Love in Every Season

by Charlie Cochrane

  While nothing was ever going to taste quite as sweet as that first medal, it turned out I enjoyed the fifty much more as a race, even though it was so much shorter. I was wide awake for the whole of it and could savour—if that’s the right word—every bit from gun to wall. I didn’t win. I got pipped by Byron, who powered past me with twenty metres to go and left me trailing in his wake, but silver was nice, to set off the colour of the gold. It goes without saying that Mum and Dad were just as delighted, if a little blasé. Dad said Mum had rung Mrs. White almost the minute my hand had hit the pool wall, just to let her know that I’d another medal in the bag. And probably gloat a bit.

  Nick hadn’t been able to make that race, although he was in the crowd for the relay. I’d been having banter with the press lads about how I wouldn’t mind what colour of medal I won, so long as I got one—a bronze would have finished the set nicely—although my colleagues naturally wanted better. At heart, I wanted better too, especially if Nick was going to be there. Tonight was my last race, the next day I was being allowed home, and the day after I was going round to Nick’s for an adult version of the sort of sleepovers Matty and I had indulged in back in X-Box days.

  What stood between me and another gold? Four hundred metres of water, four Americans and four Aussies.

  When the race finally came around, I went in third, slightly ahead of the fourth placed swimmer, swam a blinder and handed over a huge lead to our anchor man. I couldn’t watch him. Byron Jones was off last for the Yanks and I could see him eating up the water. I had my eyes tight shut when the huge roar came—that crowd must have shouted themselves hoarse every session—and I knew we’d got it.

  Another round of hugging, interviews, photos, more pictures with the family, and then getting the medal. At least I was a bit more coherent in my interview, although I gave the media boys a treat by putting my medal around Mum’s neck at the end of the evening. That one ended up on the front page of the Telegraph, with Nick in the background. I was hoping that was a good omen.

  Compensation

  “Your Mum and Dad seem to spend more time in France than here.” I was at Nick’s flat again, our first date since the Games had ended. We’d fed and watered ourselves at a really nice brasserie; now it was reward time. I just hoped I didn’t make as big a tit of myself as I’d done last time we’d been alone.

  “It feels like that at times. They’ve taken granddad and my maiden great aunt for their annual week in the sunshine. They prefer it when it’s not quite so hot.”

  “They wouldn’t like it here, then, would they?” The day had been Indian summer warm, but that wasn’t what was keeping my temperature up. Nick had never looked so gorgeous, grey shirt and chinos setting off his skin tones perfectly. I’m sure he must have been just as well turned out every time I’d seen him but I’d not had enough brain to realise it. “Been a hell of a summer on all counts.”

  He stroked my cheek. “You were bloody brilliant. Have I said that?”

  “Just once or twice. Like everyone else has done.”

  I still couldn’t get used to it. Three bloody medals—count them, three! I’d have settled for the one, if you’d offered it to me that afternoon back in 2005 when Matty and I got so excited about London getting the Olympics. I’d have shaken your hand off and done the deal, especially if I could have got it without all the hard work and grief in between.

  No, that’s a lie. The medals wouldn’t have felt as good if I hadn’t earned them. Like Nick—I’d worked hard for him, too.

  “Egotistical git.” Nick pulled me over for one of his special kisses, the first we’d shared since we’d parted on my doorstep. It felt as good as I’d remembered, even better than it had been in my dreams. “Have I got to put up with vanity for as long as I put up with you?”

  “Maybe.” I returned the kiss; luckily I never have trouble controlling my tongue, even when I’m knackered, so my performance was up to the required standard. “Perhaps you can bring me back to earth.”

  “Not yet. You can bask in the glow and I’ll share in your light.” Nick fiddled with my shirt buttons. “We’ve earned it.”

  “I’ll take that as permission to lie back and enjoy life to the full for a while. Before the slog starts again.” I had funding sorted so I was about to embark on being a professional athlete; even with grant money scarce, they saw me as a copper-bottomed investment for 2016 and all the championships and World Cups in between. “Did you know I’ve had someone get in touch wanting to be my agent? He reckons I could be the pin-up boy of the British Paralympic movement.”

  Nick ruffled my hair. “You’ve got the looks. What would happen to your Psychology Masters, though?”

  “I’m not giving that up. I can run the two in tandem.” At that point I felt like I could do anything I set my mind to. Getting my leg over Nick included.

  “That won’t leave a lot of time for anything else.”

  “I’ll still find time to come up and have a naughty weekend with a final year student now and then.” I tickled his ear; he liked that. “It’s not prison.”

  “Just as well. There’d be no chance of time off for good behaviour.” He leaned into the tickling, like a cat. “I like what you said about lying back and enjoying things. Only I hope you’ve got enough energy to play your part tonight. I don’t want to have to do all the work.”

  “Don’t worry. I can get back in the zone for you. It’ll be the best incentive to find my second wind.” The memory of Nick’s fingers crawling up my leg and playing havoc made me as excited as if he was doing it right then. He must have noticed, immediately brushing the front of my trousers with the back of his free hand.

  “Something’s certainly ready for action. Not sure it’ll control itself all the way to the B of the bang.”

