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"Do you remember, when I told you how much I loved the snow?"
Oliver sat in the passenger seat, his eyes hidden by glasses, thick rimmed and foggy lenses. He was pale- not his skin, but himself, like a faded picture, painting. Some of the color had been drained, washed down the drain, spent too many days in the sun. His hair was lighter, the grey sweater becoming more white each time. Someone had taken the color from him, and now it was seeped away, down the canvas.
They'd never talked about things like that- if they did, Connor forgot- forced himself to forget. He remembered small fragments, all mumbled together into a slideshow, flashbacks. He and Oliver in bed, arms wrapped around each other as they fell asleep; Oliver making breakfast, the bacon sizzling in the pan, the cute "Kiss the Chef" apron he wore; Oliver in the shower, singing an old show tune, perfectly in key with the music; Oliver saying "I love you" at night, before he left for work.
It was the small things you took for granted. You didn't notice until they were gone, and all that was left was the vast, gaping holes in the middle- open rooms, a house with no hallways, no corners, no little surprises to discover. It was there, for you to see and look and think about.
Connor didn't want to think. He was too tired of thinking. He wanted to absorb the small details, pick them like flowers in a garden. He'd take the prettiest ones, wrap them up in a bouquet with a bright ribbon. Keep them in a vase with water, close to sunlight, just to help them live for awhile longer, just to make watching them wither and die a little more painful.
"No," he said, rubbing his temples. A headache started to blossom. This always gave me a migraine."I- I don't remember that." It was a small moment, minuscule. It had to be somewhere- in the field of flowers, in the hallways. Connor searched for it, panicking as he threw things into a cluttered pile.
Things were missing.
Things were slipping away.
"No," he said, finally. "I don't remember that."
Oliver stifled a chuckle, shook his head. But he didn't seem to move, his glasses firmly in place- which always had a movement of its own, like a personal dance- right above his nose, slightly tipped over. He'd constantly had to push them back up, subconsciously. His hands didn't move.
"We were in Michigan," Oliver started, prodding him, as if he were a dog and Oliver was holding a treat, "we were at your mother's house. A terrible storm hit, and we stayed there for days. It never seemed to end. God, we were stuck in your childhood bedroom. It was humiliating."
Oh yes, Connor thought, as the memory smacked him across the face. It was never soft, like a kiss on the cheek, a pat on the back. It was violent- a smack, a kick, a punch. He forgot how to breathe, how to think about anything else. He was trapped, backed against the wall.
"You had the window open," Oliver smiled, but it was dull and dim, like a lightbulb, flickering, fighting before it could be broken. "It was the middle of the night, and it was so fucking cold, but then I saw the snow."
It was when Connor realized he loved Oliver for the first time- watching as he sat at the window, resting on the frame, his head in his hand, his side of the bed abandoned. He turned when he felt Connor looking, and it felt as if Connor was seeing him the first time, seeing him the way he was meant to: so full of life, of passion, of purity. So full of everything Connor wanted, everything he never thought he could have.
"I love the snow," Oliver had said, "don't you?"
"Yes," Connor whispered, "I love it, too." And they both knew he wasn't talking about the snow.
Outside, it was snowing, the roughest storm in weeks. Snow stuck to the bottom of his car, falling onto the floor whenever the door opened. He needed to clean it off, but there were more important things to do- things like remembering, forgetting. The snow was furious, crashing down to the earth in fast clusters, covering the ground in seconds.
Connor saw his footprints leading to the driver's seat, and his feet were still wet, soaked through the socks.
He only saw his footprints.
"It was like you never saw snow before," Connor tried to force himself to smile, to conjure his necessary muscles into the expression, but it fell flat, came how like a crooked wince. One of the things he'd forgotten, lost- how to smile. "I told you it was nothing special, you're from Philly, after all, and you told me to shut up."
"But I laughed, didn't I?" Oliver asked.
"Yes."
Oliver's laugh was bottled up into a jar, never to be released. Connor heard it, like it was a seashell and he could hear the ocean waves, roaring up onto the sand. He heard it when he woke up in the morning, when he closed his eyes each night. It was a wake up call, a lullaby haunting him.
