The Nurse, by mattbuck Part 13
All comments, good or bad, are appreciated - email matt_v_jellicle@hotmail.com
Other stories I've written can be found on my website, in the fiction section http://mattbuck.sixwinter.com
The previous 12 parts to this story are at http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-nurse/
Usual disclaiming sort of stuff, I don't know McFly, I don't know their sexualities, this story is not in any way based on real life events. Oh, and it contains gay sex, so please make sure you're 18.
It was just about five when we crossed the Cob on our way into Porthmadog, a few tell-tale wisps of smoke leaving the Boston Lodge works to drift across the marshes where the few sheep idly munched on the grass. It had been a rather long five hours, but we were finally within a mile (wait... two miles - the Cob itself is a good mile) of the end. I was driving the last bit, my hands tapping the wheel to the music of U2, my dad singing along beside me. I would have had Danny up front with me, if I'd had any faith in his navigating ability, but since he'd managed to get lost taking me out to a restaurant he went past almost every day to go to the recording studios, he got relegated to the back seat with my mum. Normally when we go on holiday the three of us and our luggage fills the car rather well - adding a fourth person (and thus removing a seat to put stuff on) and their luggage... well, it was a good thing it didn't rain, with all the stuff we had tied to the car's roof.
Over the harbour bridge, immediately stopped by the traffic lights outside the Edinburgh Woollen Mill, then on past Cadwaladers and down the high street. Traffic hell as ever - Porthmadog may be a small town, but it only has one proper through route, so it gets rather busy - especially around the roundabout where the road to Criccieth joins. Still, turn left, up the hill and then up the little track, the sensation of the wheel in my hands subtly different as the tyres run over the loose gravel path. I pulled up alongside the owner's red Polo (the same car that half the teachers at my old school had) and turned the key, pulling it out and handing it to my dad. I got out and shut the door, waiting for the thunk to signify it had been locked. It was a nice place, a converted coach house that, if it weren't for the trees, would have a beautiful view over Porthmadog and the valley below. Only problem with the area is the military jets that use the valleys for training purposes. Once we were standing above a waterfall and two screamed over our heads - nearly made me fall. Though, watching two playing tag over Criccieth bay a few years ago was rather fun.
I let my parents go in first and talk to the owner (who had apparently had both hips replaced in the past few months) while I pulled our bikes off the back of the car. (Well... mine and Danny's anyway. It's a very rare thing if I can convince my parents to go out cycling... not that I'm exactly the most enthusiastic person on that front). According to the car, it was touching thirty degrees, and it certainly felt like it, even though there had been a few spots of rain as we crossed the Avonmouth Bridge.
"So, how many times have you been here before?" Danny asked, clearly waiting for decent company to leave so he could strip off his shirt.
"The house... twice. The area... probably five or six times. It's nice around here, and good ice cream." (Except banana ice cream - there is only one place I know that sells that, and that's a little shop-cum-caf‚ at Dinas Dinlle. I never understood why it was so rare).
We went in and introduced ourselves. No questions asked about sleeping arrangements. There were three bedrooms, but my dad gave up spending the night in the same room as Mum on account of a bad back slash snoring slash breathing down the back of his neck. But... four people, sleeps six... Meant the two of us got a nice double bed. Come to think of it, I've had a double bed on holiday for at least the last five years.
Why am I suddenly thinking of the name Mariella Frostrup? Who is she?
That of course is a problem - no internet access to find the answers to these nagging questions. We do have a computer with us, but that's only because my Dad bought a digital camera that takes one megabyte photos, needed somewhere to store them, and refuses to get a laptop. God I hate laptops. Then we found we forgot the monitor power cable for the second year running, so the PC is plugged in with the cable from the kettle. Thank god for standardised power cables.
So, having put our bikes in the Dutch Barn (I'll explain later) and bade farewell to the owners, the holiday began in earnest, so I sat down to watch the US Grand Prix. (Because of Danny I had to watch England's pathetic failure in the world cup, which I would otherwise have happily missed, so it's only fair he indulge my vices. I'll have him watching snooker at 1am yet). A quick dinner (on plates giving recipes for "cottage cauliflower cheese", "potato surprise" and "savoury sausage") was followed by a game of Rummy (where my luck was abysmal) and then a spate of bat watching slash UFO hunting, before we realised that what we thought were flying lights over a hill eight miles away turned out to be tractors on a hill two miles away.
Then bed, though actually getting in was preceded by ten minutes standing naked at the open balcony (all six inches of it) listening to the sounds of Porthmadog below us.
The next random interrupting thought comes from The Bangles' Manic Monday: "Then he told me in his bedroom voice: 'Come on Honey, let's go make some noise.'" Oddly appropriate for Danny. Except he has to just speak normally, because his bedroom voice, while incredibly sexy, sets me laughing my ass off.
We settled down in bed on top of the duvet, holding each other rather than use bedclothes. Almost perfect. But really... why would anyone need it better?
Day two... or is that day one? Should I start counting the days from the first full day in the house (making the travelling 'day zero') or from the day we started the holidaying? If that makes sense. Probably not. I'll start again.
The first Monday (see, isn't that less ambiguous?) dawned slightly misty. I hadn't exactly slept too well - to be honest, I'm not sure I've had an uninterrupted night's sleep since I came back from uni. I know I woke at least twice during the night, the second time waking Danny as I crawled out of his embrace to pull the curtains across the open balcony window to cover up the sounds of the downpour outside. Apparently there was thunder before the rain, but I didn't notice that. I just picked my way over the clothes- strewn floor and snuggled back against Danny, softly kissing his tender lips.
