Must Love Christmas (Glasgow Lads on Ice)

by Avery Cockburn

  “What about your gran?” Garen asked.

  “Both grandmothers know, and they’re pretty cool with it. And Ma and Da have been amazing. That’s one benefit of being seriously ill as a child—your parents are so grateful you’re alive, pretty much anything you do brings them joy.”

  “They must be so proud of you, getting this big promotion and all.”

  “They are. They’ve worked incredibly hard so I could go to uni. I’m the first in the family.” Simon wondered if admitting that would put some sort of class divide between them, so he changed the subject. “You’re a zoologist, eh? Do you work at the zoo?”

  “I work at one of the university science museums. We’ve got some live animals, mostly reptiles and amphibians. I lucked into an internship as an undergraduate, and I’ve been there ever since.”

  “You like it, then?”

  “I love it, else I would’ve left long ago.” Garen swirled the wine in his glass, his lips curling up. “I’ve a very low tolerance for miserable situations.”

  Simon returned his smile, but mentally tucked away that useful bit of information. He’d be guarding his heart with this man, for sure.

  69 Days Until Christmas

  Garen woke to the gentle sweep of a hand against the back of his shoulder. It didn’t startle him, as he’d been dreaming of Simon just a moment before. He relished the feeling of one lovely reality slipping seamlessly into the next.

  “Good morning,” he murmured, savoring the warmth of Simon’s body as it curled around him from behind. “Sleep well?”

  “How could I not?” Simon brushed Garen’s hair from his neck and kissed his nape, making him shiver. “You’re exhausting.”

  “Aw, ya poor wee angel.” He took Simon’s hand and pulled it forward to wrap his arm around his waist. “Forced to endure my company throughout the long, cold night.”

  “Not complaining.” Simon’s hand caressed Garen’s belly through his T-shirt, awakening memories of how those hands had felt last night on all parts of him.

  Then the mattress shifted and Simon gasped. “It’s quarter to nine. You’ll be late for work.”

  “Museum’s closed on a Monday. It’s my one universal day off. Like hairdressers and waiters.”

  “Oh.” Simon sank down onto his pillow again. “Do you want to sleep more?”

  “With you in my bed?” Garen rolled over. “What a waste that would be.” He moved in for a kiss.

  Simon pulled his head back. “My breath’s dead foul.”

  “Then kiss me where I won’t taste it.”

  Simon obeyed, planting his lips, then his teeth against Garen’s throat. Every inch of Garen’s skin woke up singing.

  It amazed him how two people so clearly incompatible as flatmates could find such synchronicity in bed. Garen had never met anyone who fitted him so well, so quickly. Regardless of where their relationship was going, it would have time and space to develop naturally. As long as they weren’t flatmates, they could actually like each other.

  Finally Simon sighed and pulled away. “Hold that thought while I go to the loo?”

  Garen let go of him and stretched out on his back, resting his arms against the wooden headboard. “If you want to kiss me today, you can use my toothbrush.”

  “Eww, ta, but no.”

  “All night we’ve been swapping spit, but you won’t share a toothbrush?”

  “Toothbrushes carry a lot more than spit. I’ll think about it, though, if you’ve got peroxide or mouthwash to clean it with.”

  Garen rolled his eyes. He’d almost forgotten Simon was a cleanliness fanatic. It was definitely for the best they wouldn’t be living together.

  Simon swung his legs out of bed and fumbled in the dim light. Garen heard the swish of trousers, then a soft thump on the rug. “Oops, my phone,” Simon said, bending over to pick it up. “Ah, there’s an email from the guy in Royal Terrace.” He was silent for a moment. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  “What’s wrong?” Garen sat up to look over his shoulder at the screen.

  “He says he’s just found another flatmate, someone who came round this morning.” Simon shoved a hand through his hair, making the short black strands stick out in even more directions. “Now I’ll have to take one of the other places I visited yesterday.” He set down the phone and pulled on his trousers. “I was so excited to live next to the park, though.”

  As Garen watched him leave the bedroom, his heart grew heavy with the certainty of what needed to be done.

