Fic: The Snowboy
So, due to a mixture of illness, Christmas and revision my Nathan Barley Christmas fic didn't really get finished because I couldn't even bring myself to type. So today, in the intervals when I could get away from my family, I knocked this up: small and sweet. I hope you enjoy it.
The snowman was his pride and joy. The idea had come to him on November 17th - he’d made a note of the date because good ideas didn’t usually come to him, they were laboured on for years until they became unfeasible - and he’d filled whole notebooks with it: designing costumes, thinking about the sculpturing of the face, the eyes, the way it would stand. He’d gone to charity shops and come home laden with things he would normally never have considered buying. It became an obsession and filled his every waking moment. When he’d woken up on Christmas Eve and seen the first white flakes leisurely drifting down to Earth he’d been so happy he’d given Naboo a massive hug (a gesture which the Shaman only raised an eyebrow to) and rushed outside to spend the whole day shaping his masterpiece.
It had all gone wrong, of course. What he had intended to be a beautiful, female face was more angular than he’d hoped: the chin a little too long, the nose too bent. Instead of a delicate, womanly figure his calloused hands had carved a thin frame, which looked like it was throwing shapes rather than striking an alluring pose. The tweed jackets he’d bought didn’t suit the snowman, but the two-euro velvet cape he’d bought on a whim seemed to stick to the snow like glue. Only the eyes were perfect: sparkling with something warmer than the ice with which they had been made.
In the end he’d given up and admired his figure for what it was: and it was oddly pretty, masculine as it seemed. He found some glitter in the stock-cupboard and sprinkled the snowman with it so that it glistened under the light of the moon. He’d gone inside and gone to sleep, feeling proud of his creation.
On Christmas Day he awoke, flung back the covers and raced to the window, pulling aside the flimsy purple curtains to look down into the garden below.
The snowman was gone.
His heart crashed to the floor and splintered. He pulled on his brown dressing-gown and dashed into the living room, where Naboo and Bollo were sharing a Christmas hookah on the sofa.
“My snowman’s gone!” he cried.
Naboo raised an uninterested eyebrow. “Prob’ly jus’ some kids mucking about.”
Howard tugged at his hair in desperation and sank down into an armchair, covering his face with his hands. “It can’t be gone,” he muttered, before getting up again and flinging himself at the window. With tentative fingers he pulled back the curtain and looked down into the Tundra landscape below.
“Um, Naboo…”
Naboo rolled his eyes. “What is it now?”
“It’s come back.”
“Whassa problem, then?”
“Well, I don’t want to alarm you, sir, but, er…it’s moved.”
For where the figure had once stood proudly in the middle of the garden, now it was sitting perched on top of an upturned, snow-capped plant pot. As Howard watched it smiled to itself and twirled its hair - fine as spun sugar - around a slim moulded finger.
Naboo appeared at Howard’s elbow and groaned.
“What did you do, you turnip?”
“Me?” Howard exclaimed. “I didn’t do anything! It’s come to life, Naboo.”
“Yeah, I can see that. What did you put on it?”
Howard frowned. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“Just…” Naboo pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Tell me what you put on it.”
“Well, a velvet cape from Oxfam, erm…some snow, a bit of glitter from the stockroom.”
“You idiot!” lisped Naboo. “That was magic glitter! Brings inanimate objects to life?”
“Well, how was I supposed to know that? You need to label your stuff, Naboo. Keep an itinerary, hm, like me? Howard Moon’s never lost a pencil in thirty years, sir.” Howard could feel himself babbling as he watched the snowman get up and wander curiously around the garden. “How long’s it going to stay alive for?”
“I dunno,” Naboo shrugged. “That’s powerful juju; it should only be used in little amounts, not chucked all over.”
“So what do we do?”
Naboo shrugged again and meandered back over to the sofa as Bollo held out the pipe for him to take. “Saying hi would be a start.”
“Say hi?” Howard’s voice rose in frantic disbelief. “That snowman’s come to life; I can’t just go and say hi!”
“Well do something, instead of just whinging about it.”
So Howard did the only thing he could think to do in a situation of this magnitude - he went and put the kettle on.
When he finally ventured out into the garden the snowman looked up at him with a cheeky grin.
“Alright!” it called.
Howard froze. “Um…hey there.”
The snowman stood up and put its hands on its hips. Now that Howard looked at it properly it didn’t seem to be made of snow at all - now the crumbling powder had smoothed and hardened into pale skin; its hair had darkened to the colour of black frost. Underneath the cape it was clad in a sequined jumpsuit, but its feet were bare. It was also very definitely male.
“Do you want some tea?” Howard said, looking down at the chipped orange mug in his hands. “I mean, can you drink tea?”
“Yeah, cool!” The snowman took the proffered cup and took a sip, peering over the rim at Howard with sparkling eyes.
“I’m Howard. Howard Moon.”
“Alright,” said the snowman again. “I’m Vince Noir, rock-n-roll star.”
