Morning - 1. Duncan's Story

Sitting at the kitchen table with the light on, Duncan gazed blankly at his bowl of cereal. He lifted the spoon, let it hang in mid-air for a moment before slowly dropping it back into the bowl. The contents were soggy and cold. Why had he made it in the first place? Habit, most likely. Something to try and make the day seem normal. The sight of the food didn't tempt him in the slightest.

The clock’s tick echoed in the silence. He looked at the hands, moving inexorably forward, without any thought that time applied to him. The old-fashioned radio sat mute in the corner furthest away from him, a thin film of dust obscuring the display. When had he last listened to Radio 4? It was an effort to sit in front of a soap on the TV. Trying to focus on current affairs, news, or discussions was beyond him.

In a burst of remembered summer sun, Duncan recalled he and his husband listening to the Today programme the morning after the Brexit vote. While cooking their breakfast, Brad swore at the radio to such a degree that it nearly made him laugh. In a way, it wasn’t funny; but listening to his normally softly-spoken partner vent his disbelief at the result in bursts of lurid Anglo-Saxon, made for a series of weird, three-cornered conversations.

To return to our main headline this morning, let's speak to our chief political correspondent who's outside the Houses of Parliament. So, Graham. What do you make of this momentous result?

Brad slammed the fridge door closed. “Momentous? Crap! This is what happens when you allow those fucking morons of politicians to lie with impunity.”

Well, Viv. Such a morning! Overnight, everything in politics, in the country, has changed. A result none of the pundits were able to forecast has taken the entire nation by surprise.

“Surprise? What fucking surprise?” His husband stood at the cooker, brandishing a bright red silicone spoon at the radio. “If you bloody reporters moved outside your metropolitan bubble and visited any pub hereabouts, you'd soon change your mind. Idiots!”

We're in uncharted waters, Viv. Let's go over to one of my colleagues in the West country to hear more news and views from the Prime Minister's constituency.

And so it continued. The ever-changing duos of interviewees, commentators, and the anchors were all overlaid with Brad’s baroque, smouldering riffs.

Duncan sighed. Uncharted waters? Yes, he knew about those; he had yet to return to a safe harbour.

Both of them were so involved listening, they missed their usual cues; the weather report came and went without either of them moving. They listened to the news headlines again without the twinge that came from knowing they would be late for work. As ever, it was Brad who got them moving. Left to himself, Duncan could happily sit for hours letting his mind wander, waiting for inspiration. Instead, his partner rousted them out of the house in five minutes flat.

That was Brad all over. He never forgot things. He was organised, disciplined. A watery smile appeared on Duncan’s face. If he'd taken on the task, they would never have got away on holiday; the unfathomable web of journey planning, seat reservations, hotel bookings and all the rest of it would have defeated him from the outset. He stirred, pushing the bowl away. The June sunshine of his memories was replaced by the grey reality of a lonely, dull November day.

You’ll be late for your own funeral, Duncan Mackenzie. That was one of his mother’s favourite reactions to his inevitable tardiness. Well, it wouldn’t happen on that day, of all days.

Suddenly, a younger, student Brad appeared smiling in his mind’s eye. A grimace briefly passed over Duncan's lips in response. They were both runners when they first met at university. His future husband often turned up at an ungodly hour of the morning, impatiently ringing the doorbell at his shared house until he surfaced. Duncan recalled one particular occasion on a cool, late April day.

“Coming for a run, Dunc?” Brad was always raring to go.

“What – now?” He'd had a late night and felt hungover. Standing shivering on the step in his undies, the open front door invited him back to a warm bed.

“Of course!” Brad leant in, careful not to touch him anywhere he shouldn't. “If you join me now, I can promise you some… excitement on the way.”

“Hmm?” He stepped back to look the other man in the eye. “And what 'excitement' might that be?”

A smirk greeted him. “That would be telling.”

This time, a genuine smile appeared on Duncan's face. He would never forget that day. Once out of town, they headed off towards a small wood.

At the edge of the expanse of trees, Brad came to a halt, giving him chance to catch up finally. It was rare that Duncan managed to out-pace the other runner.

A smiling face awaited him. “You up for a game?”

“Err… maybe.” A serious-minded student, many things embarrassed him. “Depends.”

“It'll be fun, and you'll enjoy the prize.”

“What prize?” His suspicions were aroused.

