“What are we watching?” Garen asked.
“Soap opera, I think. Do you understand Gaelic? My head hurts too much to read the captions.”
“Sorry, no.”
“It’s kinda soothing, not knowing what they’re saying.” Simon stretched his legs, wincing audibly. “Are you drinking anything?”
“Nah.”
“You need fluids, lad.”
“Yeah.” At this point, walking to the kitchen seemed about as likely as summiting Mount Everest.
Simon slowly peeled himself off his couch and lurched out of the room. Garen closed his eyes, listening to the Gaelic-speaking couple on TV. His flatmate was right: Hearing pleasant voices saying incomprehensible words was rather soothing, like human-sourced white noise.
He opened his eyes when he heard the clink of ice near his head.
“Drink,” Simon said. “Now.”
Garen sat up to take the glass of Lucozade. “Blue’s my favorite flavor.”
“Good.” Simon placed the back of his hand against Garen’s forehead. “Fever.”
“I know.” He drank deep, swallowing past the pain in his throat.
Simon shuffled over to the coffee table, then came back with the bottle of paracetamol. He poured out two tablets and handed them to Garen. “Did you win the tournament?”
“Not yet. Playoffs tomorrow.”
“Can they win without you?”
“Hope so.” Garen gulped the pills and took another long sip, giving Simon the once-over. This was the first time he’d seen his flatmate’s hair in its natural, un-gelled state. Its soft-looking black strands were squashed against one side of his head. “When’d you start feeling poorly?”
“Thursday night after you left.” Simon shambled back to his couch. “You?”
“Few hours ago.”
“Oh.” There was a long pause. “Sorry if I gave it to you.”
“S’okay.” Garen pressed the cold glass against his temple for a moment, then drank some more.
“But maybe next time,” Simon said, “you’ll clean and disinfect the bathroom using the two-step process.”
Garen’s laugh nearly made him choke on his Lucozade. As he coughed and spluttered, he gave Simon a shaky two-fingered salute, which started his flatmate’s own wheezy laughter.
Garen set his glass on the floor, then slumped back onto his pillow, feeling optimistic despite the illness claiming his body. Maybe he and Simon would be okay after all.
Chapter 5
56 Days Until Christmas
“You’ve gotta crumple them tighter.” Simon picked up another red throat-lozenge wrapper from the pile at his side. “Otherwise they’re not aerodynamic.”
“I’m crumpling them as tight as I can, given my weakened state,” Garen said from his couch across the living room, where he faced the opposite way to Simon, so they could both toss right-handed.
With his fever broken, Simon felt better this morning, and he’d even ventured out to a local shop for more food, drink, and medicine. Garen had thanked him profusely for looking after him, but Simon felt it was the least he could do after probably infecting him in the first place.
“Okay, trying again.” Garen tossed a yellow wrapper at the small rubbish bin placed halfway between them. It fell more than a meter short. “This game is rigged.”
“How can it be rigged? We’re using the same brand of lozenge.”
“I know. I’m kidding on.” Garen tried again, winging his wrapper closer this time. “You’re better at this.”
“I’ve just had more practice. What do you think I did all day yesterday while you were away?”
“Sorry you had to suffer on your own.”
“I prefer to be alone when I’m ill.”
“That’s bonkers.” Garen swiped his sleeve over his cheek, which now bore a week’s growth of stubble—apparently a superstition he said helped his team win tournaments. “Why would you want to be alone?”
“I guess I don’t like people seeing me weak.” He aimed the wrapper at the bin.
“Being ill doesn’t make you weak,” Garen said.
“That’s literally what illness does.” Simon’s toss missed the target by a wide margin.
“You know what I mean.” Garen’s voice was growing raspier with each sentence. “Real strength is about character, and that’s something no illness can ever steal.”
Simon snorted, which hurt his head. “Can you actually hear the bullshit as it comes out of your mouth?”
“Usually, but it tends to be on a three-second delay.”
