Fresh Snow
Title: Fresh Snow
Pairing: Boyd Gordon / Brooks Laich (Brooks' POV)
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Merely a product of my delusion - very much not real.
A/N: x-posted to
shufflethelines for the "snowball fight" challenge
“Are you okay?”
I nodded, not looking up into the dark eyes I knew so well, not wanting to see the look that I knew would break my resolve.
So strong, so perfect…and so easily broken.
My fingers tightened around my fork as I poked and prodded at my food. I focused on moving a piece of lettuce from one side of the plate to the other. When the journey was complete my attention turned to the steak - it was teased relentlessly, punctured over and over with the steely tip of my fork. Anything to hold my attention.
“Brooksie…are you okay?” he asked again.
Stop asking. Stop asking, stop trying to get me to talk, stop prodding me. Again the sharp tines of my fork dug into the steak. Tiny holes appeared; tender juices streamed out. The steak was still whole, untouched by the knife, but wounded.
Boyd sighed. “Are we okay?”
“We’re fine,” I said abruptly. “I’m fine. Stop asking.”
I smashed my fork into the perfect mound of potatoes on my plate as if to punctuate my point, taking little satisfaction at how easily it crumbled beneath the pressure of my touch.
Easily broken. Everything. One little touch, one little motion…
“Look, it was just -”
“Don’t! Don’t say it was…god, Boyd, don’t say it was ‘just’ anything,” I snapped. “Don’t make it sound like it didn’t matter.”
“Okay, okay,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” He sighed again and reached for his water glass, his fingers moving into my sight line for just a moment.
I scanned my plate, the remnants of my meal staring back up at me. Nothing looked appealing anymore. Everything was damaged.
“Let’s just go,” I said, pushing the plate away and shifting my stare to the salt shaker. I knew he was staring at me but I still couldn’t look back. Everything was damaged.
Quietly Boyd paid the check and stood, waiting as I walked past him and out into the snow, a new wave of soft flakes coating the already ivory-colored streets. It looked so clean, so perfect…so fragile. Our footprints immediately ruined the perfect blanket of white, digging shallow shoe-shaped divots as we walked out of the restaurant. I paused for a moment while he buttoned his coat tighter around himself, watching as the fresh snow covered up where we’d been and made it pristine again.
“Ready?” he said.
Again I simply nodded and started walking. I’d never gone this long without making eye contact with him, but I focused on keeping my eyes glued to the ground and my footprints. I knew he was walking next to me, could feel his arm brushing against mine, could hear the crunch of the snow under our shoes.
It was a cool, crisp night. Quiet. Calm. Like the world had stopped…it seemed like it had. The second the words had left his mouth, just a few minutes ago. Or was it hours? I couldn’t remember anymore. Maybe it had been days.
“So you’re just not going to talk to me, is that it?” he asked.
“Not right now, no.” I picked up speed, walking too fast to see the snow covering up our footprints, to see it undo what we’d done. Everything was damaged.
“You still love me?”
I bit my lip but didn’t answer because I didn’t know how I felt anymore.
Except I did. I didn’t want to but I did.
“Brooksie…”
“Let’s not talk for a while, okay?” I murmured. “Please, I just need…to not talk.”
We walked a few more feet without speaking. “Wanna have a snowball fight?” he teased, breaking the silence.
“Boyd, no,” I said sharply, shaking my head and shoving my hands deep into my pockets.
He stopped walking. I kept going. I could hear the sound of just my footsteps continuing on down the street, the space next to me empty. I didn’t care, not right now. I just wanted to get home and get into bed, close my eyes and try to shut out the images in my mind that had been intensifying ever since Boyd told me.
I had gone a few feet when I felt something cold and hard explode against my shoulder. A snowball. Whipping around I glared at Boyd, who was standing there staring at me defiantly, his arms out to his sides.
“You want to just not talk, is that it?” he shouted. “You want to pretend that we don’t have to talk about this? Hope it goes away on it’s own?”
“What do you want from me?” I called back.
“I want you to deal with this. Deal with me, Brooks.”
“I’m fine,” I said. Everything’s damaged. Footprints in the snow…
“You’re not fine! We’re not fine and we won’t be until we talk.”
