At least Pete knew he could sleep in a little later tomorrow morning. Their flight to Ottawa wasn't until midday, and their roadies had pre-arranged a late hotel checkout. They needed to be on the road to the airport by 10am. He ignored the text message from Ace, it could wait until tomorrow morning.
He watched, in the darkness, as Carlos climbed back into his own single bed. He felt tired. He closed his eyes, and it could've been hours, minutes or even seconds before he fell asleep. He wasn't sure.
He didn't dream. Or, if he did, he had no memory. His slumber was pure blackout.
Morning arrived. His alarm sounded and he threw the covers back. He woke, feeling a little disoriented, but the room was warm. He yawned, still feeling tired, wishing he could sleep for another day. He glanced across at Carlos. His roommate was already awake, propped up on pillows, checking socials on his phone. "Hola," Carlos said cheerfully. He was painting his fingernails black. "¿Cómo estás?"
Pete rubbed his eyes, sitting up in bed. Carlos was gorgeous, even when he'd just woken up. "Where are we?"
Carlos looked across at his drummer with mock disdain. "The north pole." He gestured to the window. He'd already pulled back the curtain. It was snowing outside. He got up and tiptoed to the kitchen area of their hotel room.
Slowly, Pete remembered that his band was on tour in Canada, and that they were scheduled to fly to Ottawa this afternoon. And then he remembered what happened last night.
He remembered having sex with Carlos, the lead singer of his band, a man he'd lusted after since like fucking forever. He remembered Carlos suggesting that he invite Ace, his boyfriend, up to Canada. And he remembered, just as he was about to drift off to sleep, his phone pinging with a message from Ace, saying he'd love to come up to Canada and hang with him on tour.
He covered his eyes with his hands.
Fuck.
A still-naked Carlos handed Pete a steaming hot mug of the best instant coffee a shitty hotel could provide. He remembered Pete liked milk in his coffee, so he squeezed a few precious droplets of toxic long-life milk (the only product stocked in their crappy hotel fridge) into the cup.
Pete smiled. "Thanks, dude," he said, accepting the mug. He took a healthy sip before placing the receptacle on his bedside table, throwing back the covers, and getting dressed. Today was a travel day, but not a gig day, which meant Ass To Mouth had the night off. If nothing else, he'd have some time to think after they landed in Ottawa.
Carlos watched Pete slip his pants on and throw a tight black t-shirt over his shoulders. He watched as Pete returned to his bedside table to collect his coffee. He watched Pete tilt his head back as the warm liquid poured into his mouth, spilled onto his tongue, travelled past his tonsils and down into his stomach.
He watched Pete throw his shoulder-length Irish red hair back.
He felt completely smitten. He wanted to tackle him back onto his mattress and kiss him forever, but they had a plane to catch.
"They speak English in Ottawa, right?" asked Pete.
"Both, I think," Carlos replied. "English and French. But not Spanish. In any case, you're the one with the Canada guidebook, you should know this shit."
Pete continued brushing his hair, and Carlos willed his dick to behave itself as he watched Pete tie it back into a neat ponytail.
They checked out of the hotel without further incident, made their way to the airport, and A2M's entourage landed in Ottawa on time. Pete noticed that the rest of their party parted ways upon leaving the airport. Maybe the others were staying in a different place tonight?
Carlos escorted Pete through the front doors of their temporary home for the next two evenings. From the outside, the hotel looked like a castle. He checked them in and collected their room keys. They rode the elevator up to their room, and as they looked out of their window, they saw dozens upon dozens of Canadians skating on the frozen canal that lay next to the hotel. They could see a river not too far away.
"Today is a free day," Carlos reminded. "We can do whatever we want!"
Pete didn't respond. He still felt confused. This hotel room must've cost Carlos a small fortune, and they were checked in for two nights.
There were no single mattresses to be seen. The only bed in the room was king-size, situated squarely in the middle of the suite.
"Do you know how to skate?" asked Carlos.
Pete turned to face him. "Do the sewers of Atlanta ever freeze over? I know how to ride a skateboard, but I've never skated on ice in my life."
Carlos beamed. "Neither have I," he said, beckoning Pete over to the window. "Look at the canal. You wanna go down and try? Could be fun!"
Pete wasn't sure. "If I break my ankle, I won't be able to play drums tomorrow night," he warned. "You'll need to buy a drum machine."
Carlos laughed. He looked deep into Pete's eyes. He wanted to kiss him, but he restrained himself. "Fuck it, we only live once. Let's go ice-skating!"
Fifteen minutes later, they had pairs of rented ice-skates strapped to their feet, padding for their elbows and knees secured in position, helmets on their heads, and mittens keeping their fingers warm. They were ready to step out onto the frozen surface.
Carlos's skates stepped confidently onto the ice and he instantly fell over. "Fuck, it's slippery!" he exclaimed as he desperately tried to haul his ass back up.
Pete grinned as he ventured out onto the surface. "Like I said, I can ride a skateboard, so I should be OK at this ... oops ... wait ... oh no ... shit ... fuck ..."
Pete's feet slipped and gave way beneath him. His ass made serious contact with the ice. "Help me up, Carlos?" he pleaded.
Carlos crawled over and tried to assist, but they both struggled and fell.
Half of Ottawa skated past as they lay helplessly on the ice.
They rolled over to face each other, laying on the ice, their breath turning into vapour as they exhaled. Carlos gazed into Pete's eyes. "Te amo," he whispered.
It felt like there was nobody else around.
Pete knew what Carlos had said, but he couldn't find a way to respond.
Somehow, they regained their slippery feet and grasped a handrail, holding on for dear life. A vendor skated confidently by, selling warm mulled wine from a small portable keg, and they each purchased a cup. They stood on their skates for a few moments, talking crap while they drank their warm wine with one hand, desperately holding onto the rail with the other. The vendor skated back around, and they bought another cup each. It was delicious. Their breath vapourised in the air as the alcohol went to their heads.
"Help me skate, skaterboi," said Carlos.
Pete did his best, but they were both flat on their asses again within seconds. Their wine splashed everywhere.
Their helmets collided seconds before their faces did.
