Chapter 2
John slowly slid his navy blue gloves off and rubbed his hands together. Flans had warned him that the car would take a few minutes to warm up, but it seemed to be finally doing so now.
Thinking about it, John realized that "The car's gonna take a few minutes to warm up" had in fact been one of the only things Flans had said to him this morning. It was mostly his fault though-by the time Flans stumbled into the kitchen, clearly still in the process of waking up, he was already on his third cup of coffee and fully immersed in the paper.
John knew he could get away with being quiet even without reading material to use as a conversational shield. It was Flans' uncustomary silence that was making the atmosphere in the car so awkward. John eyed him carefully, trying to read the expression on his face. Was he as confused as he was by what had happened the day before? Maybe he was reading too much into it, maybe it didn't mean what it had seemed to--but what else could it mean? Flans glanced at him and he dropped his eyes quickly to his lap. Somehow he didn't feel capable of making eye contact with him just then.
Clearing his throat conspicuously, John turned on the radio. The silence was becoming overwhelming but he still had absolutely no idea what to say. He was relieved to have a distraction.
Music was harder to come by than he expected. He scanned through a seemingly endless barrage of traffic reports, commercials, and "wacky" morning DJ patter before finally settling on a station. He didn't recognize or particularly care for the song, but he was getting frustrated enough to settle for anything.
The next song, however, was definitely familiar: "The Safety Dance." John couldn't resist being somewhat cheered up by this, especially when Flans started singing along. Loudly. And incorrectly. John giggled. "That's not how it goes!"
"I know," Flans replied, "but it's good to see you smiling again." He gave him as long of a look as he could without losing control of the car, and this time John didn't look away.
Things felt almost back to normal for the rest of the ride. They both sang along to all the songs they knew (even, at Flans' insistence, rolling down the windows for a few of them so they could turn the volume up full-blast, although the combination of the cold and hot air fogged up their glasses) and even managed to talk a little. John did his best to convince himself that things were normal, that the events of the day before didn't change anything, but he wasn't fully successful.
When they arrived at the resort, Flans attempted to persuade John to do some downhill skiing with him. "C'mon, these are some of the best hills in the Catskills," he pleaded. "You have to."
"I'd really rather do cross-country stuff," John protested. "Or nothing at all," he thought. The idea of staying inside all day with a book seemed much more appealing to him, but he figured since they'd driven all the way out here he was obligated to at least do something. Staying on level ground definitely seemed like a good idea, though.
Flans sighed. "You have no sense of adventure."
They split up. It was late afternoon when they saw each other again. John had been in the lodge for a few hours, reading and staring at the fire, when Flans walked in, his face turned almost as red as his sweater by the cold.
"How long have you been here?" he demanded.
John shrugged. "Oh...awhile."
"John, does the entire point of going on vacation escape you? Didn't we go over this yesterday? You should be outside!"
After a few more minutes of being lectured, John agreed to go back outside. But almost immediately, Flans disappeared. John considered looking for him, but, as he didn't really want to be out there in the first place, decided instead to go back to the warm fire and his book. He had just turned and started to walk back towards the lodge when he felt something solid but soft hit his left shoulder. He spun around just in time to see someone darting behind a clump of pine trees.
John sighed. Did Flans always have to behave so childishly? But, as he started to mentally list all the different ways he could tell him to act more mature, he suddenly remembered that lecture Flans had given him earlier, about being on vacation and relaxing. He also considered the fact that annoyance was exactly the reaction Flans expected, and that the element of surprise could provide a great strategic advantage...
Leaning against the thick tree trunk, able to feel the coarseness of the bark against his back even through his heavy coat, Flans wondered what John was doing. He figured he would be a little exasperated, but hoped he wouldn't be really angry with him. What he had really wanted was to cheer John up a bit-that was always his reason for acting goofy. He hoped that by starting a snowball fight he could coax out that same reluctant "I know better, but..." smile John had given him when they were singing in the car that morning, but the more time passed, the more he was convinced it wasn't going to happen. John was probably back inside sulking. Flans was about to go in himself to apologize when he heard soft footsteps in the snow.
John stood facing Flans now, hands thrust deeply in his pockets, inwardly amused by how guilty he looked. "John," he began, trying to sound severe, "I think throwing snowballs is really juvenile." Flans' shoulders slumped. "Also," John continued, "I think it's really fun!" In one deft movement he pulled one of the snowballs he'd made a few minutes ago from his pocket and fired it at Flans' chest. Then, before he had time to react, John hid in another pine grove.
Once Flans got over his shock, he grinned widely. So John was capable of doing something silly and fun once in awhile. He only allowed himself to reflect on this for a moment before stocking his own pockets and chasing after him.
It was dusk by the time the epic battle finally ended, with Flans emerging victorious thanks to his makeshift fort.
"Ok, I did something vacation-like, can we go in now?" John panted, visibly short of breath from his attempts to ambush the fortress.
Flans chuckled. "You make it sound like such a chore."
"No, I just...I'm starting to feel sort of worn out. And cold." He exhaled visibly to illustrate the point. His voice softened as he continued. "I do appreciate you getting me to do this, Flans. I had fun. Thank you."
Flans smiled. "You're welcome. Now let's go inside and get some hot chocolate."