Simon gave a full laugh this time, resulting in a coughing fit. He unwrapped another cherry throat lozenge and popped it into his mouth. “I’ve been wondering, and tell me if this is none of my business, but…who ended the relationship between you and Luca?”
Garen hesitated. “I broke up with him. I left him cos I thought he was gonnae leave me.”
“Was he?”
Garen gave a long sigh, interrupted by a sniffle. “No, in retrospect I don’t think so. He just had a different way of showing feelings, and I…” He sniffled again. “Misinterpreted?”
Simon flipped the lozenge around in his mouth, contemplating what he’d just learned and wondering whether he’d said anything that could have touched off Garen’s sensitivity. “I’m sorry I lectured you about cleaning.”
“Och, nae bother.” Garen rolled onto his side, adjusting his pillow with a series of thumps and fluffs. “You weren’t wrong. I’ve got a lot to learn.”
“I didn’t have to be a dick about it.”
“You were just reeling from my accidental bait-and-switch, where one night I said we’d have some sort of relationship and then the next morning said, ‘Oops, no, that’s us just flatmates now.’”
Well, there it was. They were discussing it. “You’re saying I insulted you because I was bitter at being deprived of your body?”
“It is quite the deprivation.” Garen looked down at himself. “Not at the moment, of course, with all my phlegm and cold sweat.”
“I’ll not lie and say I wasn’t disappointed. But I’m over it.”
“Ah. Well.” Garen pulled his knees to his chest, rearranging the sky-blue duvet to keep his feet covered. “That makes one of us.”
Simon stared at him. “What are you saying?”
“That I still like you. I still want you.” He cleared his throat. “Not at the moment, of course, with all your phlegm and cold sweat.”
Simon’s heart started to pound. “So…”
“So nothing. I’ll get over it, same as you’ve done.” Garen tugged the covers up to his chin, then let out a full-body shiver. The bottom half of the duvet slipped onto the floor. “Shit.”
“I’ve got it.” Simon went over and picked up the duvet. He laid it across Garen’s quaking form, then secured it behind him and under his feet. “Better?”
“Much. Thanks.”
After one week with this man, Simon felt completely unmoored. It was hard enough moving to a new city and starting a new job without also wrangling feelings toward his flatmate. He was already juggling too many balls, and now Garen had tossed a flaming chainsaw into the mix to see if Simon could keep that aloft as well.
He leaned over and swept Garen’s damp hair from his face, tucking it behind his ear. “I think you might be an agent of chaos.”
“Naw.” Garen smiled, his eyes still closed. “More like a freelance chaos consultant.”
52 Days Until Christmas
The evening air was damp with impending rain, but Simon happily breathed it in as he sped along the Kelvingrove Park jogging path. Wherever he went in the world, as long as he was in these shoes doing what he most loved, he felt at home.
Almost, anyway. While Garen had been right that Simon didn’t play team sports, he hadn’t always trained alone like this. Now he couldn’t help missing the friends he’d run with in Toxteth’s Prince’s Park. They could still encourage one another via text—usually in the form of
shit-talking, of course—but there was no substitute for having a mate by his side.
Simon checked the heart monitor on his wrist to make sure he wasn’t overexerting himself in his first workout since the flu. The monitor reinforced what his lungs were already telling him: Apart from intermittent sniffles, he was brand new again. If he worked hard, he could still catch up on his training regimen. Maybe he’d even achieve a personal record at this month’s marathon in San Sebastián, Spain, where he’d reunite with three of his pals from “Tocky.”
The rain the clouds had promised began to fall, slapping Simon’s bare forehead with large, cold drops. He tried to pick up the pace, but his hamstrings protested, still a bit tight from lack of use this past week.
There’d been no further mention of…whatever it was between him and Garen, not since his flatmate’s confession Sunday afternoon, which Simon had since written off as feverish ravings.
He wasn’t sure what he wanted from this man. In Garen’s presence, Simon craved another go beneath the sheets, consequences be damned. But when they were apart, he just wanted peace of mind.
