#moïc

The beautiful weather of the past few weeks had come to an end, and the world behind the rain-bespeckled windows of the business-class lounge was drenched in grey. Loïc reluctantly looked up from the laptop on his knees when Tanguy put down a paper cup on the small table in front of him.

“I didn’t order anything.”

Tanguy smiled down at him while he handed out the other cups to the rest of the team.

Marc opened the lid of his cup, and eyed the contents warily. “Is that caramel drizzle?”

Tanguy ignored his question, and kept looking at Loïc. “I assumed you just didn’t hear me when I asked who wanted a cup of coffee.”

Loïc shook his head, and turned his attention back on his computer. “I did,” he muttered gruffly. Hastily he half shut the laptop when Tanguy sat down next to him, and peeked over his shoulder.

“What happened in Sölden?” he asked with the same soft smile.

“Other than me losing a ski?” Loïc asked back sarcastically.

“Yes.”

Loïc tried to stare Tanguy down but had to give up after a few moments. “Nothing,” he grumbled, and took a sip of his cup.

Tanguy shook his head. “You never stay angry for so long about a simple dnf. Something happened.”

On the other side of the table, spread out over a couch and an armchair, Luca, Ramon, Daniel and Marc were busy stirring sugars and milk into their paper cups, and nobody took any heed of them.

Loïc shook his head with a shrug. “It’s nothing…it’s stupid.”

Again he made a futile attempt to stare Tanguy into giving up, and once more failed miserably.

“You’ll laugh…” he whispered.

“Try me! You don’t have to bottle things up, you know?”

Loïc sighed, a soft blush growing over his cheeks. He took another gulp of his coffee before he braced himself: “They invited Odi and Niels into a cooking show.”

Tanguy kept staring at him, his entire body stock-still except for his lips pressed into a thin line.

“I knew it!” Loïc exclaimed, and jumped up. “I knew you would…”

“I’m not laughing!” Tanguy laughed, and pulled Loïc down onto the couch again. “I just wasn’t expecting that answer. Tell me more!”

“Tell you more about what?” Luca butted in.

“Nothing,” Loïc grumbled but it was futile now that he had the attention of the entire table.

“It sounds really mean,” Tanguy said to Loïc. “But I’m sure there’s a very good reason why they didn’t invite you. I mean, everyone knows what a great chef you are.”

“I don’t know,” Loïc griped. “All they said that they’re taping it after the races in the US, and Jasmine and Joana are invited too.” With a sullen scowl he stared into his coffee. Tanguy waited patiently until the rest of it burst out of Loïc.

“Fucking Niels fucking Hintermann and Marco? Who are they kidding? Do you know that one year, when we were in South America with the speed team, Niels made a cheese sauce out of a white roux and called it his ‘spin on carbonara sauce’? He put peas in it!” The last sentence Loïc yelled into the lounge, and Tanguy hastily put his hand on Loïc’s arm but to no avail.

“And Odi, who managed to mix up baking powder and flour and was wondering why the package was so small and barely enough for one batch of pancakes and that the batter was foaming? That’s who they want for their show?”

“Maybe they just want to make sure that none of their guests will go full Gordon Ramsey,” Daniel muttered into his paper cup.

Loïc glared at him but his anger deflated quickly, and he sank back down into the couch with hunched shoulders.

Still barely able to hide his laughter, Tanguy patted Loïc’s back. “Come on, don’t you see it? They had to invite German speaking athletes. I’m sure if they had chosen according to merit you’d have been the first to be invited.”

Loïc chuckled sadly. “You’re just trying to cheer me up.”

“And does it work?”

Marc snorted. “Do you have to ask?”

Loïc huffed indignantly but his red cheeks spoke for themselves.

-----

The coaches had ordered them to their usual hub in Zermatt for an additional training session before the new year.

“You are getting more boring with every year,” Marc whined to the people splayed over the couches.

“And you are blocking the view!” Tanguy answered, and waved his hand at him.

Marc groaned but did take a step out of the way of the television. “We could go to the bar down the street. It wouldn’t take three minutes.”

“Shhh, it’s starting!” Loïc hissed, and turned the volume up.

“Seriously?” Marc exclaimed, and turned to Daniel and Luca. “Even you?”

“Nothing will be more entertaining than this tonight,” Daniel proclaimed, and held out the bowl of popcorn towards Marc.

“It’s just a bloody cooking show.”

“This does not look sanitary!”

Marc stopped in his tracks, and followed Loïc’s gaze to the television.

“They didn’t even wash their hands, and they’re just touching everything!” Loïc continued with raising indignation. “They’re not even wearing aprons!”

Daniel shook the bowl of popcorn at Marc, his raised eyebrows saying ‘See? I told you so’. With a sigh, he sat down next to him, and grabbed a handful.

“I’m sure they washed their hands earlier,” Tanguy said. He shared the smaller couch with Loïc, barely more than an armchair, and they sat thigh squished against thigh.

