Title: Almost Heaven
Author: Bernie
Rating R
Disclaimer: This is fake
Pairing Carlo Colaiacovo /
Mikael Tellqvist
* *** * ***
* ***
It's been a very long time
since Carlo woke up in a proper bed that wasn't his.
By proper bed, he means a house bed. A home bed, as
opposed to all those fake beds that they have in hotels, and host houses, and
shared apartments, and more hotels.
A bed that has had a parents hands on it. A bed that
has probably had Star Wars sheets, or Maple Leafs pillowcases. That may have
had stickers on the headboard; a bed that creaks.
A proper bed that has sheets that aren't industrial
grade, and has pillows that are slightly soft and not stuffed full of plastic-y
stuff that makes an annoying noise when you are trying to sleep. The jarring
pattern the home beds comforters have, not in the bland selections of hues
hotels have, and not to starched, the fabric soft from being washed too many
times.
This place is rented, so chances are the covers came
with the house, and that this isn't any more a home than the hotel rooms are.
And it is not his home at all. But, it needs to be vacuumed, the room that is.
And there are cobwebs in the corner of the room, and dust on the bed side
table, and rings from glasses of water. And there is no way a hotel would allow
things like that.
The paint is peeling in a couple of places, the
windows - where the dirty snow of St John's can just be seen through the gap in
the curtains - are filthy. And the curtains themselves, they need to be
replaced, or at least have extra hooks added to keep them up properly. The
colour doesn't match the bedspread or the walls. And it is to light for a guy
to be living here, is it pink? Looks odd with the only decoration Micke's
clothes on the backs of chairs and a couple of Leafs time charts showing home
and away games, that are covered all over with notes about flights and streaks
and games he did and did not play.
If this is not a hotel, and this is not his bed, then
Carlo wants to concentrate on the colours, rather than on just what he is doing
here.
Had been doing here. Which is rather hard. Because the
sheets have clearly been on the bed for a couple of days, at least, and they
smell like Micke, not like laundry soap, and the pillows still have an indent
where Micke was sleeping, and the rest of the bed is still a little bit
held-over warm from someone else being in it.
And they smell a little bit like salt, and sweat and
little bit like Carlo's aftershave as well.
And it's the kind of warm,
and funky smelling that makes Carlo just want to, cuddle down under the sheets,
and tuck the blanket under his feet, and snooze the day away. There is no
training today, nothing to really do, it's not like he is missing his soaps or
something.
Except, this bed isn't his bed. And as much as he
needed this last night, right now, right now Carlo wishes he were in his bed.
If not his bed in Toronto then his bed in St John's. A long drive away from
here. A long way away from anywhere he has ever been before.
* ** *** * ** ***
In Micke's worldview, there is little that can't be
solved by hot coffee and lots of it. And the things that can't be cured by that
can be solved with hockey and food. Simplifying his life down to the basics has
always worked well for him. Means he doesnŐt expect anything and can't be upset
when anything doesn't work the way it is supposed to.
"Coffee." He announces to the quiet room and
the silent guy. "Tea for you." He holds up the cup, with it's rim yet
unrolled.
"Breakfast."
"Great thanks." Carlo says looking
resolutely down. It's plenty light through the gap in the curtains, but it is
gloomy enough that they can't quite see each other's expressions.
Proving his worldview, Micke takes a gulp of hot
coffee and ignores the uncomfortable silence that his words drop into.
It does not matter that crumbs are falling into the
light green sheets, or that they wipe their greasy fingers on the sides of the
bed. This isn't a showroom; it's just a house.
And Carlo sits carefully; his legs crossed leaning
back and gnawing the edge of the cup with his teeth.
"What did you win?" Micke finally asks a
little bit desperately to break the silence.
"Try again." Carlo says softly not checking
for his actual prize. "I guess I have to have more tea?"
And he couldn't be more obvious from tone and posture
that he is really saying 'do we go again?'
Micke doesnŐt bother reminding him that every cup is a
winner in this promotion. He leans forward and kisses Carlo softly. He takes
the half empty cup and puts it on the water rings on the bedside table, his
milky coffee breath mixing with Carlo's black tea breath, warm and not
matching. But, complimenting each other close enough, as much as the
pillowcases and sheets are both green and therefore good enough.
END