But he didn't want it to go away.
"You always had the most beautiful laugh."
Oliver inched closer, and a brush of cold air brought them together, as if the door had just opened. A chill rushed down Connor's spine, all the warm leaving his body.
"Connor." Oliver said.
Connor kissed him, bringing his face close to his, wanting to feel it, remember it. Their noses touched, and he felt his own shaky breathing, heart running in his chest.
Oliver's eyes were wide open, as wide as saucers. He'd stopped moving, abruptly, and grabbed Connor's hands and placed them on his lap, sighing.
"We shouldn't be doing this," he pulled back, looking ashamed, a child being scolded at. "We need to stop doing this, Connor."
Connor didn't want to stop. He wanted to crash, full force, drive down the open road as fast as he could and just go- go far, far away. It was always the plan, always the dream- but the wall came too soon, and he didn't have time to swerve.
"Ollie," he said.
Oliver sank into his chair, sighing. It was a soft sound, a breeze, barely audible. He was drifting away, slowly, like sand in an hourglass.
Connor was trying to hold on.
"How many months has it been?" Oliver asked, his voices suddenly as clear as the day. "How many weeks? Days? Years?"
Two, on Thursday.
Connor had been counting, crossing off dates on the calendar in his mind. A familiar feeling returned when it drew near, an old friend opening the door and singing of the past. He always knew- the before, the after. Before, it was the feeling of instant panic, of his life flashing before his eyes, the sound of someone screaming and tires screeching.
After, it was the feeling of being unable to move, his body stiff and not his own, the feeling of inescapable pain, pain in his body, in his heart. The feeling something was missing.
"Two years," Connor said. "Two years on Thursday."
Oliver solemnly nodded, didn't try to stop him. He never did. "Yes," he agreed, "two years."
"Do you remember, when I told you how much I loved the snow?"
Yes, Connor thought.
It was snowing, that night. A smile appeared on Oliver's face the minute it started to fall, as if he knew it was going to happen and was patiently waiting for it. He was in the passenger seat, staring out at the highway, into the forest trees.
Connor was driving, his mind somewhere else, keeping Oliver in his peripheral vision. It seemed as if they'd been driving for hours, trying to find their way home. All Connor wanted was to go home, to be with him.
Neither of them saw the bright lights of the truck.
The last thing he heard before darkness- crippling, devastating darkness- was Oliver cry out.
"Two years."
Connor Walsh was trying to hold on.
Liquor bottles were scattered across the floor of the passenger seat, swaying and clanking whenever he drove. He hid them before he went into work, before he went to see his therapist. He replaced them with an expressionless face, cold eyes.
That's Connor, he'd hear his coworkers whisper to the little first year interns, eager to learn all of the office secrets at the coffee counter, he lost his husband in a car accident. He's never been the same.
You try being the same, he wanted to scream at them, at everyone, at himself, you try being the same after you lose the thing you love the most.
Connor Walsh was trying to forget.
The drinking did nothing. The drinking didn't help. The memories he wanted to erase were written in ink, not pencil, and the vodka, the scotch, the gin, only helped them, moved the pen across the page. Maybe it wasn't the drinking, maybe it was himself, too fucking miserable to let go of the fucking past.
People who said it was easy to let go of the past were liars.
The past shaped it, the future. The past created it from clay, carefully and meticulously molded it until it was something real, something to hold. But, one day, a piece could fall off, and never be replaced.
Connor Walsh was trying to replace his past.
Connor Walsh was trying to live in it.
Oliver sat across from him, as real and as fake as ever. There was no color left, only shades of grey. Maybe there was no color in the first place. "Oh, Connor," he said, but his voice turned into a whisper.
Connor felt a cold breeze touch him- Oliver's hand brushing his cheek.
"When are you ever going to let me go?"
It had happened five times before this- this encounter, this game they played. It always ended the same way.
"Never," Connor would say, reaching for a hand that wasn't there.
And a rush of cold air would open the door to the passenger seat, slamming it shut just as quickly.
And Connor Walsh would take a sip of something- of anything- and he would start to sob.
And the snow would stop falling.