fawn

But that was a week ago.

It started with a grip.

“Damn it, kid, what is your problem lately?”

Dallas had had enough.

He dragged Johnny to the alley behind Buck’s, fists clenched at his sides. His cigarette burned down to the filter, and his temper was running hotter than a July furnace. The streetlight above them buzzed and flickered, casting their shadows sharp against the alley.

“You got somethin’ to say, Dally?” Johnny’s voice was quiet, tight.

“I got a helluva lot to say,” Dally snapped. “You’ve been actin’ like a damn ghost for a week now. Jumpin’ at every sound. Pacin’ like a dog in a cage. You don’t eat, you don’t talk, and you won’t stop babysitting her like she’s gonna fall off the Earth if you blink.”

Johnny flinched.

Dally kept going. “I seen you, Johnnycake. Followin’ her around like a fuckin’ puppy dog, man. That what you are now, man? Her fuckin’ puppy dog? What ain’t you tellin’ me?”

Johnny looked away.

Dally stepped closer, jabbing a finger into his chest.

“I know somethin’ happened, and you ain’t telling me shit about it, man. I know damn well some nasty shit happened that day you dragged her back to the Curtis’ at four fuckin’ am in the goddamn morning” His New York accent was thick now, dragging and slurring the words under the citric hate of being left out on something important by his best friend. “And you—you look like you’re waitin’ for somethin’ bad to happen t’her. Like you know somethin’ we don’t. Somethin’ I don’t”

Silence.

Then, like a thread snapping:

“She tried to kill herself.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t angry.

It was just true.

Dallas stopped breathing.

“…What?” he said, blinking.

Johnny’s eyes were glassy. “That night she was gone. The day she hugged us all. The way she smiled at me like it was the last time—because she thought it was. She left that night and tried to—” He swallowed. “She didn’t think anybody would care.”

Dally’s jaw locked. “Bullshit.” It came out as bitter, empty cracked laugh.

“I found out when I looked into my pocket.” Johnny’s voice cracked, but he kept going, like it hurt too much to stop. “There was a letter, Dal, she had written it. It was a goodbye— she was out by the tracks waiting for that fucking stupid nocturnal train that passes once a week.”

“I ran. And I ran and ran and ran and ran and ran until I reached the fucking tracks and- when I saw her, laying there over the fucking rails— she smiled at me like nothin’ happened, like she hadn’t just tried to disappear. And I—I looked in her eyes and I knew. I asked her and she didn’t even deny it.”

Dallas was silent. The street buzzed. A dog barked in the distance.

“She said she didn’t want me to stop her,” Johnny went on, voice rising. “She said if I knew, I would’ve talked her out of it—and she didn’t want that. So she didn’t say goodbye. Not really. Just… hugged me and left.”

His hands were shaking now.

“I thought—” His voice broke, sharp and raw. “I thought I’d find her dead. And it wouldn't be damn pretty.”

“…Jesus Christ,” Dally muttered.

“You don’t get it,” Johnny said, his tone snapping from sadness to fury. “You weren’t there when she told me. You didn’t hear her say it like it wasn’t a big deal. Like she hadn’t just broken me in half. You don’t know what it’s like to watch the only good thing in your life tell you they didn’t wanna live no more.”

Dallas said nothing.

“I had to act normal,” Johnny went on, practically shaking now. “Because she’s back, and she’s trying. But I see it. I see how tired she still is. I see the way she spaces out. I know the signs now. So yeah, I follow her around. Yeah, I make sure she eats. I make her laugh. I stay up all night thinkin’ if I don’t, I’ll wake up and she’ll be gone for real this time.”

He looked up, wild-eyed. “You got a fuckin’ problem with that, Dallas?”

Dallas stared at him.

And then, in the quietest voice Johnny had ever heard him use:

“…No.”

The fight drained out of Johnny like a punctured tire. His back slid down the wall. He sat on the concrete, hugging his knees, jaw clenched, eyes glossy.

“I love her, Dal,” he whispered. “I don’t mean like in a mushy way. I mean like… she’s part of me. I’d trade everything if it meant she stayed here. Breathing.”

Dallas crouched in front of him. His face was unreadable. Then, after a long, tense silence:

“She tell anyone else?”

Johnny shook his head.

“You want me to keep my mouth shut?”

Another nod.

Dally lit a fresh cigarette. His hands were shaking a little. He didn’t say anything for a long time.