  Not if he carried on doing that it wouldn’t. “You’d be surprised. I got my world record on sheer willpower alone. I’ll take charge of my todger.”

  “Todger? That’s what I’ve always called mine, too. Once I grew out of calling it my ninky-nonk.” Nick squeezed my thigh. “Made for each other, don’t you see? We speak the same language.”

  “You can say what you want tonight.” I put his hand back on my crotch. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

  “So have I.” He worked loose my fly button and pulled down the zip. “I should have asked. Top or bottom?”

  That took the wind out of my sails. “Um, I’m not sure, actually. Is it a problem?”

  “Not unless we both refuse to be top and even then, we can work something out. There’s more than one way to…” He stopped, hand still inside my flies and starting to cause havoc. “I was going to say skin a cat but you might get shirty. I’ve seen you lose your temper before and I don’t want to risk it again.”

  “I was an idiot back in those days. Now I’m a reformed character.” I pressed his hand, the one which was getting me all of a fluster. “Don’t stop.” It sounded like he preferred me to top and that was going to be easier to get my head around. Assuming I lasted long enough to find out if that was my preference; I didn’t want to disqualify myself with a false start.

  “I better stop, unless you can guarantee a quick fire repeat performance.” He took his hand out of my pants, got up, and pulled me with him. “I don’t think you’ve seen my bedroom. We should redress that right now.”

  I didn’t need a second invitation, even if I had to hold my trousers up as we went. Nick didn’t make movement any easier, kissing me and trying to nibble my ear as we made a slow progress along the hallway. By the time we made it onto the bed, my trousers were around my ankles and I was in no fit state to admire the décor. I managed to persuade him to give me a minute to get my shoes off and then get rid of any clothes from the waist down, but that was all the leeway I was allowed. He was clearly as desperate as I was to get it on.

  “You won’t be disappointed, I promise.” Nick got me ready—just as well, because while I knew what to do in theory, practice normally turns out to
be a whole other kettle of fish. Same was going to apply to all of this process so I had to trust I was in safe hands. All the indications seemed positive. “Ever done it with a girl?”

  “No. You?” I started to panic a bit. Would he think I was a complete wuss?

  “Afraid not. Glad you’re the same so I don’t have anything to live up to.” I must have been prepared to his satisfaction, as he lay back and pulled me next to him. “We’ll soon find out, anyway.”

  We soon did. Perhaps a bit too soon for my liking, but it was our first time together and the first time for me doing “it” and too much water had flowed under my armpits for me to have absolute control. At least I’d avoided that false start—sex, like racing, rules you out of the race if you explode off the blocks too soon. Nick helped with that, slowing things down once we hit the bed; he must have realised how I was wobbling on my metaphorical blocks.

  “Fifty metres sprint or fifteen hundred metres endurance?” The cheeky bugger had all the lines off pat.

  “Four hundred metres seems a good compromise.” I was tired of talking, wanting to keep all my energy for the main event. I kissed him; I appreciated the fact that he seemed to like kissing, which hadn’t been routine with the guys I’d hung around with. That made me like Nick even more—got me more excited, too, when the kisses went down my neck and along my dodgy arm. It’s always been particularly sensitive, although nobody had got it going quite like he did.

  End of the first stretch, time for the tumble turn. I wriggled out of Nick’s grip, flipping him onto his side with my good arm—if he didn’t know by then how strong I was he’d soon find out—and started working across his shoulders, trail of butterfly kisses in my mouth’s wake. “You like that?”

  I didn’t need to wait for his reply, because his body was voicing it for him.

  “Oh, yeah. But don’t go any lower or I’m going to have to dip out early.” His voice was hoarse now, so seductive I was worried I wouldn’t go the distance. “I’m not made of iron.”

  “You could have fooled me.” Hard as steel, if he wanted my opinion.

  “Stop talking smutty,” he breathed against my neck. I was on top of him now, ready to make the final push, those last few strokes towards triumph. “Good and hard, all the way to the line, Ben.”

  Good and hard it was, and the end felt like winning gold all over again. Like Christmas morning and all the presents just how you hoped they’d be.

  Afterwards I lay on Nick’s chest, tired and happy. My left arm was starting to lose strength, and I reckoned there’d be no chance of a rematch, this side of morning. The last few weeks had caught up with me, with a vengeance. It was obvious that I’d be allowed to share the bed, though, so that would be another first—spending the whole night with someone for the first time since it was me and Matty and X-Box till four in the morning. That’s one of the things I loved so much about Nick; that feeling of “all boys together” and lovers at the same time. Perfect.

  “You’re thinking something. Is it sweet thoughts of me?” He ruffled my hair.

  “Something like that. What would have you have done if I hadn’t won a medal?”

  Nick shrugged then gave me a squeeze. “It wouldn’t have applied. I knew you’d do the business. I had every confidence you’d be on the podium.”

  “Maybe you and Mum were the only ones.” I turned around so we could look eye to eye. “I’m serious—what would you have done if I’d only finished fourth? All bets would have been null and void.”

