i bought a shark plush today and was originally gonna name it mukh bc i'm mourning my dead wife but then i remembered eky and so now i have a shark plush named eky and he will make me so sad every time i hug him </3
CHARACTERS: Nixon Henderson and Aspen Blake
LOCATION: Manhattan, New York
WARNINGS: PTSD
WORD COUNT: 1,818 words
Something about December always had Nixon in a bright and cheery mood. Perhaps it’s the simple fact that he’s not in California anymore and he has his first real chance to experience a New York holiday, the streets covered in snow and the temperature constantly hugging below zero, or perhaps it’s the effortless contact he’s had with his twin that makes him feel like he’s floating rather than standing. Maybe it’s because he’s been spending his days off work hurling snowballs with Windsor and his nights holding Aspen tight, their shared heat being the only source they need as they intertwine themselves so fluidly.
Maybe it’s because for the first time in a very long, exhausting time, Nixon has woken up with a smile on his face more times than he can count. Maybe it’s a little of everything.
He’s fully embraced the New York City winter lifestyle, and while he’d give anything to childishly make snow angels in Central Park, he’s more than content with cozying up in his apartment with his boyfriend in his lap. He’s abandoned that position — for now — in favor of a cup of coffee and to sort through the mail that’s been sitting on his counter for what feels like weeks. Aspen grumbles at the loss and flops himself in the chair nearest Nixon, fingers sparking as a means to pass the time.
Junk. Junk. Bills. Junk. Annoyance clouds Nixon’s features for a brief moment as he makes a mental note not to let his mail get this bad again. Newspaper. Junk. Christmas card. Bill—
Nixon freezes, his body turning tense somewhere between a magazine subscription offer and his phone bill, goes damn near pale as he stares at the envelope in his hands. Behind him he can hear Aspen playing with the fire, burning it bright until it no longer casts an orange shade but blue, and Nixon thinks that it's an entirely appropriate symbolism for how he's currently feeling. His fingers tremble as he sets the rest of the mail down, holding onto the seemingly plain envelope in front of him, but it feels like his heart has suddenly leapt in his throat.
There's a crash next to him — he hadn't noticed the coffee mug he pushed off with his right hand, far too focused on what's in front of him. It catches Aspen's attention, however, as he gets up from his seat and leans against his boyfriend. There's a touch of concern in his dark blues, but not even Nixon can snap out of his trance while gentle touches are sent to his shoulders, his back, his arms. Nixon swallows the second Aspen asks what the envelope is.
The handwriting is still the same as ever, small and all uppercase, slanted slightly to the right, with smudges of ink as it's taken from left to right. The pen was dying, the words fading with each letter, and then re-written in a different ink, this time blue instead of black. Fitting. Nixon traces over his name, his address, tries to think of all the ways that his location could possibly be found — and then he realizes he's never actually answered Aspen's inquiry, and he doesn't know if he can speak.
His mouth feels dry, tongue far too big to fit properly, or perhaps his throat is seizing up but either way, all he can manage is a strangled sort of noise that dies as quickly as it comes. He flips the envelope over, tears open the top, and then comes to the conclusion that he needs to sit. Even the broken mug and the spilled contents don't stand a chance as he steps past his boyfriend to drop in the seat he had claimed. Aspen doesn't sit on his lap like usual, but instead lingers, and in his expression Nixon can see that it's guarded. He's worried. Yet he can't bring himself to answer him or make any sort of notion that he's okay.
Is he okay? Nixon doesn't know.
Nimble fingers pluck the card out from the envelope, and though it's silly, he's automatically choking on the familiar smell of cologne. The card is just as plain as the envelope, a Christmas tree on a light blue canvas, 'Happy Holidays' written in script above it. He trembles. Aspen asks for him softly, attempting not to prod, but Nixon can't let him wonder about the contents. No doubt his boyfriend smells the cologne.
When he looks up at Aspen, he figures his expression must look shocked, scared, a little hopeful — Aspen's changes the second their eyes connect, and he thinks that maybe his boyfriend is jumping to conclusions. He reaches for his hand, tattooed fingers lacing together with his boyfriend's, before he swallows. "It's... It's my dad." The dad he never talks about. The dad who abandoned his family when he was only five. The dad who got so hammered and high that he beat his own children, among other things.
