Must Love Christmas (Glasgow Lads on Ice)

by Avery Cockburn

  “Well, I think it’s adorable.” Garen pointed to the four other bowls. “What’s the colored royal icing for?”

  “That’s not royal icing. It’s just the regular sort.”

  “But I thought we weren’t decorating tonight.”

  Simon’s mouth curved into a sly smile. “We’re not decorating the house.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “We’ve got at least an hour until we can safely put the roof on.” Simon drew his finger through the blue icing, put it in his mouth, then pulled it out slowly, meeting Garen’s eyes. “Whatever shall we do to kill time?”

  “Hold still,” Garen said as he painted a green streak of icing over the curve of Simon’s left pectoral muscle. “You’ll have your turn with me when I’m finished.”

  “Can’t hold still. It tickles.” Simon checked again to make sure the towel he was lying on would protect Garen’s bed sheet from the icing, though Garen claimed not to care if things got messy. At least they were both naked, so no clothes would be stained during this adventure. “My obliques will be even more ticklish.”

  “‘Obliques.’ Listen to you, knowing all the fancy names for muscles.”

  “That’s what rehab does.” Simon held back a laugh as Garen swirled the brush over his abs. He was relieved his hyperesthesia had subsided this week, so that the light strokes didn’t hurt. “Before that, I never really thought about all these muscles. As a runner, I did the bare minimum of strength training just to prevent injuries. Running was the only exercise I really loved.”

  “Why do you love it?”

  Simon appreciated Garen using present tense. “A lot of runners talk about pushing past your limits or the adrenaline rush of competing in a race. But for me it’s simpler: I just really like feeling my feet hit the ground, my legs folding and unfolding.” He flexed his ankles in turn, recalling what it was like. “Running is so pure—no fancy equipment, no rules, no maneuvers. It’s just me and the ground and sometimes the wind.”

  “Always the wind here in Scotland.” Garen dabbed his brush into the bowl of pink icing.

  “What about you?” Simon ran his hand over Garen’s thigh. “You’ve got some serious quads, and your back and arms are pretty ripped. Is that all from curling?”

  “More like for curling.” Garen started drawing what looked like a cartoon heart over Simon’s actual one. “We use our quads to burst out of the hack. The faster you can slide, the harder you can throw. And we use our upper body to sweep, obviously. So I lift weights to develop all those muscles, and I do interval training for cardio stamina.”

  Simon remembered how out of breath he and his fellow newbie curlers had been after sweeping a stone all the way down the sheet. “And then there’s your flexibility, which I’m keen to explore more of.”

  “I bet you are.”

  Simon folded his hands behind his head so he could see Garen’s work without straining his neck. The whorls of blue, pink, and green over his chest and abs were like an impressionist’s painting. “If I’d not deleted my Grindr account last year, this would be the perfect profile pic.”

  Garen paused to examine his work. “What made you delete your account? Not that I’m judging—I deleted mine ages ago. The curling community’s chockablock with men who fancy men, so I’d no real need for a dating app.” He tittered. “Funny story: One of the reasons I invited you to try curling was so you could meet guys.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t know that at the time, or I would’ve been even more nervous.” Simon remembered Garen had asked him a question before starting his mini-monologue. “I deleted my account because I wasn’t using it much. I guess I was too scared to risk rejection.”

  Garen tapped his paintbrush against his chin and smiled. “Now I know why you like me: because I’m so obvious about how much I fancy you.”

  “Not the only reason.” Simon held his breath as Garen swept the brush in a long arc beneath his ribs. “But it’s true you don’t play games.”

  “Honesty is much easier to manage, cognitively speaking.” Garen dropped the brush into the bowl of blue icing. “That’s me finished with you. Let me take a few pics before you sit up.”

  “Keep it above my waist so it’s family-friendly.”

  “There is nothing family-friendly about this endeavor. Now smile.” Garen took several photos, then set his phone on his bedside table before lying down on his back. “My turn to play canvas.”

  Simon picked up the green icing and took a moment to examine Garen, studying the contrast between his pert nose and his strong, square jaw. “You’ve got the most amazing face.”

