Commodus

C O M M O D U S by reid

Chapter I

There is something about adrenaline that makes it unpleasant. Regardless of whatever benefits it may provide in terms of survival skill or physical acumen, it still doesn't feel right. Feeling like your stomach is going to rupture and your lungs are going to fly out your mouth can't be a healthy, natural sensation.

Then when you combine adrenaline with fear, the whole problem increases tenfold. Fear and adrenaline were like the Bianchi and Buono of biophysical chemical phenomena. Together, they worked like a world-jarring machine that wanted only to take away your security and comfort.

For some it was a good thing. Those who participated in activities like skydiving and white water rafting. It's the kind of thing provided by a ride on a roller coaster or getting shot in the face. Not exactly a good thing for somebody sitting in a cheaply produced plastic seat in an underventilated arena in the Mediterranean climate. When you're in a place like that, the fear/adrenaline sorbet doesn't taste so sweet.

At that moment, really, I couldn't identify what I was tasting. On top of everything else, I also had to worry about the unavoidable reality that my face was appearing semi-regularly on worldwide television. Picking my nose, therefore, was no longer a viable option for passing the time.

Not that time was passing otherwise. Of course not. Not in this hot, cloistered arena full of many nationalities. Many that didn't feel showering was an inherent more, but I wasn't in any position to judge. I knew that the sweat rolling down my back didn't exactly smell like Gucci Red cologne.

All around me, the crowd was chanting. It was either in English, which happened to sound almost sympathetic and pessimistic, or in Turkemnistanian, which sounded confident and upsettingly brutal. That bothered me. The anger and brutality they were tapping into almost made me want to yell at them. To try and make them understand that it was just a sport, no matter how combative.

I watched in trepidation as the referee brought his hand up and then down again, the shrill whistle cutting through the damp humidity of the arena. The chanting around me began to take on a frantic pitch as I ran my hands through my hair. I was too young to be dealing with this. Twenty two was too young of an age to die of a heart attack. In front of the world, no less.

Ironically, Kaj was unconcerned. It took a great deal of anything at a high level to make him actually feel concern of some sort. He circled the Turkmen wrestler casually, not at all intimidated by the chanting. How was he able to do that? How could he just tune out such an angry sounding horde? It was just another of "those things" about him that sent me into a blissful state of perplexion.

I had no time for bliss that day. My heart pounded and I watched with sickened resign as they locked up, their arms straining. Immediately, it was obvious that Kaj was overmatched. My eyes began to burn and I felt tears start to form. I wanted nothing more than to not have to watch this - but I had to. He'd asked me to be there.

Next to me, I heard Dag swear softly under his breath. If I, a complete ignoramus when it came to this specific world, were able to see the mismatch, Dag certainly could. I knew how tough it was for him. He had his own gold medal match to worry about in addition to all this mess. Suddenly, I felt bad about my own feelings of anxiety.

Almost immediately, Kaj was taken down and pressed against the mat. The ref signaled for the point and separated the two, and I watched the scoreboard light up. One to nothing. If only it could end there. If only it could end with the one point.

They locked up again. Kaj valiantly tried for a waist lock but it was to no avail. He was facing the five time world champion in the Bantamweight class. Of course he was. This wasn't 1984 when all the horribly brutal and uber-manly Eastern European wrestlers were part of boycott. This was a fully attended Olympics.

Several seconds later, Kaj was being ground into the mat, his legs grapevined and his left arm wrenched behind his back. I fought with the instinctual desire to start crying. This was quickly getting to be more than I could stand, but there wasn't anything I could do about it.

On the mat, they were separated again. The scoreboard flashed again. It was now three to nothing. I shifted it in my seat as the crowd continued to chant, the more aggressive among them stamping their feet. At that point, the stamping and chanting had turned into one big ball of noise. I couldn't distinguish nationality among them and I didn't care to. This wasn't my world.

Again, they locked up. With a surging horror, I watched as Kaj was hoisted up in the air and brought back down with ferocious speed. His body slammed into the mats with a sickening thud, the impact jarring me in my bones.

"Fuck!" Dag yelled, grabbing handfuls of his hair and wrenching forward in his seat. The crowd gasped and the non-American portions leapt to their feet in glee. Flashbulbs went off like fireworks but I was almost blind to all of it.

