To: Dylan Mitchell

From: Gabe Foster

 

That afternoon after lunch, I stir from my position on one of the huge, brocade sofas where I’d set up my part of the office. I wander over to one of the multi-paned, floor-to-ceiling windows, and stare out longingly at the snow-covered landscape. In the distance, I can see movement across the skyline as the ski lifts ferry people up the slopes and the coloured dots of people enjoying themselves on the runs.

I sigh and stretch, giving a low groan as muscles that have grown stiff with sitting too long, stretch and release. Lowering my arms, I turn and stop dead, to find Gabe staring at me intently through his tortoise shell glasses. His hand holding his pen hangs slack. “What?” I ask. “Have you found an error?”

He shakes his head absently, his eyes an almost dark, gunmetal grey. “No, no, it’s all perfect so far.”

I waggle my eyebrows, hoping to get a better and more normal reaction. “Well, don’t hope for more. I’m sure you’ll find something soon.” I head back over to my laptop and activate the screen again. “Did you check your emails?” I ask, looking down at the screen. “Bob Parker needs a reply on the Saunderson deal, and Izzy McIntosh’s assistant has emailed asking for a meeting as soon as we get back.” Becoming aware of total silence, I glance up to find him still staring at me. “Hello. Earth to Boss Man. Are you okay? Do you want me to ring for more coffee?”

He jerks as if awakened. “No, I don’t need anything.” He pauses as if thinking something through. “Listen, Dylan, it’s not fair for me to keep you locked up here when it’s so gorgeous outside. Why don’t you get your gear together, and head out to the slopes for the afternoon? I know you like skiing.”

I straighten. “I’m not leaving you here to work, Gabe. That’s not fair, and definitely not what you brought me here for.”

He shakes his head. “You always work hard. I’m giving you the afternoon off, and I really don’t care to discuss it any further.”

I fold my arms across my chest and stare at him. “I’m not going.” I pause, hit by an idea, and then follow in a rush. “I’m not going unless you come too. It is a beautiful afternoon, and it’s perfect for skiing. Come on, what do you say?”

That funny expression crosses his face again, and he looks down at his hands. “No, I’m fine. I really have far too much to do to jaunt about skiing.”

Something about the way he says skiing, as if it’s a disease, catches my attention, and suddenly I’m hit by a blinding revelation. “Oh my God,” I say slowly. “You can’t ski, can you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says irritably. “Dylan, I swear your mind makes more fictional leaps than J.K. Rowling.”

I shake my head. “Give it up, Gabe. I’m right, aren’t I? You can’t ski, can you?”

He shakes his head, and taking off his glasses, rubs his eyes. When he looks up, I’m still staring at him, and he laughs. “Oh my God, MI5 should employ you.” I raise my eyebrow, and he shakes his head crossly. “Okay, I can’t ski. Are you happy now?”

“But why didn’t you say something to Fletcher when he booked this holiday?”

“I couldn’t tell him that. It’s too embarrassing to admit that I’ve never been skiing, or even ice skating before.”

I can’t fathom the relationship these two have, where to even admit the slightest weakness to their partner is almost a taboo. “Gabe, plenty of people can’t fucking ski. It’s not a required element for survival.”

He stands up, pacing to the window and staring out. “It is in my circles,” he finally says quietly. “You know the crowd that I hang around with.”

“Yes, trust fund babies on the whole,” I say disapprovingly. “They know how to do these things because they’ve probably been skiing since they could walk. Although personally, if I’d been Tommy’s father, I’d have pushed him down a slope when he was a baby.” Gabe smirks, making me happy as the embarrassment slowly clears from his expression. “What I’m trying to say is that I know from things you’ve said before that you don’t come from that sort of background, and I personally think you’re far more impressive for where you are in life.”

He stares at me, surprise written on his face. This isn’t the way we talk to each other. We use sarcasm and wit as our tools, not genuine kindness, but I carry on. “I’d rather have you around ski-less, than running the slopes all day with the fuckwit foursome out there.” He snorts, and I laugh, but then I’m hit with an amazing idea. “Why don’t I teach you?” In the process of sinking down onto the sofa, he freezes and looks at me dubiously. “Oh, come on, Gabe, it’s a brilliant idea. You trust me, don’t you?”

He nods his head. “Of course I do, but you can’t teach me.”

