Douglas hadn’t followed him immediately. He’d leant on the sink, staring at the flannel lying between the taps. He ran his fingers over his forearm and sighed, shaking his head. When he eventually left the bathroom, he jumped slightly to find Martin staring at him from his bed. Douglas sighed again.
“It really is late, Martin. In the morning, okay?” he reasoned, sliding under the covers on his own bed. Martin did the same.
“Alright,” he said sleepily, deciding he could probably avoid questions better when he was less exhausted anyway. The accusing voices were still absent as he drifted into sleep. He was thankful for small mercies.
When he was sure Martin was asleep, Douglas rolled over in his bed to contemplate him. The fluffy hair pushed in all directions by the pillow. The pale skin against the shocking shade of blue bed sheets. The left arm nestled in the sheets, shirt sleeve riding down but still only just covering the crisp white bandage with intermittent spots of red. He thought about how Martin looked, leaning against the greying bath. Despite the cut and the knife he held against it, his face had been placid, blank, almost serene. It wasn’t right.
He didn’t pretend to understand. He knew he couldn’t quantify why people did that to themselves. He knew Martin had his problems but it was Martin. Miserable, yes, but sensible, dependable to the point of irritation. He was a man who knew that you had to have nineteen passengers before you required a steward and who actually filled in his log book, regularly. He revised SOPs because he enjoyed it. The man he sat next to and teased mercilessly on the flight deck was not the sort of man who would go home and lay into his arm with a blade. He just wasn’t.
Douglas slowly fell asleep pondering on how well he really knew Martin. And whether the person sleeping fitfully in front of him was the real Martin or whether that was the man he shared the cheese tray with. He wasn’t sure. And that scared him a bit. That for the first time, he really wasn’t sure.
The dull burn of his arm was not unusual when he woke up. On overnight stays it was usually less searing, more a pain straining to burst out his skin and make itself know, but it couldn’t, because Martin hadn’t freed it yet. Prizing his eyes open to bright sunshine was also not unusual. It didn’t happen much at his flat, but that was Britain for you. Opening his eyes fully to see Douglas staring down at him with a serious face; now that, that was unusual.
“Morning,” Douglas said tonelessly. Martin groaned.
“What?” Douglas asked, face softening slightly.
“I had hoped that it was just a bad dream,” Martin replied sadly.
“Ah. ‘Fraid not. You alright?”
“Yeah, yeah I’m fine.” Douglas gave him a look. “What? I really am fine. Perhaps I wasn’t last night, but I am now.”
“Alright then.”
“What time is it?”
“Half past seven.”
“Not long until we have to leave then.”
“Oh we have a couple of hours yet,” Douglas said dangerously.
“Douglas...”
“No, Martin listen, and for God’s sake savour it. I don’t understand.”
“Douglas...” Martin breathed.
“Shush, Martin. I don’t understand, and I never don’t understand. So I want to understand and I’d like you to help me. Might even help you, talking it through.”
“I...I don’t think...I don’t really know how to...”
“Try, Martin.”
“N...no.”
“What?”
“I...,” he gulped. “I don’t want to.”
“Martin.”
“No, Douglas. This is one thing you won’t bully me into. I don’t want to and that’s that. Now I’m going to go down for some breakfast. I hope you join me later.”
Fill: Part 5 (Trigger warning)
“It really is late, Martin. In the morning, okay?” he reasoned, sliding under the covers on his own bed. Martin did the same.
“Alright,” he said sleepily, deciding he could probably avoid questions better when he was less exhausted anyway. The accusing voices were still absent as he drifted into sleep. He was thankful for small mercies.
When he was sure Martin was asleep, Douglas rolled over in his bed to contemplate him. The fluffy hair pushed in all directions by the pillow. The pale skin against the shocking shade of blue bed sheets. The left arm nestled in the sheets, shirt sleeve riding down but still only just covering the crisp white bandage with intermittent spots of red. He thought about how Martin looked, leaning against the greying bath. Despite the cut and the knife he held against it, his face had been placid, blank, almost serene. It wasn’t right.
He didn’t pretend to understand. He knew he couldn’t quantify why people did that to themselves. He knew Martin had his problems but it was Martin. Miserable, yes, but sensible, dependable to the point of irritation. He was a man who knew that you had to have nineteen passengers before you required a steward and who actually filled in his log book, regularly. He revised SOPs because he enjoyed it. The man he sat next to and teased mercilessly on the flight deck was not the sort of man who would go home and lay into his arm with a blade. He just wasn’t.
Douglas slowly fell asleep pondering on how well he really knew Martin. And whether the person sleeping fitfully in front of him was the real Martin or whether that was the man he shared the cheese tray with. He wasn’t sure. And that scared him a bit. That for the first time, he really wasn’t sure.
The dull burn of his arm was not unusual when he woke up. On overnight stays it was usually less searing, more a pain straining to burst out his skin and make itself know, but it couldn’t, because Martin hadn’t freed it yet. Prizing his eyes open to bright sunshine was also not unusual. It didn’t happen much at his flat, but that was Britain for you. Opening his eyes fully to see Douglas staring down at him with a serious face; now that, that was unusual.
“Morning,” Douglas said tonelessly. Martin groaned.
“What?” Douglas asked, face softening slightly.
“I had hoped that it was just a bad dream,” Martin replied sadly.
“Ah. ‘Fraid not. You alright?”
“Yeah, yeah I’m fine.” Douglas gave him a look. “What? I really am fine. Perhaps I wasn’t last night, but I am now.”
“Alright then.”
“What time is it?”
“Half past seven.”
“Not long until we have to leave then.”
“Oh we have a couple of hours yet,” Douglas said dangerously.
“Douglas...”
“No, Martin listen, and for God’s sake savour it. I don’t understand.”
“Douglas...” Martin breathed.
“Shush, Martin. I don’t understand, and I never don’t understand. So I want to understand and I’d like you to help me. Might even help you, talking it through.”
“I...I don’t think...I don’t really know how to...”
“Try, Martin.”
“N...no.”
“What?”
“I...,” he gulped. “I don’t want to.”
“Martin.”
“No, Douglas. This is one thing you won’t bully me into. I don’t want to and that’s that. Now I’m going to go down for some breakfast. I hope you join me later.”