or if Martin's not speaking to anyone at all except the people he has to see. He seems quite sad but he won't tell me what's wrong.
Lots of love, Arthur.x
Sender: Theresa Bonaventura
Recipient: Arthur Shappey
Arthur, darling – I've missed you.
And I'm glad you wrote. I'll be sure to take some more pictures when I pass through, especially of the roads. I've seen lots of yellow cars that I need to add to my tally.
As for Martin... I haven't spoken to him, no. I'll try though. You know what he's like. Have you tried getting in touch with Douglas? I know he's been struggling a little. He won't admit it, but it's hard being away from home.
I'll see what I can find out.
Hope you are well.
Theresa.x
Sender: Arthur Shappey.
Recipient: Theresa Bonaventura
Hi, Theresa.
I talked to Douglas and he says Martin broke up with him. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do about that, so... yeah, basically. Not that brilliant.
But, on the bright side, Douglas is talking to me a lot now. He's called every day this week, which is great. Although, maybe not that great, because I think he's only calling because he's really upset and he wants someone to talk to. He sounded quite drunk last time.
Can you do anything to fix it?
Lots of love, Arthur.x
Sender: Theresa Bonaventura
Recipient: Arthur Shappey
Arthur, dear, I can't sort it for them. Neither of us can. I'm not sure what there even is to sort. You know I would if I could.
I talked to Martin. I told him I knew they broke up and he crumbled – he's not as good at keeping secrets as he thinks. Turns out he asked to take a break, and then somehow they ended up breaking up for good. But he's not sure. He hasn't called Douglas to check, but I passed on what you said Douglas said to you... we shouldn't make a habit of that.
I mean it, Arthur. Don't let them use you as a go between.
He's glad to hear you're worried though. Grateful is probably a better word. I think he's going to try and be nicer at work – if he's acting strange – stranger, that's why. Just give him a hug from me.
Douglas is your best friend though. I think you need to talk to him properly – or let him talk to you about what really matters.
I'll be home in a few months. Can't wait to see you. All of you.
Theresa.x
Sender: Arthur Shappey
Recipient: Theresa Bonaventura
Hi, Theresa
I know you said not to be a go between, but it's really hard. Are they still both talking to you? Douglas is telling me things, and Martin's getting sad at work. This morning I had to call a code red on him because he was being rude to Mr Birling – he's a posh man who likes to get drunk. I think Martin was upset because Douglas has been drunk the last few times he's called – or maybe I'm wrong.
Basically, are they calling you as well or is it just me?
Lots of love, Arthur.
Sender: Theresa Bonaventura
Recipient: Arthur Shappey,
Oh, Arthur, it's not just you – but you see them more.
I'm sorry you have to deal with this on your own. If anything awful happens, call me and I'll have a word with them both.
Theresa. X
Sender: Arthur Shappey
Recipient: Theresa Bonaventura
Hi, Theresa
It's not that bad. I'm actually glad they're talking to me. At least then they're talking, and that's good, even if I think they'd do better if they talked to each other instead of telling me to pass on messages. I'm not sure I want to repeat some of the things Douglas said – some are rude, others are just... they're really, really sad. I think he misses home.
Did your flight get in on time? France is nice this time of year. I know because I was there yesterday, and it was brilliant. The sun shone all day. Martin said something about Douglas speaking French and then disappeared inside GERTI until we left.
Lots of love, Arthur.
Sender: Theresa Bonaventura
Recipient: Arthur Shappey
Arthur, go to Martin's house and stop him before he leaves. Tell him he can't go to Oxford and wait for Douglas – I tried last night but he won't listen. Run him over with your car if you have to. He's in a stupid mood. Douglas won't appreciate it.
Theresa.x
Sender: Arthur Shappey
Recipient: Theresa Bonaventura
Hi, Theresa,
Um, this might sound weird but, Douglas asked me to tell Martin something and I'm not sure whether I should – or it might have been don't tell Martin, and I'm still not sure whether I should. Mum says I should keep out of it. I don't think I should.
