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Every year Anton gets sad on the same day. It’s pretty noticeable, because Anton never lets himself get sad around other people — maybe he lets himself when he’s alone, but even Thomas doesn’t see it. When they lose hard games, or get knocked out of the playoffs, Anton gets angry instead of sad. When Thomas was sent back down to Hamilton after his first stretch with the Habs, he ranted, his face so red Thomas thought he’d blow a blood vessel or something. He just seems sad one day a year, a day when spring is supposed to be around the corner, but the city is colder than ever.
Thomas had asked Anton what was wrong the first time, a little tentative, because he wasn’t sure if Anton would snap at him, the way he sometimes did with the other guys. Anton didn’t, but he didn’t tell him either. It wasn’t until they were in Hartford last year for a game that fell a day after Anton was sad that Thomas found out. Anton was being uncharacteristically nice to his mom, which was both weird and good, and Tonya seemed to pick up on his unspoken question, because she’s a pretty canny lady. Anton’s occasional moments of reading Thomas better than anyone must have come from her. “The anniversary of my father’s death was yesterday,” she said when Anton was busy arguing with his dad about something in Russian. “They were each other’s favourite person, I think.” Her mouth tipped up a little.
So that was the mystery solved. Kind of a sad answer but — obviously it’s sad, it’s why Anton’s sad. Thomas’ dad’s father died when he was too little to remember, and his mom’s dad is still kicking. Figuratively and literally, because he played goalie when he was young, and Thomas thinks he learned email just so he could send Thomas long emails about his play and do a text based mutter about how in his day they didn’t even wear masks, let alone enough padding to look like the Michelin Man. “No one would ever guess how skinny you are,” he’d written, last email. “Your grandmother wants to know who’s feeding you because she says they’re not doing a good job.”
Which is just a really roundabout way of saying that Thomas knows that today Anton’s going to be sad. It’s not like he marked it in his calendar or anything, that’d be pretty morbid, but he remembered the day, and stocked up on all of Anton’s favourite cheat foods and the weird liqueur that he — and no one else ever in the world — seems to like. The bottle from their bar is mysteriously missing, and Thomas suspects Anton snatched it the last time he brought a girl home. Poor girl, she seemed nice. Thomas hopes Anton didn’t poison her with the stuff.
Thomas is prepared. They don’t have practice or a game today, which is a bit of small luck. He sets his alarm anyway, is out of bed early for him but late for Anton, though when Thomas peeks in his room he’s still in bed. Not asleep though. He grunts at Thomas when Thomas gently taps his knuckles against the open door.
“Want breakfast?” Thomas asks.
“No,” Anton says, muffled.
Thomas is making him breakfast anyway. He doesn’t have to eat it. He makes one of his omelettes, which look awful but generally taste pretty decent, bringing it up along with a couple pieces of toast and a glass of skim milk, which he thinks tastes like water, but Anton makes him buy it anyway. Anton hasn’t even moved a centimetre.
“Breakfast,” Thomas says.
“I said I didn’t want any,” Anton mumbles.
“You don’t have to eat it,” Thomas says, “but I put mushrooms in.”
Anton cracks one eye open. Thomas holds the plate out hopefully. Thomas doesn’t like mushrooms, so they tend not to make it to the plate if he’s cooking, but Anton does, and Thomas is fine having a bowl of cereal.
“Fine,” Anton says, without moving, and Thomas puts the plate and glass on his bedside table.
“Want to go for a run?” Thomas asks.
Anton’s looking suspicious, which is fair, because Thomas doesn’t think he’s ever actually volunteered, just given in when Anton starts bugging him about it.
“No,” Anton says.
Thomas is kind of relieved, but mostly not. “Kay,” he says, backing out of the room.
Two hours later Anton’s still not out of bed, and Thomas is kind of worried. He wasn’t like this other years, actually stood up and walked around, for one, but then, it’s never fallen on a day off, so he had to, Thomas guesses. He checks his phone for the time, decides to give him another hour, and watches an episode of Top Chef.
“Lunch?” he asks, peeking in Anton’s room at quarter past noon. The omelette’s been eaten at least, and Anton’s gone from a sprawl on his belly to half sitting up, leaning against his pillows with his knees tucked to his chest. Thomas is pretty sure that’s an improvement. It’s still weird though — Thomas likes lounging around on days off sometimes, but Anton never does, will harass him into coming out for lunch, or going shopping, anything but staying at home, especially in bed. He’s basically terminally antsy. Thomas thinks he’s seen him stay in bed past noon once. He had the flu, and he still tried to get up, he just got all woozy and had to give up. Anton literally does not stay in bed unless he has to, and he’s only okay with being lazy if he feels like he already accomplished something that day.
“Not hungry,” Anton says, not looking up from his phone.
“Kay,” Thomas says, feeling kind of like a broken record, and kind of like he’s being annoying, which he doesn’t want to be. He makes himself a sandwich, watches three more episodes of Top Chef, which make him feel bad about his sandwich, and then gets bored and gathers his ammunition, marching into Anton’s room.
