Work Text:
Another winter, another December. The days were short.
Sebastian and Kimi came to visit. They had brought coffee and bread.
Sebastian talked more than usual. Kimi talked less than usual.
Mika smiled when he was supposed to. He said he was fine.
Sebastian looked at him. He did not look away. The look made Mika think of another German driver he had known a long time ago.
Kimi went into the bedroom to change sheets. When he came back, he did not say anything.
Mika knew he had seen the bottles under the bed.
Kimi poured himself coffee. He poured one for Mika too.
Mika did not sleep well. He did not eat much. The nights felt long.
After Christmas it became worse. He drank in the evenings. Sometimes he drank in the afternoons.
The bottle stayed on the table. He did not move it away.
One night he drank too much. The room felt too large. The edges of things were soft.
Then a voice did not come from anywhere he could see. It did not feel like it was in the room.
If you could go back, where would you go?
Mika did not answer at once.
He knew.
There was a moment when he did not feel anything.
Then there was cold.
Mika found himself standing outside a house.
Snow lay thick on the roof. The trees were heavy with it.
He wore only a sweater. The cold went straight through it.
Mika looked at the door. He had seen this door before.
He knocked. Then he knocked again.
The sound was flat in the cold air.
For a moment nothing happened.
Then he heard footsteps.
The door opened. Michael stood there.
He wore jeans and a dark sweater. His hair was still damp.
He looked at Mika. His hand stayed on the door handle. He did not speak.
Mika did not speak either.
They stood like that.
“You look cold,” Michael said finally.
Mika nodded.
Michael stepped aside.
“Come in.”
Michael closed the door. He did not ask any questions.
He took Mika’s hand. Mika let him. They walked to the kitchen.
The house was simple.
Wood.
Stone.
No photographs on the walls. No signs of anyone else living there.
The light was low. The room was warm.
Michael pulled out a chair.
“Sit,” he said.
Mika sat.
Michael filled the kettle and set it on the stove. He looked at Mika then.
Mika saw it in his eyes.
Michael had noticed the lines on his face. He had noticed the way Mika did not quite focus. Michael did not comment on either.
The kettle began to make a thin sound.
Michael poured the water. He set a cup in front of Mika.
“Drink,” he said.
Mika wrapped both hands around the cup. The heat went into his fingers. Mika drank.
The tea was plain, and hot. He drank again.
Mika looked toward the doorway. A calendar hung on the wall. Mika did not need to turn his head fully.
He saw the year.
He saw the month.
He saw the numbers.
He looked back at the cup.
Michael watched him.
“What’s wrong?” Michael said.
Mika did not answer.
Michael lifted one hand and moved it, as if trying to shape something in the air. “You look…” He stopped.
“Not well. Did something happen?”
Mika looked at his hands. His fingers tightened on the cup.
“Don’t go skiing,” Mika said.
Michael blinked. “What?”
Mika did not look up. “This winter, don’t go skiing” he repeated.
Michael leaned back a little.
“You know I come here every winter,” Michael said. His voice was even. “You know I ski.”
Mika could have said many things.
He could have said there would be an accident.
He could have said Michael would not come back.
He could have said there would be winters after this where nothing felt right.
He thought of a drunk voice once. Saying that even if you go back, you cannot change what has already happened.
Mika looked up. “Please,” he begged.
Michael did not answer at once.
He watched Mika.
Mika’s brow was drawn tight. His face had gone pale.
Both of Mika’s hands were around the cup. He held it as if he needed to.
Michael’s eyes went to Mika’s throat. The old scar was still there.
The kettle clicked softly as it cooled.
Michael looked at the cup. Then he looked back at Mika.
He did not ask anything else. He nodded once.
“Okay,” Michael said.
Mika's hands started shaking. The tea spilled a little.
Michael reached across the table. He steadied the cup. The tea went cold.
Michael stood up. He walked to the door at the back of the house.
Mika watched him.
Michael came back carrying the skis. He leaned them against the wall in the storage room. He closed the door.
Mika watched him do it.
Michael went back to the counter.
He took bread from the cupboard. He set out a pan. He began to cook.
Mika watched his hands.
He had watched them for many years. On the track. Off the track.
Michael cut the bread. He put the larger piece in front of Mika.
They ate.
After the meal they sat in front of the fire. The room was quiet.
Michael put an arm around Mika. Mika did not move away.
Mika could not remember the last time they had sat like this. He could not remember what the last argument had been about.
It did not seem important now.
The heat was steady. Mika closed his eyes. He slept.
Mika woke up on a sofa.
The room was dark. There was no fire. He was alone.
He lay on his side. He drew his knees up. He began to cry.
He did not try to stop.
After a while he felt a hand on his shoulder.
He thought it was Sebastian or Kimi coming back.
He wiped his face with his sleeve.
“I’m fine,” Mika mumbled. Then he looked up.
Michael stood there. He held a blanket.
Mika did not speak. Michael did not speak.
They looked at each other.
Outside, it was winter.
Somewhere, it was December.
The skis stayed in the storage room. Michael's hands were warm.