But then, with a voice that cracked despite his usual toughness:

“Thanks for tellin’ me.”

Johnny’s eyes widened.

Dallas didn’t look at him when he said it. He stared out at the road like it owed him money. “I get it now. Why you been actin’ like a damn dog with its tail cut off. I just thought—I dunno. Thought you were bein’ dramatic.. that she’d been jumped like Pone, at worst.”

Johnny gave a tired, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Everyone did.”

Dallas finally looked at him. There was something new in his eyes. Something real. Unspoken. Old as war.

“You think she’d talk to me?” Dally asked.

Johnny blinked. “You… wanna talk to her?”

“Not about the—y’know... Just about stuff. I dunno, man.” Dally scratched his neck. “She always made me feel less like a piece of shit. Be good to see her smile again.”

Johnny swallowed.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I think she’d like that.”

Dallas stood and offered him a hand. Johnny took it, pulling himself up. And then, with no fanfare, Dallas pulled him into a brief, one-armed hug — the kind that said more than words ever could.

“You did good, Johnnycake,” he murmured. “You kept her here.”

Johnny held onto that like gospel.

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When he sees a thick white coating over the earth, time becomes irrelevant. It doesn't matter that bending down to scoop snow doesn't sit well with his knees anymore, or that you don't giggle the same way. You won't beg to go outside and shake with excitement while he adds layer after layer of warm clothing on you. He's learning make peace with that.

He knocks twice before he goes into your room, with a soft verbal warning. Your room is filled with a hue as blue as your mood. It's so sickeningly quiet that Spencer gets self conscious of his breathing. Contrary to how it seems, you're awake. If Spencer squints, he can see you blink.

"Hey, honey." There's a sweetness in his voice that's enough to make your heart feel like yours for a moment. A timeless sound.

He pulls the covers further away from your head. Not that it changes anything, you still don't move beyond necessity.

"There's nearly nine inches of snow outside," he says, sitting down by your side. "I was hoping maybe we could go build a snowman? Or just take a walk if you don't feel up for that."

No answer from you doesn't mean no. It also doesn't mean yes.

"We can start a fire after, drink something warm, maybe order food." The breath he inhales is held longer than usual, his cardigan's folds straighten out and revert when he finally lets it go. "I think it would be good for us to get some fresh air."

He sits there in the silence with you, accepting.

The dark coldness around you is so prominent it might as well be sentient. It's reached every corner of your room, consuming you in the process. It hasn't reached him yet. The very home-like warmth he's infused with doesn't cease. The darkness tries to get him, pours all of its energy into it. He doesn't lift a finger but you see it fall back in defeat. He's come too far in his life to let the darkness win now.

Spencer stands up. First, he opens a slit of your curtain so your eyes can wake up. Next, he walks over to your wardrobe, knowing exactly what he wants: The warmest jacket you have, a scarf that has seen better days, your most comfortable pants, and warm socks. All of it is set down on your bed.

Your dad catches you curiously watching him before you pretend not to.

"Where are your boots?" he asks, not expecting an answer, just wanting you to feel acknowledged.

"By the front door."

It takes him a second to absorb your words, pleasantly stumped by the sound of his favorite voice.

He nods with a pout. "Okay, I will go grab them. Be right back."

He fights to not smile too much when he returns and finds you sitting up, subtly stretching out your muscles. He loses. Even after pulling his lips into a line, their edges give him away. He feigns a cough to pull himself together.

"I'll leave you to get ready. Just shout if you need me." He taps his hands against his knees and strides to his own room.

Time has changed many things, but not his go-to jacket. Green corduroy with brown shoulders — his companion for over two decades of winters and this year is no different. Not the best one to protect him against the cold per se, he's going to wear it regardless.

A scarf and gloves — which he pockets until he has to touch snow — is his limit of protection. Hats aren't worth the irritation or messy hair to him, and he no longer has to model the utmost good behavior when it comes to dressing warmly.

In his peripheral vision, he spots you in his doorway. Only then does he realize how long it's been since the last time you were there. You hesitate to step farther inside, like you haven't spent countless hours in his room.

"Is it okay if we just walk?" you ask, guilt wallowing in your mouth. You feel like a thief, taking away traditions and habits that high-light his year.

"Yeah, of course it is," he says softly, adjusting his scarf. He's never felt robbed by you.