The rain turned steady and hard, so by the time he reached his building’s front entrance, he was soaked to the skin. Tomorrow he would join a gym for sure.
Entering the flat, Simon was greeted with the buoyant notes of—was that “A Holly Jolly Christmas”?
“There you are!” Garen said from the living room. “I was wondering where…” He trailed off, staring at Simon’s midriff.
Simon looked down to see his wet gray running shirt clinging to his skin, outlining every muscle. He could feel Garen’s gaze on him like a heat lamp.
“Are you playing Christmas carols already?”
“No.” Garen gave a quick cough. “I mean, yes, but not officially. I’m building this year’s playlists. It’s never too early.”
Isn’t it? Simon toed off his trabs, then pulled up the hem of his shirt to wipe his face. “Could you do that with earphones in while I’m around?”
“Right, I don’t want to spoil the surprise.” Garen glanced at Simon’s bare stomach, then looked away. “Though maybe you can help. I usually like to start with six or seven real bangers—get the blood flowing, you know—but this year I thought I’d switch to something more mellow by song four.”
Simon brushed a stream of cold water from his forearm, wondering how a Christmas carol could be, in any reasonable reality, a banger.
“What do you think?” Garen asked. “Two or three slower tracks before the playlist gets back to the real meaning of Christmas?”
“You mean Jesus?”
“I mean fun.”
Simon couldn’t give a flying flamingo about Christmas playlists, but he didn’t want to start a row by saying so. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Meantime, I’m dripping all over the place here. I’ll grab a towel to dry the floor.”
“That’s all right. Like I said, it’s not real…” Garen trailed off again as Simon tugged his shirt over his head on the way into the bathroom. “…hardwood.”
Quality exit there, Simon thought, giving himself a mental pat on the back. Let him think about what he’s missing.
Then he noticed something had changed about the bathroom. More than one something, in fact.
“Garen?” he called down the hall. “Where did you find Christmas-tree tissue boxes and hand soap on the third of November?”
“Oh, those.” Garen appeared round the corner from the living room. “I had extra last year, so I saved them. We were short of tissues after the flu, so…” He scuffed his feet against the hallway rug as he approached. “Is it okay?”
Simon’s body immediately responded to those three words, which Garen had uttered so breathlessly in his bed a few weeks ago. He turned away and grabbed his towel, which thankfully had not been replaced by one with a Christmas tree on it. “It’s sound,” he said, shutting the door between them.
After his shower, he cautiously opened the bathroom door to check for Garen, then hurried across the hall to his bedroom wearing the towel round his waist.
He stopped short just across threshold. “Well, hello.”
Poppy was fully visible for the first time since they’d moved house. The ball python was stretched out along the center of the glass vivarium, head poised above her ceramic water dish.
He dressed swiftly but quietly, then went to find Garen in the living room. “Poppy’s out of her hide. Want to meet her?” He put a finger to his lips.
Garen’s eyes widened, then he followed Simon to the bedroom.
The two of them had put his bed beneath the window so Poppy’s home could stand against an interior wall and be less subject to outdoor temperature changes. Though Garen had helped set up the vivarium, he’d yet to set eyes on the python, who was as shy as most of her species. In the eleven days since the move, Poppy had remained in one of her “hides” whenever either human was about. These two hollowed-out structures—one resembling a log and the other, a rock—were just big enough for a four-foot python to curl up in and feel safe.
Simon crouched beside the vivarium, bringing himself eye level with the snake. “Hey, baby.”
Garen let out a gasp. “Oh my God, she’s gorgeous,” he whispered.
Poppy pulled her head back and shimmied her long, undulating body to conceal more of it behind the rock-like water dish, but at least she wasn’t scooting back into her hide.
“I’ve only seen a firefly-morph python in pictures,” Garen said softly. “Incredible.”