“Why not? I know I’m not a strapping ski instructor called Johannes, but I can ski. I’ve been going skiing every year with Jude since we were sixteen. We’ve single-handedly skied in some of the crappiest, most tourist-inundated areas in Europe. If I can ski those, I can definitely teach you.” I pause before saying quietly, “And you know I won’t use it against you, don’t you?” He looks at me intently, surprise and something else running over his face. “I would never do that, and I won’t tell anyone. We’ll go on the nursery slopes in a quiet area. What do you think?”

He shakes his head. “Why do you want to do this?”

“Because it’s you. You’ve taught me a lot since I’ve been with you. I would trust you with anything, and I hope that you feel the same. I know you’re my boss, and you like to keep your distance, but maybe today we could just forget that. How about it?”

He stares at me for a second and then nods slowly. “Okay, you’re on, but do not think that when we get back to the office, I won’t make you redo the coffee when it’s shit.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say blandly. “My day wouldn’t be the same if we didn’t have the ritual, multiple refilling of the coffee pot for our cosy, little taster sessions.”

“Smart ass,” he says tartly.

“Yes I am. Go and get changed. We’ve got lift passes and boots and stuff, and you brought ski gear with you, didn’t you?” I pause. “What were you going to do all day anyway?”

He shrugs. “I thought I might try and get some private lessons.”

“Well, it’s your lucky day,” I say brightly. “I’m free.”

“Yes, a free, uncertified ski instructor who lacks any coordination on a normal day, as opposed to a buff teacher called Stefan.”

“Johannes,” I say automatically. “Stefan teaches the ladies.”

He smiles. “Of course. Okay, go and get ready, Johannes.”

***

An hour later, we stand on the road looking at the nursery slopes. The snow is thick underfoot, and the sky is a dirty-grey colour, promising more snow and soon.

I sneak a glance at Gabe and admire his appearance. He may have no experience at skiing, but he was born to wear the clothes. His wide shoulders, narrow hips and long legs look amazing in an Oakley grey and black, camo-patterned snowboarding jacket and black ski pants. His hair is windswept, his cheeks ruddy, and he’s already attracting sidelong glances.

I look down at my own outfit, and I have to say that I don’t think I’m letting the side down. Although I have my own ski gear, it’s quite old, so I’d borrowed stuff from Jude, who has a shit ton of designer label gear after a photo shoot in Whistler. The gear had been wet and used, so the models got to keep it. I’m wearing black pants with a red and black checked snowboarding jacket. Seeing somebody staring at me I strike a jaunty pose, until I look around to find Gabe’s Oakley sunglasses trained on me.

“What are you doing?”

I tip my sunglasses down to look at him. “Pretending that I’m a film star who’s incognito.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “It’s something Jude and I do when we’re away.”

He shakes his head. “Sometimes I wonder how you manage to walk and talk at the same time.”

“Hey, don’t knock your ski instructor.”

He looks me up and down. “Hmm.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I call after him, as he starts walking towards the start of the nursery slopes, his skis slung carelessly over his shoulder like he’s done this millions of times. He even makes the walk in ski boots a thing of grace and beauty, unlike myself who always makes it look like I’ve shit myself.

He looks back at me. “Why are you walking like that?” he asks, a thread of laughter running through his voice.

“Oh shut up. These fucking boots always hurt my shins.”

He shakes his head. “Okay, where do we start, Obi Wan?”

I nod approvingly. “I like that, my little Skywalker. Begin we shall.”

I look around. The kinder classes have finished, and the adult classes have probably advanced to the beginner slopes, so the nursery slope is empty apart from ski instructors with private pupils. “We’ll go over there,” I say, pointing to a flat area and then following him to the designated spot.

We dump our skis on the ground, and I stand back. “Right, we’ll get your skis on first. Stand to the side of the ski binding, and knock your right foot against the front of the binding to get rid of the snow. Then put your foot, toe first, into the toe cup of the binding.” I watch him do it and nod. “Now push your heel down, and you’ll hear a snap as the binding snaps shut.”

Once his foot is secure, I place his ski pole to the side of him. “Okay, thread your hand through the strap from below, and then spread out your hand and grab your pole.” I snicker, and he glares at me. “What? It’s funny. I’m instructing you to spread your hand and grab your pole. In England, this would be a sexual harassment case waiting to happen.”

He shakes his head, but a grin is playing on his lips. “Okay Master, I’m grabbing my pole.”

