Must Love Christmas (Glasgow Lads on Ice)

by Avery Cockburn

  “Clever.”

  “I know, it’s my idea.” He picked up one of the hotel glasses from the table beside the TV and returned to the bed. “Anyway, the way this bonspiel works is, companies and organizations pay a fee to enter a team of brand-new curlers. They get training ahead of time and coaching on the day of the competition, courtesy of Shawlands volunteers. The charity handles the food and door prizes and all.”

  “Which charity?”

  “It’s called New Shores.” Garen poured a large dram into the glass. “They give financial and legal aid to refugees and asylum seekers.”

  “Ooh, how anti-Brexit.”

  “Exactly.” He lifted his glass. “Shall we start?”

  “I’m ready if you are.” She picked up her dram of vodka and reached it toward the camera. “Za raditeley,” she said with what Garen assumed was a perfect Russian accent.

  He did the same in their annual toast to their parents. “Za raditeley.”

  They took long sips, then plugged their earphones into their phones.

  “Music ready?” Karen asked. When Garen nodded, she said, “And…go.”

  Garen pressed play. A few moments later, the opening notes of Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf filled his ears. He picked up his copy of the picture book version, one with text in both Russian and English.

  Right on cue, Karen began reading the introduction in Russian, explaining how each character was represented by a different instrument. When Karen had finished that page, Garen reread it aloud in English.

  They’d started this tradition—minus the vodka—nearly twenty years ago, when their mum had introduced them to the Russian classic. Ravenous for culture from their birth country, Garen and his sister had latched onto the multimedia tale. Depending on other birthday plans with friends or partners, the tradition often took place before or after their actual birthday, but this year their schedules had meshed.

  Soon the story proper began with the jaunty opening strains of Peter’s theme. Garen listened to the Russian syllables roll off his sister’s tongue as he sipped his vodka and took in the book’s soft watercolor images.

  The wolf arrived, with a motif that sounded familiar for a reason beyond the usual.

  “Wait, pause it!” Garen said.

  “What’s wrong?” his sister asked.

  “The wolf’s theme…” He hummed it, probably off-key. “They use it in A Christmas Story.”

  “Which Christmas story?”

  “No, A Christmas Story—you know, that American movie about the kid who wants a BB gun? The first bar of the wolf’s theme is played when the bully Scut Farkus appears.”

  “Everything always comes back to Christmas with you.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Whatever makes you happy, lad.” She finished her first dram of vodka and poured out another. “Shall we continue?”

  Garen hit play, and the wolf’s trio of French horns continued.

  As they progressed through the book—and the vodka—their narration grew more sloppy and out of sync with the music, until they finally gave up and simply invented new storylines, upping the chaos for each other’s amusement.

  “And that’s why the duck can’t fly,” Garen said in conclusion before downing his latest dram.

  “Wait, stop, stop!” Karen lurched out of her chair, stumbling as her feet hit the floor. “If I don’t go to the loo this instant, I’m seriously going to pish myself laughing.”

  “Udachi!” Garen called out to wish her luck, one of the handful of Russian phrases he remembered.

  Just then, his phone chirped the ring tone reserved for Simon, so he checked the screen to see a new message:

  Finally moved to a cute rehab unit. Last step before total freedom

  Garen chortled into his glass. Later he would reply to ask how cute this rehab unit was, if he still thought it funny when he was sober.

  He poured himself another dram to fight off the mixed feelings the text message had sparked. While he was thrilled for his friend’s continued recovery, he knew it meant they’d soon be parting.

  Simon had told Garen that his family was urging him to spend his post-discharge recovery at home with them. His mother especially wanted to make up for not being by his side every day while he was in hospital. When Garen had asked him, “What do you want?” he’d said he wasn’t sure.

  Perhaps Simon was just trying to spare Garen’s feelings. Why wouldn’t he want to go back to Liverpool and be with his family, friends, and entire community? Here in Glasgow, Simon had nothing but a flat he’d barely lived in and a job he’d just begun—a job he’d be telecommuting to for several weeks anyway.

