Intentional blur.

Lochlan looks at me when I come into the kitchen. He waves an imaginary flag. I would have forgiven him but he's playing a beautiful rendition of The Killing Moon and I hate it. Not his version, it's the best I've heard of that song, I just hate that song. It's one he plays this time of year. Sort of like Fairytale of New York, they're two songs that make up part of his fabric and he thinks immersion therapy will make me hate both less.

He is wrong but that's okay. He's not a huge fan of You Give Love A Bad Name and yet he tolerates me blasting it through the house like dynamite.

I can't believe an Irish person hates a song like this, he remarks at least once every time.

Well, believe it. I'll remind him, every time in return.

We actually have made up. He's articulated his lingering issues with Ben and with the fact that people don't change, that none of us have, we're still the same people we've always been, and that while time softens tempers and evens out moods, dulling memories, pulling them out of focus ever so slightly, certain personality traits and prevailing emotions will always be right there, in your face, at the forefront.

He's right. I told him that and his eyes lit up. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't fight for this anyway, fight to be better than this, fight to put a shine to what we have, fight to sort it all out once and for all. 

You're right, he tells me and that was when I knew the fight was over.

Aggressive Macaroni Penguins.

After Caleb and Lochlan's literal but brief tug of war over me, over their own fears, over all of history, past, present, future and beyond, I left. Ben has been absolved, or has he? What's the point of all this hovering, posturing and lying if everything is fine? Figure it out, you know where I'll be.

I didn't know where I would be when I left. I thought I'll go to the loft but instead my brain walked me down the path to Daniel and Schuyler's, where I apologized to Christian for coughing all over his new shirt but where is Schuyler?

Portland, he says with a frown. He and Daniel went for a quickie romantic weekend. 

But it's Tuesday! I wail and cough some more.

Maybe we can help. Andrew smiles at me and by eleven I am installed in the centre of their big bed, watching documentaries about penguins and drinking the ever elusive, always forbidden red wine. No one at my house lets me drink red wine in bed. Christ. By twelve the wine is taken out of my hand and I am asleep, dreaming of not ever going to the Antarctic because there's virtually nothing there to see and I think I would hear phantom raucous braying all the time after I left.

I am woken up at seven, gently, with orange juice, tea and a croissant and then lovingly sent home to sort my shit out. It's a message in itself. Andrew and and Christian do not have an open door but in a crisis they will step in and I love them for both of those points, frankly, and sometimes wish I did have an aggressive, penguin-demeanor when it comes to organizing my loves.

They did both separately text me later and thank me for the human-hot-water-bottle aspect of my visit, pointing out I may have had a fever.

Still do, actually. Time to slide off an icebank into the sea.

Much ado about everything all the time.

(We all have that one friend. The one who convinces you to go skinny-dipping/dance on the bar/marry him/get in so much freaking trouble all the time, the last one to grow up, as it were. Ask anyone on the point who that is and we all give you the same name: Benjamin.)

 I was sitting by the woodstove, tea in hand, virtually voiceless today from this cold and sore throat and Ben came down and sat in front of me on the side of the couch (it wraps around the woodstove. Not a bad seat on it that way. Custom designed and I love it. It's a huge curve), effectively blocking me in (which they love to do) and every time I tried to get up and go around him or climb over the back to get anything he would grab me and gently pull me back. This went on for quite a while and finally I waited until he was ever so slightly distracted and I launched myself the other way and failed miserably, as he caught me by the knees and pulled me back again.

With each boy that greets us Ben is protective, ashamed and facing forward. It's really not that big a deal, we've done it before. Go a little too hard, love a little bit too much and someone gets hurt. He tries to be careful. It wasn't on purpose but at the same time he didn't pay enough attention, as he misheard a word that rhymes with absolutely nothing else and can't be misheard. Lochlan had left us for a bit, trying to give Ben a little time to reconnect and look what happens.

They made up after a few false stops. It's fine. We're fine. Everything is fine.

I'm not sad about being tethered to Ben either right now. It allows me to see some of things I normally wouldn't, as watching Caleb lean in against Ben's head and whisper that if anything like that happens again in our lifetimes Caleb's going to tear Ben limb from limb was frightening and unnecessary but they all want to flex on Ben and be sure that there's no room here for oopses and uhohs.

He knows. Lord, he knows. It only takes a day like yesterday to remind him of the reasons.

Lochlan's been really great. He even ran me a steaming hot bubble bath last evening, and once I was safely in it, went and got me the largest glass of wine I think I've seen this decade. Then I promptly took a big swallow of Nyquil and had a hell of a night in a sleep consisting of concrete and iron. I'm barely awake today and perfectly content to be here by Ben, and to be kept from falling into the stove or into my daydreams or into some false sense of security that anyone is perfect, ever, because we're not.