The morph name fit. Poppy’s skin bore a lemon-yellow base with an intricate black-and-gray pattern. She had the ball python’s signature “chubby cheeks” and blunt nose that snake lovers like Simon found so cute. Her head was crowned with a gray triangle, and a black “racing stripe” extended from each nostril to a point past her eyes.
“I’ll probably wait a few more days before handling her,” Simon said. “She’s still stressed from the move.”
“How long have you known each other?”
“About seven years. I got her as a hatchling, so she’s still pretty young.” Simon gazed at her as she darted her bright pink tongue in and out—a good sign she was feeling relaxed and curious. “She’s so sweet, she’s spoilt me for every other snake.”
They watched Poppy dip her mouth against the water, apparently having decided they weren’t a threat. A moment later, her throat began to pulsate in tiny waves.
“She even drinks cute,” Garen said with a gentle laugh. “So you’re feeling better now? I assume, since you went running.”
“Pretty much.” Simon stood and pulled his left foot up behind him to stretch his quad. “You?”
“I think the worst of it’s passed. So I was wondering…” He looked down, bouncing the heel of one shoe against the toes of the other. “Would you like to try curling Saturday? There’s an event open to the public. It’s meant for beginners, so everyone will be just as inept as you.”
“Liverpool play on Saturday this week. Three o’clock.”
“We’ll be home in plenty of time. Then after the match, we can go to Glasgow Green for Bonfire Night fireworks.”
Simon noticed Garen had said we’ll be home. “So you’ll be at the try-curling thing, even though it’s for newbies?”
“I’ve volunteered as an instructor. That doesn’t mean I’d be your instructor.” He glanced up at Simon. “Unless you’d like me to be.”
Simon’s toes tingled as their eyes met. I’d like you to be a lot more. He looked away, pretending to straighten the framed photo of a sunny San Sebastián beach he’d hung on his wall to inspire his marathon training. If he tried curling, he might like it, and then he’d end up spending even more time with Garen, which meant more time fighting the urge to run his fingers through that glorious hair and use it to tug him into a hard, endless kiss.
And if he stayed home Saturday while Garen went curling, Simon would have several hours—several serene, quiet hours—all to himself.
�
��I appreciate the invitation,” he said finally.
Garen nodded but didn’t leave the room. “And…?”
“And I’ll think about it.”
Garen made a small fist-pump. “I’ll leave you and Poppy alone now.” As he crossed the threshold, he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Let me know if you need help thinking.”
51 Days Until Christmas
“Garen, my God, you look like a junkie.”
Sitting at the dining table Friday evening, Garen glanced at the thumbnail image of himself in the corner of his laptop screen. He did look well rough, his eyes bloodshot and his hair still disheveled from the windy walk home from work. “I’ve had the flu, ya cow.”
“I know,” his sister said, “but you look like a Trainspotting character. I’ll start calling you Sick Boy.”
“He was the cool one, right?”
“Depends on your definition of cool.” Karen shifted her gaze slightly, no doubt looking at her own thumbnail image. She smoothed her long, pencil-straight blond hair back from her face, which also looked ruddy from the frigid weather of the Bulgarian mountains. “So how are you feeling now?” she asked.
“Better. Still trying to shake off the last few symptoms. Had to miss our league game tonight.” He took a sip of his ginger tea with lemon, contained in a travel mug to keep it from spilling on his computer. “My flatmate, Mister Turbocharged Immune System, was fine by Tuesday.”
“You should’ve got the flu vaccine, being around so many children at the museum. Weans are known germ carriers.”
“Spoken like a devoted teacher.”
“I love my pupils, but they get pure rambunctious this time of year.” As she looked over her shoulder toward the window, her silver eyebrow ring glinted in the light from the lamp beside her sofa. “The first snowfall is like a shot of pure adrenaline for them.”
“That’s universal.” And not only for children.
“Talking of kids, did you read that last paper I sent you?” Her voice stayed chirpy as ever, though she’d just turned the conversation to more serious matters.
Must Love Christmas (Glasgow Lads on Ice) Page 7