For a moment Howard wondered if this was all just a bizarre sort of dream. “Noir? Blanche, surely?”
The snowman - Vince - smiled. “No, it’s definitely Noir.”
“Oh.” Howard shivered in his dressing gown. “Aren’t you cold?”
“Not really. Have you seen this cape; it’s genius!” Vince did a little spin, swishing the cape after him like a glam-rock vampire. He wouldn’t have suited tweed, Howard thought.
“Do you want to come inside?” Howard asked awkwardly. “We could…listen to some jazz.”
Vince scrunched his face up in disgust. “Eurgh, jazz!” he groaned. “Jazz is well awful!”
Howard frowned. “But…how can you not like jazz?” he asked. “You can’t not like jazz, I made you!”
Vince smiled secretively at that. “You didn’t make me,” he said. “You needed me. I’ve been here all along; just needed someone to pull me together.”
Howard thought about it for a second. There was something oddly familiar about this stranger: something comforting. But then he coughed and said, “I don’t think so, sir.”
“Alright, small-eyes!” Vince crowed, shaking his head. “C’mon, you gonna show me in or what?”
“Um, yeah.” Howard gave a lopsided grin. “But if you come in, you can never leave,” he joked.
Vince beamed, and his whole face lit up, gleaming like the sun reflecting off an icicle. “Brilliant!” he laughed. Howard felt his insides melting.
“You won’t vanish, will you?” he asked. “I mean, if it gets too hot? You won’t…dissolve?”
“Like I’m gonna dissolve,” Vince smiled. “I’m a Cockney bitch. You can’t get rid of me now, you jazzy weirdo.”
He thrust his mug back into Howard’s hand and took a step forward, leaving small indents in the snow where he trod. Then he placed a soft hand on Howard’s cheek and stood on his toes to press a small, warm kiss to the side of his mouth. Howard felt his face flood with a hot flush as Vince’s fingers slid away and he blinked dully, feeling his brain suddenly mist over.
Vince laughed. “You got any food; I’m starving!”
“Um…” Howard nodded slowly, almost unable to comprehend the question. “Yeah, I’m about to do a roast, what was-?”
But he was interrupted by another loud proclamation of, “Genius!” before Vince grabbed at his hand and started pulling him towards the house. For a moment Howard glanced back at the crisp grass of the garden, tinged with white. But then he looked once more at Vince’s eyes, the only perfect thing he had made, and let himself be pulled back into the house, suddenly aware that although the snowman hadn’t been entirely expected, Howard had suddenly found himself aglow with a happiness - a completeness - that he couldn’t remember feeling for thirty consecutive Christmases.
Vince’s human warmth spread through Howard’s fingers and they began to thaw.
The snowman was his pride and joy. The idea had come to him on November 17th - he’d made a note of the date because good ideas didn’t usually come to him, they were laboured on for years until they became unfeasible - and he’d filled whole notebooks with it: designing costumes, thinking about the sculpturing of the face, the eyes, the way it would stand. He’d gone to charity shops and come home laden with things he would normally never have considered buying. It became an obsession and filled his every waking moment. When he’d woken up on Christmas Eve and seen the first white flakes leisurely drifting down to Earth he’d been so happy he’d given Naboo a massive hug (a gesture which the Shaman only raised an eyebrow to) and rushed outside to spend the whole day shaping his masterpiece.
It had all gone wrong, of course. What he had intended to be a beautiful, female face was more angular than he’d hoped: the chin a little too long, the nose too bent. Instead of a delicate, womanly figure his calloused hands had carved a thin frame, which looked like it was throwing shapes rather than striking an alluring pose. The tweed jackets he’d bought didn’t suit the snowman, but the two-euro velvet cape he’d bought on a whim seemed to stick to the snow like glue. Only the eyes were perfect: sparkling with something warmer than the ice with which they had been made.
In the end he’d given up and admired his figure for what it was: and it was oddly pretty, masculine as it seemed. He found some glitter in the stock-cupboard and sprinkled the snowman with it so that it glistened under the light of the moon. He’d gone inside and gone to sleep, feeling proud of his creation.
On Christmas Day he awoke, flung back the covers and raced to the window, pulling aside the flimsy purple curtains to look down into the garden below.
The snowman was gone.
His heart crashed to the floor and splintered. He pulled on his brown dressing-gown and dashed into the living room, where Naboo and Bollo were sharing a Christmas hookah on the sofa.
“My snowman’s gone!” he cried.
Naboo raised an uninterested eyebrow. “Prob’ly jus’ some kids mucking about.”
Howard tugged at his hair in desperation and sank down into an armchair, covering his face with his hands. “It can’t be gone,” he muttered, before getting up again and flinging himself at the window. With tentative fingers he pulled back the curtain and looked down into the Tundra landscape below.
“Um, Naboo…”
Naboo rolled his eyes. “What is it now?”
“It’s come back.”
“Whassa problem, then?”
“Well, I don’t want to alarm you, sir, but, er…it’s moved.”