Martin still has loads of Douglas' things apparently and he needs something for his course – or because he's missing home. I'm not sure what he meant. He said a lot of things. It just seems mean to take anything away from Martin at the moment. What should I do?
Arthur.
Sender: Theresa Bonaventura
Recipient: Arthur Shappey
Arthur, is there anything you and your mother would like from the airport? Apart from Toblerone? See, I remembered!
Have things calmed down? I haven't heard anything for a few weeks.
I should see you soon, hopefully.
Theresa.x
Sender: Arthur Shappey
Recipient: Theresa Bonaventura
Hi, Theresa,
I wouldn't say things have calmed down exactly. They've just got quieter and more glary. Douglas isn't enjoying his exams so I think he's forgotten that he's upset about Martin – or maybe he's more upset. Last time he called he asked how Martin was feeling, so that's good, I think? I told Martin Douglas asked and he got sad, so maybe it wasn't good.
Douglas is coming back to stay with me over the summer. Martin knows. He hasn't said much about it really. He's been really quiet at work and he's been spending more time with his dad. I thought he was calling you though. If I'd known he wasn't, I'd have said something.
These past few months have been a bit horrible, haven't they?
I mean, they've been brilliant, because I'm getting really good at this and you're coming home, but... still not great.
It'll be fine though.
Lots of love, Arthur.x
Sender: Theresa Bonaventura
Recipient: Arthur Shappey
Arthur, I'm so sorry.
About all of it. But also, I've just realised. How're things with Tiffy? I forgot to ask.
Theresa.x
Sender: Arthur Shappey
Recipient: Theresa Bonaventura
Things are great with Tiffy. It's Martin and Douglas I'm worried about.
He couldn't believe that a year had passed. Nevertheless, as Martin stacked up each rejection letter, the truth was undeniable – either that or he had slipped back in time. No... this time he was resigned, but there were no tears.
A part of him had known anyway.
A bitter truth wormed its way through Martin's core as he vacated the house. He could have gone to his parents, or visited Arthur – he could have called Theresa or, god forbid, Douglas... Douglas would be sympathetic, he was sure. But he wouldn't want to hear it. They hadn't spoken in so long – months, only, but knowing that he couldn't pick up the phone and tell Douglas that he loved him, have Douglas tease him and call him Captain even though he would never be even the lowest rank of pilot... Martin couldn't stand talking to anyone.
So Martin pulled on a light jumper, fetched two bottles of beer from the fridge... went back for a coat so that he could put one bottle in a deep pocket... and then wandered out into the streets of Fitton. He didn't drink and walk. He had some pride left and plenty of shame.
What the hell was he supposed to do?
Martin didn't want to spend the rest of his life as a steward. He didn't want to work with his dad's van for the next fifty years. As a way to get easy money, sure – as a gateway to flight-school, definitely. But not as a last resort. Martin's head span at the very idea – nausea gripped him as the determination, hot and fiery, faded from his bones and left them hollow.
Did the world just not want him to fly?
He was going to do it – Martin was damn well going to do it, but now... now he had no idea how. Now, all Martin wanted to do was fade out of existence until his head had cleared and he felt less sick, and people would stop asking him whether he was alright. Flight-school didn't want him – that path was closed. He'd find another way – maybe that way wouldn't work either.
As he often did, Martin found himself wondering what Douglas would do.
In the end, Martin dropped down on the bench outside the local park with a bottle in hand. He was out of sight, in the shadow of a few trees. While he drank, he sniffled and stared at the ground – occasionally glancing up at the sky but seeing nothing- no planes, no clouds, nothing at all to add to his misery. And yet, it remained just as heavy as it had before. Even the slurring nature of tipsiness did nothing to ease the churning in his chest.
In fact, it got worse.
By the time he reached his second bottle, Martin was dragging his hands through his hair and dropped his brow down onto his knees, gritting his teeth against the urge to yell.
It wasn't fair – it wasn't fair that he could do everything right and still get kicked back.
"Martin?"
At the sound of his name, Martin's head snapped up.