“Please say that again, but make your voice go all husky, like on a Friday afternoon when you’ve been yelling all day.”

“Dylan,” he warns, and I hold my hands up.

“Okay, okay. You’re going to walk across the flat like you’re on a scooter, using your ski poles and your free foot to propel yourself. That’ll give you a good feel of the gliding motion.”

Over the next twenty minutes I have him do this with the other foot, and then both feet. For such a tall man, he’s very graceful. It doesn’t surprise me at all because he moves very fluidly, even while walking down the street, being one of those lucky people who are always in control of his body. This is totally unlike myself, who could smack into a door frame just by walking through the door on my own.

What does surprise me, however, is how patient he is, and how, despite claiming that he couldn’t tell Fletcher that he couldn’t ski, he seems perfectly happy for it to be just the two of us.

Once I’m satisfied that he’s moving easily, we tramp across the snow to a small slope. “God, I love that sound,” I sigh, listening to the krump krump as we stride along. “And don’t you just love the fresh cold? It feels cleaner here, and so bloody open. We’re so hemmed in, in London.” He looks at me sideways, shaking his head as if mystified by something. “What?”

“You’re just so happy with simple things, Dylan.”

“I hope you’re not taking the piss,” I say smartly, and he stops walking to grab my arm.

“No, I’m not,” he says seriously. “It’s a lucky character trait to be pleased with the plain things in life. There aren’t enough people like you, and I like the way you make me feel it too. If I’d been with Fletcher and the others, we would have crammed into the ski lifts, with them talking incessantly all the time about rubbish. When we got to the top, we’d have come down, and we’d have repeated that until it was time for lunch at wherever the trendiest place is at the moment. No one would have pointed out the noise of the snow because they’d never have heard it over their incessant, fucking talking.”

I shake my head. “I like peace. It gives me the energy to get through things.”

“Like a Friday afternoon in the office?”

“Yeah, don’t go too far. Quiet hasn’t got miracle properties.”

He laughs, and we come to the slope which is very much a gentle incline. I smile at him. “Okay, let’s do this since you’re ready for a descent. The way to climb a slope in skis is to go up sideways, lifting one ski at a time, and when you get to the top do a quarter turn. Then you’re ready to come down the slope.” I shoot a look at him. “Don’t worry, it’s gentle. It might feel a bit fast because you’re on skis, but this is a very small slope.”

I look at him, standing with the gentle breeze ruffling his hair and making the light pick out the coal-black sheen, and then clear my throat. “Posture is important, so don’t ever lean back which is an instinctive reaction. Instead stand up straight, and then bend your knees slightly forward so you’re leaning slightly.” He looks at me and I grin. “Think about when you’re fucking a short man.” He shakes his head but adjusts his posture perfectly, and I laugh. “Excellent. I really should be a ski instructor. I’d be the best.”

“I wouldn’t use that particular instruction in the children’s group though.”

I laugh. “I wouldn’t be teaching little children. I’d be teaching the good-looking men. Okay, leaving my fantasy of living here and being the best ski instructor, I have to say you should be feeling the strain in your shinbones. That’s normal, but just don’t lean back because it’ll set your balance off.”

He nods his head determinedly, and I know he’ll be skiing well in a few days. He has the drive and the natural balance and grace to make a good skier, and it makes me stupidly happy to have been a part of giving him something that he’ll love for the rest of his life.

I watch him over the next hour as he picks up speed and moves towards steeper slopes. I feel the cold on my face, and watch the wide, unconscious smile on his lips as he falls in love with the sport. A melancholy thought occurs to me that one day he’ll find a partner, and the two of them will go skiing every winter together, laughing and happy. I wonder if he will ever pause on a snowy afternoon and glance at the nursery slopes, and see for a second the ghost of a man who was there the first time that he did this.

Looking up, I’m just in time to see him fall over, so I shake the wistfulness away for another day, and stroll over. “Even the most talented skiers fall over,” I say as I get near. I pause. “Or so I hear. I mean I’ve never done it, but hey that’s just me.”

He sits in the snow grinning up at me, his teeth white in his tanned face. His stubble shines black against the pink of his wide lips, his hair is a windswept mess, and for a second I’m struck dumb by his masculine beauty. Then he shakes his head. “Okay Johannes, how do I get up?”

