Romance short. A regular guest acts on his attraction to the hotel concierge.
3.8k, rated T. Sweet and gentle. A regular guest has a connection with a hotel concierge, and they build up their relationship to something more. Adapted from a TweetFic.
Rhys Logan has been travelling since he was out of university, effectively. It’s never bothered him all that much — he feels at home in hotel rooms, more at home than he’s felt in a lot of places he’s actually lived. The sheets are always clean, always fresh towels, always tea; things happen on a regular schedule, things are neat and tidy; things are… neutral.
They don’t try too hard to belong to anybody, or make you think too hard about what should belong to you. No one in a hotel comes at you with paint swatches or bits of wallpaper and asks you to pick favourites, let alone lays traps for you where certain combinations are the wrong ones, and you were meant to say something different than what you did.
A hotel is made for people passing through, and that’s what Rhys has always been, really — a man who’s passing through.
He’s passing through Nottingham this time around, and when he comes into the Four Yews, it’s with a sense of security, of comfort. The hotel stays much the same each time, with little change, and even the staff don’t change too much — the ones that he notices don’t, anyway.
He’s greeted by the concierge, Neal, who gives him a pleasant smile. Neal is one of those people who can be relied on — he always changes out the pillows and sheets because Rhys is allergic to duck feathers, always remembers Bea’s birthday, to remind him of it.
He’s staying in October, this time, so Bea’s birthday doesn’t matter much — and in any case, he’s just had another fight with her, and she’s not speaking to him.
He regrets the whole thing at times. Marriage. He thought it would be easier, being married, than not, but it’s just harder, it’s all so much harder, and it’s so much work, and she simply isn’t happy. He can’t make her be happy — he wouldn’t want to make her be happy, only that he wishes he could give her things that did.
He remembers her birthday whether Neal reminds him or not, remembers little anniversaries and her mother’s birthday, he’s always kept careful note of her favourite flowers and cakes and stores, everything.
The first time Neal had asked, Rhys had had his binder ready — he’d paged through it and showed him each of the pages, brought him just through the broad strokes of it all, of what she liked in flowers and scents, colours and fabrics, what all her sizes and measurements were, what brands she favoured. She likes violets, but not lilacs or hyacinths — the colour is too pale and powdery, and she finds their scents too sickly; she loves honey in things, infused or mixed in, but honey on its own is too sweet too; she loves cakes and sweet things with a bit of acidity to them, to balance out the sweetness.
Perhaps that’s why Rhys is too much for her, too. Perhaps he’s too sweet, at the end of it all.
There’s always something missing.
Something she’s not giving, something she wants from him that he’s not giving her and he doesn’t know what exactly, doesn’t know what else he can be doing — he asks her and she doesn’t know either, just is frustrated she’s not getting it.
“Don’t you even love me?” she’d demanded before he’d left yesterday morning, and he’d not even known what to say, had been struck dumb and rooted to the spot.
“Of course I love you,” he’d said. “What sort of question is that?”
He remembers everything. He writes it down. He tries to make her happy — he works to make her happy. Isn’t that what love is?
Why does it have to be about whether he’s smiling? Why does it have to be the way he hugs her, or how, exactly, or how he looks when she looks at him and he doesn’t know he’s being looked at? That’s not… That’s not what this is for.
Neal is —
He’s a familiar face, a friendly one. Rhys actually does smile as he gets into the lift and goes up to the room, which is at the other end of the corridor, because the noise of the lift mechanism tends to bother him in the early hours. His whole body aches, particularly his feet — he needs new insoles, he thinks, or maybe just new shoes, because the bottom of his feet ache from standing all day.
At least tomorrow it’s all meetings. It’ll be dull as anything, but at least he’ll be able to sit down — and then at the end of tomorrow, his arse will ache instead.
When he comes into the room and flicks on the light, he’s surprised to see not just his suitcase resting on the luggage stand, opened up, his slippers resting on the radiator so that they’ll be warm when he puts them on, but to see something else on the table too.
