floating in a tin can

jewsinspace
spaceodyssey

It's Christmas, 3 PM. Michael's up early.

Normally he doesn’t spend any time in bed once he’s awake, but he feels cozy and calm like he’s had a good dream for once, and there are a couple texts waiting on his phone from Wolfgang. That’s a good present. He peruses them lazily under the covers and writes back with a bearable level of shyness, trying for the billionth time not to think about kissing and touching. He’s been distracted at work all week. Stan is starting to ask questions about his ‘cell-phone girlfriend.’

There’s only so long Michael can feel peaceful as he is, though, because his dad is blasting the TV in the other room. It’s hard to fight past the reflex to call to him through the door, Turn it down, Pop, come on!—but he regrets now all the other times he fought with Morris about the volume, in the months and years before he knew his own ears were the problem. So he says nothing, opting instead to cut his own comfort short and head outside. Being free on Christmas in New York City isn’t something everyone gets to experience, and this year he’s freer than usual.

The texts from Wolfgang said that the shop is going to remain open today in case anyone has ‘holiday emergencies,’ and they're going to work the normal sort of hours, no arbitrary breaks. Michael had replied saying that was fine and he understood, but he’s learning how Wolfgang is—if you leave them alone, they’ll get so absorbed in whatever they’re doing that they won’t eat or drink or breathe until something interrupts them and reminds them they’re alive. God knows what they’ve been doing all day, because there can’t be that many mutants rushing in and out of there. They probably haven’t had lunch yet, so Michael decides to surprise them with some.

A lot of places he checks are closed, but it’s not as much of a pain in the ass to look around as it used to be—staying in the dark and feeling out the city is a lot faster than making a bunch of annoying calls. Eventually he finds one of the good burrito joints has kept its doors open, and rewards them with some business and a few compliments (“Nothing even smells weird in here!”) before heading over to the District.

The shop is the easiest place to travel to now, even simpler than Madison Avenue. The minute he steps through to the in-between, he wants to reach for it, look for it—and much of the time he does, just a brief check to make sure Wolfgang is okay. It’s almost harder not to. He only looks in the front of the shop, because looking in the back would feel wrong, but the front is where they are most of the time anyway. Sometimes he steps over so quickly he doesn’t really watch what’s happening on the other side before he gets there.

That’s what happens now.