“You'll discover in good time.” The smile had transformed into a smirk. “Assuming I decide to claim it, that is.”

It took a moment for the implication to hit home. “Bastard! Who's to say you're gonna be the winner?” He marched up to within kissing distance of the other man. “Arrogant tosser.”

“That's me.”

The power of Brad's grin went straight to his cock as always.

One finger traced a line back and forth across closed lips as Duncan placed himself back in those times. The absolute worst of the AIDS epidemic and the accompanying hysteria was over by the second half of the Nineties. HIV was still a significant threat though and it continued to cast a pall over his love life as with many others. At that point of his relationship with Brad, they hadn't gone any further than kissing and some fevered groping.

“OK.” Brad rubbed his hands. “I'll count to fifty while you go and hide somewhere in the wood.”

“Hide and seek?” The disbelief was mirrored in his expression. “We ten year-olds again?”

“No – I hope not. Let me finish. When I spot you, that's your cue to run back here. If you manage to get to this stile without me catching you, it'll be a miracle.”

“Pride comes before a fall, as my Mum is fond of saying.”

They both sensed an edge in the atmosphere between them – the primordial thrill of the impending chase. His heart thudded as the adrenalin kicked in.

Even now, his pulse quickened at the memory.

From his hiding place in an ivy-strewn copse, he tried to imagine the way back. It was hopeless; even if the sun was properly visible, he had no idea where he, or the start point, was in relation to it. A faint crack from a dry twig alerted him. Though he was hidden, equally, he couldn't see out. Cursing himself for an idiot, he attempted to stick his head out briefly.

“Gotcha!”

As a pheasant runs aimlessly from side to side in front of an oncoming car, utter indecision was his downfall. Almost immediate capture resulted in them both retreating back inside the densely-covered space.

A kiss followed – ardent and fierce. His surrender was complete until Brad drew away. They stared at each other, gasping. The close, pheromone-drenched air reeked of sex. Or the promise of it.

“So was that you claiming your prize?” He knew the answer he wanted to hear.

“What d'you think?” Brad drew closer.

Mesmerised, he shook his head.

“Great reply.” His boyfriend knelt down in front of him. Reaching out to caress the globes of his arse kept Brad's hands occupied. Hungry lips outlined his raging hard-on through thin, silky running shorts.

At the memory, his neglected organ gave a twitch. Duncan recalled vividly the feelings of an almost overwhelming desire shot through with anxiety.

Brad looked up, hands now poised at his waistline, ready to pull down the shorts. “OK, Dunc?”

He gulped, swallowing desperately. A nod was all he could manage.

As Brad gradually exposed the prize, he kept up a soothing stream of talk. “My beautiful gazelle, you have no idea how good this'll feel. How much I love you. How…” Unable to contain himself any longer, Brad kissed, licked, and fondled everything in range.

His boyfriend delivered the coup de grace by swallowing his cock whole, until the hot breath from Brad's nostrils warmed his pubes.

Duncan shifted in his seat. That a simple blow-job could produce such ecstasy was a revelation. When the climax came, his knees buckled, pleasure short-circuiting his brain. After a few minutes of recovery which they spent cuddling, the two men jogged back to the starting point. Brad of course, knew the way without any problem.

He sighed. If he was a 'gazelle' as his partner often called him, then Brad had the spirit of a panther or a cheetah in the bedroom. Swift, fierce, but also passionate and loving, in his hands their lovelife rarely palled. The theme of the chase became one such integral part. Later on, even if it was only the dash upstairs, it always got them going.

Tears dribbled down onto his cheeks. Sport was still part of his husband's life until an intense game of squash felled Brad at forty-four. An undiagnosed structural fault suddenly caused his heart to fail.

Duncan drank the tepid coffee, ignoring the wetness which had become a part of his life. With a sigh, he turned to his many scribbled lists. A memorial service seemed to involve even more planning than a funeral: guest list, speakers, music, seating, readings, and of course, Brad. The worry that he’d mess up some element had kept Duncan awake for most of the previous night. He woke up from a troubled doze with a flavour lingering in his mind; the hint of a cartoonish image – more a gif, perhaps – of an elephant chasing someone.

A slow smile surprised him. Of course… Why hadn’t he thought of it at the time? Though it was hardly flattering to his husband. The smile widened. The realisation comforted Duncan: somehow, Brad would ensure nothing was forgotten. After all, it was his day.