  “How?”

  “Dunno. It’s just so real-looking.”

  “So ordinary,” Garen said.

  “No. I mean, it should be. But it’s beautiful. Like, in a way no other face is beautiful. You don’t look like anyone else.” He painted an undulating line crossing over Garen’s collarbone like a radio wave. “If you cut your hair, your face would probably stop traffic.”

  “You want me to cut my hair?”

  “No!” Simon cleared his throat, embarrassed at his commanding tone. “Unless you want to.”

  Garen picked up one of his sandy locks and studied it. “I thought maybe after I turned twenty-six I would start wearing it short. Time to grow up, you know? But my hair’s kind of who I am now.” He gave Simon a saucy smile. “Besides, I like the way you pull it.”

  “Can’t help myself. It’s just so tuggable.” Simon added a contour line of yellow above the green one he’d just drawn.

  Garen gazed up at him. “You know what’s best about your face? In my opinion, of course.”

  “What’s that?” Simon asked, trying not to tense at the answer.

  “The way you sometimes smile with your eyes when you’re not smiling with your mouth. Like you don’t want to admit you’re pleased or amused or utterly charmed.”

  “By you, you mean.”

  “Usually,” Garen said. “It’s cute how hard the rest of your face resists your feelings. But your eyes always give them away.”

  Simon wished he could be surprised by this insight. He wished he could at least pretend to hide his adoration. But he’d felt his own eyes crinkle round the edges every time he looked at Garen or heard his voice.

  He picked up the bowl with the pink icing. “Your chest is almost too hairy to paint.”

  “I am Russian,” Garen said in a broad Slavic accent. “Remember, our national animal is bear.”

  Simon chuckled. “You said you identified as Scottish.”

  “Scottish and Russian,” Garen replied in his regular voice. “Just like you’re Greek and English, right?”

  “Greek and British,” Simon corrected. “Lately ‘English’ feels very specifically Anglo. It’s not a label I feel welcome to use anymore.”

  “Because of your dad?”

  “Yeah, and not just because of how he’s been treated recently. There’s a general mood down there now, like certain people don’t want to share English-ness with immigrants. It’s only a minority, but it’s a loud one.”

  Garen angled his head so Simon could paint the side of his neck. “Do you think things will ever go back to the way they were?”

  Simon paused. “Doubt it. This year’s been so…”

  “Cataclysmic?”

  “Exactly.” Simon wanted to say that meeting Garen was the best part of the last twelve months, and he wouldn’t trade that just to be rid of all the bad events, including his illness. But unlike his boyfriend, he wasn’t keen on blurting out his feelings.

  He dipped his brush into the pink icing again. “In other news, I’ve got no idea where else to paint your hairy self.”

  “Just do your best,” Garen said.

  “Actually, there are two other bare-ish spots.” Simon drew the brush over Garen’s left nipple.

  Garen arched his back and released a throaty laugh. “That feels good.”

  “Does it?” Simon did the other side, a bit more f
irmly, making Garen squirm harder. “Oh look, we’re all out of nipples. Hold on, we can start over.” He bent over and licked off the icing he’d just applied, watching Garen’s face light up with pleasure. Then he moved to the other side and sucked hard, swirling his tongue until he’d lapped up all the sweetness. “Time to reapply.”

  This time he used his fingers to smear the icing over Garen’s nipples, pressing and pinching until they were fully covered and Garen was bunching the towel beneath him in his fists. Then Simon feasted again, this time with a light, flickering tongue, the better to tease.

  “Och…” Garen slid his hands over his own hips toward his rising erection. “Are we done soon?”

  “The plan was to paint you first and fuck you second.”

  “It’s a great plan, but please hurry.”

  Simon set down the brush and plunged one hand into the bowl of pink icing and the other into the yellow. Then he dragged his fingers down over Garen’s ribs, creating streaks against his skin.

  “What a mess,” Garen gasped out. “Can’t believe this was your idea.”

  “Just you wait.”