Nixon sets the card down, feels the tears start stinging in his eyes. His dad is like fucking clockwork, only he's six years behind and too many years distant. He doesn't know if he can stomach reading it, but he has to try. "The last time I got a card from him was when I was fifteen." He doesn't like talking about his dad, but he feels the need to tell Aspen. He, at least, will be there even if he doesn't understand.
"Landon, Noel, and I... We'd all get Christmas cards from him. Maybe it was to make up for the fact that he never sent us anything on our birthday, or maybe because our birthday's less than two months away... But, he'd send us these cards, and the only thing that changed about them was the year." Nixon thumbed the card, his gaze downcast as he spoke. His voice was getting choked up. "I guess my mom told him I ran away or- or went missing — I don't know — but he stopped sending cards addressed to me. Landon stopped getting them when he turned eighteen, so it was only Noel."
He remembered seeing the cards taped up on Noel's wall when he came back, expecting to find a stack of three on his own desk when he went into his room. Nixon hated the disappointment hat had washed through him when he realized his father hadn't sent anymore. He squeezed Aspen's fingers. Was Noel getting one, too, or was it just him? He sucked in a breath. Maybe passing out would be a better option than reading his father's handwriting. Warm fingers pressed against his shoulder, attempting to soothe the tensity in his shoulders, and while usually the heat from his boyfriend was too intense, Nixon welcomed it without hesitation.
His fingers brush against the card before he opens it. He doesn't realize he's crying until he feels a wet drop on his wrist. This day wasn't supposed to turn ruined over a stupid fucking card. Nixon tells himself to take it slow as he reads, not wanting to rush past something that could mean the change of everything. The note isn't long but it's not exactly short, either, and he notes the way his father signs his first name rather than his title. At least he's done something right in the past sixteen years.
Nixon,
Words can't express how deeply I apologize for my lack of cards these past six years. In truth I've wanted to write since hearing of your return, but I've had difficulty coming up with things to say. There are so many things that I regret, but the one thing I regret the most is allowing my addiction to control how I acted towards you and your brothers. It may not matter to you much anymore, but I thought that I should let you know — I’ve been clean for two years. If you don’t believe me, you can ask your mother... or you can see it for yourself. Had I realized how close we lived from each other, I would’ve tried to start all of this sooner. If you like, I’ve written my number below. You can call or text, or you don’t have to, but it’s your choice on what you do with it. I really do miss you, Nixon, and I want to make up for the years that I’ve failed as a father.
Sincerely,
Samuel
There’s a stretch of silence that follows as Nixon sets the card back down, hyperaware that his boyfriend had read the note along with him. His hands tremble ceaselessly, though he stares at the number on the bottom of the page with an onslaught of growing hope. He’s been clean! For two years! Aspen mumbles something in Italian beside him, expression unreadable yet still questionably guarded, and for once Nixon is glad he can’t understand what was said.
And then Nixon zeroes back in on the letter again, a line striking him as odd — his father had said brothers, plural. Noel and Landon, except Landon overdosed a year ago. Brothers. Landon was dead. You can ask your mother. Except that it’s a well-known fact that Eleanor Henderson wants nothing to do with his father whatsoever, so she wouldn’t have answered any type of call sent her way. Had I realized how close we were...
Nixon abandons the kitchen in favor of his knees hitting tile on the bathroom floor, all contents of his stomach emptying as anxiety blooms in his chest. Aspen’s hands are hot against his skin, ever-worrying, ever-gentle, as soft babbles of Italian fill the room in hopes to soothe him. By the time Nixon leans back against Aspen, eyes delirious, Aspen’s switched to English.
“What’s wrong?” He asks as he brushes a few curls off of Nixon’s forehead.
Nixon feels like throwing up for a second time, a third time, a fourth time — or for forever. He tries hard not to cry, the sting in his eyes unwelcome, but it’s damn near impossible to do, so Aspen’s going to have to deal with being sobbed on. Nixon pinches the bridge of his nose, feels the world dip and spin for a few beats too long, before he opens his mouth.
“My father didn’t send that card,” he explains weakly. He can already feel the anger rising in his boyfriend’s demeanor with the way his shoulders square, his mouth gets thinner, his eyes twist darker. “S-Sebastian sent it.”
The quiet insinuation hangs in the air like an anvil.
He knows where I live. He’s been watching me. He knows where I live.
Nixon leans forward to choke on acid. Happiness feels out of reach. Just like that, he’s back in a game of cat or mouse, reclaiming his previous position. Just like that, Nixon is weak again, and everything he’s worked so hard for crumbles beneath him.
