To: Gabe Foster

From: Dylan Mitchell

 

It’s scary how easy it is to fall into a sex only relationship when you’re in love with that person and he doesn’t know. It’s easy because when he’s inside me we’re connected, and the only person that he’s thinking about is me. Work means nothing to him at that point, and neither do other men. He’s all mine, and if I feel dishonest in the fact that this is a one-sided relationship with me being the top-heavy element and him having no idea, I push it away in the heat and sweat of our times together.

For the next few weeks, we can’t be in the same room and not be on each other. We have become the masters of the silent fuck at work, locking ourselves in his office and riding each other to climax, biting our hands or clothes to stop the shouts waiting to come out.

Take now for instance. I had leant over his shoulder to point out a discrepancy in a document, and he’d turned his head slightly to look at me. His eyes had darkened, and now we’re lying on the floor, half under his desk. His shirt is hanging off one shoulder, the arm seam ripped where I’d fisted it, and his trousers are round his ankles. I’m stark, bollock naked apart from one black sock. We’re both covered in sweat and come and breathing heavily.

“Fuck,” he mutters, turning on his side to face me and running his hand down my chest, rubbing his fingers into my happy trail. I arch into his touch, my cock incredibly twitching again. “I can’t bloody get enough of you. It’s fucking ridiculous. I’ve never -”

He breaks off, and hope that’s never far from me flares. “Never what?”

He shoots me an inscrutable glance. “I’ve never been so hot for a man. I only have to look at you, and my cock’s hard as a post. I only have to smell you, feel your body, and I’m ready to come.”

I roll to face him. “And that’s a problem?”

His hair has flopped rather endearingly over his forehead, and I reach up to push it back tenderly. Too tenderly obviously, because he stiffens and moves away, grabbing the full, wrinkled condom from his cock and tying it expertly.

He pulls his trousers up, and rolling to his feet lithely he holds out a hand to help me up. I repress a sigh and let him heave me up, before trailing after him to his bathroom, leaning against the door as I watch him start the shower.

“You want first go?” he asks, jerking his head towards the running water.

Not going to share it then obviously? Sadness runs through me at the customary pulling away job he enacts after every fuck. Becoming aware that he’s staring at me, I straighten and chill my expression. “I’ll go first,” I mutter, and after stripping off my one sock I edge past him into the hot spray, ignoring the hand he puts out to me.

“You okay?” he asks, surprising concern running through his quicksilver eyes for a brief second.

“I’m fine.” I lather up his shower gel between my palms, smelling the fragrance of spiced oranges which is so familiar to me now. At night when I’m alone in bed I can smell it on me, as if a little bit of him is with me holding me close. Not the real thing though. He never stays the night. We get off together and then he gets off … home. I’ve caught Jude’s head shake of disapproval a few times too many lately.

Becoming aware of him still staring at me, I school myself. “Just thinking about the Christmas drinks, and what I’m going to have.”

He smiles, relief running over his face immediately. He’s a conundrum, this man. Doesn’t want to hurt me, is worried about it so much, and then does it every time. “Not too much,” he chuckles. “Don’t forget last year and the arse picture.”

I let the water pound down on my shoulders, twisting to get clean and feeling his hot gaze running down my body. “I don’t think I could top that.”

He groans. “Don’t say topping. You’ll get me hard again.”

I shake my head and smirk, sending my gaze down to the bulge in his trousers. “Too late.”

I leave the warmth of the spray and go to squeeze past him, but he catches me with a warm towel in his hand. I still as he rubs the soft fabric over me, and warmth flows through me for a second at the tenderness I’m sure he’s unaware of exhibiting. He does this all the time, little moments of care and warmth in a sea of hot sex followed by indifference. It’s what’s keeping me stuck in this one-sided relationship, the glimpse of what could be.

He pulls away, and kicking his trousers off he steps into the shower too, and now it’s my turn to watch avidly as the water runs down his body, making him look like a soft porn video. He looks up. “I’ve put a spare change of clothes in the cupboard for you.”