  “I’d have had to find a way round the problem.” He grinned, leaning down for a kiss. “Seeing as you can’t cheat, I’d have had to. Couldn’t have missed the chance of this.” The kiss grew deeper and stronger; the spirit to return it with interest was willing but the flesh was too weak.

  “Sorry. You’ve knackered me. Keep that kiss till morning, when I can do something with it, eh?” I settled down on his chest again. “Maybe I can get my reward for the world record.”

  “Cheeky sod. I don’t think you deserve what I had in mind for you.”

  That made me start to reconsider my energy levels; what could be that good?

  “Will there be time for holidays with your new schedule?”

  This was intriguing; I was only slightly disappointed it wouldn’t involve this bed and the next few hours. “Thinking of a romantic break somewhere?”

  “No, snowboarding. You’ve always wanted to do it and my family are desperate for you to come along with us next time as our guest. Fancy New Year in Whistler?”

  “Fancy it? I can’t think of anything I’d like more. Even if I’m fucking useless at it, I don’t care.”

  “I don’t think you could ever be useless at anything you set your mind to. I’ve got this evening as evidence.” He kissed the top of my head, before reaching over to put out the light. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

  “We will.” There must have been some note in my voice that set off alarm bells. The light went back on, and an anxious Nick leaned over me.

  “Just tell me one thing. Snowboarding’s not a Paralympic sport, right? I’ve not unleashed a monster I’ll have to keep in check for the next two years?”

  I grinned, pushing him back onto the mattress. “You’re safe. At least it’s not in for 2014.”

  “And 2018?” He pulled me back on top of him.

  “2018? I’m not sure I even know where they’re holding the Olympiad, let alone the list of events.”

  Which is where we came in…

  Autumn

  Sand

  “This bloody sand gets everywhere. Absolutely bloody everywhere.” I jiggled my feet, trying to shake the dust of the country from my boots. The stuff came right back, but it made me feel better. The air seemed thick with heat, making my neck feel swollen and clammy, more than it ever felt on the hottest of days under an English sky.

  “Don’t you think it’s marvellous, Charles?” Bernard Mottram was enjoying every moment of our trip; he loved the warmth and the novelty. Even more, he loved the doe-eyed girls who seemed to be around every Syrian corner, even if he couldn’t get his hands on them with me around. “Aren’t the aromas so invigorating?”

  All I could smell was camel; the odour pervaded absolutely everything, just like the bloody sand. We were only a few weeks into the six months of torment which Bernard’s mother had inflicted on me and I doubted I’d survive. We’d crossed Europe by train, sailed by stages across the Med and then we’d hit the camel train, at which point all pleasure had gone out of the window. If there had been any windows, rather than just tent flaps and sand. More bloody sand. I’d never been so uncomfortable in my life.

  Even worse than the heat was remembering the brute force, excessive charm, and financial pressure, all wielded on me by Bernard’s mother. She could have made all the sand in Syria disappear with one disapproving look; people said Prime Ministers ran a mile when Marjorie Mottram came into view.

  “My son has suffered some disappointments and is in need of hot weather and mental stimulation, Mr. Cusiter,” she’d said, making it plain with one look of her gimlet eye that irrespective of whether Bernard wanted them, they were exactly what he would be having. He’d got himself into hot water, had appealed to Caesar, or at least to the imperial equivalent in the Mottram household, and overseas he would have to go.

  Bernard’s disappointments had been in female form, as his disappointments usually were. This one had been a redhead who’d refused him, then gone off with his so-called best friend.

  “Bernard needs someone reliable and sensible to accompany him on his travels,” Mrs. Mottram had concluded, whilst also inferring that if said person—me—let her dear Bernard fall into the hands of any Middle Eastern bints, said person would end up fit only for being mummified himself.

  I’d been in no position to refuse. When a man was simply an aspiring writer and the woman who acted as his patroness asked him to perform her a favour—and gave him a whacking great lump of cash to oil the wheels
—then he could hardly say “no”.

  The end of our journey was destined to be an archaeological dig, miles from anywhere, the only contact with the outside world being what came up the camel route. It was some consolation that the camp was said to be well set up for excavating archaeological sites with care and dedication, rather than just robbing tombs.

  And, of course, they made provision for tourists—tourists of the more discerning and wealthy type—who would be treated to an itinerary including a tour of the latest excavations, being allowed to clean some of the less important artefacts and dining at a mock native feast or two. The combination proved popular, especially when the accommodation provided struck just the right balance between local primitive and Western luxurious.

  I just prayed the place would be free of women and, more importantly, free of camels. I hadn’t anticipated the true scale of what we’d find at Dahmalia until we arrived there.

  “Well, did you just expect tents and camels?” Bernard laughed, as the operation came into sight.

  “I’m not sure what I expected,” I said, wary of showing enthusiasm. “Has it always been like this?”

  Our guide nodded. “You will find this a very comfortable site. The excavations have been going on here for several years, and both Dr. Parks and his predecessor have wanted everyone to be comfortable—whether workers, students or guests—or else the first two can’t be productive and the last might take home bad reports. Then there would be no more visitors.”

  “Well I hope there are some girls about.” Bernard lowered his voice, addressing me alone. “I know they’ll all be terribly blue stocking, but a man can’t be picky.”