“I don’t want to talk!” I shouted, feeling the anger building up. “I don’t want to fucking talk about it, Boyd. What am I supposed to say? What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know! Tell me you hate me!”
“I don’t hate you,” I said sadly.
“Okay…okay, then…hit me.”
“Boyd, I’m not going to hit you.”
“Well, do…something! Fuck, Brooksie, yell, scream, kick me, do something!” he shouted, his voice more desperate than angry. “Something. Anything. Otherwise what the hell are we doing here?”
“We’re going home,” I replied softly.
“So that’s it, then. You won’t fight for this.” He knelt down and scooped up a handful of snow, standing up and rolling it into a ball as he closed the gap between us. When he was in front of me he pressed the cold sphere into my hand and looked at me sadly. “You won’t fight for us,” he said.
He brushed past me, his shoulder making contact with mine for just a split second. I watched him go, my eyes trailing down the back of him to his feet where I could see footprints walking away from me. Then I looked at the snowball in my hand and tightened my grip around it. It started to crumble. The perfect circle falling apart in my hand from just the slightest touch. I brought my other hand up and slowly started to mold it back into it’s original shape, squeezing it again to put it back together. Put everything back together.
I looked at Boyd, then back down at the snowball. The images in my head resumed; I reared back and hurled the snowball at him, nailing him in between his shoulders. It was his turn to whip around and stare, but he didn’t say anything, didn’t move.
Even in the faint light of the streetlamps and the reflected lights from the storefronts I could see his eyes, his penetrating, thoughtful stare on me. I imagined Boyd staring at him, imagined Boyd’s hands in his hair instead of mine, Boyd’s lips…
I bent over and grabbed another handful of snow, barely taking the time to form it before throwing it at him again. It exploded against his chest this time but still he didn’t move.
Someone else. It was just…but it was someone else.
Everything’s damaged.
My hands shaking, I reached down for more ammunition again and again, firing snowballs at him with increasing fervor as he stood there taking my abuse in quiet acceptance. Neither of us spoke. The only sound was my breath and the smack of the snow against Boyd’s chest and arms and shoulders.
Boyd’s lips touching someone else’s…his lips touching…
I squeezed my eyes shut and fired one final time, hearing a strangled grunt from Boyd as I connected with my target. Opening my eyes again I realized that I had hit him directly in the face. He silently wiped the snow from his eyes as I sank down into a snowdrift on the side of the road, my whole body trembling with anger and exhaustion. I could see the pictures in my mind finally starting to fade into blurred outlines of a former memory.
As I rested my forehead on my hands I heard the crunching of snow announcing Boyd’s approach, and a moment later he slid down onto the ground next to me. Again I felt the warmth and pressure of his arm against mine and again he was silent, letting my shaking body slowly relax next to him.
“Feel better?” he murmured finally. His hand slid up to the back of my head and I closed my eyes as he stroked my hair.
“I…I don’t know,” I replied. After a long pause I lifted my head and looked at him, unable to say anything else right then. Around us the snow continued to fall, dusting Boyd’s dark hair with white specks and covering up his footprints.
“I’m sorry, Brooksie. I’m so, so sorry.” He bit his lip, averting his eyes from my gaze and staring at his lap. “It was stupid. It was stupid and horrible and inexcusable.”
“Boyd…” He looked up again and I could see the angry red mark on his face where the snowball had connected. I reached up and touched it with just my fingertips, my hand still trembling slightly. “I’m sorry I hit your face, I didn’t mean to,” was all I could say.
“It’s okay, I don’t care,” he murmured, smiling softly under my touch. “It only stings for a minute and then…it gets better.”
I nodded and looked away, watching the snow fall, the flakes coming faster now. Our footprints were mere memories, faint impressions in the white canvas - blemishes but only for a minute.
“It gets better,” I whispered.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing,” I said, turning back to face him and getting to my feet. “Let’s go home.”
He stood up and brushed the snow off the back of his coat, looking at me carefully. “Are you sure, Brooksie?”
I looked down at my glove, bits of snow still clinging to it, then back at Boyd. The red mark was fading now. “Yeah, I’m sure,” I said, giving him a small smile.
“It’s starting to snow harder now,” he said, slipping his hand into mine as we started to walk home.
“It is,” I answered.
I didn’t have to look back. I knew the snow was slowly erasing any sign of damage. It gets better.