A sickly warmth brewed in my stomach. My head felt light and I shut my eyes tightly. It was serious, I knew that much. Sonia had let out the kind of shriek that one only hears when a parent is frightened for their child. It chilled me right down the length of my spine.

I watched helpless as Kaj got up slowly, favoring his back and shoulders. He was in pain and the realization made my fists clench so hard my knuckles turned white. Some sick part of me prayed that Kaj was too hurt to continue, but I knew better. He'd have to be stretchered out before he'd allow the match to end early.

The scoreboard read nine to nothing. When the numbers flashed up, the foreign contingent in the crowd nearly had a collective heart attack. I leaned forward and tried to breathe deeply, closing my eyes for a long second, trying to keep from puking all over myself. I still had to be careful because I never knew when the cameras were on our section of the crowd. It was getting to be too much. My only relief knew that if one more point was scored, the match would blessedly be over.

Another lockup. The match clock was ticking down. The crowd began to count along, their voices chanting in unison. When the timer reached seven, Kaj was thrown again to the mat and the crowd cheered. A buzzer sounded and relief washed over me. It was over. The longest two minutes and fifty three seconds of my life were finally over.

I sank back into the seat as the referee raised the arm of the Turkmen wrestler, and again, the crowd cheered like it was the second coming of Christ. I watched Kaj, his torso rising and falling with his heavy breath, as he walked back towards the Team USA bench. As he did, a different sort of cheering filled the arena. This time, they were cheering for Kaj.

Soon, the fifteen thousand strong crowd were on their feet cheering. Tiredly, I stood up and joined them as Kaj lowered himself down the wooden blue steps to the arena floor. All I felt was relief. If he was hurt badly, it wasn't so bad that he couldn't walk. That was all I cared about.

Then, a new graphic flashed on the scoreboard. It wasn't the final score nor was it anything about the one sided slaughter we'd all just watched. It was the final medal standings for the 2004 Olympic Bantamweight wrestling division, and for the first time, I realized what had happened and what it all meant.

Sure, the guy from Turkmenistan had won the gold medal. That was hardly a surprise. But under it was a name that I was quite familiar with. According to this strange graphic, Kaj had won a silver medal. A silver medal in the Olympic games for the United States of America.

Pride washed over my exhausted body as I smiled for the first time in weeks. All my life I'd heard the adage "second place is the first loser" and "you don't win second place, you lose first place" and all that. For the first time, I realized what a complete load of shit that was. Knowing that in what you do, there's only one person better is nothing to sneeze at.

Next to me, Dag and Marek were pushing and prodding each other happily. I smiled again, sharing in their happiness. I rubbed my eyes, still feeling the remaining burn of fear and anxiety. This was the best part of that adrenaline/fear double header: the pure relief after it's gone and everything is right again.

I felt a slap on my shoulder. It was Marek. He and I had always had a cautious, yet oddly unawkward relationship. For that, I gave complete credit to Kaj. He had a way of making people feel comfortable and at ease with his sexuality.

"You're married to a champion!" He said in his thick Swedish accent.

Even then, I didn't like the marriage implication. Not even in moments of great stress and trial, could I let go of my male tendencies.

Grasping at straws, I tried to say something suitably sarcastic and aloof about his use of the dreaded 'm' word. All three of them were waiting for something that would fit my typical attitude - but nothing was there. Just nothing. I shook my head and rubbed my eyes again, my silence saying more than any sarcasm could.

As the crowd settled back down, the teams were packing their gear up. As Team USA left the area around the mat, Kaj looked up towards us. Before the match, I'd specifically told him not to "do anything." In the three years we'd been together, the definition of "doing anything" had become pretty clear. Of course, Kaj rarely didn't leap on the opportunity to "do anything" with glee.

But this time, he was restrained. He looked up towards where he knew were sitting and smiled. Then he winked. Whenever he winked, my knees felt weak and this was hardly an exception. I could tell he was tired but he extended his arm and flashed the ever popular "hang loose" sign.

Whenever Kaj wrestled with me in the audience, he did that. It was our signal. It was almost the "I Love You" sign but still neutral enough to not arouse suspicion. The fact that he had chosen to do it now, at the Olympics after winning a medal, nearly made me keel over.