I shake my head. Gabe’s a caveman sometimes, and nothing revs his engine at these times quite as much as ripping my clothes off me. I’d be a hypocrite if I complained because it turns me on so much, but the cost to my wardrobe was looking high at one point. However, deaf to my intense protests, he bought several outfits for me and stashed them in the cupboard. It seemed too much like shades of Fletcher and his kept man persona to me, but he’d ignored my protests and carried on doing it. Every time he rips my clothes off, the next day a new outfit will be hanging in what is becoming our cupboard. They aren’t even cheap as designer labels abound, and it still makes me uncomfortable.

I move away from the door to get dressed, pulling on some skinny, grey trousers, a white shirt, red tie and grey v-neck jumper, and steadfastly ignoring the Ralph Lauren labels. Then I hesitate. “Are you coming to the party?”

He looks up and nods. “Yes. I’ve got to sign those documents, and then I’ll be with you.”

Not really, I think sourly, and the thought makes me hesitate over my next question. It’s been hovering on my lips over the last few weeks as Christmas looms. I haven’t voiced it because the potential for it to go wrong is high, but now I just think fuck it, it’s Christmas.

“What are you doing for Christmas?”

He shuts the shower off, and gets out, taking the towel I hand him and rubbing it briskly over his body. I drag my gaze away from the dips and swell of his muscles glistening with water that would feel really nice under my tongue, and look up at him for an answer.

He shrugs. “Not much. I’ve got a lot of work to do, so I’ll probably come in over the holidays when it’s nice and quiet.”

“Work,” I say in disgust, and he grins.

“Dylan, your aptitude for business is astounding.”

“Shut up,” I grumble. “You can’t work over Christmas. What about friends? Are you seeing them?” A thought occurs to me, and the question is out before I can help it. “Will you be going to any clubs?”

A dark look crosses his face, and something else I don’t recognise. “I doubt that I’ll visit any clubs.” He shoots me a warning look. “Although if I wanted to, I would. You don’t own me.”

I jerk and he stills, staring hard at me, and that something crosses his face again before it softens slightly. “I won’t do that before telling you, Dylan. I wouldn’t fuck another man without you knowing.”

I feel the gorge rise in my throat at the thought of him with someone else, but manage to suppress it. I agreed to this, and I’ve been a willing participant in it. I can’t therefore whine when he doesn’t say the right things.

He carries on talking quickly, as if he wants to get past the tense moment. “I won’t see much of friends. Everyone’s busy at Christmas.”

“Even Henry?”

“Yes, Henry will be with his family.” He pulls his black, pinstriped suit from the cupboard and smiles at me. “When are you off to your family?”

I stare hard at him as he pulls on his shirt and trousers and knots a gold-coloured tie, his long fingers steady and sure. “Tomorrow morning. I’ll catch the morning train. Seriously, Gabe, you’re going to be on your own?”

He looks bewildered. “I’m used to it.” He looks at my face and groans. “Don’t do that look, Dylan. I’m fine, and I actually enjoy it.”

“Surely not,” I say in disgust, and he laughs, his teeth white in his tanned face. “Gabe, no one should be on their own at Christmas.” I pause, and the words flood out of me. “Come with me instead. Come and have Christmas with me.”

“What?” The laughter dies out of his face, and shock replaces it. “I can’t do that.”

“Of course you can. My family are used to big crowds at Christmas. There are usually a couple of girlfriends and boyfriends hanging around.” I falter at the look on his face that advises caution. “Not that we’re boyfriends. I mean they’re used to additional people and friends. They love it. There’s plenty of room, and the countryside around there is beautiful. You haven’t lived until you spend Christmas walking along the beach with the wind in your face.”

He shakes his head, and for a brief second, warmth and a sort of sad yearning crosses his face. Then he chills and folds his arms. “It’s a lovely invitation, but I couldn’t.” I open my mouth to protest, and he shuts me down firmly. “I like my space, Dylan. I wouldn’t be good company in a family setting.” He draws me close and into his arms. “Thank you though. I don’t think I’ve ever been asked to a family Christmas before.”