Pairing: Boyd Gordon / Brooks Laich (Brooks' POV)
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Merely a product of my delusion - very much not real.
A/N: x-posted to
shufflethelines for the "snowball fight" challenge
“Are you okay?”
I nodded, not looking up into the dark eyes I knew so well, not wanting to see the look that I knew would break my resolve.
So strong, so perfect…and so easily broken.
My fingers tightened around my fork as I poked and prodded at my food. I focused on moving a piece of lettuce from one side of the plate to the other. When the journey was complete my attention turned to the steak - it was teased relentlessly, punctured over and over with the steely tip of my fork. Anything to hold my attention.
“Brooksie…are you okay?” he asked again.
Stop asking. Stop asking, stop trying to get me to talk, stop prodding me. Again the sharp tines of my fork dug into the steak. Tiny holes appeared; tender juices streamed out. The steak was still whole, untouched by the knife, but wounded.
Boyd sighed. “Are we okay?”
“We’re fine,” I said abruptly. “I’m fine. Stop asking.”
I smashed my fork into the perfect mound of potatoes on my plate as if to punctuate my point, taking little satisfaction at how easily it crumbled beneath the pressure of my touch.
Easily broken. Everything. One little touch, one little motion…
“Look, it was just -”
“Don’t! Don’t say it was…god, Boyd, don’t say it was ‘just’ anything,” I snapped. “Don’t make it sound like it didn’t matter.”
“Okay, okay,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” He sighed again and reached for his water glass, his fingers moving into my sight line for just a moment.
I scanned my plate, the remnants of my meal staring back up at me. Nothing looked appealing anymore. Everything was damaged.
“Let’s just go,” I said, pushing the plate away and shifting my stare to the salt shaker. I knew he was staring at me but I still couldn’t look back. Everything was damaged.
Quietly Boyd paid the check and stood, waiting as I walked past him and out into the snow, a new wave of soft flakes coating the already ivory-colored streets. It looked so clean, so perfect…so fragile. Our footprints immediately ruined the perfect blanket of white, digging shallow shoe-shaped divots as we walked out of the restaurant. I paused for a moment while he buttoned his coat tighter around himself, watching as the fresh snow covered up where we’d been and made it pristine again.
“Ready?” he said.
Again I simply nodded and started walking. I’d never gone this long without making eye contact with him, but I focused on keeping my eyes glued to the ground and my footprints. I knew he was walking next to me, could feel his arm brushing against mine, could hear the crunch of the snow under our shoes.
It was a cool, crisp night. Quiet. Calm. Like the world had stopped…it seemed like it had. The second the words had left his mouth, just a few minutes ago. Or was it hours? I couldn’t remember anymore. Maybe it had been days.
“So you’re just not going to talk to me, is that it?” he asked.
“Not right now, no.” I picked up speed, walking too fast to see the snow covering up our footprints, to see it undo what we’d done. Everything was damaged.
“You still love me?”
I bit my lip but didn’t answer because I didn’t know how I felt anymore.
Except I did. I didn’t want to but I did.
“Brooksie…”
“Let’s not talk for a while, okay?” I murmured. “Please, I just need…to not talk.”
We walked a few more feet without speaking. “Wanna have a snowball fight?” he teased, breaking the silence.
“Boyd, no,” I said sharply, shaking my head and shoving my hands deep into my pockets.
He stopped walking. I kept going. I could hear the sound of just my footsteps continuing on down the street, the space next to me empty. I didn’t care, not right now. I just wanted to get home and get into bed, close my eyes and try to shut out the images in my mind that had been intensifying ever since Boyd told me.
I had gone a few feet when I felt something cold and hard explode against my shoulder. A snowball. Whipping around I glared at Boyd, who was standing there staring at me defiantly, his arms out to his sides.
“You want to just not talk, is that it?” he shouted. “You want to pretend that we don’t have to talk about this? Hope it goes away on it’s own?”
“What do you want from me?” I called back.
“I want you to deal with this. Deal with me, Brooks.”
“I’m fine,” I said. Everything’s damaged. Footprints in the snow…
“You’re not fine! We’re not fine and we won’t be until we talk.”
“I don’t want to talk!” I shouted, feeling the anger building up. “I don’t want to fucking talk about it, Boyd. What am I supposed to say? What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know! Tell me you hate me!”