Dag nudged me with his elbow and I smiled in spite of myself. No matter how much I tried to tell Kaj not to do that kind of thing, it always made me feel warm and fuzzy inside. I enjoyed it, and there was no way to deny it. Especially then when my defenses had been so completely exhausted.

"Come on," Sonia said quietly, ready to retake the reigns of the family, "Let's go meet him."

Chapter II

Somehow, miracle of miracles, I managed to make my feet work as we walked out of the stands and down through the concrete tunnel. From what I understood, we were headed to the "family area", the much fabled place where the families of the athletes were allowed to wait. We had a fifteen minute break until the medal ceremony, which I'd been proactively dreading thanks to Kaj musing about "scratching his balls" while on the podium.

In the "family area" we found several blue padded benches and one very battered red wood footstool. I could only guess what kind of rage the footstool had been subjected to by angry members of the Olympic experience. If it was anything like the scent of sweat in the air, it couldn't have been very pretty.

Then we sat. The varnished polyester of the padding felt better than the spinewarping contours of the seats. I leaned forward and rested my forearms against my knees, the heat of the summer combined with the stress of the day was setting in deeply. I yawned and blinked, my eyelids feeling heavy.

"Why does everything smell here?" Dag whispered quietly.

"That's not nice talk." Sonia said, her tone pointed.

"Well, it's true."

"If it's not your culture, it's not wrong just because." She said, rubbing the back of her neck. If anything, it was all a shared, communal stress.

Several minutes later, the usher led Kaj out of the locker room. He had changed from his gauche red and white singlet into the gray t-shirt and blue shorts he'd slept in the night before. On top of it all was the blue zipup sweatshirt he'd bought at a Value Village back in Hermosa Beach. His blond hair was spiked and uneven from dried sweat.

Kaj looked normal again. His Olympic odyssey over, he looked just like the slovenly auto mechanic I'd fallen in love with.

While his actual blood relatives stood up and began the customary hugging and kissing that followed a meet, I stood up slowly at the back of the impromptu line. I watched as Marek hugged him tightly, his pride standing out like a forehead zit before prom night. Marek wasn't a typically affectionate man but he took advantage of times like those to show that side of himself.

At the end of the line I waited, watching as Kaj did his best to turn on the "slacker charm" he used to get discounts on the most airtight of monetary exchanges. Kaj knew it was pretty useless with his family, however. They were long immune to his attempts to act humble, they'd built up an immunity.

Then, almost suddenly, it was my turn.

The rest of the family decided to leave the immediate area. Marek practically lead Dag off by his ear to scout one of his opponents workout sessions while Sonia went back to buy tissue from the concessions outside the arena. That was the only time I'd ever seen her cry was when Dag or Kaj competed in a meet. The bigger the meet, the more the tears.

Kaj smiled at me, almost expectantly. He snapped his gum sharply, knowing how the sound went straight to the nerves in my teeth.

"Well," He said amorously, "We're alone now."

I knew exactly what he was waiting for. He was waiting for me to make the colossal admission that I hadn't been worried and in fact, had been wildly impressed by his amazing ability. He also knew that there was no way in hell I'd ever do anything of the sort.

"How'd I do?" He said finally.

I sighed and did my best to look casual, "You did okay. You did lose a gold medal after all, but you did okay."

Kaj smiled and draped his arms around my shoulders. I coughed theatrically as I got a good dose of the mixed scent of wrestling mats and sweat that always prevailed when he hadn't had time to shower. With Kaj, it was either the smell of wrestling mats and sweat or motor oil and - sweat.

He kissed me gently, barely puckering his lips against mine before kissing me again, much deeper and more seriously. It only took a few hours or so to be reminded of how great a kisser he was. The sensation of his soft, warm lips against mine made my knees feel weak. As I kissed him back, I was sure that I was probably projecting a great deal of relief and I knew Kaj would pick up on it.

Kaj rested his forehead against mine, "Were you scared?"

"Psh - nah."

The kind of silence followed that could only serve to show how full of shit I truly was. I couldn't help but laugh as Kaj draped his arm around me, shifting his weight and trying to knock me over. 'Twas truly a move I was more than accustomed to. He'd used it at parties, weddings, funerals, and in general company.