Loïc snorted. “That doesn’t mean anything. Marco always licks his fingers when he cooks. Oh my god, they are using pickled asparagus instead of fresh ones?”

His voice rose again, and Tanguy laughed as he put his hand on Loïc’s thigh to stop him from bouncing his leg.

“They taped this a few weeks ago. Where would they get fresh asparagus in December?”

Loïc crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I would never serve asparagus from a glass to Vreni Schneider,” he mumbled.

They watched quietly for a while.

“See, now they’re wearing aprons,” Luca piped up after a while.

When Loïc did not answer, Tanguy turned his head. He chuckled softly.

“What did you do?”

Loïc’s smile vanished, and he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Nothing.”

Tanguy’s smile grew. “Did you help him with his task?”

Loïc shrugged. “Maybe…,” he said, stretching the word apart.

“That’s cheating!” Daniel remarked.

“As if Jasmine didn’t ask her father beforehand,” Loïc snapped. “I was just giving him some tips to…” He abruptly broke off, and jumped up.

“He is using paste?” Loïc yelled at he TV while Tanguy tried to pull him back down with breathless laughter. “When I said truffles I meant real ones!” Loïc shouted at Marco on the screen, both their faces getting redder and redder for very different reasons. “The black ones of course, you don’t have to waste white truffle on Berthod but paste? PASTE?”

“Calm down,” Tanguy giggled when he finally got Loïc back onto the couch, and, to be safe, put his arm around his shoulder. If Loïc realised how close they were sitting together, he did not let it on.

“Of course, store-bought pasta dough,” he sneered when Marco and Jasmine began to assemble their raviolis.

“You would never,” Tanguy smiled, craning his head back to get a better look at Loïc.

Loïc shook his head, his brown hair almost grazing Tanguy’s cheek. “It’s too thick! Pasta dough needs to be thin, that’s why you roll it through a machine. But what does it matter? The filling is made with truffle-paste anyway; the only thing setting those things apart from raviolis from a can is that they were fondled by Marco Odermatt.” He huffed, and sank deeper into the couch, until his head was level with Tanguy’s shoulder, and glared at the TV where Marco was busily placing raviolis on three plates.

The machine sputtered and hissed, then paused for a few heartbeats, and with new rumbling finally started to leak pitch-black liquid out of its orifices. It was early, and Loïc, still in nothing more than boxer briefs, stared at the coffee dripping into his cup as if it was responsible for all his life’s problems. He did not budge when a pair of strong arms wrapped around his chest from behind, and a warm body pressed against his back.

“It’s quite ironic that you of all people hate golf,” Marco muttered against Loïc’s skin.

Loïc was too stubborn to let go of his bad mood just yet, even though Marco could feel the shivers running through his body under his lips.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Marco shrugged. “You know, because of your whole lifestyle,” he answered, and with a soft bite into Loïc’s bare shoulder finally elicited a breathless laugh. “You like all the fine things in life, the more exclusive the better.”

Loïc snorted. He grabbed the tiny cup of black coffee, barely more than a thimble, and dropped it into a bigger mug.

“I like quality,” he explained, and shuffled one step over where he had prepared a small jug of milk. “I don’t see how that has to mean I have to love golf. Everything about it is a waste! A waste of time, a waste of space…” He broke off as he lifted the jug until a tap sticking out of the coffee machine disappeared in the milk, and with a flick of a button the machine started to hiss and yowl anew.

“We could go hiking today,” he said over the noise, and carefully observed the progress, “or biking, or go to the lake but no, we have to trot over a giant patch of dead grass all day. You know that nothing natural grows on a golf course? It’s all fake!” He silenced the machine, and examined the contents of the jug.

“I see I will have to work really hard today to make it worth your while,” Marco said, and grabbed the mug with the coffee from the other end of the machine. He held it steady while Loïc poured the now frothy milk into the coffee, and they watched as the colour turned from darkest black to a soft brown. Now free of Marco’s grasp, he could finally turn around, and look at him. He smiled as his eyes wandered from the white polo down to the grey shorts.

Very short grey shorts.

“I love those pants on you,” Loïc admitted.

“I know you do,” Marco said, and gave him a kiss.

Loïc smiled, though that smile fell when he tried to grab the cup out of Marco’s hand only to end up with a fist of empty air. He sighed when he looked into Marco’s unwavering smile.

“I made that for myself,” he whined. In response, Marco cocked his head, and stared at him with his saddest, most pitying look, his brows all furrowed over his big brown eyes.

With a groan, Loïc turned around again. “Damn you and your pants,” he muttered, and put the cup back under the machine.

“We both love you,” Marco laughed as he happily skipped away.

-----

The sun was already high above the mountains when they reached Crans-Montana, promising another beautiful summer day on that high plateau. Michelle held up one of the clubs she would play with today against the sky. Of course a place like Crans treated its rental material better than any old minigolf-place would but it did not hurt to check that everything was straight because even though today was for charity, she had no intention to lose. Or, at the least, come dead last. She stuffed the club back into the bag, and pulled out the next while another person stopped by her side.