  For the next few minutes, he stared at the ceiling, trying to work out how he and Simon could have their metaphorical cake and eat it. But he had to follow through on last night’s level-headed conclusion: They couldn’t live together and be together at the same time.

  Ah well, there was no point raging against bad luck. They just had to make the best of it.

  “In better news,” Simon said as he returned to the room, “I brushed my teeth with my finger.” He padded over to the bed and reached for the edge of the covers. “So now we can—” He froze when he saw Garen’s face, then stood up straight. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Garen rolled onto his side. “Question, though: Have you told any of those other prospective flatmates what sort of pet you’ve got?”

  Simon’s shoulders sank. “Not yet. It’ll probably be a deal breaker for most of them. There was one guy who had a very small dog.”

  “Ooft, that might be a hard sell.”

  “I could leave Poppy at home with my parents.”

  “But you’d miss her.”

  “Yeah.” Simon sat on the edge of the bed, his posture slumped. “Why does this have to be so hard?”

  Without a shirt, Garen thought, Simon looked lost and vulnerable, like a shipwrecked sailor.

  “It doesn’t have to be hard.” Garen paused before taking the plunge. “You could live here.”

  Simon spun to face him. “How?”

  “We enjoy each other’s company. We’ve already made an agreement about chores.”

  “But what about”—Simon waved his hand between them—“this?”

  “This”—Garen mirrored the gesture—“was great. But if you live here, this is also over. The sex part, I mean. Obviously we’ll still be friends.”

  Simon’s lower lip jutted out in a flash of a pout. “Is that what you want?”

  “I mean, it’s not…ideal.” He fidgeted with the seam of Simon’s pillowcase. “But it seems the most logical solution to your problem.” He had another thought that might ease the pain. “I could introduce you to other guys. Better guys.”

  Simon stiffened. “So you want to be my flatmate and my pimp. Cool.”

  “Sorry,” Garen said, his face flaring with heat. He’d deserved the sarcasm. “You’re right, this is hard. I know because my former flatmate, Luca, is also my ex-boyfriend. It was a long time after we broke up that we started living together, but it was still sometimes awkward, those first couple of years sharing a place.”

  Simon made a Yikes! face. “I can imagine.”

  “And I’m not saying I don’t want to be with you. I’m giving you options, and it’s your choice. Stay here and we’ll be friends. Live somewhere else, and we’ll be…whatever we want.” Garen wasn’t sure which alternative he was hoping Simon would pick.

  Simon rubbed his bare arms as he looked around the room, then at the open bedroom door. “I do like it here.”

  Then he turned back to Garen. As their eyes met, Garen felt a lurching protest in his chest. Maybe they could play it by ear, share a bed whenever they felt like it, even while living together. Keep it light and casual.

  But something told him Simon wasn’t into casual, and though Garen had had his share of purely recreational relationships, that wasn’t what he wanted with this man. Better to have nothing, romantically speaking, than to constantly long for more.

  “Simon.” Garen reached out and squeezed his hand. “Go back to Liverpool, fetch your python, and come live with me.�
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  Chapter 4

  62 Days Until Christmas

  Simon arrived home from his job, tired but optimistic. His new boss and coworkers had given him a warm welcome, treating him to takeaway at lunch and spiriting him to a nearby pub after work. So far he felt much more at home than he’d expected. Even the rapid-fire Glaswegian accent he’d been warned about didn’t feel completely foreign to that of Liverpool, what with both cities’ speech influenced by Irish immigrants.

  Just inside the flat, he removed his coat and shoes, then decided to leave the latter beneath the coat rack instead of taking them into his room. Perhaps if he made his shoe-removal habit obvious, Garen would take the hint and stop tracking dirt throughout their home.

  He found his flatmate in the kitchen, peering into the open refrigerator.

  “Hiya! I just got home from work myself.” Garen pulled out two bottles of IPA. “How was your first day in the mines?”

  “Boss.” Simon loosened his tie. “I thought the museum was closed on a Monday.”