There’s a box of chocolates on the bed, and there’s a bottle of fancy beer he tried off the craft tasting menu a few months ago and actually liked, and he’s… baffled. Was it a mistake, perhaps? They’ve brought something into the room thinking he’s someone else, or mixed up the rooms, or…?
He picks up the little card on top of the chocolate box and reads it. In looping, neat handwriting underneath the hotel’s printed letterhead, it says, Happy birthday, Mr Logan. It’s the concierge’s handwriting. Neal’s handwriting.
Rhys stands there for a second, rooted to the spot for the second time in only a few days, feeling warm and sort of caught off-guard. His lips are shifted into a smile before he can think much about it, can feel the tug on his face.
It’s a raspberry IPA, the beer, sweet and with only a little tartness — the chocolates are white, with fruit ganaches in lots of them. Complementary flavours.
He’s never even said he likes white chocolate — not to a concierge anywhere, not to Neal, barely ever to anybody. He doesn’t treat himself to things like this often.
He opens the beer and sips at it, closes his eyes, takes a chocolate. Laughs to himself, quietly.
He doesn’t remember his fight with Bea until morning.
* * *
It’s March, the next time he’s in Nottingham. He and Bea are officially separated, now, and he coughs as he signs in at the check-in desk.
“I’ll be here two weeks,” he says. “Bea and I are separated, so, ah… Don’t worry about her birthday.”
Neal gives him a small smile, reaches across the counter and squeezes his arm. His hand is strong and warm, feels good where it presses into the meat of his shoulder. “Not to worry,” he says softly.
He thinks of that little arm squeeze all night, goes up in the lift feeling the ghost of it still lingering above his elbow. He wonders what Neal’s hand would feel like on his cheek, instead.
Which is… Yeah. That’s — a thing.
The next morning, almost on a whim, he goes over to the concierge desk and he’s disappointed to see it’s one of the very young people on the concierge team, some kid of eighteen instead of Neal, who’s the same age as he is, in his late thirties, if not his early forties.
“Hullo, sir,” she says, beaming. “How can we help you?”
For a few moments, Rhys can’t speak at all, and then he says — somewhat abortively — “I want to be distracted,” because it’s the first thing that comes to mind.
“Do you like the night life, sir?” asks the concierge, reaching for a drawer of leaflets under her desk.
“No.”
“Oh. Uh, do you like dancing?” She’s already reaching for a different drawer.
“No.”
“Oh.” The junior concierge wrinkles her nose, consideringly, and then straightens up, looking suddenly inspired as she grabs another leaflet. “They’re doing this special screening of The Phantom Menace at the Gold Theatre, it’s remastered, they’re having Jake Lloyd do a signing, and…” She falters as she looks across at Rhys, her lips pursing. “Um… No?”
“Who’s Jake Lloyd?”
“He plays young Anakin Skywalker.”
“And who’s that?”
“It’s — Well, Phantom Menace, it’s Episode 1?”
“Of?”
Neal cuts in from the righthand side, and Rhys feels his body relax a bit.
“Mr Logan is looking for a distraction,” she says helpfully.
“Ah,” says Neal, and maybe because they know each other better, because he’s not as worried it would be impolite to ask: “What from?”
“My… things at home.”
“Oh, you know,” the younger concierge says, and pulls out one very red and very… naked leaflet from the bottom of the desk, “the dancers here — ”
“No, no, not for Mr Logan,” says Neal, pushing her gently to put it away.
Rhys’ cheeks are burning red, and he stands there, mortified, as she nods and rubs the back of her said and says, “Erm, sorry,” and then hurriedly excuses herself to help the next person behind him.
Neal folds his hands over his belly, over the neat jumper he’s wearing, over his collared shirt and tie. It’s nice, how it fits him, clings tight to the curve of his belly and his waist, his broad, soft chest. Rhys is glad he isn’t wearing a blazer.
“Has the divorce gone through yet?”