  The only real thing keeping Simon here was Garen himself.

  They’d shared so much these last few weeks, talking for hours or just chilling in silence. Garen would never have thought himself capable of such devotion for another human being—especially one he wasn’t sleeping with. Yet something kept drawing him back to Simon’s bedside three nights a week. More incredibly, Simon wasn’t sick of him yet.

  But no matter what lay between them, Garen was still only one person. Could he be enough—could they be enough—to make Simon stay?

  28 Days Until Christmas

  Simon sat by his window Sunday night, gazing out across the city of Glasgow. The skyline north of the Clyde was mostly obscured by a veil of falling snow, but he could just make out the dark, massive Finnieston Crane and the radiant, squat SSE Hydro Arena.

  The thing Simon loved most about the view was the fact it wasn’t the ceiling. He could now sit up on his own, even move haltingly across the floor in the wheelchair. He could lean forward—without falling—to glimpse the Clyde Arc Bridge, aka the “Squinty Bridge,” glowing a festive Christmas green.

  Compared to Simon’s previous hospital rooms, this one in the acute rehab unit was downright hotel-like. Gone were the beeping machines and “magical mystery tubes,” as Garen called them. Even the staid, wipe-clean visitor chairs had been joined by a comfy cloth love seat and armchair.

  “Guess what? It’s snowing!” came a voice from the door behind him.

  Simon turned in his wheelchair to see Garen enter. “I know, I’m looking at it right now.”

  “Ooh, check this view you’ve got.” Garen started to head over, then stopped and looked round at the room. “I love the new place.”

  “Me too. How’d it go today in Aberdeen?”

  “It was a total car crash. We placed sixth.” Garen took a takeaway container from a plastic bag. “Thought I might drown my sorrows in halloumi souvlaki-pita. You want some?”

  “You’re an absolute legend.” Garen had been buying Simon’s favorite Greek food from a nearby Mediterranean café. Though it was far from traditional, they both liked the way this restaurant served the chips inside the wrapped bread instead of on the side.

  Garen sat on the love seat at the end nearest to Simon, opened the container, and started carving the stuffed pita dish into bite-size pieces with a black plastic knife and fork.

  “So what happened with the tournament?” Simon asked him.

  “It was my fault.” He handed Simon a second fork. “I’ve lost my touch.”

  “How?”

  “Dunno, it just happens sometimes. My main disappointment is missing the Christmas parade today in Glasgow.” He held out the takeaway container so Simon could help himself to the food. “Nice to be able to feed yourself, aye?”

  “Yeah.” Simon held the fork in his fist and stabbed at the souvlaki, nearly knocking the container out of Garen’s hands. “More or less.”

  Garen jabbed his own fork into the pita and took a bite. “Oh my God, that’s so good. So how’ve you been? It feels like ages since I’ve seen you, though it’s been only four days.”

  Apparently Garen was finished discussing his curling performance. Simon didn’t blame him for wanting to swerve the topic. There was a lot of pressure on Team Riley to return to the national champio
nship, where they’d had mixed success the previous two years.

  “Bit knackered from my workout,” Simon said, “but less than usual.”

  “How’s the pain?”

  “It’s different now.” Simon ran a hand down his own arm. “My muscles don’t hurt as much, but now I’ve got this thing called hyperesthesia, which is—”

  “Wait, let me guess.” Garen turned his eyes to the ceiling. “Anesthesia means ‘no sensation,’ so hyperesthesia must mean…‘too much sensation’?”

  “Basically. My skin’s really sensitive to light touch, like tags in shirts or wrinkles in bed sheets. Drives me bonkers. I think if a fly landed on me, I’d scream.”

  “How awful.”

  Simon shrugged off the sympathy. “It’s a sign the nerves are regenerating. My doctor said it’s normal, and it’ll pass eventually.”

  “Is that why you’re wearing that tight shirt?” Garen gave him a sly grin. “I thought it was to impress me.”