  Garen took him in hand and began to stroke, swirling his thumb over Simon’s cock head. “I told you, I can’t wait.”

  Simon didn’t need convincing. He hurriedly cleaned his hands on the spare towel, then grabbed the condoms and lube from Garen’s bedside table.

  Still on his back, Garen asked, “You want to switch places so I can ride you again?”

  “No. You stay.”

  Garen’s brows dipped. “You sure you’re—”

  “I’m sure. I don’t know how good I’ll be, but I want to try.”

  Garen sighed as Simon began to explore him with one slick finger. “You-inside-me is as good as life gets.”

  Simon soon entered him slowly and carefully, then lay upon him so they were pressed chest to chest. He looked down at Garen, his hair splayed about him on the pillow, and remembered how on the night they’d first met, he’d imagined this exact scenario—minus the icing, of course.

  “Kiss me,” Garen whispered. “I want all of you.”

  Simon kissed him, swallowing Garen’s whimpers as he moved within him, ever deeper. Simon slipped his arms beneath Garen’s shoulders, then his hands into his hair. Garen wrapped his legs around Simon’s waist, and there they were, locked into their embrace. Soon it would be too warm, too suffocating, but right now it was heaven.

  Simon pressed his face to Garen’s neck, sliding his tongue against the hot pulse in his throat. Though he felt the urge to pump hard and fast into Garen’s body, he kept his hips relaxed, maintaining control. He wanted this to last and last.

  He became aware of the icing melting between their skin. Simon lifted himself enough to look down at the “art” they’d created.

  “That’s a wee bit disgusting,” Garen said.

  “And also glorious.”

  “But now for the rest of my life, every time I so much as smell icing sugar, I’m gonnae get a full-on raging stauner.”

  “Me too. Not complaining, though.” Simon noticed how the colors of the different icings had combined on their skins. “Look, it’s a big mushy rainbow.” He swiped his finger through the icing and held it to Garen’s lips. Garen licked Simon’s finger from bottom to top, then drew it into his mouth and sucked hard.

  Simon felt a jolt of pure lust. His tongue joined his finger in Garen’s mouth, devouring the sweetness within.

  “God…” Garen reached down and clutched his arse with both hands. “I need more.” He pulled Simon in deeper, his lower jaw trembling. “Now. Please.”

  Simon shifted his knees higher, adjusting his angle. Garen lifted his hips, his gaze locked with Simon’s. In his eyes was no concern, no pity—just pure hot hunger.

  Simon began to thrust, grateful for this last month’s lower-body training. Here in this bed, it didn’t matter that his feet were still like bags of sand, that he still couldn’t pick up marbles with his toes. His legs and hips and abs were all they needed right now.

  “Ah…” Garen tilted back his head, mouth open. “Just like that. Yeah.”

  Simon kept going, engulfed by the quivering heat of Garen’s body and urged on by Garen’s monologue of moans and slurred syllables.

  Soon Garen closed his eyes, lost in the world of his own pleasure. He’d stopped examining Simon’s every motion, searching for pain or struggle. He was simply reveling in what Simon was giving him.

  Simon pulled out and shifted back. “Turn over.”

  In an instant Garen flipped onto his knees and elbows, offering himself. Simon grabbed a fistful of Garen’s hair as he entered him again, harder this time.

  “Yes! God, yes.” Garen grasped at the pillow, then hurled it onto the floor so he could cling, two-handed, to the edge of the mattress. “Don’t stop, Simon. Don’t ever stop.”

  Simon couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, even if not-stopping killed him. This was everything he needed: power, control, his body delivering something worthy of this man who’d given him so much. This man he’d come to love.

  They finished together in a bed-rattling crescendo. As he spent himself, Simon bent over to press his forehead to Garen’s trembling back. Then he collapsed beside him, desperate for breath.

  Garen’s knees crumpled, and he rolled onto his side facing Simon, eyes still closed and hair strewn forward over his cheeks. He panted without words, finally not asking whether Simon was okay.