“We’re having a sleepover,” Thomas says.
“It’s two in the afternoon,” Anton says.
“We’re getting started early,” Thomas says.
Anton gives him a look. “We live together,” he says. “We room together on the road.”
“Mhm,” Thomas agrees.
“We can’t have sleepovers,” Anton says. “Or like, we do have them. Constantly.”
“Not the same,” Thomas says. “That’s road trips. This is a sleepover.”
Anton continues to give him the look. “What makes it different?” he finally asks, sounding longsuffering.
“Well,” Thomas says. “I have movies. And Cheetos. And that disgusting stuff you drink because we’re day drinking. The lady at the SAQ looked like she felt sorry for me when I bought it. I hope she didn’t know who I was, or my rep would be destroyed.”
He’s rambling. He hopes Anton didn’t notice, but he probably did. He helpfully brandishes the Cheetos in one hand and the bottle in the other to support his point. The movies are basically just Netflix, so.
Anton snorts almost reluctantly. “Your rep?” he asks.
“As someone with taste,” Thomas says.
“Vinny, you’re wearing yoga pants,” Anton says.
Thomas looks down at his pants. There’s nothing wrong with them. He likes these pants. “They’re comfy,” he says.
“They’re lime green,” Anton says flatly.
“They’re my house pants,” Thomas argues. “I wouldn’t wear them out or anything. Also, that’s different. This is literally taste. I don’t think my tastebuds have recovered from this stuff.”
“All for me, then,” Anton says, reaching for the bottle, and Thomas hands it over happily, because that sounded like giving in.
“We’re sharing the Cheetos, though,” Thomas says. He goes to grab his own drink, a bottle of wine because he is classy, and a plastic cup because okay, he’s not classy. He crawls into bed beside Anton, putting the Cheetos between them.
“What do you want to watch?” Thomas asks.
Anton looks at him for a minute. “Who told you?” he finally asks.
Thomas doesn’t bother playing dumb, it’s just insulting to Anton. “Your mom,” he says.
Anton frowns darkly, the kind that Thomas sees a lot of. More angry than sad right now, then. Thomas doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or not.
“My mother, what, told you to baby me?” Anton says. “Because I suddenly can’t take care of myself?”
Thomas frowns. “No,” he says. “Your mom told me it’s the anniversary of when your grandpa died. Like a year ago.”
Anton’s not looking at him, jaw tight, rolling the bottle of liqueur in his hands.
“Look,” Thomas says. “If you want me to leave you alone you can just say so, but otherwise we’re going to drink and watch Reservoir Dogs because it’s your favourite, and then we’re having taquitos for dinner.”
“You hate Tarantino,” Anton mutters.
“I don’t hate him,” Thomas hedges.
“Last time you made me watch The Little Mermaid after in revenge,” Anton says.
“The Little Mermaid isn’t revenge,” Thomas says.
“You sang along,” Anton says.
Thomas will admit that maybe his singing voice isn’t the best. “Calling it revenge is mean,” he says.
Anton glowers at him for a moment, then cracks. “Okay, fucker,” he says. “Tarantino time.”
Thomas may not like Tarantino, but Anton loves his movies, and as distraction goes, they’re pretty effective. Thomas left his phone in his room to resist the urge to use it for entertainment, but after twenty minutes Anton gives him a look and then hands him his phone, Candy Crush open on the last level Thomas reached on it. Thomas doesn’t think Anton even plays.
By the end of the movie Thomas has made good progress in Candy Crush and in his bottle of wine. “Pulp Fiction?” Thomas asks.
“Nah,” Anton says. “You can pick.”
He’s still leaning against his pillows, but it looks more like a slouch than a slump, now. He’s made a bit of a dent in his own bottle. Not nearly as much as Thomas, but his drink’s like three times stronger, so Thomas would hope not.
Thomas resists the urge to put The Little Mermaid on (this time actually in revenge for hurtful comments about his singing voice), and lands on Wayne’s World as a nice compromise.
“You can’t sing along to Bohemian Rhapsody,” Anton says as soon as Thomas chooses it.
“Jerk,” Thomas mutters, and Anton laughs and slings an arm around Thomas’ shoulders, tugging him in for a quick hug. Even after he stops squeezing he leaves his arm there, fingers brushing the collar of Thomas’ shirt, and Thomas tucks himself in more comfortably so his head isn’t banging Anton’s chin.
“Thanks,” Anton says abruptly about a half hour in, the word vibrating through his chest.
“Anytime,” Thomas says through a yawn. “Except maybe the day drinking.”
“You’re such a lightweight,” Anton says. “Go sleep if you want to sleep.”
“Okay,” Thomas mumbles.
“In your bed,” Anton says after a minute.
“It’s a sleepover,” Thomas says. “I’m sleeping over.”
“Fine,” Anton says. “But I’m waking you up in an hour. You promised me taquitos.”
“Deal,” Thomas says, pressing his nose into the hollow of Anton’s throat, and naps his way through Bohemian Rhapsody, which is probably the only reason he doesn’t sing along.