One Night in Edinburgh

Ducky pulled off his knitted cap, fought with the buttons and struggled out of his parka.

He drew the curtains and switched on the lamps. It was getting dark and chilly in his little flat, just like outside. Edinburgh wasn’t anything to joke about during winter. She was cold, windy and unpredictable. A little like his life, if he was honest. At least he could do something about the flat, he thought as he turned up the heat.

His father had insisted that his son, the future doctor, should have proper accommodation whilst studying. Ducky had protested, claiming that he was used to living in student quarters after his years at Eton. But in the end he was embarrassingly grateful to move into the small flat his father had bought for him off Prince’s Street. It provided both warmth and privacy; he had found lately that he craved time for himself to brood and ponder.

Yes, despite his studies, his life was cold and lonely. Repine was the word that fitted. Today he had been fully engaged in trying to warm it up, calm it down, and make it predictable. He had asked Fiona, one of his fellow students, out for dinner and a visit to the cinema. It had been only the two of them, rather than the usual group of noisy youths.

Had it been successful? He had thought so, right up to the chaste kiss in front of the door to Fiona’s room in the dormitory.

His delusion had ended there, when she asked him in. For tea, she had said. For intimacy, she had meant.

With those words his calm, his carefully constructed normal evening, had departed. Had left the building.

He had withdrawn hastily, using a perfectly acceptable excuse of course. Being utterly polite and regretful, naturally. If only there had been an ounce of truth behind his polished words.

She must have suspected the truth, because she only pecked his cheek and gave him a sad little smile, saying nothing before she closed the door. He had stood frozen for a long time staring at the brown-painted wood, before he had been able to drag himself back to his lonely and cold little room.

The truth was, he was nothing like calm and normal. There was a huge emptiness inside him, a chilling coldness that could only be warmed by brown, mischievous eyes. Desolate places that could only be filled by the touches of a perfect body. Even his palms ached, missing the feel of thighs speckled with soft hair, and, if he was completely honest, a hard, hungry erection. Donald Mallard was hopelessly addicted to another man. If not a homosexual, a poof, a queer, a fruit, he was at least bisexual. Which was even worse, his brain told him. It was as if he couldn’t make up his own mind.

It had been months, but still he could not forget this summer when he had become a man. He was only a teenager. He should have been able to forget this unwanted infatuation.

However, he was not to be so lucky. It was as if Albert, his Bertie, had imprinted himself upon all of Ducky’s senses. Whenever he picked up that subtle, woodsy scent his olfactory sense would perk up and tell him, Bertie uses that soap. He would automatically turn on the rare occasion he heard a dark, slightly slurred voice speak with an American accent. Or worse; when he glimpsed a man of average build, with brown, glossy hair, he would itch to bury his hands in that hair. His fingers still remembered the soft feel of the strands gliding through them. Sometimes he would follow, with his eyes only, a slim form walking with feline grace down the pavement.

During his five years at Eton he had gone from a boy to a young man. What had happened apart from the obvious – growth and hair in new places? He had discovered the secrets of jerking off to pornographic magazines. The older boys in his House had hidden pin-up magazines like Fiesta, Pin-up and Men Only from their House Master and the Dame, and brought them out after Lights Out. Enjoyment galore was had in the faint light of hidden torches. He had wanked off to Slutty Samantha and Bosom Betty, and had always thought soft curves and painted lips would excite him.

He should have suspected otherwise after his reaction to the glimpses he got of the really hardcore magazines a couple of the boys brought home after a holiday abroad. It was not the scantily clad girls that had excited him. No - only one quick glance at the huge erections the men in the photos were sporting and he had been painfully hard.

But now he just had to take a sneaky peek at a small black and white photograph framed in white-painted metal with lace-cut edges, to start breathing embarrassingly fast.

He was pathetic, and probably slightly obsessed.

Ducky undressed, tugged on his warm flannel pyjamas, carried out his usual bedtime routine and hurried under his bed covers. He almost giggled when he switched on the bedside lamp and took the photograph of Bertie out from where he hid it in the drawer. House Master or no House Master, old habits were hard to change.

One look at the sorely missed face and he knew there would be no second date with Fiona. Hopefully, he hadn’t spoilt their friendship or their study sessions together.

He wanted his MBChB; he needed friends to survive the lonely years ahead of him.

Ducky listened to the rain hammering at his windows and, after placing the photo in clear view against the bedside lamp, burrowed further under the covers. He eased his soft member out through the slit of his pyjama trousers and gave it a couple of experimental tugs. Of yes, this would work. He could already feel it lengthening.

