Memory 1: Solstice

[justfuckingtryit]

The sky overhead’s a wash of orange and violet, fading out to night, and the Wall seems brighter than usual this evening. It glimmers high overhead, a faint sheen in the coming dark like an oil-slick puddle. Up on the hill like this, the view showcases lights coming on in the city center, way down below.

It’s kind of pretty.

“This one’s mine,” says Cobalt – a version of him that’s a few years younger and sans scar – as he stops in front of one of the houses.

It’s a nice house, not like there are any in this neighborhood that aren’t. There’s a second story, and a wall with a gate, and a little swatch of yard out front, all immaculately tended grass.

Looking at it, Thorn’s suddenly sure he shouldn’t have come. This is the worst fucking idea he’s ever had.

But it’s too late to back out now; Cobalt’s pulling the gate open, and it’s a week past the point when he could’ve pretended he had something else to do. So Thorn tips his chin up, and he digs his nails into the palms of his hands. He follows Cobalt down the neat little stepping-stone path and up to the door.

There’s a wreath on it, some festive bullshit plants he doesn’t know the name of.

Then the door’s opening, and suddenly he’s got more to worry about than the wreath.

Cobalt’s mother looks like him: tall and bright-eyed, a strong jaw and an easy smile. “Happy Solstice,” she says, and reaches out for Thorn’s hand. “You must be █████.”

He doesn’t jerk away when she presses his hand between both of hers, but only just.

“Yeah,” says Thorn, hesitant. “Hi.”

Cobalt’s father looks like the idea of World’s Best Dad, as portrayed by some feel-good TV commercial: mild and unassuming, smile as kind as his son’s.

“Shen won’t stop talking about you,” he says, and takes Thorn’s hand to shake it when his wife lets go. “Maybe now that you’re here for dinner, we’ll have time to do the time-honored holiday tradition and fight about politics, instead.”

“Dad,” says Cobalt.

“He’s kidding,” says Cobalt’s mother. “We only fight about politics on the equinox.”

Thorn feels the corner of his lips quirk up into a smile. He ducks his head and huffs something that might be trying to be a laugh. He should say something, but he doesn’t know what to say.

“Anyway,” says Cobalt’s father, when the silence goes a beat too long. “Are you coming in? It’s cold out there.”

“Yeah,” says Thorn. “Sure.”

Cobalt sets a hand on the small of his back – steers him in.

The warmth of the house is shocking, after the chill air outside. Dinner smells amazing, whatever it is, and while they take their shoes off Cobalt’s mother is busy pulling open a door nearby. “Let me take your coat,” she says, and it takes Thorn a moment too long to realize she’s talking to him.

He shrugs out of it, uncertain – goes to reach for a hanger in the closet, but is thwarted by helpful hands that do the work for him.

“You guys need help in the kitchen?” says Cobalt.

“I won’t say no if you want to set the table,” says Cobalt’s father. “Dinner’s going to be another half hour or so, though.”

“Come on,” says Cobalt, to Thorn. “Looks like we’re getting put to work.”

He’s turning, already, toward the arched doorway that leads into what looks like a living room. He’s gesturing for Thorn to follow.

But Thorn’s still standing there in the entryway, picking at the threadbare hem of his t-shirt. He hesitates – takes a breath in, and tips his chin up, and squares his shoulders.

“Thanks,” he says, the word awkward and brittle. “For having me.”

By the doorway into the living room, Cobalt’s smiling that warm, genuine smile of his.

Beside Thorn, Cobalt’s mother says, “We’re happy you could come, dear,” and she sets a hand on his shoulder.