I show him how to position his skis parallel to the slope, and then dig his poles in behind him and use them to pull himself up, and as I do, the grey sky delivers its bounty, as great, white snowflakes start to fall from the sky. Within seconds the air is heavy and full of white.

“Brilliant,” I shout, putting out my hands and lifting up my face to see the blurry wildness of the snow falling onto my face from above.

Gabe laughs at me. “You’re a bloody, big child.”

“No, come here.” I gesture to him. “Put your head back and look up. It’s wild, and it makes you dizzy because it seems even heavier when you’re looking up at the sky.”

Humouring me, he stands next to me and tilts his head back. I throw my arm around his shoulder, forgetting for a second that we aren’t friends, but instead of pushing me away, he leans into me for a long, precious second. Then he seems to recall himself and stiffens and goes to move past me, but as he moves, his ski hits a rock and he half slips into me.

I throw my arms around him, bracing my weight so that we both don’t go over. I start to laugh, but at that point, he looks up, our eyes meet, and everything falls away. I don’t see the snow, or feel the cold, biting wind. I just see his eyes, and in them is everything I’m feeling - a sweet heat and desire, and almost fear.

“Gabe,” I whisper, but he jerks back almost as if by instinct. My arms fall away, and for a second I think I see regret in those silver orbs before he shakes his head.

“Nearly falling over twice in a minute means I’m tired I think.”

“Are you ready to go back?” I ask reluctantly. I don’t want to lose this carefree, grinning man and see him return to his guarded self, but it’s inevitable and I sigh.

My head shoots up, however, when he says almost hesitantly, “I don’t want to go back. Do you fancy getting dinner and having a drink?”

“I’d love it,” I say, perhaps a bit too vehemently. However, he kindly ignores it, and we set off down the slope, the snow falling around us like confetti.

We find a brightly lit bar down a side street, its outside lit by lanterns festooned with icicles, and it’s a relief to duck into the lobby out of the heavily falling snow. We dump our skis and boots in the containers provided, and make our way into the toasty interior of the bar in our thick socks. We both sigh simultaneously in pleasure at the warmth that hits us, then laugh before stripping off our jackets and joining the other skiers enjoying après-ski.

The interior of the bar is dimly lit, with most of the light coming from candles burning in hurricane lamps everywhere, and the festoons of fairy lights which hang from the beams. Oompah music is playing, and the whole big, light-timbered room smells of something lovely cooking.

I straighten my grey, woollen hoody. “This was a good idea,” I say emphatically to Gabe, and he laughs.

“I know. It’s just rare for you to positively acknowledge any of my good ideas.”

“That’s because they usually mean a lot of work for me.”

He smiles. “Not tonight. Why don’t you grab that table that’s just come empty, and I’ll order some food and drinks. What do you want?”

I look up at the menu board over the bar. “I’ll have a burger and chips and Glühwein, and you have to have that too, Gabe. It’s tradition.”

“Isn’t tradition covered by things like Trooping the Colour and the Changing of the Guard?”

I shake my head. “Tradition comes from something being so brilliant and such a good memory, that you try to recreate it every time that you can.”

Gabe stares at me, something complicated running across his face, before a very soft expression settles. Smiling at me warmly, he runs his hand down my arm. “Okay, tradition it is. Go and grab the table.”

I make my way over to the booth, which is set back from the main bar in a dark corner, lit only by the guttering flame from the candle on the table and fairy lights hanging overhead. I sit looking around idly, trying hard to ignore the tingles shooting down my arm from that big, warm hand.

Movement catches my eye, and I watch him move towards me, that big body clad in his ski pants and a thin, black, hooded fleece which clings to the muscular plains of his chest. His hair is wild around his face, and the dim light catches the sharp angles of his face, making him look dark and mysterious. I’m aware of a couple of men enjoying their view of him, and I’m filled with a sense of pride and misguided possession because just for this brief moment, he’s mine.

Four hours later, we’re officially and completely pissed. We’d eaten our food, and then downed Glühwein after Glühwein, graduating to shots of amaretto and cinnamon schnapps. We’d also chatted and laughed in a way we’d never done before, as the invisible barrier of boss and employee seemed to have melted away.

To have all of his attention focused on you, to make him laugh and see his eyes examining your face as he listens intently to what you say, is a heady, dangerous feeling, and I’ve never felt so happy and free. I feel stupidly like I’m one of those couples I’ve watched enviously before, who have this obvious connection and happiness in each other’s company.