"Hot chocolate?" John seemed startled by the concept. "I haven't had hot chocolate since..." He paused, crinkling his brow thoughtfully. "Well, not for a really long time."
"All the more reason to have some now, then. You hadn't had a snowball fight for a very long time either, had you?"
John laughed. "Good point. So is that your goal for this trip, to make me engage in activities from my distant past?"
"Not necessarily." It sounded as if he was weighing his words carefully. "I just want you to have a good time. And that might mean doing things you haven't done in a long time. Or it might mean doing things...things you've never done before, things you thought you never would do, but once you end up doing them you're really happy you did. And--" He stopped abruptly.
"And what?" John asked, not sure he really wanted to know. For some reason Flans' cryptic words had brought all the nervous and uncomfortable feelings of that morning right back.
"And...I sure hope they have some of those little marshmallows!"
John knew that hadn't been what he was going to say, but he let the subject drop. The rest of the walk to the lodge was silent except for the crunch of the two pairs of boots on the snow.
"Where is everybody?" Flans asked. The lodge was oddly deserted.
"Oh, I think I heard someone talking earlier about some kind of big bonfire...celebration...thing tonight."
"Bonfire celebration thing? Sounds like you were really paying attention."
"Well, you know...it involves a large group of people, so...I was pretty sure it wasn't the sort of thing I would want to attend. He paused, eyeing the still fireplace. "Why don't I go get a fire started while you make the hot chocolate?" Before Flans could answer, he was crouching next to the basket of pine logs. Flans stood there watching him for a moment, impressed by the care John appeared to be taking in selecting precisely the right logs to feed the fireplace. Then, with a fair amount of reluctance, he headed to the kitchen and began ransacking the cupboards.
Flans emerged several minutes later, each hand tightly gripping the handle of a large mug imprinted with the snow-capped mountain that was the resort's logo. John, who had managed to create a colorful, crackling fire, was curled up in the corner of the room's largest sofa.
Flans set one of the mugs on the table next to him. "I couldn't find any marshmallows, miniature or otherwise," he said apologetically, "but I did discover some whipped cream. I hope you're not too disappointed."
"Me? You're the one who was so excited about the concept of the marshmallows." He lifted the mug and took a long sip. "Wow, this is better than I remembered."
Flans beamed. "I'm glad you like it."
John turned away from him, directing his concentration instead to the dancing forms in the flames, and Flans sat down on the opposite end of the couch. Was it his imagination or did John edge himself just a little more into his own corner as he did so?
It took a few minutes for John to gather up his courage and vocalize the confusion that had been overwhelming him since the day before. He took a deep breath. "Ok, John. What's going on?"
Flans placed his mug on the end table with a resounding thud. "What do you mean, what's going on?" There was an edge to his voice. It seemed slightly angry, but John knew him well enough to recognize that this was how he sounded when he was nervous. What could he possibly be nervous about? All John wanted was for him to explain things, to tell him why he'd been behaving so strangely. He knew there was some reasonable explanation, there had to be, and as soon as Flans gave it to him he could stop worrying and everything would be back to normal. Why did he have to be making this difficult?
"I think you know what I mean," John said as gently as he could. "Ever since we got up here you've been acting..." He let the sentence trail off because he was unsure how to complete it. When he got right down to it, he was unable to describe exactly what was so strange about how Flans had been acting, unable to put his finger on just what was wrong. But there was definitely something. It was almost as if...now he was letting his own thoughts trail off, not because he was unsure how to complete them, but because their conclusions terrified him.
"Acting like what, John?" There was even more of that edge to his voice.
"Acting like...acting like you..."
"Jesus christ, why don't you just say it?" He really did seem angry now.
"Fine!" John took another deep breath, and then the words spilled out of him all at once. "You've been acting like you're in love with me or something and I know that can't possibly be what it is but that's sure as hell what it seems like and I wish you would stop it or explain it or something because it's really freaking me out."
Eons were packed into the horrible moment of silence that followed, until finally Flans spoke. "John, did it ever occur to you that maybe I'm acting like I'm in love with you because I am in love with you?"
He had barely finished the sentence before John stood up and started walking briskly towards the door. Flans followed him. "What are you doing?"
"I'm going to bed. You're not making sense and I'm not going to sit here trying to talk to someone who's not making sense. All I asked was for you to explain things but if you're not willing to do that then I'm leaving."
Flans grabbed his arm. "John, wait. Listen to me."
John pulled away. "Don't touch me." He opened the door, not taking the time to close his coat or put his gloves on despite the chill.
"You can't just run away from this," Flans called after him.
"Watch me," John replied, before slamming the door dramatically.
Flans thought about following him, but a gaze through the window revealed that John was practically running to their shared cabin. He wouldn't know what to say to him anyway. "I'm sorry for telling you the truth"? "I'm sorry for being aware of how wonderful you are"? "Please forget that I said that and let me go back to just desperately wanting you in secret"?
He wasn't sure what he'd been hoping to accomplish by confessing it, either. Of course he'd hoped--desperately!--that John would offer the same sentiment in return, but had he really been expecting him to? All he'd succeeded in doing was upsetting John and ruining things between them. A convoluted mixture of anger (some directed at John but most directed at himself), disappointment, and overwhelming sadness swirled through his mind. He threw himself on the part of the couch that until a moment ago had been occupied by John and tried not to cry.