“No. Not yet. We’re, um… looking at it.”
“I’m very sorry, Mr Logan.”
“Mm.”
Neal doesn’t show him for leaflets for bars or tasting experiences or sex shops or strip clubs or films. “There’s a circus in town, transport out to it can be a bit awkward, but I can arrange a taxi for you. There’s a falconry experience, maybe, how about that?”
“I don’t know,” Rhys said, and he thought about it, about all the crowd around him in a circus, the music, the glittering costumes, the acts, the clowns, all of it… And falconry? Birds, owls, resting on his arm through one of those big leather gloves. They both sounded good, actually. Nice. He hadn’t been to the circus in years.
“Something quieter, maybe?” Neal asked, tilting his head to one side as he looked at Rhys’ face. “A bit more space for your thoughts, a bit more peace?”
He holds out a leaflet, and Rhys looks at it. “Nottingham Heritage Railway,” he reads aloud.
“There’s Nottingham Transport Heritage Centre, too,” Neal says.
“You’re really good,” Rhys mutters. “I’ve never even mentioned I like trains.”
“I like trains,” says Neal.
For some reason, that makes his blush come back, and it darkens and feels hotter when Neal smiles.
* * *
He doesn’t know why he does it, what exactly compels him — just gratitude and a good mood — but in the gift shop… The jigsaws are two for one. It’s been years since he’s done a jigsaw, not since he still lived at home.
There was no real space in his flat with his roommates, and he’d always been a bit embarrassed to get them at home with Bea, not when she already raised an eyebrow at him enjoying models, and he’d never even dream of indulging in a train kit. And doing them in hotels, well. You always needed somewhere to put them, after.
He was moved out and renting a flat of his own now. He’d be there for at least another year, and he had more than enough space on the little kitchen table for it.
It’s a whim. He’s trying to be… whimsical.
“Is this a gift? I can wrap them up for you, no charge!”
“Uh, just one of them,” he says. “The Express to Blackpool.”
It feels suddenly embarrassing and stupid when he gets back to the hotel, and he probably wouldn’t have done it at all if not for the fact that Neal gets into the lift at the same time as him. It’s late at night, must be toward the end of his shift — he’s leaning on the desk, but he stands up straight when Rhys comes in.
“Are you, um — finishing?”
“Just about, Mr Logan,” says Neal, giving him a small, tired smile. “I’m just fetching one last thing from upstairs for a manager and then they’ll reluctantly let me free.”
“I, um, thanks for the, ah… the recommendation.”
“You enjoyed the day?”
“Yeah.”
He moves all at once, scrambles into the little tote bag so fast that Neal leans back, almost jumping, but his expression softens when Rhys puts the wrapped box in his hands.
“You already tipped me, Mr Logan,” murmurs Neal.
“Oh,” says Rhys. “Sorry, is it — This is bad, isn’t it? It’s too much. I shouldn’t — ”
“It’s really not bad at all,” murmurs Neal, and Rhys feels strange and almost tender as he watches Neal hold the wrapped box to his chest.
“It’s just a — ”
“Ah, ah. Don’t you tell me now, Mr Logan. It’s a surprise.”
Rhys laughs, looking down at his feet.
“Who told you?”
“Huh?”
“It’s my birthday tomorrow,” says Neil quietly, and when Rhys risks a glance at his face he sees that his lips are softly smiling. “Someone must have let it slip.”
“Oh,” says Rhys. “Uh, well. Leave it to mystery.”
He writes it down in his datebook when he goes upstairs. 3rd of July, Neal the concierge’s birthday. He likes trains.
* * *
His next trip is in the early autumn, and as soon as he comes in, Neal greets him with a warm, easy smile.
“Mr Logan,” he says. “A week this time, or two?”
“Just one.”
“Working Saturday?”
“Uh, no, I was gonna relax, maybe read a bit.”
“Sure of that?” asks Neal, and holds up a brightly-coloured pamphlet for a model train show, and Rhys’ lips part in surprise as he reaches out and takes it.