“Really?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know why, but people seem to get a bit of a fuck off vibe from me.”

I smile. “I can’t understand that at all.” I wrap my arms around his neck, drawing his head down to me, and moan under my breath as our lips touch. He rubs them together gently, before tangling his tongue lazily with mine. We kiss slowly and languidly, and then he astonishes me by pulling me close and lowering his head onto my shoulder.

“When are you back?” he asks almost hesitantly, as if fearing that I’ll take encouragement from his words. Well, I can’t help but do that very thing, because to my ears it sounds wistful.

“I know you’re going to miss me,” I say in a deliberately, smug voice. His head shoots up and he glares at me. “Don’t worry, Gabe, you’re not alone. London will be thronged with wailing men mourning my absence for a whole week, so go out and join them if you feel isolated. Don’t be ashamed. They’re your brethren.”

“Fuck off,” he laughs, and then reaches up, toying with my hair absentmindedly. “I will miss you though,” he says, and although it’s truculent and begrudging, my heart fills with warmth.

“Well if you do miss me, the offer’s open,” I say softly. “Just come. I’ve left the address on your desk.”

He looks wildly at the desk as if it’s going to threaten him in some way, and I smile sadly. He won’t accept anything given to him willingly.

“Just think about it,” I whisper into his ear, feeling him shudder slightly. “And just for the record, Gabe. I’ll be missing you too.”

***

Three days later, on Christmas Eve, I sit at the big table in the kitchen of my family’s farmhouse. It’s a beautiful day that comes very rarely in December. The sun is bright and cold, shining through the low windows and glancing off the masses of photo frames littering the Welsh dresser. They trace me and my siblings seemingly through every stage of our development and are set randomly amongst the beautiful, warm, clear colours of my mum’s Poole pottery collection.

The radio is on in the background as we wait for Pop Master on Radio Two. My mum and I have been doing it for years, and even after I left home we’d still text each other, gloating and smug if we’d beaten each other. A pile of ironing is resting on the corner of the kitchen table, and on top, a small tabby cat called Katie is slumbering happily.

I stare down at the wooden surface of the table. It’s older than any of us, and belonged to my dad’s grandmother. It brings back so many memories of family dinners and sitting at it kicking the legs while I tried to do my homework.

If I look carefully I can find my brother’s initials on one corner and the words, ‘Dylan is a giant poo head’. He’d carved it when he was seven and I was five, and apparently, I’d been aggravating him. The aggravation had increased for him when my dad had found the carving, but for some reason my mum had refused to sandpaper it out and still laughs when she sees it.

A cup of tea appears in front of me, and my mum runs her hands through my hair, giving me a whiff of lilac and linseed oil. It’s her smell and the scent of our childhood surrounding me. It had been there when I’d fallen and skimmed my knees, right up to the embarrassed, hot tears when my first love had supposedly broken my heart.

“Nearly time,” she hums happily, looking at the ugly wall clock made by my sister. It’s the only artistic thing that any of us have ever done, and my mum loves it. “Ready to get your arse handed to you with my superior music knowledge?”

“Dream big,” I snark, and she gives her big, raucous laugh that makes the brown and grey curls of her hair jiggle and bounce.

She reaches into a cupboard and removes the cake tin with the picture of Charles and Diana on it. She’d loved Diana, declaring her a free spirit who’d been crushed by the oppressive palace machine, and had made me go with her to London to chuck flowers at Diana’s coffin as it had passed. It had been both touching, and hideously embarrassing.

I’d tried to use the excuse of having to go to school to get out of it, but my mum had declared loudly that her children would not bow down to the oppression of the Department of Education. Luckily my dad had written a sick note, but I’d still spent the entire trip with a baseball cap on and my head low so the cameras didn’t inadvertently catch me. My fears were well founded, because Jude had been suspended once for saying he had chicken pox and then being caught at a Take That concert. He’d been on the front page of The Sun gazing adoringly at Howard Donald.