Safe from the outside world.

As you lay to die beside me, baby
On the morning that you came
Would you wait for me?
The other one would wait for me

There's a layer of icy-cold mist on the stormy teal water and everything is soaked through. Another day of muted half-light here on the ocean and I have a new handmade coffee mug, a treasured second (and mostly forbidden) cup of coffee and Wildernessa's cover of Fleet Foxes' Your Protector in my broken ears, a chosen repeatable offence designed to stroke my brain until I can't stand it anymore. I'm at sixteen listens and no sign of stopping it yet, though it spills right into Jake Houlsby's Howl and I don't mind that either, on a day like this.

A day like this.

(Ben is fifty-one today. The old man. I removed the previous crack about throwing a forty-ninth party because he chose to pick a fight about it, until I finally reached my limit with alcohol and patience too and I said YOU MIGHT WANT TO STAND HERE AND SHOUT ABOUT CRUNCHING NUMBERS BUT I WAS JUST HAPPY TO SEE YOU, FUCKER. And then he started laughing and got a grip, bitter because he had to miss a huge chunk of time for something stupid he could have done from home. Because travelling around especially right now is stressful and awful. Told you Americans you really should shift your Thanksgiving forward in the year to match ours. It would be so much easier.)

He took his birthday spoils early this morning and I haven't slept yet. I'm trying to walk without limping, trying to drink my coffee while cushioning my bottom lip against the warmth of the cup to hasten the healing from swelling from where he bit into my mouth in a kiss that saw me push away from him long enough to throw out a safe word but he chose to ignore it. No one can be that hungry, can they? No one can ignore an obvious mode of distress whether the lights are on or not and if you devour someone whole without leaving anything at all, well then how are they supposed to grow back?

So I get my second cup of coffee and a few moments of exhausted peace, he gets a restless sleep now, finally at home where he can cradle his guilt in his dreams. If he's smart he'll sleep right through and not have to deal with the rest of their anger after we worked through most of yesterday in spite of snow and ridiculously late flights to see that he still had a birthday dinner for the books, as celebrating on a Monday of all days is absolutely no fun at all.

He is still sober, in case you're looking for the reasons. There are no reasons sometimes, other that the crushing loneliness and stress of life itself. That's why. That's freaking why and that's why I'm not even mad. Just focused. I need to get this weird little fat lip down by the time anyone else walks in and I need to walk normally and I really don't think that's going to happen easily but I can stall for a bit at least. None of it's bad. Compared to Caleb it's barely on the radar. I'll just deflect the criticism and say that I asked for a degree we don't usually turn to and it will be fine. I'll just say I sneezed really hard and bit my lip. I'll say whatever I want but they won't believe me and I'm not about to spend today at war. I missed Ben too much to fight back, felt his absence so glaringly I drank right in front of him to be difficult (out of respect I don't) and let him rain his bullshit down around me until I had to swim to get out of it. It's fine. Not every moment is happy. Not every homecoming is hearts and flowers. Not every day is perfect.

That much I always knew but it always gets better.

I just sneezed again and actually crunched on my stupid lip because it's in the way. What do you want to wager I can say to get a third cup of coffee and just sit here all morning trying to be unnoticeable?

Birthday boy.

Ben is on the way!

Flight is listed as on time, I am losing my mind. Planning a homecoming/birthday party for tonight and he's going to be tired and yet elated to be home and half of us are sick and the other half are tired and Christmas is right around the corner and today is the first Sunday of Advent and yeah, I think I'm too busy to post. I have to go to the airport. Bye!

(I think I thought I saw you try.)

Sam likes a seven-ten wake up on Saturdays and since I'm usually the only one up I tend to knock softly on his door on Saturday mornings, wait for a muffled, unintelligible reply, let myself in and crawl up to the top of his bed where I unearth Sam from a mountain of blankets, going by the soft waves of his hair, usually the only part of him sticking out. I don't know how he breathes but he's always happy to see me, happy for a brief hug and anxious to hear how I slept, how I feel, what I'm thinking, asking me if I need him.

He's always working. Always getting a barometer, ministering constantly. It's his default. He's chosen the right career path, that's for certain He doesn't have many hats, he has one.

But this morning as I came out of the bathroom to find clothes and jewelry after my shower, Lochlan is awake. Sitting up in bed, the light on the bedside table making the room soft and yellow, bathed in warmth.

Sam doesn't need a wakeup this morning. 

Oh, did you talk to him?

No, Matt's car was in the drive when I came up. 