As soon as he takes a step closer to you, you flee to wait by the front door.

He catches up to you, grabbing his keys on the way out. You go down the stairs of the apartment building as fast as you can so Spencer won't be forced to go slowly.

The cold outside overwhelms you for only second before it becomes your comfort. Your teeth might begin to clatter soon but your brain can't reach the same level of overwhelm anymore.

Snow falls by your eyes, you get lost in every flake of it. It surrounds you — you let it.

While you take it in, Spencer slips on his gloves and starts walking, making sure you follow.

Walking next to him is such an instinctual process it needs no active thought.

Snow crunching as you walk never allows for complete silence. Your dad doesn't talk, he just watches you. The tip of his nose is already turning pink, he sniffles intermittently. He'll walk until you express exhaustion.

You don't realize you're reaching for his hand until his thumb is stroking the back of yours and the world gets warmer. You don't know where he's leading you, you follow him anyway.

An open field, strangely untouched, catches your attention. He doesn't specifically direct you there, there's no way of knowing if it was intentional for you to pass by it.

Spread over the grass are piles of snow that you can't deny would look really good shaped into spheres. Quiet, lonely, isolated. Like looking in a mirror.

"It's not too late to change your mind," Spencer notes, hoping he sounds persuasive rather than pressuring, he's unsure if he got it right.

"We didn't bring anything to make one with," you say, looking for an excuse for a reason you don't understand.

"We can improvise."

Spencer slowly moves closer to the field, his pace increasing until he's jogging lightly.

You lose sight of him in favor of the pale sky. Clouds block the blue, parts you can see are on the brink of being gray.

Bending down to collect snow, Spencer molds it into a ball. He checks the snow for rocks or otherwise harmful debris to the best of his ability before he throws it at you.

Imperfect aim and fear of hurting you means you barely feel its impact, physically. But it's a silly reminder that you're not as fragile to him as you tend to worry you've gotten.

He stands in wait for you to make your own snowball. You throw it with a little more force. It makes him stumble by a step or two. He hardly notices over the sound you let out — a laugh void of restriction. A sound he wants to hear it on repeat until his ear drums burst.

"If I compile our snow, will you get us six worthy rocks?" he asks after having enough air back to talk.

"What are worthy rocks?" You frown at him.

"The ones you like."

He starts rolling snow into three parts, talking the whole way through, only pausing to catch his breath. You pick out rocks as he asked. The darkest ones are for the snowman's chest. The roundest for eyes. And a smaller one to serve as a nose.

"Hey, did you hear that the record for the largest snowperson ever built was broken a few years ago for the first time since 2008? The old one was 122 feet and one inch tall and it was built by a group of residents in Bethel, Maine. The new one is located in Austria, standing at just under 126 feet." He lets out a longer puff of air after having the snowman's head complete.

"We could build a taller one."

Spencer chuckles. "Maybe next year."

You put your rocks down where you won't lose them, then you help to stack the snowman's body. Years of practice have made Spencer overly skillful at structuring them.

You recollect your rocks and get down to press some into the snowman's abdomen.

"Why don't we each pick out a stick for their arms?" Spencer dusts off snow from his gloves. He's starting to sniffle more frequently.

"Sounds like a plan." You secure the last rock, snow residue staying on your glove.

The sticks you two pick out are different shades of brown, different lengths.

"These are perfect," Spencer declares as he sticks them into the snowman's sides.

"He doesn't have a mouth," you point out, squinting your eyes because of the wind.

Spencer leans down and, removing one of his gloves, draws a line under the snowman's nose with his finger. The ends of the line don't curve up or down, it remains straight from beginning to end.

"Isn't he kinda sad looking?"

Pursing his lips, Spencer puts his glove back on. "I wouldn't say he's sad, he's, uh… neutral. Maybe he's a little lonely, there are no other snow people around."

You look at the figure from top to bottom. It doesn't have a hat, or colorful scarf like most did a couple years ago. There's no carrot for a nose.

But you built it, with Spencer, and it hasn't crumbled or fallen into pieces. It stays in place.

"Making him wasn't that hard." You glance up at your dad.

"No, it wasn't." Spencer's teeth peek out behind his lips. His smile retracts right after it forms, unsure of itself.

"If we make one more, can we go home right after and drink a shit ton of hot chocolate?"

A little cloud of air forms when he exhales with a hint of laughter. "I thought you'd never ask."