  Through still-hazy vision, Simon surveyed the bed. “Holy shit.” Icing was smeared over the pillows, sheet, and even the headboard. “It looks like someone blew up the set of The Great British Bake Off.”

  Garen gave a dreamy chuckle. “More like Great British Bonk Off, am I right?”

  Simon flipped the end of the towel over Garen’s head. “Just for that, you can tidy up.”

  Chapter 20

  9 Days Until Christmas

  As their taxi wound its way through George Square on Friday evening, Simon was glad he’d decided to take his parents into City Centre for dinner rather than staying in the West End. Now he’d get to see the heart of Glasgow lit up for Christmas.

  It didn’t disappoint. The square was flanked by several two-story-high neon Christmas trees, surprisingly tasteful in silver and gold. Inside the square sat the enormous lighted green Christmas tree, a Ferris wheel, a carousel, a “Helter Skelter” slide, and a sledge and reindeer made entirely of lights. The stalls of the bustling Christmas Market filled half of the open space, and even the towering Sir Walter Scott monument was lit with blinking blue lights.

  Simon’s only regret was that Garen hadn’t been able to join them for dinner, as he’d been needed at the rink to set up for tomorrow’s charity event. Perhaps the two of them could come downtown next weekend and enjoy the nighttime festivities together.

  As they turned down another street, Simon’s mother gasped. “Look at that!”

  Royal Exchange Square had been covered in a ceiling of light, a web of white bulbs draped from one building to another, extending out over the street they were driving down. In front of the Glasgow Museum of Art, the Duke of Wellington statue wore a traffic cone on its head—as usual—but was also flanked by cone-shaped Christmas trees made out of blue lights.

  They finally arrived at the Italian restaurant where Simon had made reservations.

  “Ah, good,” his father said as he unloaded Simon’s wheelchair from the taxi’s boot. “This place has got a ramp out front.”

  “I know,” Simon told him. “I phoned ahead to be sure it was accessible.”

  He felt a bit guilty about bringing the wheelchair. Since he wouldn’t be traveling many steps tonight, he technically should have used his walking frame. It would’ve been less unwieldy. But unlike the wheelchair—an aid he’d seen plenty of other young people use—the frame made him feel like an old man.

  To his relief, the maître d’ showed them to a table on one side of the main dining room. In his online GBS support grou
p, Simon had heard stories of people in wheelchairs being either hidden in restaurants’ dark corners “out of the way” or planted bang in the middle of traffic, forever at risk of being stumbled over.

  “Would you like to sit in your chair or use one of ours?” the maître d’ asked Simon.

  Pleased at the offer, Simon eyed the restaurant chair. Its seat seemed high enough, but it lacked arms with which to steady himself while sitting down or standing up. He imagined losing his balance, grabbing the tablecloth, and pulling the plates, glasses, and candle onto the floor like in a failed magic trick.

  In spite of this nightmare fantasy, he said, “I’d love to use yours, thanks.”

  Conscious he was being watched by the large group at the next table, Simon stood on his own, then leaned on his father while his mother moved the wheelchair aside. After a few shuffling steps and a slow, controlled descent, he got himself into the dining chair without wreaking havoc.

  “Well done, mate.” A bushy-haired ginger lad at the next table gave a fist-pump in his direction. “Gaun yersel!”

  Cringing on the inside, Simon offered a polite wave in return. The entire party over there seemed well on their way to steaming—the table held at least half a dozen empty wine bottles—so he decided to assume they were being friendly. At least they weren’t staring in silence or looking the other way in discomfort.

  The maître d’ shifted the table closer to Simon, then passed around menus.

  “Dinner is my treat,” Simon told his parents, “so order whatever you like.”

  Of course they argued with him, but he convinced them it was the least he could do, considering they’d made the four-hour drive and had to stay in a hotel overnight.

  He examined the menu, wishing his medications didn’t stop him having alcohol. A glass of wine or two would certainly help him tell his parents that Garen was now his boyfriend.

  “The Pollo Cacciatore looks sound.” Ma adjusted her gold hairslide so it held back more curls. “Simon, you’ll be having the Spaghetti Bolognese, like always?”