She opens the tin and I groan. “Oh God, is that your apple cake?”

She smiles. “I baked it to welcome you home. It’s your favourite.”

“You’re my favourite mum, I’m so happy,” I sigh, as she cuts a large slice and puts it on a plate for me. “But make sure that you hide it from Ben. He’ll eat the whole bloody lot.”

She chuckles at the thought of my brother, and for a second the only sounds are our happy sighs as we munch the cake. Then she pushes her empty plate away and shoots me a keen glance. “What’s on your mind, Dyl?”

I look up, catching her warm-brown eyes resting on me. “Nothing’s wrong.”

She shakes her head. “Yes, there is. I know the heart of you, and you’ve never been able to hide anything from me.”

“I know that.” Thinking carefully, I shrug and offer a slight titbit, in the hope she’ll ignore the big picture of my life. “I hope you don’t mind, but I invited a friend to stay for Christmas.”

In some families that might be cause for an apocalyptic explosion, but never in mine. My mum and dad have always encouraged us to have friends, and then later boyfriends and girlfriends round to the house. My mum loves company, and the house was always full when we were growing up. We’d grown used to rubbing shoulders with people that she’d befriended, and the wannabe artists who came to her workshops, held in the barn where her studio is. Christmas and other holidays always had a few extra people added, and she’d never raised an eyebrow.

Like now, when she just smiles. “Of course it’s alright. I presume it’s a man.”

I shake my head. “Never presume.” She stares at me, and I laugh. “Yes, it’s a bloke, but don’t make a big deal of it, Mum. He’s a friend, and he hasn’t got any family.”

Her gaze softens instantly. “Oh, poor man. Are they dead?”

I nod and tell her about Gabe ending up in care, and when I’ve finished she looks sad. “If he does come, don’t say anything, Mum, because that’s private. I just wanted you to know so you didn’t put your foot in it.” I sigh and run my finger along a rough patch in the wood, feeling it catch at my fingertips. “He won’t come anyway, but I had to mention it because if you’d shown any sign of astonishment at him turning up, he’d have been back in his car like a bloody greyhound.”

I look up and she’s staring at me. “Not just a friend then?” she smiles.

“Yes, he’s a friend,” I protest. “Nothing else.”

She shakes her head. “Dylan, you have never been able to fool me since you were a little boy, and you never will, because to me you’re still that small boy inside.”

“How do you know these things?” I groan, and she laughs.

“One sign is that your left eye twitches, but I’ll tell you no more. I need to keep the rest of my secrets in my bag of tricks.”

“Well, you’re wrong this time,” I protest roundly, and then feel the twitch in my eye. “Oh, damn it.” She laughs, and I slump. “Okay, we might be seeing each other, but it’s not serious and it won’t ever be. He’s not the type for relationships.”

She looks at me steadily, and a little sadly. “He might not be, but you are, Dyl. You’re a nester by nature and a born nurturer. You’re my little Florence Nightingale.”

“Oh God, please don’t call me that, and especially not ever in front of Gabe.”

She laughs raucously and then stills. “You’re in love with him, this unexpected guest, aren’t you?”

I look up, startled and horrified. “I’m not in love. I don’t want to be.” Her warm-brown eyes soften, and I sigh. “It’s complicated.”

She grabs my hand. “Dylan, love is complicated, darling. As humans, we don’t seem to value or work for anything that comes too easily, but give us hard work, and we’ll activate a death grip.”

I look at her. “Mum, he wouldn’t want that love. I don’t think he’d even know what to do with it.”

She sighs and looks sad. “If his childhood was deprived of love, it will be hard. He’ll probably need love like no one else, and you can give that, Dylan. You’re one of the most loving people that I’ve met, but it won’t be easy. When you’ve gone years alone you develop a hard shell, and sometimes that shell never cracks.” She squeezes my hand. “Be careful, sweetheart. This might not be an easy thing, and it might not end happily.”

