Date: Thu, 27 Jul 2006 22:25:52 +0100
From: Matt Buck <matt_v_jellicle@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Nurse, Part 13

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.