I can’t deny to myself that I’m fascinated by him. He makes me laugh and challenges me, but it’s fucking dangerous. I’m not his boyfriend. He’s waiting back at the chalet, probably with a face like a smacked arse, ready to fire up the bed for another scorching-hot threesome. However, the alcohol has loosened my inhibitions enough, that I’m seriously doubting my ability to stop myself from throwing myself at him.

As if aware of my thoughts, Gabe suddenly stops humming and swaying to the music and turns back to me. It’s darker in our little corner, and his eyes seem almost black, but his high cheekbones are spangled by the pinks and gold of the fairy lights which make him look mysterious and almost magical. “I have such a good time with you,” he says in a low voice. “Everything just always seems better when you’re here.”

The music and the noise in the bar dies to a distant hum, and all that’s left is the almost visible attraction between the two of us which seems to shimmer in the air. “Gabe,” I whisper, feeling myself almost fall into him, and then I gasp as he raises his hand and draws his fingers down my cheekbones. He traces a path which seems to leave glittery, fire blooms under my skin, and I hold my breath as his fingers ghost inward until they find my lips. I shudder as he traces one long, calloused finger over my lower lip.

“So beautiful,” he whispers in a thick, hoarse voice. “These lips, so full and pouty.” He groans suddenly, and the sound from deep in his throat shoots fire down my body, centering on my cock which stiffens immediately, rising and pressing against my ski pants as if waiting for his touch. Almost as if he knows it, he glances down at my obvious erection, jutting up and making my trousers bulge obscenely.

“Dylan,” he says harshly. “Oh God, you feel it too.”

I nod, and moan in the back of my throat, as the gesture drags his finger over my lips.

A rumble sounds in the back of his throat, and his finger moves, pushing my lower lip down slightly, dipping in and testing the moisture. “I dreamt about your lips last night,” he whispers hoarsely.

“What was the dream?” I hardly recognise my voice, it sounds so thick and heavy.

“They were wrapped around my cock so tight. Then you looked up, and I saw your eyes and those full, red lips, and I woke up coming.”

I make a hoarse, wild sound, giving his finger a catlike lick, and something in him seems to snap. Reaching out he grabs my head, sliding his long fingers into my hair, and before I can think, he brings my lips to his, and I taste Gabe Foster for the first time outside my incoherent dreams.

He tastes of the sweet spices of the Glühwein, and for a second he rests his lips against mine as if stunned that he’s kissing me. Then a moan leaves his mouth and enters mine, and my lips open to his, and he takes. His thick tongue dances with mine, and I can feel his panting breaths heavy on my face.

One or both of us groan, and the kiss goes wild. In the warm gloom of our corner, he eats at my mouth as if starving, and I kiss him back frantically, sending my hands travelling over him to feel the wide width of his shoulders and the big, strong chest.

I rub my fingertips over the springing hair there, as he sucks my tongue into his mouth as if it’s my cock. Then I find one of his nipples which is tight and raised, and I flick it with my fingernail.

A hoarse, rattling groan leaves him, and for one brief second his hand drops and I arch into it, as he grips my cock through the thin material of my ski pants and gives it one long, firm stroke.

However, that one action seems to wake him up. I feel his body freeze, and then there’s only coldness against me, where before there had been the intense heat of his body. I open my eyes, the haze of lust still making me dopey, only to find him sitting back. The old familiar coolness has returned to his eyes, replacing the heated darkness that promised so much.

I want to grab him, to gather him against me. I want to be in a bed lying naked in the warm darkness, feeling his weight on me, and his cock filling me. Unfortunately, this trip away from normality has left me with so many other half-formed desires and yearnings, I can’t list them in my head anymore.

All I know is that this man is special to me. He has the ability to make me feel more than any other man I’ve ever met. He makes me angry and challenges me, almost at the same time as making me laugh and filling me with a strong sense of protectiveness towards him. He makes me feel alive, the way that my mum had always promised me would happen when I met someone serious. But I know looking at him that I still mean absolutely nothing to him.

The sharp pain and chill from that thought is enough to make me draw back and take a second breath. I glance around quickly, suddenly concerned because we haven’t exactly been discreet, but the action is at the bar, and no one seems to have noticed that my world has just spun on its axis.

Sadly, that includes the man who has done the spinning. I look over at him, and he swallows hard and says stiffly, “I’m sorry, Dylan. That should never have happened.”