“I must have missed something on the invitation,” she said as she held up the new club. “I didn’t know today’s dress code is Daisy Duke.”

“Oh, it didn’t say on yours,” Marco explained, “that’s only for those who can pull that look off.”

He grinned at her but also took a cautionary step back, out of her club’s reach.

Michelle grinned too, and put the iron into the bag. “You’re just hoping everyone’s going to stare at your ass so they don’t see you cheat.”

Marco shrugged. “Whatever helps you get over your imminent defeat.”

“As if!”

Joana’s clubs barely reached out of the trolley bag that she pulled along. “Well, at least we know who’s going to come last,” she said when she stopped next to Michelle and eyed up Marco. “Because the only hole Loïc will manage to hit today won’t be on the green.”

“I don’t listen to people who have to play with child-sized irons,” Marco shot back though it was barely audible over Michelle’s guffaws. A treacherous blush crept over his cheeks that was still there when Loïc joined them with Daniel in tow. A worried look washed over Loïc’s face when he saw his boyfriend.

“Did you forget your sunscreen?”, he asked softly.

Marco shook his head. “No, it’s not that,” he muttered, and glared at Michelle and Joana who were still giggling.

“Hey, remember that we’re here to collect money for Swiss Ski,” Daniel warned them. “Maybe if you ladies showed a bit more skin like Marco here…”

“You know how it is,” Marco said over the new laughter and gave them a pointed look, “some are working hard and some are hardly working.”

-----

Golf was serious business for Semyel, and with a grim look he stared ahead towards the hole, gauging the distance as well as the wind, while Marco was still busy setting up his tee.

“Maybe I should have chosen shorts too,” Semyel muttered to himself.

“How about you focus on your game?” Loïc said with obvious warning in his voice.

“I’d have freer movement…but on the other hand I’d cool down fast up here, so I might be at a disadvantage later in the game,” Semyel continued talking to himself. Marco winked at Loïc, and stood up again.

“I don’t think we can still catch up to you until the end,” he interrupted Semyel’s thoughts, and straightened his back. “So you’re all good.”

Semyel blinked, and looked between Loïc and Marco. “I’m not worried about you amateurs,” he said, and pointed towards the giant score board at the other end of the course, next to the club house. “Hintermann got ahead of me at the last hole! Fucker must have practiced.”

Loïc rolled his eyes, and Marco had to bite down on his lower lip.

“Well, this amateur here is quite happy with his choice of clothing,” he said, and lined his iron up against the tee. He took his time, taking a few steps back and forth to get into the best position, and with a short glance over his shoulder made sure he had all of Loïc’s attention.

“What are you doing?” Semyel asked, both incredulously and obliviously.

“Trying to find my position,” Marco answered, and stretched his left leg so Loïc could get a good look at his calf.

“By dancing polka?” Semyel exclaimed. “You’re standing all wrong!”

“I think he’s standing just right,” Loïc said without taking his eyes off Marco’s assets.

“Thank you,” Marco said, and smiled over his shoulder again.

Semyel groaned, and buried his face in his hands .”I know it’s just a charity match but they really have to put a maximum-handicap for participants in place.”

-----

The day ended with a dinner in the club house. Luca as the only local and Loïc as the, usually, one who Swiss Ski trusted to put his foot in his mouth the least had been volunteered to lead the award ceremony in front of all the generous donors.

Applause brandished through the airy hall as Semyel walked back to the table with his trophy, his cheeks as red as his beam was bright.

“But of course we don’t only hand out a prize for the best golfer overall,” Luca said, and walked back to the table where an array of trophies was waiting. On his way, he made sure to push his shoulder into Loïc’s.

“Care to help me one of these days?” he hissed, and picked up the next prize. “I don’t want to do this all alone.”

Loïc still stood frozen in place, his eyes fixated on something in the very back of the room. Luca followed his look, and his fake smile almost fell when he saw what occupied all of Loïc’s attention.

“Seriously?” he muttered without moving his lips. “Here?”

Loïc cleared his throat, grabbed the prize from Luca, and took a step forward. “Okay!” he began, and desperately tried to tear his eyes off Marco sitting at the table in the very back, his legs spread at an almost obscene angle.

“As Luca said we don’t just hand out one thigh…prize! This next one is for the best team, and let me tell you it was very thigh…I mean tight.”

At the other end of the room, Marco’s hand casually landed between his legs, and his already short pants hitched even higher, and even though Loïc was too far away to see he knew the dark patch of hair extending from under the fabric, and the bulge straining against it. Marco smiled at him, and Loïc’s head turned into a blank space.

“At first…at first…,” he began though the room suddenly lost all the air when Marco raised one arm to push his hair back, revealing a new sliver of skin between his shorts and the polo.