On Christmas, Grant doesn’t go home to DC. He lies in bed, staring out the window as the sun streams in. It’s warm enough that he doesn’t need to turn the rumbly old heater on. Micke’s in the kitchen, skyping his family back home. Grant doesn’t have enough Swedish to follow the thread of the conversation, but they sound happy—laughing and telling jokes.
He turns over in bed and concentrates on the sound of his own breathing, trying not to think about the way his dad told him not to come home and his mother didn’t even protest.
The door opens and Micke pads across the room, pulling the covers back. The mattress dips under his weight, but Grant doesn’t acknowledge his presence. If he does, he’ll have to explain why he’s hiding in bed, rather than giving Micke the presents he painstakingly picked out for him. As it is now, he can pretend he’s just about to nod off for a nap, and it’s the April sun that streams in the window, not the harsh light of winter.
Micke slides in behind him, fingering the bare skin at Grant’s hip where his t-shirt has ridden up. Grant keeps himself still, breath coming faster. He’s not going to cry. He would never forgive himself. But when Micke brushes a kiss across his neck it proves too much, hot tears pricking painfully at the corners of his eyes. He shakes, sobbing silently and Micke pull him in tighter, curling himself around Grant.
After an eternity, when the well of tears has finally run dry, Micke laces their hands together and says, “There are muffins. The mini ones from Fairway. Your favorite.”
Grant snorts and swipes at his swollen eyes. “I thought Fairway was closed today?”
Micke laughs. “I bought them days ago and hid them, because I know how you get. One look and they're gone.”
“Hey!” Grant protests, but finds he’s laughing almost despite himself.
“Come on! Up! Eat a muffin and open the ridiculously expensive gift I got you.”
Grant jabs at his belly and Micke makes a satisfying oof. He drags himself out of bed with a sigh. Maybe his mother will call, maybe she won’t. He’s already heard from his brother. It’s not the Christmas he would’ve asked for, but it’s the one he got.
“You didn’t get me a sex swing like you were threatening to, did you?”
“Guess you’ll have to open the box and find out,” Micke tells him, bringing his arms up behind his head, lounging in studied relaxation that does nothing to hide his triumph.
I know was supposed to mail these. According to the word document I wrote this on December 17th. I wish I had gotten my ass in gear, but in the mean time, I hope you enjoy it.