“Oh,” he says as he looks at it.
“Want me to book you a ticket?”
“Yes, Neal, please. Thank you.” As Neal types on his computer console, Rhys swallows and says, “The, um… the divorce went through. No fault. Just, um… Mmm.”
“That’s very quick,” says Neal. “How are you feeling?”
“Sad, I suppose,” Rhys says. “That’s how I’m meant to feel, right?”
“Sad,” agrees Neal with a neat nod of his head. “Sad, angry, at a loss, lonely. Relieved, liberated. At peace.”
“All of those at once?”
Neal laughs. “These things are complex, Mr Logan.”
“Rhys.”
Neal glances up from his computer monitor, his lips shifting into a slight smile, and then he inclines his head. “Rhys,” he agrees, and presses a key so that Rhys’ phone vibrates in his pocket, against his breast. It feels strangely intimate. “There’s your ticket. Perhaps I’ll see you there.”
“Maybe,” says Rhys, and then: “I hope so.”
* * *
He doesn’t really know what to expect, exactly, but it’s… Great.
There’s stands with people selling models for a train set up — painted figures of people, of tiny little conductors and ticket inspectors and drivers and passengers, of shopkeepers and traffic wardens, of little animals, cats and dogs and horses and sheep and cows, of buildings, of traffic signs; there are model trains and tracks; there are people who service them or modify them.
There are marble runs, and different mechanical toys, various miniatures — not only with model trains, but things from the Lord of the Rings, or fantasy things. Wizards. Elves. Dragons.
There are tables, naturally, set up with complex networks of trains, vintage models intersecting or crossing over with new ones. There’s a broad table set up with a LEGO set, built up with a city and a forest and a lake with boats on it, just the same as the other model sets, and he stands in place for about ten minutes, watching the LEGO train move placidly about the diorama and through a LEGO station, looking at all the minifigures.
There aren’t only trains, of course — there are dollhouses and figures and replicas of other transport vehicles, and his hand almost twitches when he sees a bench of people sitting down and painting models, working from shared paint palettes and laughing with each other.
Lots of different ages, actually. Not just children, but a lot of guys his age and older — old people too, he even sees an elderly couple leaning into one another and comparing little painted figures that they’ve both painted to have white hair.
“Want to paint one? They’re already primed.”
Rhys turns to look, and his jaw drops.
He likes concierge and doorman uniforms, at the hotels that have them, the brass buttons and the choice of colour palettes, often with slightly more dated suits — the Four Yews just have uniform colours of dark greens, and uniform shirts.
Now, Neal is wearing a dark green uniform and a tie and a waistcoat and he’s got a gold pocket watch chain and he’s got a green carnation through one lapel and a —
“Hat,” chokes out Rhys.
“Yes,” Neal agrees, smiling at him. “Would you like to try it on?”
“Oh my God.”
He takes off his hat and puts it on Rhys’ head, and Rhys feels his cheeks burn hot with another blush as Neal looks up at him with his hands in his pockets, his eyes sparkling. “It really rather suits you.”
“Thanks.”
“Regretting choosing a marketing business over driving trains?”
“A train driver wouldn’t wear a uniform like that.”
“I’m dressed as a conductor, Rhys — if you want to wear the dungarees and make her go, be my guest.”
Rhys laughs, touching the side of his own cheek.
“I do believe you still get a hat,” murmurs Neal. “Want to give it all up and make a go of it?”
“You got a time machine?”
“I’ve referrals for vintage train experiences,” Neal says pleasantly. “That’s almost the same thing, isn’t it?” He gestures for Rhys to settle down with him at the table, and Rhys does, picking a primed figure out of one of the boxes, a conductor.
He starts to paint, and it’s clumsy, awkward. It’s harder than he remembered. “I haven’t done this since I was a kid.”
“You’ll have to practise then, won’t you?”
“You do this a lot?”