Oh, well, he probably stopped by for their chat and then he left-

Check it before you go down. 

Fine. I turn and walk out on the balcony. It's minus three this morning and I am still naked. My skin turns to frosted glass and I hear Lochlan swear and crawl out of bed. Bridget, what the fuck-

But he's right. Matt's car is parked in the driveway. Would have missed it up in the guest spots on the other side of the stables but I knew where to check.

Bridget, Sam is lonely, that's why he skews harsh-

I'm doing my best!

It isn't your job, Neamhchiontach. You're not responsible for this. If Sam wants to entertain Matt every Christmas without strings you don't have a say in it. 

Every time Matt leaves Sam's heart has a harder time healing itself, Lochlan. 

But it's still better than being functionally alone. 

Is it?

I would chose it. I have chosen it before, if you remember. 

I stare at him in the light. He did. He spent years taking whatever he could get and it was enough, or so I thought but if it's less hard than being alone who am I to fight for misery when temporary joy will do.

Lochlan smooths my bangs out of my eyes as I nod. You get it. I know you get it. 

I stare at him. We really did fuck ourselves over for those permanent connections, holding them so precious when everything else seemed so fleeting, so violently brief.

But why can't he just stay? It's a whisper in the morning darkness.

Some people are birds-

Jacob was a bird, I blurt out, interrupting Lochlan, who at this point remains the most patient man in the universe.

He was a bird, Lochlan nods thoughtfully. But who knows? Maybe Matt will stay on after Christmas. Christmas is about believing in magic, after all. Maybe if we wish hard enough for Sam, it will happen. 

You're getting my hopes up, Locket. 

I'm getting my own up too, he reminds me with a laugh. It would be better for me if he did.
 

Not about Sam because wow, let's talk about something else and we'll deal with that tomorrow.

After a blissful morning doing little other than laundry catch-up and painting my nails for Christmas (I'm allergic, remember? It will last til maybe tomorrow, if I get that far but stupidly I am determined to look pretty and pulled together and if I can't pull that off I will at least attempt to always be decorated) and drinking coffee by the bucketful I stupidly offered to drive Dalton to the mall to pick up a parcel at the post office. He got a final notice, which is neato since there was never any other notice, thanks Canada Post. So off we went and I took parcels to mail home to Nova Scotia and Newfoundland too. Just in case it was a mistake, I didn't want to go that far for nothing.

We listened to the Fiction Family Christmas album on the way. The mall was packed. I drove around the lot three times before I found a spot that I could fit in. The Jeep is huge and I can't see over the front end. I may splurge on a booster seat for myself. I read a funny article the other day on how everything is designed around a male, 5'11, 150 lbs and I laughed and laughed because the absolute only times in life my size has been a good thing are when I'm indulging in commercial airline travel and when I played hide and seek as a child.

That's freaking it.

I can swing my legs in your average airplane. Be jealous. But I do feel your pain. Airplanes are only marginally better than Black Friday, which I didn't really clue in to until we were home and I was telling PJ about the psychotic crowdage at the mall and he said no wonder, being the day it is and I'm like okay, yeah, Friday at lunchtime yeah yeah and then I clued in all at once like WHAT.

I was all set to participate in no-buy Black Friday or whatever because I despise things like crowds, malls, traffic but I did pick up dog treats (on sale) and keurig pods (also on sale) and there was indeed a package waiting for Dalton (where did the other notices go?) and so I fucked that up but I did survive and now all of my away stuff is Fully Sent and Christmas is officially underway, bitches.

Also the dog was very happy his crunchy treats are back in stock.

Happy Buy Nothing day! *covers face in shame*

Holiday Matt, round four.

He showed up before Thanksgiving turkey was even served. Nevermind Thanksgiving was last month, and Americans are behind (as usual). Nevermind we told him never to come back. Nevermind history or broken hearts or loneliness. Just forget about all of that and live in the moment.

I think I understand it now. As an environmental scientist working at a major university he has a lot of time off that coincides with the semester and the department changeover and so he promptly packed a bag, planned some romantic bullshit and showed up on our doorstep, hoping that Sam is somehow free, somehow not dating someone else, and somehow willing to let Matt set foot inside.

Who cares if Sam will. The question is, will I?

And I did because I believe in love but I also believe in bullshit and it's sucky to be lonely at Christmas but it's even worse to pick a hefty New Year's Fight in order to make a clean exit.

Except this time the king of booze has been sober for over a year.

And he thinks that's the golden ticket.

Actually, it's not your drinking, it's just your whole...vibe. I don't have the words. They can't find the holes in my disdain for him to escape so he knows what I mean. Your drinking problem is the least of your worries. 

Then could you help me?