  Simon felt his face warm. They seemed to be flirting more and more often these days. It made him feel exquisitely human, exquisitely whole again. “Yeah, the less my clothes slide all over my skin, the better.”

  “Ah, well…” Garen didn’t finish that thought, but based on his expression, it was fairly salacious. “It looks good.”

  “I’m just over the moon I can finally dress myself. I still can’t do buttons or zips, so it’s pullovers and trackie trousers for now.”

  “The casual look suits you.” He leaned forward and placed the takeaway container in Simon’s lap. “Here, I’ve already finished my half.”

  Garen had eaten barely a third of the souvlaki, and Simon silently appreciated the extra food. He wrapped one hand round the container to secure it, then focused on holding his fork the correct way. His fingertips were still numb, though, so he quickly reverted to the fist-grasp.

  “You’ve really improved since Wednesday,” Garen said.

  Simon felt the glow of pride within him. “I look forward to walking again, but having my arms work feels like a much bigger deal. When my ma came Friday night, I was able to hug her for the first time in weeks.” He took a bite of halloumi despite the lump of emotion forming in his throat.

  “That must have been amazing.” After a moment, Garen reached out to him. “Can you take my hand?”

  Simon lowered his fork into the container, then focused on opening each of his fingers to release it. After a deep breath, he raised his right arm and stretched it toward Garen.

  Their hands collided without connecting, but Garen didn’t lower his. Simon supported his elbow with his other hand, stabilizing his reach. Focusing on Garen’s fingertips, he tried again.

  This time he grasped Garen’s hand and held on. Their eyes met, and Simon felt his begin to heat with tears. He thought of all the hours Garen had sat by his bed, holding his hand so Simon would feel a steady presence against his skin, so he wouldn’t feel like he was floating untethered in a lonely, sterile sea.

  But this touch right now was different. This touch felt like more than simple reassurance. A heat spread upward from Simon’s neck, and his gaze dropped to Garen’s lips.

  Without letting go, Garen whispered his name and moved forward until he was on his knees in front of the wheelchair’s footplates.

  Simon could barely believe this was happening. He wanted to reach out and run his fingers through Garen’s soft, flowing hair, but feared he’d end up poking him in the eye.

  Trusting his mouth more than his hands, Simon leaned in for the kiss he needed more than he needed company or comfort.

  “Oi!” Garen grabbed the takeaway container as it started to fall from Simon’s lap. “That was close.” He pushed it back where it belonged, then looked away, loosening his grip on Simon’s hand.

  Simon blinked hard, the spell broken. “Yeah. Ta for catching it.” He let go of Garen and picked up his fork.

  Garen cleared his throat and returned to the loveseat. “Oh, guess what? Poppy’s in blue.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, tapped the screen a few times, then showed Simon a photo. The snake’s eyes had turned bright blue, a sign she’d be shedding her skin within the week.

  “She’s right on schedule.” Simon ate another bite of souvlaki, glad the takeaway container on his lap hid his burgeoning reaction to Garen’s touch and their near-kiss.

  “I’ll send you the photo.” Garen thumbed the screen, and a moment later Simon’s phone bleeped next to his bed. “I’ve increased her vivarium’s humidity to sixty-five percent, like your notes said to do.”

  “Ta. She sheds pretty quickly if she’s left alone.”

  “So I shouldn’t dress her in a Christmas elf costume? It’d be a hit on Instagram.” At Simon’s look of horror, Garen laughed and said, “I’m only kidding on. Though she’d look adorable in a wee jingly hat.”

  Simon shook his head and kept eating. “You’re so weird.”

  “And you’re not weird at all, but I like you anyway.” Garen lounged sideways on the love seat and dangled his feet over one arm. “Talking of Christmas—”

  “When are you not?”

  “Ha. Anyway, my boxes of decorations are to be delivered from storage tomorrow. Normally I’d have the flat done up by now, but the Aberdeen Curl Fest was a week early this year.” He rubbed his heavy layer of sandy stubble with both hands. “I cannae believe it’s already the twenty-seventh.”