He was met with the sight of Theresa, skin a shade darker than usual, hair cut short around her ears, blinking down at him with sympathetic disapproval. Relief washed through him so quickly that he could only let out a wet half-sob and a wobbly smile as he pushed himself to his feet, leaving the bottle behind.
"Wh-when did you get here?"
Theresa smiled wanly and opened her arms to receive him. She hugged him warmly, patting the back of his neck before stepping back and holding him at arm's length. It was easy to see she wasn't impressed, but she did seem pleased to see him.
"A little while ago," she said. "I went to your house, but you weren't there. Obviously..."
"Sorry – I-I'm sorry... I knew you were coming back today. Y-you told me," Martin stammered. He pushed the back of his sleeve under his nose and did his best to blink away the dampness at his eyes. Try as he might, he couldn't dismiss them completely. "I-I've just had a lot on my mind. B-but enough about me – how was your flight? Did you get unpacked okay? H-how's your mum – and Maxi?"
"Oh, I'm sure we can get to that," Theresa sighed. Slowly, she came to his side and hooked an arm through his. Her presence was steadying, and Martin allowed himself to be led. "I think you and I need to have a little talk."
Martin's heart sank.
"Y-you're mad at me, aren't you?"
"Not mad, no. Just worried. And I like my friends sober, you big lightweight," Theresa said, and she nudged him in the ribs. Despite the firmness of her lead, she smiled and gave his arm a gentle squeeze. "Someone else is back in a few days," she said, "And from what Arthur's told me, he's in as bad a state as you. You're both idiots."
Back in Fitton for the first time since Christmas, and Douglas was practically motionless. Even from inside the big glass bus station, the town looked different in summer. He had forgotten how much he liked the quietness of it all – there wasn't nearly as much bustle as there was in Oxford. Douglas sat atop his suitcase, his bag by his feet, staring out at the fractured slithers of light that poured in from overhead.
He had promised Arthur that he would come to stay, but he wasn't sure that he could now.
Things weren't the same as when he had left. He was one year closer to his new career, Arthur was a working man, and Martin... he wasn't sure that Martin would even want to see him. Douglas didn't know what he would say if they crossed paths, but he really desperately wanted to see him – just to look at Martin and know if he was coping or falling apart.
Douglas wasn't falling apart; not outwardly. He had plenty of practice in surviving misery – all he had to do was get on with things and people would assume that he was fine.
In the end, Douglas didn't go to his parents, or choose to sleep rough. He went to Arthur's because that was the comfortable option, and he would never choose anything less. He accepted Arthur's hugs and concern, and Carolyn's sideways glances that could have meant anything, and then excused himself, lying and saying that he needed some fresh air after the long bus ride. Anything for some peace and quiet.
Douglas' feet carried him to the airfield. He didn't go inside, but he ambled along the fence, looking in at the expanses of green and the glittering aircraft that trundled along the tarmac. Here and there, people in yellow jackets cut clear paths across the space.
Douglas sniffled slightly, and then hated himself for it.
The airfield had come to feel more like home than anywhere else. It was ridiculous but he didn't want to leave yet. So he stayed, wandering around the perimeter... until he walked slap-bang into Martin.
Martin let out a high-pitched exclamation as Douglas' hand flew to his own chest. It seemed he hadn't been the only one not looking where he was going. His surprise lasted only a moment – the next his eyes travelled ravenously over Martin's face and down, taking in the pale face but the otherwise steady stance.
"Y-you're back then?" Martin asked.
Douglas' voice caught in his throat.
"I'm back," he said. "You're... still here?"
"Nowhere else to go," Martin scoffed. At that, his cheeks flushed and he shot the airfield a withering glare – closer to a glower – and kicked at the ground, scuffing his shoe in the mud. "I-I didn't get in – of course I didn't. No flight-school's going to take me."
"Martin, I'm so sorry-"
Martin scoffed again, as he buried his hands in his pockets and turned his eyes to the ground.
"Yeah."
"I mean it, Martin."