Do what, exactly?

Figure out how to fix it? All of it so that he'll love me again?

He never stopped, Matt. 

No boyfriend? 

No. 

What about...you?

I am not his boyfriend (I told the truth, okay?).

Matt visibly relaxes (wow) and asks if he may come in.

You may not. I'll tell him you were here and if he wants to see you, you may leave your contact information. 

He has my cell. 

Does he? I keep him right on the edge, hanging out over so he can see the earth below. I hope he pees his fucking pants.

I think he does. Here, I'll give it to you in case. 

I put it in my phone and then pocket the phone.

Bridget-

He stops but I wait.

Please tell him I love him. 

Tell him yourself if he contacts you. But Matt, I wish you would remember something. Love isn't a holiday thing. It's all year around. You can't just show up and have a Christmas fling and no one gets hurt. If you think I'm going to allow you to do this to Sam again, you're mistaken. 

How many times did it take you and Loch to get it right, Bridget? 

That's different. 

Right. You have your history, please let us have one for ourselves. I thought he was being facetious but then I looked up into his face. He is stricken, ashes and regret.

I'll tell him you were here, I promise, closing the door in his face.
 

Wasting nightlight.

I found a little bee today, cold and stiff and a little lost in the bottom of the pool. I carried him up and lay him in the flowers and he seemed far happier, though still cold. I don't know why he was way down in the pool. I don't know why I was either, truth be told, so we can be lost together.

Maybe we're dead.

I found a new song today. Orbital Grace by Grin. It's a sludgery-drudgery piece that speaks to the feelings I have regarding the two whopping whole hours of daylight today and fit my mood perfectly. Plus PJ loved it, so there's a bonus. Yesterday he gifted me Silvertomb's new album with instructions to listen to it in reverse track order first and I'm forever grateful. It's so good.

I found a new way to live today. Quietly. On the edge. In the sun. One foot in front of the other. Lifejacket on, just in case though the water seems to be knee-deep it's always deceiving. I need to not be doing that. I need to not be at the bottom of the pool. The water here is symbolic but then again maybe so is the bee.

Living saints, hungry wolves, stupid girl.

(Here's how it works. The moment I stop talking the ballads spool up in my head, blindingly loud. Maybe I'm not deaf. Maybe the music's just in the way. You should hear the incredible screech when someone says something and the music stops so that I can respond. Please make sure that gets put in the movie, that loud ballads play constantly while she walks around, while she thinks. It'll make more sense that way, I promise.)

I got cornered. It was around midnight, the house was dark and quiet, tiny fairy lights the only lights I use to make my way around. Since Ben is away we can have nightcaps in bed, Lochlan and I, and we really need our rituals tonight. It's been a long and difficult week and it's Monday so that's something right there.

When I step out of the butler's pantry Caleb is blocking the door. I startle but steady my arms and I don't spill even a drop. Lucky for me, as it's the very best stuff.

You're not wearing August's ring. 

No. See my hand? Right now it's only Lochlan's and Ben's. Yours is in the dish already because I don't sleep in it. 

You wore it with him-

I look at the floor. We were in a rush, Diabhal.

He sets his face and looks at the ceiling. I don't want to miss my chance, Neamhchiontach. 

You didn't. You're right here. 

I don't want to be on the outside. I don't want to be alone anymore. If I don't push this, if I don't take this chance I'm dooming myself to a life alone. 

I stare at him in the dark. Forever. I finally take one of the drinks, pressing it against his chest. Let me talk to Lochlan. Lochlan who never gets a break. Lochlan, who's been so patient I may as well change his name and press him into a medal to wear at this point. Lochlan, patron saint of wolves.

Caleb lets out a visible rush of stress, passing me back the glass. No, tonight is his night. Knowing you aren't willingly shutting me out, as if on purpose, is all I need to sleep. 

I stare at him once more. I can't decide if he's overdramatizing this to secure his intent or if he's just being real with me.

Bridget-

Listen. If you can't sleep or if you can't stay asleep come find us. Ben's away. There's space-

I know. Thank you, Neamhchiontach. He kisses my forehead, takes my glass again, drinking a sip, and then he's gone into the night.

I spilled a lot of whiskey on the way upstairs because I ran. I was scared he was going to pop up again out of the dark and chase me all the way home. When I made it to our rooms, Lochlan gave me a look that said he knows that the music is pretty loud on the inside, especially after I see the Devil in the flesh and so he took both glasses, poured what was left into the other, drank the result and told me I was fucked in the head.

For every dream that is left behind me
I take a bow
With every war that will rage inside me
I hear the sound
Of another day in this vanishing life
Returned to dust
And every chance I pushed away
Into the night