"Are you sore?" I asked as I hugged him from behind.

"Nah. I will be tommorrow."

"After a shitkicking like that, I'd imagine."

He leaned forward and flexed his back muscles, hoisting me off the ground effortlessly. After he felt I was suitably cowed, he leaned backwards and set me back on the ground. In response, I dug my thumb into his waist and he began to laugh, squirming as best he could but my grip held him tight.

I stopped and let him rest back against me.

"I'm an Olympic medalist." He said, his tone comically smooth and proud.

"Yeah, that's what I hear," I said as I steered him over onto one of the benches, "Too bad it's not in a sport that could make any money or anything."

"Yeah, you're pretty funny, dude." Kaj said as he tossed his basketball shoes down on the floor. I watched absent mindedly as he removed his sandals and began to pull on his shoes. I remembered how Sonia had made him promise to wear real shoes if he made it on to the medal stand.

I elbowed him gently in the ribs. He returned the favor. Sometimes I wondered when our relationship would progress past small childish interludes... but then again, sometimes I hoped they wouldn't. Our little moments of immaturity felt undeniably right.

"You gonna scratch your balls like you said?" I asked, interrupting myself with a yawn.

He looked at me, his blue eyes sparkling in the florescent light, "You want me to?"

"I'm sure it would look nice on international TV."

"NBC is international TV?"

I paused and Kaj smiled, aware that he'd derailed my point yet again.

"Just don't do it."

He snickered, "Well, we'll see what I do."

For the first time, I noticed the growing redness around his left eye.

"What happened?"

"To who?"

I held the side of his face as I inspected the slightly swollen skin, "Around your eye. Did you catch an elbow or something?"

Kaj smiled proudly, "When he slammed for that little five pointer, my face broke the fall."

I shook my head, "You're odd."

"Just figure that out?"

I yawned and listened to the dulled commotion in the main arena, my system beginning to lag from three years of stress. Three years of stress gone in three minutes, more or less. I leaned forward and rubbed my eyes, feeling the last weeks worth of sleepless nights hitting me hard.

Kaj rubbed my shoulder, "You okay?"

"Yeah," I sat up and exhaled, "Now I can start worrying about 2008."

Kaj sighed and looked at me before he finished tying his shoes, "That's not gonna happen."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not gonna go through another four years knowing that you're about to have a stroke every time I hit the mat." He said, his voice becoming tinged with an uncomfortable edge of genuineness.

"But - that's our thing. I'm Adrian to your Rocky." I said it in my cutest, most vulnerable voice.

Kaj wasn't buying it. He looked at me with the kind of expression I'd learned only accompanied his - serious mode. This was the sort of fable that I'd only hoped to hear and never actually encounter.

"You were worried," He said as he took off his sweatshirt, "You were worried and you haven't been sleeping and you haven't been able to eat. I acted like it was a joke but it isn't and as much as I act like 'this' is a joke, it isn't."

I was taken aback by such a huge current of honesty from such a smarmy bastard.

"I worry. It's my thing." Immediately, I regretted making a joke.

Moreover, I regretted what I'd said about the next Olympics. In one brief instant, I'd managed to bring down the one moment Kaj had been dreaming about for most of his life. My stomach ached and I sighed, rubbing my forehead feebly.

Kaj stood up, "I have to go back out there."

"Yeah," I said and stood up too, "Look, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about-"

"It's ok," He interrupted me, "I'll see you afterwards, right?"

I nodded, not feeling the need to say anything to tarnish the moment further.

Kaj leaned in and kissed me on the cheek, draping his sweatshirt over my shoulder.

"Hang onto it for me, huh?"

I nodded again, pulling it off my shoulder and idly wrapping it around my hands. I watched as Kaj turned and walked back through the doors to the locker room. The doors swung shut with a dull clang, leaving me alone in the fetid confines of the waiting room.

If I could have done so, I would have crawled underneath the tiles of the floor and waited to die. Miserably, I turned and walked back up the tunnel towards the entrance to the arena. My shoes squeaked disconsolately like a body bag against the light blue tile. The sweatshirt swung from my hand like a dead cat. My Olympic experience had, quite completely, become an ice cream cone in the dirt.

