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Feb. 11th, 2010 12:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
charlie_cochraneAvailable now in e-book and soon in print from MLR.
“So are you any good at rugby?”
“Fair to middling.” The grapes had been found and were being drowned under the cold tap before consumption. “Winger, but I think I told you that. I enjoy playing for fun. Couldn’t be a pro.”
Francis could think of a dozen dirty follow up remarks he could have made, would have made if they’d still been at the bar, but the mood had subtly changed. Change tack again. He’d been looking around for any clues about whether someone else shared this place, although none had turned up. He chanced it. “Just you living here?”
“Yeah. No lodger. No significant other. Tommy no mates.” Tommy grinned. It had been plain from the goodbyes he’d got at the bar that he had plenty of pals, several of whom looked like they’d have happily swopped places with him. There was a pin board in the kitchen covered in photos, too—team shots, action shots, holidays and family.
One picture in particular struck Francis. “That blond bloke looks like a mate.” He immediately knew he shouldn’t have said it. The look Tommy wore was the same he must have had plastered on his gob when people mentioned Mannering. After the break. “Sorry, think I put my foot in it.”
“I should take that picture down, but somehow every time I mean to I get cold feet. That’s Rickie.” The way the name was spoken made it full of a hundred different meanings and emotions. “He was a bloody great player—Premiership for a couple of seasons, now he’s Magners League.” Tommy’s voice couldn’t quite hide the pride that bubbled under the hurt. “That was two years ago, his sister took the picture.” He turned away from the pin board. “Come on, the lounge is more comfortable than sitting here.”
They moved into the living room, the bottle coming to keep them company. An old fashioned sofa, one that looked like it had recently been re-covered, was side on to the fireplace, where the original hearth now housed one of those gas open-effect fires which usually produced more effect than heat. Francis was pleased to find that this one, once lit, took the edge off what was becoming a chilly night. “Were you happy with him? Your Rickie?” It sounded such a bloody stupid question once it was out.
Tommy had snuggled into the corner of the settee, kicking his shoes off like a little boy. “I want to say they were happy days but I’m not sure that’s true. Sometimes, that’s all.”
Talk about a mirror on his own world. This was too painful for Francis to make light of or joke about. “Play for the same team?”
“No, he was always much better than I was. We met through a mate who’d been in a young players’ development squad with him. I never worked out whether this mate knew about both of us. I mean, he knew I was gay, but Rickie…” he shrugged. “If he had guessed, he never let on. Rickie would have killed him. Even further in the closet than Mr. Tumnus.”
“So are you any good at rugby?”
“Fair to middling.” The grapes had been found and were being drowned under the cold tap before consumption. “Winger, but I think I told you that. I enjoy playing for fun. Couldn’t be a pro.”
Francis could think of a dozen dirty follow up remarks he could have made, would have made if they’d still been at the bar, but the mood had subtly changed. Change tack again. He’d been looking around for any clues about whether someone else shared this place, although none had turned up. He chanced it. “Just you living here?”
“Yeah. No lodger. No significant other. Tommy no mates.” Tommy grinned. It had been plain from the goodbyes he’d got at the bar that he had plenty of pals, several of whom looked like they’d have happily swopped places with him. There was a pin board in the kitchen covered in photos, too—team shots, action shots, holidays and family.
One picture in particular struck Francis. “That blond bloke looks like a mate.” He immediately knew he shouldn’t have said it. The look Tommy wore was the same he must have had plastered on his gob when people mentioned Mannering. After the break. “Sorry, think I put my foot in it.”
“I should take that picture down, but somehow every time I mean to I get cold feet. That’s Rickie.” The way the name was spoken made it full of a hundred different meanings and emotions. “He was a bloody great player—Premiership for a couple of seasons, now he’s Magners League.” Tommy’s voice couldn’t quite hide the pride that bubbled under the hurt. “That was two years ago, his sister took the picture.” He turned away from the pin board. “Come on, the lounge is more comfortable than sitting here.”
They moved into the living room, the bottle coming to keep them company. An old fashioned sofa, one that looked like it had recently been re-covered, was side on to the fireplace, where the original hearth now housed one of those gas open-effect fires which usually produced more effect than heat. Francis was pleased to find that this one, once lit, took the edge off what was becoming a chilly night. “Were you happy with him? Your Rickie?” It sounded such a bloody stupid question once it was out.
Tommy had snuggled into the corner of the settee, kicking his shoes off like a little boy. “I want to say they were happy days but I’m not sure that’s true. Sometimes, that’s all.”
Talk about a mirror on his own world. This was too painful for Francis to make light of or joke about. “Play for the same team?”
“No, he was always much better than I was. We met through a mate who’d been in a young players’ development squad with him. I never worked out whether this mate knew about both of us. I mean, he knew I was gay, but Rickie…” he shrugged. “If he had guessed, he never let on. Rickie would have killed him. Even further in the closet than Mr. Tumnus.”