I look up sharply, and she stares at me and then nods. “You’re not a quitter by nature. Why don’t you see where it goes? But look after your heart, darling, because once it’s been really broken, it never heals properly.”

“It’s all supposition at the moment,” I say sourly. “I miss him terribly, but he’s probably quite happy in London and not missing me at all.”

She opens her mouth to speak, but at that moment we hear the crunching of gravel on the drive outside, indicating a car arriving. “Is that Ben?” I ask. My brother is at Edinburgh University.

Mum shakes her head. “Don’t think so, love. He’s not due until tonight, and he’s catching a train.” The oven pings and she hustles over. “Go and see who it is, Dylan, while I take this cake out.”

I nod, standing up and moving along the flagstone corridor to the front door. I hear a car door slam and the crunching of footsteps before there’s a sharp knock on the door. For some inexplicable reason my heart starts to race, and I quicken my steps. I fling the door open, and then gape in astonishment. “Gabe!”

He’s standing with his hand raised to knock again. He looks utterly gorgeous, dressed in faded jeans with a blue-checked flannel shirt and a thick, navy, hooded cardigan. For a long second I stand and gape because he looks almost alien here, accustomed as I am to seeing him in an urban setting.

At his first sight of me, a huge smile had almost involuntarily spread across his face, as he took in my appearance. I’m only dressed in old jeans and a band t-shirt under an orange plaid shirt, but he stares at me with hungry eyes as if I’m wearing a tuxedo. However, as my stunned silence grows, the smile fades, and his customary, cool expression surfaces. “Hello. Earth to Dylan.”

I snap out of my daze. “You came.”

“Well, clearly, oh Master of the Blindingly Obvious.”

I laugh out loud. “I never thought I’d be so pleased to hear you sniping.”

He shifts almost awkwardly. “Why?”

“Because I missed you of course.” The honesty of the statement makes it emerge with no sign of awkwardness.

For a second he looks almost bashful, but then he straightens. “Do you usually spend the holidays on the doorstep around here?”

I jerk and laugh. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m just so fucking stunned to see you.”

He stares at me. “You did invite me, didn’t you?”

I nod energetically.

“Well, here I am.” He looks slightly anxious. “Did you mean it, Dylan?” he asks in a low voice. “If you didn’t I can -”

“Oh no you fucking don’t,” I hiss, grabbing his arm to stop his backwards momentum, and dragging him over the doorstep. “Come in. Of course you’re welcome.”

He trips as he comes through the doorway, landing against me as I automatically brace to stop him falling. As soon as our bodies touch the customary electricity races through us from me to him, like lightning being conducted. It’s so strong that my body absorbs his shudder, and I groan under my breath. “Gabe,” I whimper, and he jerks.

“Fuck, Dylan I missed -” He breaks off to take my mouth in a feverish kiss, but my heart soars at the broken off words. He missed me. He pushes his tongue into my mouth, and the familiar sweet taste of his mouth overwhelms me, and I press closer and closer, feeling the hard thrust of his cock against mine.

He grunts and grabs my arse, clutching me hard, and then breaks away from me with a muffled curse as I hear my mum shout from down the hall. “Dylan, who was at the door?”

“It’s Gabe, mum,” I shout out, ignoring his attempt to shush me.

“Well don’t keep him out in the cold. Bring him in.”

“Okay,” I shout and grab him close as he tries to move away. I kiss him lustily, and then pull away to whisper in his ear, “Don’t say that you’re my boss.” He shudders wildly at my breath in his ear and looks at me quizzically, so I nod emphatically. “Mum has some really seventies ideas about bosses exploiting the proletariat.” I catch his eye and smile. “Seriously, she’s one donkey jacket short of a protest march most of the time. Now come and meet her.”