In a thick funk, I sulked my way back to my seat in the grandstands, cursing Kaj for needing to be serious. Nothing good ever came of anyone being serious. Being serious only bred awkwardness and uncomfortable truth. Truth was something from which no relationship ever took benefit.

Chapter III

Dag and Marek returned to their seats a short time later, heatedly debating the skill of Canada's best Bantamweight wrestler. Trying to tune them out became my only way to trying to forget what I'd done. I massaged my temple wearily, now simply waiting for the whole thing to be over so I could get on with trying to repair the damage I'd done.

Somewhere behind us, a national cheer went up in a language I didn't understand. I yawned and silently longed for the next seven days to pass quickly so I could go home and - not be in a foreign country anymore. Back with familiar food, familiar TV, and water that didn't make me feel sick.

Wallowing in my self pity, I watched MSNBC commercials on the arena scoreboard. Sonia came back and immediately began arguing with Marek about something rude he'd said to a referee. Or something he'd said in a rude tone. Or something he said that she thought he'd said in a tone she thought was rude.

With mild interest, I watched as Dag and a wrestler from Germany engaged in some freestyle obscene gesture dueling from different sides of the arena. It always struck me as funny how similar yet completely different he and Kaj were. For twins, especially. For identical twins, astronomically. Yet I never felt attracted to Dag. I guessed it was because I could never love a man that didn't understand my humor.

A booming voice piped in over the PA system, reading a message in Greek. Then the same message followed in Spanish. Then in French. I could only assume it was the same message. Then the message played in English.

"Please stand for the medal ceremonies of the 2004 Olympiad Bantamweight class freestyle wrestling competition."

The interested portions of the arena stood as the medal presenters were brought in and introduced. One was the gold medalist in 1988, the gold medalist in 1972, and the bronze medalist in 1952. A Ukranian, a Japanese man, and an elderly Indian man, respectively. The introductions were repeated in different languages and the scoreboard showed the names of the medal winners in several languages.

Dag nudged me in the arm and I looked to where he was gesturing. Apparently, a Portugese fan in his excitement had removed his pants. Security was letting him now that stripping was not appropriate Olympic behavior.

At the other end of the arena, I could hear the hoists being prepared for the flag raising. Several Olympic volunteers had strung up the flags of the medal winners while the presenters stepped forward and waved to the crowd. I yawned and immediately tried to stop, embarrassed at how sterotypically "rude American" it must have looked.

NBC's Olympic theme played on the loudspeakers as finally the medal winners were brought out, escorted by a judge from Finland. Kaj smiled winningly for the cameras, flashing the thumbs up with pride. I smiled in spite of myself. If he could do that, I hadn't messed things up too badly. That gave me security.

Kaj took his place behind the silver medal podium while even more announcements were relayed in various languages. Marek was busy taking pictures, the flash of his camera blending in to the many in the arena. Almost like a fireworks display.

My ears began to sting from the shrill feedback of the speakers as they played the music, the volume much too high. Blessedly, it stopped and yet more translated announcements played over the speakers. Kaj rubbed the back of his calf with the toe of his shoe, the standing still was beginning to disagree with him.

"The medalists for the 2004 Olympiad Bantamweight class freestyle wrestling."

I smiled in spite of myself, knowing that it now was happening. The pinnacle of Kaj's career was finally happening. A rush of euphoria blasted through my veins and my fatigue was forgotten. Of course I hadn't ruined anything! He won a silver medal! What the hell was I thinking?!

The Turkmen wrestler was introduced first and I was surprised by how modest he was. It was a contrast from the aggression he had showed a few minutes earlier. He stepped onto the podium and the scoreboard said that he was the first individual medalist for Turkmenistan. Begrudgingly, I had to admit that was a pretty cool thing to be.

More announcements played and in each language, I recognized Kaj's name. It almost blew my mind to hear the same name I'd associated with gears and oily transmissions and spark plugs being said at the Olympics. I saw Marek hug Sonia as he wiped tears from her eyes, their pride as parents overriding their propensity for fighting.

"The silver medalist from the United States of America - Kaj Skullerud."