  “It is, but there’s always a backlog of tasks, usually researching and prepping for upcoming exhibitions and such. So I put in a shift today to help make up for taking off next Friday and Sunday. Got a big curling tournament in Edinburgh.” Garen opened the bottles and handed one over. “Is that real snakeskin?” He put out a finger as though to touch Simon’s tie, then drew back. “Oh, it’s just the pattern. It’s gorgeous.”

  “Ta.” Simon ran his hand over his favorite silk tie, which bore a subtle gray-and-black python print. “I’ve got ties with several different morph patterns. Haven’t been able to find Poppy’s firefly morph yet, though those colors might be too bright for me to wear to work.”

  “This is Glasgow. Bold fits right in.” Garen examined Simon’s cream-colored dress shirt and dark-gray trousers, which were anything but bold. “I thought computer programmers wore ripped jeans and ironic T-shirts.”

  “Not when they work at a bank’s operational headquarters.” Simon couldn’t resist correcting him. “Also, I’m a software engineer, not a programmer.”

  “Right. You did tell me that.” Garen rubbed the back of his hand over the stubble on his jaw. “And what’s the difference again?”

  “It’s like an architect versus a construction worker—if the architect was also rather handy with a hammer and nails.”

  “So you design the software, and the programmers build it?”

  “Basically,” Simon said, “but we’re all part of a team. Programmers don’t like hierarchies, and they don’t like being told what to do.”

  “Especially by the new guy, right?”

  “Right.” Simon leaned against the worktop and took a long sip of beer. This was good, the two of them talking about work—a nice neutral topic that would keep his mind from spiraling into thoughts of nakedness.

  It was a welcome change from two days ago, when they’d rearranged Simon’s bedroom furniture after the removal company had delivered his things. Garen had proved stronger than he looked, which only reminded Simon of how those muscles had felt beneath his palms a week before.

  Then yesterday, Garen had helped Simon set up Poppy’s vivarium, offering expert tips on substrate maintenance and element placement. Through it all, Garen had acted as though nothing had happened between them, as though they shared nothing more than an address and a burgeoning friendship.

  How was it so easy for Garen to switch off those thoughts and feelings? He was made of tougher stuff than Simon—or maybe just shallower stuff.

  “What about you?” Simon asked. “What’s your job at the museum like?”

  “We’re a small staff, so we all do a bit of everything. Exhibition upkeep, animal husbandry, et cetera.” He blotted a drop of beer off the front of his purple work shirt, a polo style featuring the museum logo. “Mostly I do public education. My favorite thing is hosting field trips for the weans.”

  Simon couldn’t imagine wrangling herds of screaming schoolchildren. “Sounds stressful.”

  “Naw, it’s fun. Every kid is different. Some of them think they’re too cool for museums. Others are a bit too enthusiastic, and then the main challenge is stopping them destroying irreplaceable artifacts.”

  “How are you not shattered at the end of the day?”

  “It’s energizing. I guess I’m a diehard extrovert.” Garen held up a hand. “It’s totally fine if you’re not. Luca always needed time to himself after work to decompress, so I’m used to it.”

  “My job’s not draining in that way. It’s good to hang out like this, speaking in English rather than thinking in Java.” He tilted his beer bottle. “Like you said, decompressing.”

  “This could be a regular thing, then,” Garen said. “Schedules permitting.”

  Simon noticed a print copy of The New European on the corner of the worktop. The weekly pro–European Union newspaper had a subscription label with Garen’s name and address.

  Simon pointed to the paper. “Good to know we agree about Brexit.” Sadly, it was a bit of a litmus test for new acquaintances these days.

  “You won’t find too many Leavers in Glasgow.” Garen squinted at the ceiling. “Honestly, I don’t know a single person who admits to voting for it.”

  Simon marveled at the bubble Garen was living in. Liverpool had voted to remain in the EU last June, but Simon knew loads of Brexiters. “Some of my former friends are hardcore Leavers.”

  “Are they ‘former’ because of the way they voted?”