“I don’t hate you,” I said sadly.
“Okay…okay, then…hit me.”
“Boyd, I’m not going to hit you.”
“Well, do…something! Fuck, Brooksie, yell, scream, kick me, do something!” he shouted, his voice more desperate than angry. “Something. Anything. Otherwise what the hell are we doing here?”
“We’re going home,” I replied softly.
“So that’s it, then. You won’t fight for this.” He knelt down and scooped up a handful of snow, standing up and rolling it into a ball as he closed the gap between us. When he was in front of me he pressed the cold sphere into my hand and looked at me sadly. “You won’t fight for us,” he said.
He brushed past me, his shoulder making contact with mine for just a split second. I watched him go, my eyes trailing down the back of him to his feet where I could see footprints walking away from me. Then I looked at the snowball in my hand and tightened my grip around it. It started to crumble. The perfect circle falling apart in my hand from just the slightest touch. I brought my other hand up and slowly started to mold it back into it’s original shape, squeezing it again to put it back together. Put everything back together.
I looked at Boyd, then back down at the snowball. The images in my head resumed; I reared back and hurled the snowball at him, nailing him in between his shoulders. It was his turn to whip around and stare, but he didn’t say anything, didn’t move.
Even in the faint light of the streetlamps and the reflected lights from the storefronts I could see his eyes, his penetrating, thoughtful stare on me. I imagined Boyd staring at him, imagined Boyd’s hands in his hair instead of mine, Boyd’s lips…
I bent over and grabbed another handful of snow, barely taking the time to form it before throwing it at him again. It exploded against his chest this time but still he didn’t move.
Someone else. It was just…but it was someone else.
Everything’s damaged.
My hands shaking, I reached down for more ammunition again and again, firing snowballs at him with increasing fervor as he stood there taking my abuse in quiet acceptance. Neither of us spoke. The only sound was my breath and the smack of the snow against Boyd’s chest and arms and shoulders.
Boyd’s lips touching someone else’s…his lips touching…
I squeezed my eyes shut and fired one final time, hearing a strangled grunt from Boyd as I connected with my target. Opening my eyes again I realized that I had hit him directly in the face. He silently wiped the snow from his eyes as I sank down into a snowdrift on the side of the road, my whole body trembling with anger and exhaustion. I could see the pictures in my mind finally starting to fade into blurred outlines of a former memory.
As I rested my forehead on my hands I heard the crunching of snow announcing Boyd’s approach, and a moment later he slid down onto the ground next to me. Again I felt the warmth and pressure of his arm against mine and again he was silent, letting my shaking body slowly relax next to him.
“Feel better?” he murmured finally. His hand slid up to the back of my head and I closed my eyes as he stroked my hair.
“I…I don’t know,” I replied. After a long pause I lifted my head and looked at him, unable to say anything else right then. Around us the snow continued to fall, dusting Boyd’s dark hair with white specks and covering up his footprints.
“I’m sorry, Brooksie. I’m so, so sorry.” He bit his lip, averting his eyes from my gaze and staring at his lap. “It was stupid. It was stupid and horrible and inexcusable.”
“Boyd…” He looked up again and I could see the angry red mark on his face where the snowball had connected. I reached up and touched it with just my fingertips, my hand still trembling slightly. “I’m sorry I hit your face, I didn’t mean to,” was all I could say.
“It’s okay, I don’t care,” he murmured, smiling softly under my touch. “It only stings for a minute and then…it gets better.”
I nodded and looked away, watching the snow fall, the flakes coming faster now. Our footprints were mere memories, faint impressions in the white canvas - blemishes but only for a minute.
“It gets better,” I whispered.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing,” I said, turning back to face him and getting to my feet. “Let’s go home.”
He stood up and brushed the snow off the back of his coat, looking at me carefully. “Are you sure, Brooksie?”
I looked down at my glove, bits of snow still clinging to it, then back at Boyd. The red mark was fading now. “Yeah, I’m sure,” I said, giving him a small smile.
“It’s starting to snow harder now,” he said, slipping his hand into mine as we started to walk home.
“It is,” I answered.
I didn’t have to look back. I knew the snow was slowly erasing any sign of damage. It gets better.