In a move that I was sure I'd be disgusted with later, my own voice joined the cheers from the sizable American contingent in the crowd. Kaj walked around the medal podium, shaking hands with and hugging the Turkmen wrestler. Dag cupped his hands around his mouth and cheered, his voice full of rare pride for his twin brother.

Kaj stepped up onto the white platform, waving to the crowd. He'd changed into his red and white Team USA windbreaker, making him look abnormally dignified. Yet somehow, the way his hair stood up in spikes betrayed the illusion. I knew he was still the same Kaj that had peed in the gymbag of a particularly arrogant Italian wrestler at the Goodwill Games.

He bent down as the medal was draped around his neck. From my experience of trying on various medals after they'd been won, I knew it was heavy. Kaj shook hands with the Ukranian, exchanging the traditiontal double kiss on the cheek. That always seemed gross to me - but it wasn't my moment so I couldn't judge.

Kaj waved to the crowd as Marek took more pictures and the United States flag showed on the scoreboard. With annoyance, I noticed that they forgot the umlaut over the 'u' in Kaj's name. Then I remembered how far being worried had gotten me. Silently, at that moment as I looked at the name on the scoreboard and watched as Kaj inspected his silver medal, I promised that I'd be less - particular about every detail.

The bronze medalist, a really quite handsome man from Portugal, was introduced to the crowd and presented with his medal. I looked at Kaj and realized he was looking at me. From across the arena, we made eye contact. He smiled. I held my hand close to my body and raised my thumb, looking as stealthy as possible.

Kaj laughed and looked down, trying not to break up during his most public of moments. When he looked up, he winked at me. In that one wink, he communicated more than any awkward moments could ever come close. My funk alleviated a little and I struggled to keep from making him laugh again. Instead, I turned my energy to waiting to see if he would scratch his balls like he'd promised.

"Please remain standing for the national anthem of Turkmenistan."

As the anthem played, I watched Kaj, perversely hoping that he'd grope himself in front of a worldwide audience. Once, he moved his right hand furtively towards his thigh and I heard Sonia murmur nervously. But he didn't do it. He remained remarkably respectful and composed during the song.

Then during the final notes of the anthem, an odd thing happened. It started in the upper rows of the arena and worked its way down like a wave. People began clapping and cheering loudly. The cheering spread and soon the whole arena was on its feet, the structure shaking with the applause. I smiled and began to clap along with them, enjoying the international solidarity.

The cheers wound down as Kaj and the other medalists were lead down off the medal stand and across the platform. They stopped and posed for pictures, Kaj flashing his most winning smile. It was his exaggerated "happy" smile. I recognized it well.

NBC's fantastical Olympic theme repeated on the speakers and it sounded even more shrill than before. The medalists were led down off the platform and back through the gaudy blue curtains. The curtains looked like crushed velvet straight out of the trashiest Vegas bordello.

Yet, it was okay. I told myself in my most calming inner voice. It was fine by me. It's the Olympics and they need to be - festive. Yes, festive. That was a nice, accepting word for how it all looked. My lungs expanded and I took a long breath. Everything was going to be a-okay.

My new found sense of inner calm helped me stand and follow the growing line out of the arena. Along the way, we were told to wait for Kaj in one of the white canvas tents that had been set up. Another wheel of the machine with which I was familiar. Kaj first had to be medically cleared to leave the arena, photographed for the Associated Press, interviewed by a few media outlets, and then registered at doping control.

Ah, doping control. I knew that part. Until Kaj could fill at least ninety millimeters of a beaker, his medal standing wouldn't be official. Earlier in the week, two American wrestlers lost their medals due to "banned substance discovery." Automatically, the first American wrestling medalist to enter doping control would be under great scrutiny.

Because of this, both Dag and Kaj were strong-armed into giving up all substances that could even hint at banned substance. Sort of like a crash rehab. The forsaking of caffeine, artificial flavoring, and genetically modified foods hadn't bothered Kaj that much. Dag, on the other hand, had suffered greatly and now he was even more distant from his teammates. But I knew once he won the gold medal, they'd magically start to like him again.

The procession filed out of the Olympic Sportshall and I took a long, deep breath of the fresh air. It was thick and humid with a Mediterranean summer. I stretched my arms and rotated my neck, absent mindedly following the designated group. To the left, I heard another national cheer go up. The British water polo team had apparently slaughtered the lowly team from France.

