#captainbieksa

Fascinatingly, Carey’s moodiness has nothing to do with his general mood. PK used to drive himself crazy trying to figure things out, because things would seem perfectly fine but Carey would be in a fussy, picky mood, and PK couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong; once he figured out the moods were caused by tiny things and not the day in general, he was golden, certified in Carey care, and well on his way to being the best at dealing with Carey’s moods.

Like, today. They won gold, at the Olympics, these have been some of the best days of PK’s life.

(Not the best though. A year and a half ago, they had a real slaughter of a game, and a couple days after it, PK was standing in Carey’s driveway, brushing snow off his windshield, Carey quietly watching him.

“You sure you won’t miss me?” PK had teased, since he was going home but Carey had followed him to his car, like he might get lost between the front door and the driveway. Carey shrugged a little.

“Probably,” he’d said vaguely; PK had decided ages ago to always take these things as the best version they could be. “Sometimes, I don’t think I could ever be as good as I would consider good enough,” Carey said, and it took a lot of willpower not to whip around and stare at him. “But when you’re around, I can - forget I fucked up entirely. I obsess about it for weeks and then you show up and it’s - gone.”

“That doesn’t sound like a bad thing,” PK says, finally lets himself glance over. Carey’s staring determinedly at the snow.

“I’m glad you’re my best friend,” Carey said, which - fuck, PK didn’t know that. He knew it on his side, Carey’s been his Official Best Friend since day three, when he finally smiled at PK like he was startled into it, but - hearing it from Carey is a big deal.

“Me too,” PK says, opens the car door and tosses the snowscraper into the backseat. “Forget this, I’m gonna stay over. Wanna order dinner?” he tows Carey back towards the house, because this was a big deal, but it was also Carey’s way of admitting he didn’t want PK to leave him alone with his worrying and self-disappointment.

It was a big deal; PK was already an expert Carey Wrangler though, so he didn’t let it seem like a big deal, because that would freak Carey out, but. It was a big deal).

So this week. This week is also good, is great, and Carey’s immensely moody. PK knows now - it’s not because he’s unhappy about today, it’s because he’s tired and is irritated by how slow airports run. He’s in a good mood, but it’s fringed by a bad one; PK tried to explain it to a teammate once, who blinked at him in confusion. Whatever; PK will be the lone Carey Wrangler of the team. He kind of prefers it that way, and feels like multiple wranglers would make Carey unhappy instead of better off.

Just to test Carey’s mood, he gets himself a mocha from the Starbucks while they wait at the airport; Carey follows him through the line, watches him put sugar in it. “Want a sip?” PK asks, and Carey makes a face at him.

“I hate mochas,” he snarks, and PK hides a grin. Carey doesn’t hate them; he mildly dislikes them, maybe, but if he’s in a good mood, he wants the last sip.

The fact that they have some standing around outside to do doesn’t help; Carey’s blinking sleepily, pulls his hood up and gives PK helpless looks like he thinks if he pouts enough, PK will convince the pilot to leave right now.

“You’re gonna sleep on the plane, huh?” PK says, and Carey wrinkles up his nose, gives a growling little sound in response, so that’s a yes. They have to wait a little more, and PK subtly scoots closer to Carey, rubs a hand over his lower back gently, because Carey’s clearly cold and tired and deeply frustrated by all the waiting; things get to him, and he curves towards PK, gives a frustrated little sigh.

“I just wanna sleep,” he mumbles, and PK gives a sympathetic little sound.

“I know, I know.”

When they finally get to board the plane, Carey picks out the row and then stands there, gives PK a look. “Want the window seat?” PK offers, doesn’t even have to look at Carey for more than a second to know that’s what he wants. “Impeccable taste in jackets, by the way,” PK says, as Carey slides into the row, crams a pillow against the wall and closes his eyes.

“Shut up.”

“I’m just saying, you’ve got great taste, just like me!”

Carey curls further towards the wall, gives a huffy little sound and buries his face against the pillow. “You look good in it,” he says into the pillow, and PK grins; this is always how Carey gives compliments, he precedes it by something standoffish, looks away, and blurts it out. He once mentioned to PK that he’s not great at social things - as if PK didn’t know that, but he felt special, that Carey would talk to him about it, even if just a sentence - and he’s also not great at interpersonal things, too nervous. PK’s come to recognise all of his little coping things he uses, can tell when Carey’s teasing and when he’s trying to be as normal as he can.

“So do you,” PK says, sits next to him and tugs the pillow away from Carey so he can prop it against his shoulder instead. Carey switches sides; his cheeks are pink, and PK hides a smile. “Tired, huh?” he asks gently, as if he doesn’t know, as well as know the particular kind of tired. Carey’s angry-frustrated-sleepy, where he’s overtired and shaking apart from it. Sometimes, PK thinks he’s got such control and focus in hockey because he siphons it out from every other area of his life, and it leaves him a little less than functioning everywhere else.

PK doesn’t point it out; he just scoots a little closer, pats Carey’s knee gently, and Carey takes it as an invitation to turn towards PK, cling to his arm a little, and finally relax.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Carey says into PK’s shoulder, and this - this is what’s inching them closer to something more than friends, PK’s sure of it. He always thought it’d come from - himself, really, but these last six months, Carey will say things PK knows he wouldn’t say to just a friend, from the words and the shyness and the soft tone. He told himself to be patient; surprisingly, Carey’s moving them along at a pace that PK really likes - gradual-thoughtful slow and sure, decisive speed, gradual shifts that feel so natural, they almost feel inevitable.