His father turned to Jackson next, sticking his hand out again. “Jackson. Welcome.”
“Hi, Mr Carling. Thank you,” Jackson said. Nick felt a twist of smug satisfaction as he noticed how Jackson’s hand dwarfed his father’s.
Nick’s mother cleared her throat rather pointedly.
“You can call me Reg.” Nick’s father released Jackson’s hand and stepped back. “How was your journey? Was the traffic bad?”
“Hellish,” Nick said, trying not to grin with relief. Discussions about traffic and the weather were the grease that kept all British social interactions from getting too sticky. “But at least we were expecting it. It’s inevitable on Christmas Eve isn’t it?”
His father made a grunt of agreement.
“Yes, absolutely.” His mother nodded. “It’s always dire.”
“Where’s everyone else?” Nick looked around.
“Adrian went running with Pete,” Maria explained. “And Seth’s asleep, but I’m going to get him up soon if he doesn’t wake, otherwise he won’t sleep tonight.”
“Do you want to bring your bags in from the car?” his mother asked. “I’ll warm up some mince pies and put the kettle on while you do that. Would you like tea or coffee?”
“Tea please,” Nick replied.
“Yes, tea for me too,” Jackson said.
“Where are we sleeping?” Nick asked. The “we” gave him another little thrill. It felt good facing his parents as one half of a gay couple, even if it wasn’t a real relationship.
“In your old room,” his mother replied without batting an eyelid. “But don’t worry, there’s a double bed in there now.”
“Glad to hear it. I think we’d struggle to share a single, wouldn’t we, babe?” Nick nudged Jackson, who grinned.
“Yeah. I can barely fit in a single bed on my own.”
Nick couldn’t resist a glance at his father, who was looking as if he’d sucked on a lemon. “Right. Let’s go and get our stuff,” he said breezily.
“Babe,” Jackson said as soon as they were out by the car. “Really?”
“It just came out. I was ad-libbing.” It had felt strangely natural, but Nick wasn’t going to admit it.
Jackson reached for his case, lifting it effortlessly. “So what pet name am I gonna call you then? Sweetie? Sugarplum?”
Nick chuckled. “I’ll leave that up to you to decide.” He grabbed his case and hauled it out of the car. There was nothing left to carry because Jackson already had the two bags containing gifts and bottles of wine in his free hand. “Want me to take one of those?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“Might as well put all those muscles to good use.”
“Indeed. Use it or lose it.” Jackson grinned.
Nick studied him for a moment. Jackson’s body was the perfect inverted triangle of masculinity with broad shoulders tapering to a slim waist and hips, but his arse and thighs filled out his jeans perfectly.
Damn.
Nick mostly forgot how attractive his best mate was, because he’d known him for so long that he took it for granted. But Jackson really was a fine-looking man.
“What?” Jackson quirked an eyebrow, expression curious.
Nick grinned. “I was just thinking I’ve done all right for myself ending up with you as a partner. You’re pretty hot.”
Jackson’s eyes widened and a strange tension buzzed between them for a second or two, until Jackson seemed to recover from his surprise. “Well thanks, honey,” he said casually. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
“Honey?”
“Yes. Deal with it. Come on. Let’s get these inside,” Jackson said. “I’m more than ready for that cup of tea and a mince pie.”
When they reached the top floor landing, Nick opened the door to his old bedroom and was surprised to find it wasn’t that different to how he remembered it. The walls had obviously been repainted since he’d ruined them with Blu-Tack and band posters, but they’d been done in a very similar shade of greyish-blue to what had been there before. The carpet and curtains were the same, and so was the furniture—aside from the double bed that now dominated the space. The spines of the books on the shelves were familiar, titles he’d read as a child, and even some old school textbooks.
Some of his old tat had obviously been thrown out, or boxed up for storage, so it wasn’t quite an untouched shrine awaiting his return. But it also wasn’t the soulless spare room he’d been expecting. Although his cherished band posters were gone, they’d been replaced with some rather nice paintings. Nick paused to admire one that depicted a thatched cottage he recognised from a nearby village. They must have been done by a local artist.
“Which side of the bed do you want?” Jackson asked. “Door or window?”
“Window.” Nick put his case down on the foot of the bed and went to look out at the view he remembered so well from childhood.
The garden hadn’t changed much either, with the same flower beds and mature shrubs around the edge of the lawn. The silver birch at the bottom of the garden was much taller now; it had almost caught up with the trees in the wood beyond the fence.