The third time I woke, I thought I heard noises outside our door, and since dawn was apparently well past, figured it was maybe time to get up. Then I looked at Danny sleeping peacefully beside me and decided maybe it wasn't after all. I shifted over a bit and raised myself on one arm to watch him. His eyes were hidden behind the mess of brown hair (oh how I wished for a camera), his chest bare above the black and grey quilt, still totally hairless (and delicious), his nipples slightly pointed as the cool breeze made the curtains flutter. Nations could fight wars over that sort of effortless beauty, and there it was just for me. Not that he'd admit to being cute that way... not without at least having a go with a comb. He claimed I look cute when asleep, and once (in about the third stage of insobriety) confided in Dougie (who told Harry who told Tom who asked Danny who said it was ok to tell me) that what he really liked was the way my eyes moved in REM (Rapid Eye Movement) sleep. Armpit hair and REM sleep... god we're weird.
It was probably about fifteen minutes later when he rolled over, stretched his arms and ended up whacking me in the face (not the first time that had happened). Still, I got a kiss from him so all was forgiven. We got dressed (Danny deciding it was a day to go commando, and poking me until I followed suit) and went down to breakfast, where Dad regaled us all with a tale of his night time adventure of trying to evict a bat that had flown in his window and got stuck downstairs. Danny, for reasons best known to himself, called it Fred. We spent a lazy morning, avoided helping my parents do the shopping, then went out to lunch at Spooner's caf‚ at the Porthmadog terminus of the Ffestiniog Railway.
Porthmadog (pronounced, so you know, pour-th-ma-doc - I'll do my best to render obscure Welsh pronunciations into some form of English, but you do need to try it with a Welsh accent), it should be explained, was built at the estuary of a river by a man called Madog (or Madoc, depending on which anglicisation you prefer) who wanted a port to transport slate from the Snowdonian mountains. He built an embankment (the Cob) across most of the estuary and created a harbour. Slate was transported down from Blaenau Ffestiniog (bl-ine-i fess-tin-e-ogg). Thus was the Ffestiniog Railway born. It's probably my favourite railway on account of the unique "Double-Fairlie" locomotives. Think of a small but powerful steam shunting engine. Then take another, put them back to back and join the cab and boiler, and add bogeys. That's pretty much a Double-Fairlie. They're powerful, and able to navigate the tight turns of the narrow-gauge track as it winds its way up into the hills. Of course, when the slate trade dried up, the railway was dismantled, but it was rebuilt by enthusiasts and is run as a passenger service.
Okay, I probably went a little overboard on the explanation there, but we were in time to see the first train back from Blaenau come along the Cob and pull into the station.
We walked back through Porthmadog after lunch, stopping at the post office so I could buy some sunglasses (I sat on the last pair I had). I managed to resist Danny's efforts to get me wraparounds so I could look more like Bono. Not that Bono isn't cool and rather sexy (in the aura sense, not the naked sense), but... he's not quite my style I feel. We got ice cream at Cadwaladers ice cream parlour (Danny likes mint-choc-chip... smeared over his chest. His words originally, honest) then wandered around the harbour, watching the promised thundery showers roll in. I let my hand slip into Danny's grasp as we stood there, keeping watch for the shoals of mullet we'd been told were around... somewhere. He leant in, a rather welcome shade from the roasting run, and licked the bottom of my nose.
"Vanilla spot," he giggled. I grinned back, wondering who was watching. Not that I really cared - he started it.
"Minty blob," I replied, gently touching my lips to his. Public displays of affection - never figured I'd like that, I'd always been a bit too self-conscious. But when it feels right...
It was probably only fair that our next stop was the record shop. It really was an old-style record shop too, albeit with most of the stock being second hand CDs. An emphasis on the more "mature" customer, the leaflet said, meaning, presumably, middle- aged men who remember when the pop charts weren't dominated by black rappers and gits like James Blunt (oh don't you just wish you could strangle him with his own vocal cords?). I think Danny was in somewhat of a heaven. The fact a torrential downpour arrived trapping (well... unless we wanted to get soaked) us inside had him almost dancing. The CD pile he collected was... impressive, to say the least. For that level of custom, he got given a car window sticker, so, if you see someone driving round (badly) with a yellow "Cob Records" sign in the back window, it's probably him.
Please don't stalk or rape my boyfriend.
Of course, they didn't have Paul McCartney's Pipes of Peace. No one ever does.
Evening brought with it dining out, and the return of Fred the bat. Well, as with Mister Mistofelees (the Magical Conjuring Cat - brush up on your TS Elliot), we saw him one moment but then he was gone, but we're pretty sure it was him... we think he knows he can get out.
I lay in bed, watching a rather pretty yellow moth flit about the ceiling while Danny wrote up his diary on the nightstand. For anyone who's wondering, he's only ever let me read one entry - the one dealing with the first night we spent in bed together. I haven't tried to read any other bits of it. Stop peeking.
"You know what we ought to do?" He asked, the pen pressed against his lips.
"Uhm... go to bed?"
"Close. You and me, sex in every room of the house."
"Oh." A moment's silence. "Are you including the airing cupboard?"
"Sure, it'll be fun." He closed the diary and climbed onto the bed, dragging his tongue up my inside leg, making me shudder in pleasure.
"Of course it will be. Sex with you. Pity there are only... what... seven rooms if you include the hall."
His lips moved somewhere very very tender, his tongue licking all the right places, murmuring around, lovely vibrations,
"Can almost do that in one day."
How the hell are you meant to argue with someone who's in the middle of... well... giving mouth to mouth to an organ that was obviously quite alive already. There really isn't much brain power left to string together coherent sentences.
"Does this... mean we're starting now?"
"Maybe, but maybe not."
It turned out to be a very good thing there were some polystyrene blocks between the headboard and the wall.