My attention was distracted and I didn't see the celebrating group of fans rushing past me. In the commotion, their free flowing Guinness waterfall managed to soak my red t-shirt. My nose burned at the smell of barely and hops infused with the Commonwealth's brownest rye. It was cold, however, and that was almost enough to make it an even trade. I whipped my hand and sent as much of it as I could onto the hot concrete. Thankfully the sweatshirt hadn't gotten too tainted.

"You okay?" Dag asked, mopping some of it out of my hair.

I nodded and began walking again, wringing the beer out of my shirt as best I could.

By the time we'd arrived at the tent, the sun had dried out my shirt and left me smelling like a beer tortilla. Maybe it would be good for my hair, at least. I stepped into the close, hot air of the tent and flinched and how delightful my British joy shower would smell to the international community.

We were directed to yet another blue padded bench, but missing the requisite battered red footstool. It took me a moment to make the connection. This was the winners area. Winners rarely had cause to abuse a footstool. Sonia handed me a wet nap as I did my best to scrub down my arms and neck.

To pass the time, I watched Dag idly pull at the frayed strands of fabric at the hem of his khaki cutoffs. I turned my own attention to the unbecoming dark spot at the crotch of my grey Adidas pants. That was nice. People probably were thinking I went on a bender, peed myself, and this nice Nordic family had taken pity on me.

A conservative looking group joined us quite suddenly. An older man in a pressed black suit led them while a woman in a gray skirt and white blouse followed him. They themselves were tailed by a large group of children of various ages. Many of whom noticed the smell and looked at me with according distaste.

Minutes later, a woman entered. If I were straight, she would have been the pinnacle of feminine possibility. She was tall and dark skinned with long black hair past her shoulders. Her tight white pants clung to her legs and the blue sparkly halter top did a nice job of accentuating her breasts.

Dag nudged me with his elbow and pointed to her. Then he realized that I likely wouldn't share in the same sort of appreciation.

Our three separate groups were the families of the medal winners. When the gold medalist walked through the curtain, the woman in the blouse leapt on him joyously. The young children gathered around him and seemed to want only to touch him and share in the victory. Through it all, he was modest.

The stunning woman soon smiled radiantly as the bronze medalist from Portugal emerged. They embraced and kissed with free affection and love. I turned my head and grimaced inwardly, never one to enjoy public displays of heterosexual affection. Dag, however, looked on with smouldering envy.

Seconds later, Kaj slipped through the crowd. We proceeded with the requisite hugging and kissing, Marek scolding Kaj for not smiling nice enough. Gradually, the large family left the tent in a cluster of joy and celebration and the Portugese couple left - in a fashion that suggested arousal.

"Family," Kaj said in a dignified tone, "This is Udo."

He indicated the taciturn man standing to his right.

"Udo is my official doping control agent," He continued, reciting the IOC statement, "He'll be accompanying me in a non-obstrusive fashion until I can produce a satisfactory specimen for record authentification procedures."

Kaj stopped and Udo smiled, familiar with being in such a conspicuous position.

Marek spoke up, "Kaj, you drink something. We need to watch the practices."

In a flash, he ushered Dag out the door of the tent. Just like that. For Dag's sake, I hoped that he'd at least satisfy his father and earn a few months worth of peace.

Sonia hugged Kaj and kissed him on the cheek, "I'll go make sure they don't overdo it, you know," She paused and held Kaj's face in her hands, "I'm proud of you. You did good."

Kaj flashed the winning smile again.

Sonia turned walked towards the door before turning around, "Kaj, you behave."

"I will."

She still looked at him.

"Okay, I will." Kaj said in a more genuine tone.

After Sonia had left, Kaj looked at me. It was a soft look. I knew that what had happened before the medal ceremony was hanging in the air - with my stench of stale beer.

"Are we okay?" He asked gently.

"If you forgive me."

Not saying anything, he stepped forward and hugged me tightly. After a moment, I returned the hug and sighed. Kaj knew I was sorry. I knew I was sorry. We both knew that stress and fatigue did things like that.

"Reid?"

"Hmm?" I murmured, still enjoying the feeling of his body.

"Why do you smell like beer?"

• To be continued... ? -