  “No, they’re ‘former’ because it turns out they don’t much like immigrants, and they don’t much care that hate crime is on the rise since the Brexit vote.” He smoothed down a small wrinkle in the beer bottle’s label. “Of course, they put on sad faces when I tell them about people shouting, ‘We won! Go home!’ at my father when they hear his Greek accent, but it doesn’t seem to change their minds.”

  “God, that’s awful.”

  “Yeah, but other folk have got it worse. Like my Jamaican and Trinidadian friends, whose families have been here for generations—like, their grandparents were literally invited to come here by the government in the sixties—but they’re still treated like invaders.”

  He took another long sip of beer to stop his monologuing, and as he lowered the bottle he noticed a new object next to the toaster. “Did you put out an actual snow globe?”

  Garen glanced at it. “Sure. Why not?”

  Why not? seemed to be Garen’s answer to everything. “It’s a week before Halloween.”

  “There was snow forecast this morning for Glasgow. Every year I put out one snow globe on each snow day.”

  “But it didn’t snow.” Simon scoured his memory. This city’s weather was notoriously volatile. “Did it?”

  “That’s not the point. It was forecast.” Garen sipped his beer and kept his gaze locked with Simon’s, as if to say, I dare you to tell me to put away the snow globe.

  “Okay.” Simon wanted to keep things friendly between them—actually, he wanted things to be more than friendly, but if they couldn’t be in each other’s beds, at least they could be in each other’s good graces.

  That meant dealing with potential conflicts before they reached the boiling point.

  “As we’re hanging out after work,” Simon said, “we could use the time to review flat-related situations.”

  “Erm…sure, I guess.” Garen leaned against the fridge in an almost comically poor attempt at nonchalance. “What sort of situations?”

  Simon rubbed his mouth, which had gone suddenly dry. Maybe he should just let the issue go, to avoid rocking the boat. But then his annoyance would build up inside him until he snapped. Better to address it at a time of calm camaraderie like now.

  Besides, Garen was the one who’d insisted they live together instead of hooking up. He could have had Boyfriend Simon or at least Fuck-Pal Simon, but no, he’d chosen Flatmate Simon, so Flatmate Simon he would get.

  “I noticed you cleaning the bathroom last night.”r />
  “Yes!” Garen beamed at him. “Just like I promised.”

  “The product you were using, it, erm…” God, he was about to sound such a prat. “I don’t know if you read the label, but cleaning and disinfecting is a two-step process.”

  Garen looked at him blankly. “Sorry?”

  “First you clean, as you did, which is great. Then you spray the surfaces again and let it sit ten minutes. That’s the disinfecting part.”

  “Seriously?” Garen opened the cupboard beneath the sink and pulled out a white-and-green bottle. “It says right here, ‘cleans and disinfects.’”

  “Check the instructions on the other side.”

  Garen switched on the bright light above the cooker and examined the back label. “Oh my God, you’re right. It’s there in the small print. I should have known that from caring for the animal enclosures at work.” He set the cleaner on the worktop and gaped at it like it was a magical relic. “How am I just now learning this applies to humans, too? How did my parents not teach me?”

  “Maybe they did and you forgot?”

  “Possibly. I’m always forgetting things. My curling coach, Oliver, he uses sticky notes to remind him about important stuff. I keep meaning to try it, but then I forget.”

  Simon opened one of the kitchen drawers where he’d stashed a few pens and paper products. He ripped off a bright orange sticky note, wrote “2 STEPS” on it, then stuck it to the bottle of cleaner. “Will that help?”

  Garen blinked at the note, then offered a tight smile. “Yeah. Great.”

  Uh-oh. Maybe Simon had gone too far. But if the alternative was living in an unsanitary flat…

  Garen put the cleaner away under the sink. “Any other housekeeping tips you’d care to share?”

  “Wow, yeah.” Simon scratched the back of his neck, relieved Garen was being so laid-back about it. “Where to even begin?”

  “I’m joking,” Garen said. “I don’t actually want a tutorial on being a better adult.”

  Simon’s stomach sank. “I-I’m sorry. I meant no offense.”

  “Yeah, no, it’s cool.” Garen sidled past him without meeting his eyes. “I’m just gonnae go…elsewhere for a wee while.”