I grab his hand and tug him down the hallway, feeling the familiar, warm clasp of his fingers. I’ve felt his hands all over my body, on my dick, in my hair and between my legs sending his fingers into my body. However, somehow this warm grip feels the most intimate in the corridor of my childhood home.

I throw the door open and usher him in. He looks around, and I see the kitchen of my home through new eyes. The farmhouse is low lying to avoid the cold winds that blow across the fields from the sea. The kitchen is large and flagstoned, and over the years my mother’s personality has stamped itself on the room. The cabinets are light oak, and the walls have been painted a light, clear red and echo the red and white patterned tiles which were hand painted by her.

However, his gaze snags on the huge painting that fills the wall over the kitchen table. It’s one of my mum’s abstract paintings of a red sky over the sea, and its reds, golds and blues echo those in the Poole pottery, and seem to catch the light streaming through the window. “Jesus, that’s a Rebecca Poulson, isn’t it?”

He jumps as my mum laughs and emerges from the pantry, clutching a tea towel. “I think it might be, young man. You know my work?”

He stares at her lost for words, and I enjoy the rare occasion. “I do,” he finally says. “I have several of your paintings at home.”

“He does, Mum. He has your tropical flowers in his lounge.”

He shoots me a glance. “I do, but surprisingly you have never once mentioned that Rebecca Poulson is your mother.”

I shrug and grin. “It never came up.”

His gaze threatens retribution, but my mum comes towards him. “You must be Gabe. Dylan mentioned that you were coming for Christmas.”

“I am,” he says almost nervously. “Is that okay?” He breaks off with a gasp as she hugs him lightly. At first his arms hang loose, and then he tentatively firms his grip, staring at her as she moves back.

“Of course it’s fine, but I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to hugging. We’re a family of huggers,” she says warmly, and I feel a shaft of love towards her. My mum is awesome.

“I’ve noticed,” he says blandly. “Dylan hasn’t managed a minute for the last two years without touching some place on me.”

I’m sure it’s a joke, but for some reason, a vivid picture fills my mind of my hand holding his cock as I kneel at his feet in the office and direct it towards my mouth. He stares at me, his eyes darkening, and I know he’s thinking of the same thing. Before it gets too heated, I clear my throat. “Well, that’s us, the touchers.” I pause. “Fuck. That makes us sound like one of those inappropriate, pervy cults. The sort that you’d need your safe place to think of if you’re around us.”

My mum lets out a peal of laughter and pushes Gabe towards the table. “Sit down, Gabe, and I’ll make a coffee. Dylan, cut a slice of cake for him. After your drink, Dylan can take you upstairs and you can unpack.” She smiles widely at him. “You’ll be in with Dylan. As you’re a friend of his, you can sleep on the pull-out bed.” She winks. “Unless you’re feeling really friendly, and then you can share his bed.”

I groan and Gabe promptly chokes on the cake he’s just put in his mouth, making me laugh loudly as I pat him on the back. Catching his breath, his eyes are caught by my brother’s carving on the table. “Who wrote this?” he asks my mum, who laughs as she brings his coffee over.

“That was Dylan’s brother, Simon. Dylan had been particularly annoying that day.”

“What a wonderful idea,” he murmurs. “I can really empathise with Simon. In fact, I think I might get my penknife out and carve a few things on my desk at work. Your brother must be extraordinarily clever, Dylan.”

My mum guffaws. “I’ll leave you to make your own mind up on that one, Gabe. He was the child who broke his foot karate-kicking the wall.” Gabe laughs and then looks slightly alarmed as she leans forward and grabs his hand. “You work at the same place as Dylan does?” He nods. “So you must know his boss?”

He looks warily at me. “I do,” he says somewhat hesitantly.

“Is he as big a bastard as Dylan says?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he says indignantly. “He’s actually a brilliant bloke. Very clever and loved by all.”

She shakes her head disappointedly. “That’s not what Dylan says. He’s always full of horror stories.”

“What does Dylan say?” he asks, giving me a look ripe with retribution, and I groan as she leans forward and starts talking.