  Simon opened his mouth to remind Garen of the snow globes and Christmas sundries that had already populated the flat before he’d gone into hospital, but then his mind snagged on the date.

  Tomorrow, the twenty-eighth of November, was the race Simon had registered for in San Sebastián. It would’ve been his tenth marathon, a true landmark. Without this illness, he’d be in sunny Spain right now, not snowy Glasgow. Without this illness, he’d be preparing to run his heart out.

  He would get there one day, he vowed silently—maybe not next year, but surely the year after that, even if he had to run the half-marathon instead of the full one. This nerve-ravaging beast wouldn’t keep him down forever.

  “Or I could wait to decorate.”

  Simon dragged his attention back to the present to see Garen looking at him. “Sorry, what? Why would you wait?”

  “If…erm…” Garen fidgeted with the ties of his faded red hoodie. “If you decided to come back to the flat after the hospital instead of going to Liverpool. We could decorate together.”

  Simon froze. Until this moment, he hadn’t truly entertained the possibility. Lying helpless in bed, all he’d wanted was the safety and security of his childhood home. “I won’t be getting about on my own, you know. I’ll need the wheelchair outside the flat and the walking frame inside it.”

  “So that’s a maybe, then?”

  “Well, erm…” Simon stammered, struggling to say no to those wide blue eyes. “Us living together wouldn’t be the same as before. I’m not the same.”

  “You’re still you. I liked living with you.” Garen focused on his hoodie ties, tugging each one in turn to make the ends line up. “I think I’d like it even more now we’re, erm, friends.”

  Erm, friends. Is that all they were? As much time as Garen had spent here—as much time as Simon wanted him here—they’d clearly become more than mates, even if they’d not so much as kissed since the night they’d met.

  But how would living together with Simon in his current state affect their relationship? He would try his best not to be a burden, but Garen would have to make accommodations he might come to resent, especially given his “very low tolerance for miserable situations.”

  Even if Garen embraced his new role, the power imbalance might be too much for Simon. Things would get messy, and if there was one thing Simon couldn’t stand, it was a mess, literal or metaphorical.

  The alternative was leaving Garen behind for weeks. Anything could happen during that time. Simon might come back to their flat in February and find Garen’s newest lover striding shirtless down
their hallway.

  “I’ll think about it,” Simon said.

  “Cool. Oh, I had a brilliant idea at work last week: the International Museum of Gift Shops.” Garen spread his hands like he was picturing the words on a marquee. “So many museums have great gift shops, why not have a museum honoring them?”

  Simon smiled at Garen’s favorite phrase: Why not? “That is absolutely cuckoo. So it would probably make millions.”

  “Right? I’ve looked it up, and gift shops are the only thing in the world there’s no museum for. There’s even a Moist Towelette Museum in Michigan.”

  “Sounds like my sort of place,” Simon said. “So what would be sold in the gift shop at the International Museum of Gift Shops?”

  “Excellent question. I’m thinking a ‘Best of’ collection, samples of stuff sold at the featured gift shops. Along with commemorative plates, of course.”

  As Garen kept brainstorming, Simon simply ate his souvlaki and tried to imagine living without him.

  Chapter 10

  27 Days Until Christmas

  “Don’t get overly excited,” Catriona said as she helped Simon ease back into his wheelchair, “but it’s time to talk discharge.”

  After their grueling physiotherapy session, Simon was almost too tired to get excited. Almost.

  “How soon?” he asked, marveling again at how strong she was despite her petite frame.

  “At least a week.” The physio handed him a clean towel, then gestured to his chair, which was already starting to feel like an extension of his body. “You need to be able to get yourself in and out of this, and ideally be able to move for short distances using a walking frame.”

  “I’ll be just like Nana,” he said to his mother, who sat beside him in the bustling physiotherapy room. “She gets about all right with her frame.”

  Ma smiled, the creases round her mouth turning up instead of down, which was their neutral position. “You two can hold races on the pavement outside the house. The whole street’ll be placing bets.”