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He remembered the first time they met. He had seen the compact new captain for the first time when he came to the airfield for his interview with Mum, but they hadn't properly met until a few days later, on Martin's first day. Martin was very small, perhaps a bit delicate. Oh, he'd never say that to his face (well, he would when they'd been married a decade or so), but it was true. With the soft pink of his cheeks and tips of his ears, with the constellation freckles scattered over his cheekbones, with his spun sugar lashes, Martin was delicate. Martin was precious.
And then they'd flown for the first time with Martin at the helm, and he discovered firsthand that Martin wasn't a very good pilot, but he was a very safe pilot. He also learned that he would neither bend nor break under the heavy weight of Douglas's sarcasm and superiority. Eventually, the captain would temper some new gentleness in Mum and in Douglas, but not because he was the spun glass Arthur had thought he was at first. His careful smile and stupid jokes were endearing, and everyone found themselves collectively working to make Martin smile and laugh even more. Arthur worked so fiercely to make his captain smile.
Over time, the captain did smile, and he was kind to Arthur more often than not. Arthur, feeling every bit the idiot boy Carolyn said he was, felt his love for Martin like stones in his belly. Martin swooned for beautiful women, dated a princess, all of these things that stuck in Arthur's throat. And then, that Christmas when Martin had done so much for Arthur, it was all the steward could do to keep himself above water. He knew that he was a goner, and he knew Martin would never feel the same way. It was a heavy ache, but he held to it tightly without a hint of resentment. Martin's happiness was paramount.
Martin dated at least one person, that brilliant princess with her only-slightly-less-than-brilliant brother and king. When he and Douglas told Arthur the story that evening, Arthur had deflated. He grinned and congratulated his Skip, and for the first time in a very long time, he left the airfield on his own. Oh, his mum let him have it for that, but she'd eventually caught on.
She looked at him with a my poor boy sort of look, and that hurt worse. It made the whole thing that much more real. It left Arthur hollow, but cheery as ever. After all, Martin was happy with the princess. She thought Martin was lovely and funny, and she was right and it hurt but Arthur just smiled and nodded and laughed along.
When they broke things off, Martin was... Well, it was difficult to parse what he was, but it was easy to determine what he was not. He was not distraught. He was not bemoaning his loss. He was not a mess.
They were in Italy when Martin slumped down on his bed and buried his face in his pillow. They were sharing a room since Martin had lost his bet with Douglas. Arthur was bustling around the room and unpacking when Martin started grumbling into the pillow. He spoke loudly enough that Arthur figured he was meant to hear, but he couldn't understand.
"Come again?" Arthur asked, stilling for a moment and tilting his head toward the captain.
"How am I going to tell Douglas that Theresa and I broke up? He was so proud of me!" Martin moaned. Arthur felt a flutter in his chest like sparrows, but guilt was right on the heels of that feeling. He pushed it away with bitter force.
"I'm sorry, Skip!" Arthur said, and he meant it. Martin certainly had seemed to like the princess, and there was no denying that she was brilliant. "Do you mind if I ask what happened?"
Martin sighed like a bellows and rolled over, resting his hands on his stomach.
"I broke it off with her," the captain said, closing his eyes. "For the record. But it was still pretty mutual."
"I thought you liked her."
"I did, and I still do. Just... I've learned that I want different things with my life. Different people."
And when Arthur risked a glance at his captain, he noted the watercolor blush curving over his cheekbones. It was so lovely and so sweet that Arthur had to look away, absolutely anywhere else. The window was as good a place as any, and it revealed the quiet fall of dusk outside. While the sky went a deep purplish navy, the streets were lightly gilded with streetlights coming on. It wasn't long before the soft twilit mix of colors tinted their hotel room.
In the hushed dim, Arthur felt the sparrows spread their wings in his chest.
"What different things would you want?" he found himself asking. His voice was soft to complement the stillness of the evening. There was a quiet draw of breath from Martin. Arthur kept his eyes on the city outside.
"She's royalty," Martin said. "It's a completely different world. I was always under a microscope, and I spent the whole start of our relationship feeling like I wasn't good enough."
Arthur wanted to gasp with shock at the very notion that Martin couldn't be good enough for someone. He wanted to grab Martin's hand and press featherlight kisses to the callouses he knew were on his palm. He wanted to illuminate Martin with his love like streetlights.
In actuality, Arthur held himself very still and very quiet and waited.
"Everyone started telling me the things I could and couldn't do as a commoner dating royalty," Martin continued. "They told me what I had to do, what to say and how to dress. Every second was a lesson in bloody comportment because, no matter how much she loves planes and no matter how sensible she is, she's still a princess. And I kept telling myself that it was worth it, that anything is worth it when you're in love, and then..."
Arthur was piano wire, taut and nervous and humming with potential.
"And then?" he breathed.
"I realized that I didn't love her. Not romantically, at least. Theresa's great, but I could never really imagine a future with her. When I broke it off with her, she understood. I left on pretty good terms, considering everything. We're still friends."
A finger was poised above a key as he waited, a musical rest, a moment of respite and please-God-let-this-be-right.
"And when you said different people... Did you have anyone in mind?"
Arthur wasn't daft. He wasn't stupid, and he wasn't that naïve. His love wasn't entirely blind, and he hoped with something like desperation that it wasn't entirely unreciprocated.
"I don't know." Martin's voice dropped to a whisper. "Maybe."
The key was struck and the piano wire sang as the hammer fell. It was the opening note of something grand, of an entire symphony.
He turned to take Martin in, now sitting on the edge of his bed, eyes wide and cheeks darkened. Was that hope on his lips, or anxiousness? Should he speak or hold his tongue? Should he make this leap or turn away?
"Can it be me?" he breathed.
His heart was hammering in his throat. He was certain that all of Italy could hear it, a violent symphony all for Martin.
Martin smiled and it was soft, and it was relieved. He reached out a hesitant hand, only trembling a little.
"I'd like that, Arthur. I'd like that a lot."
Arthur took his hand and held fast. The world tipped just a little as Martin stood up and gently rested his other hand on Arthur's shoulder.
The kiss was chaste and quiet and sweet, and the sparrows took flight and the symphony was magnificent and there were a million metaphors for what Arthur was feeling right now, for what was in the curving space between their smiles as their foreheads touched and their hands tangled together.
"Brilliant," Arthur whispered. Martin laughed brightly and kissed him again and again and again. The first few kisses of a lifetime.