Urgent knocking on his door, his bedroom door, delayed his plans.

He was standing, clutching his covers around himself, before he had managed to form a coherent thought. The intruder was just a dark form, dripping water onto his carpet, sagging against the doorframe.

“Ducky,” the figure whispered urgently. Ducky would have known that voice anywhere, even as distorted and tense it sounded now.

Albert.

Ducky jumped forward, bedclothes forgotten when Albert slid to the floor, dropping what looked like a sports bag beside him.

He crouched down. Uncertain what to do, his hands hovered over Albert’s wet form.

“Ducky, the door. Close it,” Albert croaked out.

Ducky sprang up and did just that, securing it with the safety chain for good measure, and hurried back to Albert to get some answers.

“Bertie,” Ducky kneeled in front of the still figure. He tentatively reached out a hand and touched Bertie’s shoulder, watching his closed eyes.

There was no reaction.

He shook Bertie’s shoulder, hoping to wake him up, at least long enough to get the wet and cold clothes off him. Bertie moaned and mumbled but didn’t wake up.

“Bertie, I’m going to undress you now.” It was best to talk whilst he was doing this, and oh, this was not what he had dreamed of when he had thought of taking Bertie’s clothes off. He slid the zip on Bertie’s pilot’s jacket down, and took Bertie’s hand to get the sleeve off.

“What?...Bertie. Albert Stroller!” Ducky shuddered. Bertie’s hand was wet all right, but not from the rain alone. “Wake up, damn you!”

Before he could think of panicking, Albert opened his eyes and crossed them at him. “Ducky.” A glint of teeth told him Bertie had tried to smile. Well, he’d show him smile.

“Albert. What on earth are you doing out at night, you’re hurt!”

“Need ‘elp.” Bertie slurred. “’m hurt.” Bertie looked at him pleadingly.

“Yes, I guessed as much.” But Ducky’s questions would have to wait until later, first things first. “Where are you hurt, Bertie?” He tried to keep his voice comforting and low, while he eased back Bertie’s jacket. “Your arm?”

“Mmm. Shot. 'bove elbow. Hurt like 'ell.”

Shot? Ducky eased the jacket off the rest of the way and hissed when he saw the bloodied shirtsleeve and the tattered sweater. How he wished he had more than a basic first aid course to fall back upon. But that wouldn't be for a long time yet.

“Trust you.” The look in Bertie's eyes, before they glided shut, was honest; he meant what he said. Ducky gave in and stroked Bertie's wet hair before he bent and carefully examined the wound, murmuring reassuring nonsense when Bertie moaned in pain. Luckily, it didn't look like the alleged bullet had done more than nick the flesh above Bertie's elbow. Ducky breathed in relief. This he could fix.

He jumped up to get the first aid kit he always kept in the bathroom. Somehow he didn't believe Bertie would be pleased with him if he called an ambulance. After all, Bertie's activities were not always of the kind the authorities would approve of. He shouldn't either, a little voice told him, but he ignored it. Bertie needed his help.

Bertie sat in silence with his eyes closed while Ducky cut away Bertie's sweater and shirt, and cringed at the beat up torso. The sight was enough to almost make Ducky stop and call for an ambulance anyway. However, he gritted his teeth and cleaned and bandaged the wound, and brought Bertie painkillers and water. Tired brown eyes finally met his when he tried to make him get up. It wasn't until Bertie had slumped down on his bed that Ducky heard his voice again.

“Wasn't how I imagined our next tumble in the sack would be.” Bertie was shaking. Ducky suspected it was both from the lack of clothes and from the loss of blood.

“Me neither,” Ducky bent and kissed Bertie's brow. “That will have to wait until later. For now, get under the covers and prepare to reveal your sordid secrets to me. You had better make the story good, plan it while I make you some hot tea.”

He had time to hear Bertie's, “I-don't-like-tea,” groan before he was out of earshot and in his kitchenette.

Ducky dosed the tea with a healthy slump of whisky that, combined with the spoonful of sugar should, he hoped, help Bertie sleep.

Sleep! Bertie was in his flat, and even in his bed! Ducky couldn't help the shudder that went through his body. When had his life become so strange? In the blink of an eye, he had gone from lying in his pyjamas, slightly heartsick, pleasuring himself, to cleaning the wound of a known criminal, who happened to be the cause of said heartsickness. Bertie should also have been miles and miles away.

Could life be stranger? Be careful of what you wish for, Donald Mallard, he admonished himself and padded on bare feet in to listen to the tale of one Albert Stroller, love of his life.

It would be a late night after all.