With These Wings

Nigel Grimond lay spooning his sleeping lover, unable to believe his luck. This tattooed hunk, perfect in almost every way, would, by the end of the day, be his husband. Nigel’s gaze slid briefly to the wardrobes where two matching suits in morning grey hung in their protective plastic covers.

“God, I love you so much,” Nigel whispered, kissing the back of his fiancé’s neck.

“Love you, too,” came a sleepy response. “But go back to sleep. We don’t have to get ready for ages yet.”

But Nigel couldn’t sleep. He was too excited. This was the second most important day of his life. His kisses moved downward, paying homage to his man’s amazing physique. As always, Nigel found himself lingering on the tattoo.

“You keep on kissing and licking those wings and you’ll wear them away.”

“Haven’t worn away in the past two years.”

“True.”

“Two years ago today a beautiful angel flew into my life…and stayed.” That was the most important day of his life.

“You’re silly.” His lover turned around and their lips met in a kiss.

“Not silly,” Nigel said, breaking the kiss. “I’d almost given up on love waiting at that table.” He then returned the kiss. “Two years. Seems like both yesterday and a lifetime ago.”

* * * *

“Want another, sir?” the barman asked, turning to Nigel after serving his last customer.

Nigel hadn’t been in The Black Swan in Oakshot before, but the beamed ceilings, thick-piled carpeting, low lighting, quiet background music, and friendly bar staff all made him feel welcome. The only slight oddity was the barman and his baggy green sweater that seemed three sizes too big.

Nigel looked down at his almost empty glass of soda water and sighed. “Thank you. Might as well live dangerously.” He drained his glass and handed it back to the barman, who scooped ice into a new glass and filled it from the pump.

“Haven’t seen you in here before,” the barman said, taking Nigel’s money.

And that was another thing in the pub’s favour—the prices of soft drinks were very reasonable.

“No.” Nigel shook his head. “Agreed to meet someone here…only he’s running late.” Nigel looked at his watch yet again, but he already knew the time. Phil was half an hour late.

The barman handed Nigel his change. “If you want food, the kitchen will be closing in an hour.”

Nigel’s stomach chose that moment to rumble. He hadn’t eaten a full meal since Dubai. As a flight attendant he tended to think more in terms of location rather than time. He’d flown into Manchester a few hours earlier and had been too excited to eat, sleep, or do anything else except jerk off at mental pictures of the hunky Phil. He’d intended to eat with Phil at the pub then afterward do other…things with the man.

“Could I have a cheese sandwich?” Nigel asked, looking around for a menu but failing to find one. If he had something light he could still eat when Phil showed up.

If Phil shows up, a mental voice chipped in.

“Sure.” The barman nodded.

Not sure of the cost of the sandwich, Nigel pulled a tenner out of his wallet and handed it over.

The barman moved to the till and rung up the meal. “Go sit by the fire and I’ll bring it over when it’s ready.” The man handed Nigel his change. “Shouldn’t be too long. Not that many in tonight. Weather probably kept them at home.”

Nigel nodded and pocketed his change without counting it. He’d left a warm, dry, and sunny United Arab Emirates for a cold, wet, and windy Manchester. But he’d made the northwest of England his home and, despite the weather, he knew he wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.

The large coal fire looked inviting, so Nigel picked up his drink and took it, along with his thick overcoat, across the room. As he settled in one of the surprisingly comfortable chairs, he wondered if the pub’s fire held any records for not being allowed to go out. He’d read about one pub, he couldn’t remember where, which had kept its fire going for over a century. He remembered wondering at the time how such a record could be verified.

Another glimpse at his wristwatch. “Forty-five minutes late.”

“Here you go,” the barman said, putting a plate and a bowl in front of Nigel.

“Uh, I didn’t—”

The barman interrupted. “Sorry, my fault. It’s a new till ordering system and I entered the wrong code. Hope a toasted cheese sandwich and tomato soup is okay.” The man paused. “It’s homemade, the soup I mean.”

It smelled wonderful. Nigel’s stomach growled again. “No, it’s fine, thanks.” Nigel reached into his pocket for his wallet.