“I do. I’ve not tremendous space for the models at my place, but my sister has her whole attic cleared for it. We used to be really into it when we were children, and now my nephews are all obsessed. It’s a great excuse to indulge the hobby.”
Rhys huffs out a laugh, but something in him relaxes, or feels warmer, at how Neal talks about his nephews — not his own children. Not a partner, either. “Just the, um… the figurines? Or the…?”
“Oh, not just the figures, no. We’ve a four-train set running, several stations. They’re all Lionel models, the same ones we grew up with — we keep them in very good condition, and update the scenery. They’ll make lovely heirlooms.”
“Wow,” says Rhys. “Have you got pictures? I’d love to see.”
“Why would I show you pictures? I’m swapping over with Anna at three, and she won’t mind if I bring a gentleman friend over to show him the sets. They’re half mine, after all.”
Rhys stares across at him, at Neal’s slight smile, the way his fingers are tapping on the table. He’s got carefully manicured nails, which Rhys has noticed before, but for the first time he sees little flecks of paint here and there on his fingers.
“Oh,” says Rhys.
“There’s really no obligation,” says Neal. “But if you’d like to see — ”
“I would.”
“Alright then,” murmurs Neal, and he taps his own lips as he smiles, walking away to help someone else with something.
* * *
Neal has the jigsaw puzzle that Rhys brought him framed and hung up in the attic room, and Rhys is so distracted by it he doesn’t initially even look at the model trains. It’s a beautiful scene, a dark-painted engine getting ready to go to Blackpool, couples and families and others all dotted about with their seaside things ready.
When he does turn, he sees Neal beside him, and leans in to kiss him. Neal laughs into his mouth, kisses him back and spreads his palm on Rhys’ chest, slides his hand up to curve around the back of his neck.
“Oh, God,” murmurs Rhys against his mouth. “Should I not have done that?”
“I don’t know if you noticed, but I was quite in favour of it. I kissed you back, after all.”
“Oh,” Rhys says softly. “I suppose you did.”
“Do you always second-guess when people reciprocate your affection, Rhys?”
“I don’t know if I’m used to people reciprocating.”
“Mm,” hums Neal. “I thought it might be that.”
“This isn’t — Am I crossing a boundary?”
“Rhys, as soon as you handed me a folder filled with your wife’s likes and dislikes, colour-coded and alphabetised, I thought to myself, there is a man for whom I would set next to no boundaries. I was rather smitten with you.”
“… Huh?”
“Were it the case that most people put in such effort as you did as a spouse, half of my job would disappear overnight, you know. As a concierge, seeing notes like yours, it’s… Hm. Quite the appeal.”
“My marriage didn’t go so well.”
“You kept it secret from your wife that you like trains?”
“Not — Secret.”
“You knew everything about her. Why not let her in?”
Rhys was quiet for a second, not certain how to answer, not sure what the real answer was.
“If you felt the need to hide anything, that’s rather a clue,” Neal says. “Dedication is lovely — trust is crucial.”
“She’d have made fun of it. Of me. She’d have been frustrated it was so childish.”
“There you go. Me, though, I wouldn’t. I won’t.”
Rhys kisses him again, more fiercely this time, backs him up a bit and then goes, “Ah!” and quickly turns them around so that Neal is crowded against the wall instead of the model table.
“Oh, and he protects the models,” Neal crows, and Rhys hides his blush by kissing his neck.
* * *
Neal has holiday days saved, and he visits with Rhys for his birthday in October.
He flicks through the calendar hung up in his kitchen, going back to March, and grins.
“What?”
“You wrote down my birthday,” he says mildly. “Neal the concierge.”
“I, uh — ”
“I knew you would have written it down,” Neal says softly. His gaze is soft and warm as he turns back to Rhys, and Rhys’ chest gives a flutter when he catches Rhys’ hand and squeezes.
That evening, they do a jigsaw together, and somehow Neal passing him the corner pieces before they take a break to eat cake together… It’s the most romantic birthday Rhys could have ever imagined.
FIN.
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