"I-I believe you," Martin said curtly, nodding as if to himself. His eyes flashed as they shot up to Douglas' face, and Douglas felt shame swell in his chest under the other boy's gaze. Martin had been the one who had tried to be reasonable. Now his expression was indecipherable. "I-I believe you, I do... I just... don't, Douglas."
For once, Douglas did as he was told. He wanted to move closer, but was afraid of what would happen if he did. Instead, he nodded and tore his eyes from Martin's, unable to look any longer. It suddenly felt colder outside than it had before. Unlike Martin, he wasn't wearing a coat. It had been warmer in the city.
He was surprised when Martin spoke again.
"H-how did your exams go?"
Douglas shrugged and took the pause as an excuse to step closer – sway really. Martin didn't resist. He turned so that his back was to the airfield and leaned back against the fence, allowing the slack to support his weight. Douglas did the same, leaving space so that their arms didn't brush.
"Well, they're over now," he said. "Nothing I can do until next term."
"A-actually, there's probably a lot you can do."
"Yes, technically, but I'm not going to do it," Douglas retorted. "You know me, Martin."
"I do actually!" Martin shot back, a mangled laugh making him shrill. Even so, he turned his head and looked Douglas in the eye, the corners of his lips twitched as he averted his gaze again. He took a deep breath – allowing Douglas to do the same – and sighed. "Yeah, I do... so you're alright then?"
Raising an eyebrow, Douglas ignored the twisting and curling in his guts. He wrung his hands in his inner pocket, careful not to let Martin see.
"In what sense?"
Martin shrugged.
"Any sense."
"Are you alright?" Douglas asked instead of answering.
Martin shrugged again.
"I-I'll get there, probably," he said. "I need a new plan though."
"You'll get that too," Douglas assured him softly. "You're not one to give up."
Martin's brow furrowed as he stared, and Douglas didn't care to decipher what he was thinking. It was nice to be looked at. They hadn't had a conversation like this in... longer than Douglas cared to remember.
He wanted to try and kiss Martin, in some kind of grand romantic gesture.
He wanted his friend back more. That came as a surprise.
Douglas wasn't sure why they didn't part then. He was glad they didn't. Had they walked away, he wouldn't have ended up on the airfield as the sun dipped towards the horizon, Martin at his side, whispering in low tones as they scrambled up the side of the porta-cabin and onto the roof. From there they could see the runway – perfect for viewing the late arrivals, big and small... mostly small.
"I-I was thinking about this the other day," Martin explained, murmuring and leaning close so that Douglas could hear him without alerting the grounds crew to their presence. His breath puffed past Douglas' cheek. "N-not you and me up here, b-but just... up here. I-it's the only place apart from the ATC tower that we can see everything from – see – see!"
As Martin pointed out at the horizon, the lights of an incoming jet appeared and grew larger.
"I can see it," Douglas replied. He settled down, taking care not to rest his weight on Martin, even though Martin was leaning close to get a better view of the plane. "That's a good eye you've got there."
"Th-that's not exactly news," Martin said. "I know I've got a good eye."
Douglas chuckled and Martin prodded him with his elbow.
"Hey!"
"Hey yourself – I-I've been plane spotting since I was four," Martin said. "I-I'd like to see you pick that out from a crowd."
"I know what it is," Douglas retorted. "That's the one from your shelf."
This time, Martin laughed, doing nothing to cover it up. It was a low sound, different from his usual shrill tone, and it made his whole form light up – Douglas could feel the heat. They didn't get any closer, but they talked and talked, and Martin nearly slipped when he got up to get a clearer look at a plane in the dark.
"I've really missed you," Douglas said softly, when they were seated side by side again.
"I-I've missed you too," Martin replied, just as quietly. There was something sad in his voice, and he didn't meet Douglas' gaze.
They didn't talk about getting back together – or about working out whether they'd really broken up or just imagined it. Douglas wished that Martin would start the conversation, but he never did, and Douglas didn't have the guts. So... he cherished the lack of a fight and stayed with Martin until the floodlights were the only illumination they could see, and walked with him as far as Arthur's house.
When they said goodbye, Douglas' hand brushed Martin's, but no kisses were shared.