For where the figure had once stood proudly in the middle of the garden, now it was sitting perched on top of an upturned, snow-capped plant pot. As Howard watched it smiled to itself and twirled its hair - fine as spun sugar - around a slim moulded finger.
Naboo appeared at Howard’s elbow and groaned.
“What did you do, you turnip?”
“Me?” Howard exclaimed. “I didn’t do anything! It’s come to life, Naboo.”
“Yeah, I can see that. What did you put on it?”
Howard frowned. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“Just…” Naboo pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Tell me what you put on it.”
“Well, a velvet cape from Oxfam, erm…some snow, a bit of glitter from the stockroom.”
“You idiot!” lisped Naboo. “That was magic glitter! Brings inanimate objects to life?”
“Well, how was I supposed to know that? You need to label your stuff, Naboo. Keep an itinerary, hm, like me? Howard Moon’s never lost a pencil in thirty years, sir.” Howard could feel himself babbling as he watched the snowman get up and wander curiously around the garden. “How long’s it going to stay alive for?”
“I dunno,” Naboo shrugged. “That’s powerful juju; it should only be used in little amounts, not chucked all over.”
“So what do we do?”
Naboo shrugged again and meandered back over to the sofa as Bollo held out the pipe for him to take. “Saying hi would be a start.”
“Say hi?” Howard’s voice rose in frantic disbelief. “That snowman’s come to life; I can’t just go and say hi!”
“Well do something, instead of just whinging about it.”
So Howard did the only thing he could think to do in a situation of this magnitude - he went and put the kettle on.
When he finally ventured out into the garden the snowman looked up at him with a cheeky grin.
“Alright!” it called.
Howard froze. “Um…hey there.”
The snowman stood up and put its hands on its hips. Now that Howard looked at it properly it didn’t seem to be made of snow at all - now the crumbling powder had smoothed and hardened into pale skin; its hair had darkened to the colour of black frost. Underneath the cape it was clad in a sequined jumpsuit, but its feet were bare. It was also very definitely male.
“Do you want some tea?” Howard said, looking down at the chipped orange mug in his hands. “I mean, can you drink tea?”
“Yeah, cool!” The snowman took the proffered cup and took a sip, peering over the rim at Howard with sparkling eyes.
“I’m Howard. Howard Moon.”
“Alright,” said the snowman again. “I’m Vince Noir, rock-n-roll star.”
For a moment Howard wondered if this was all just a bizarre sort of dream. “Noir? Blanche, surely?”
The snowman - Vince - smiled. “No, it’s definitely Noir.”
“Oh.” Howard shivered in his dressing gown. “Aren’t you cold?”
“Not really. Have you seen this cape; it’s genius!” Vince did a little spin, swishing the cape after him like a glam-rock vampire. He wouldn’t have suited tweed, Howard thought.
“Do you want to come inside?” Howard asked awkwardly. “We could…listen to some jazz.”
Vince scrunched his face up in disgust. “Eurgh, jazz!” he groaned. “Jazz is well awful!”
Howard frowned. “But…how can you not like jazz?” he asked. “You can’t not like jazz, I made you!”
Vince smiled secretively at that. “You didn’t make me,” he said. “You needed me. I’ve been here all along; just needed someone to pull me together.”
Howard thought about it for a second. There was something oddly familiar about this stranger: something comforting. But then he coughed and said, “I don’t think so, sir.”
“Alright, small-eyes!” Vince crowed, shaking his head. “C’mon, you gonna show me in or what?”
“Um, yeah.” Howard gave a lopsided grin. “But if you come in, you can never leave,” he joked.
Vince beamed, and his whole face lit up, gleaming like the sun reflecting off an icicle. “Brilliant!” he laughed. Howard felt his insides melting.
“You won’t vanish, will you?” he asked. “I mean, if it gets too hot? You won’t…dissolve?”
“Like I’m gonna dissolve,” Vince smiled. “I’m a Cockney bitch. You can’t get rid of me now, you jazzy weirdo.”
He thrust his mug back into Howard’s hand and took a step forward, leaving small indents in the snow where he trod. Then he placed a soft hand on Howard’s cheek and stood on his toes to press a small, warm kiss to the side of his mouth. Howard felt his face flood with a hot flush as Vince’s fingers slid away and he blinked dully, feeling his brain suddenly mist over.
Vince laughed. “You got any food; I’m starving!”
“Um…” Howard nodded slowly, almost unable to comprehend the question. “Yeah, I’m about to do a roast, what was-?”
But he was interrupted by another loud proclamation of, “Genius!” before Vince grabbed at his hand and started pulling him towards the house. For a moment Howard glanced back at the crisp grass of the garden, tinged with white. But then he looked once more at Vince’s eyes, the only perfect thing he had made, and let himself be pulled back into the house, suddenly aware that although the snowman hadn’t been entirely expected, Howard had suddenly found himself aglow with a happiness - a completeness - that he couldn’t remember feeling for thirty consecutive Christmases.
Vince’s human warmth spread through Howard’s fingers and they began to thaw.