Sam asked for a barometer (in writing) and so this is what I made. Enjoy.

When February rolls around, I'll roll my eyes
Turn a cold shoulder to these even colder skies
And by the fire, my heart it heaves a sigh
For the green grass waiting on the other side

It's always Winter, but never Christmas
It seems this curse just can't be lifted
Yet in the midst of all this ice and snow
Our hearts stay warm cause they are filled with hope

In spite of August taking over the Christmas playlist with his never-ending love for Kelly Clarkson, who does indeed put out a tremendously emotion-filled Christmas album in comparison to (most of) the others, I pulled rank, since he lives elsewhere and have parked Relient K's Christmas album. The boys are not impressed because I've played In Like A Lion at least fifteen times until PJ stepped in with his rarely-glimpsed impatience. It's profoundly sad and it takes them forever to realize that's why I love it.

Enough, Bridge. I'm going to change it for a little while.

The camper was a cage, walls making up the bars, door never left open lest I fly out and away onto the summer sky to somewhere new. New is a pipe dream and I can't see through to the other side. Freedom is a myth, told around a campfire to a small but eager eight-year-old girl with a sticky face and a reeling head from too much cotton candy after dinner, one who was never sure if a myth is a real thing like history or a dream-story like Treasure Island or Les Miserables. 

(Wait-)

He didn't wake up, didn't budge, didn't move a muscle with me in his arms last night and I'm sick this morning, overheated and under-comfortable. I'm already plotting to go somewhere else, anywhere else because Lochlan's fear is claustrophobic, suffocative, and terrifying in its strength. The eight-year-old is no match for it. The adult who hides her down deep inside even less so, as she had the most precious, incredible gift of ignorance and naivite on her side and I don't. Not anymore.

I can't find enough words to make that fear go away for him. Ben says Lochlan has to get rid out of himself, that I can't do the work for him. That I can't make him dependent on me for that, that he needs to figure it out and until he does, he will take it out on me.

He tells me to go-

I know. He'll figure it out. Just do what you want and it will either be enough or eventually he'll break and then he'll fix it. 

My mind flies out from my skull (bones are bars too) and finds Jake on a rooftop. Jacob couldn't fix it-

Aw fuck, Bridge, that's not what I meant. Loch isn't like that. 

"Like" what? 

But Ben has walked right into my trap. It's a widowmaker and Jesus Fucking Christ, I can't even set it up properly. I just walk in circles in the woods and every now and then I come across it and there's a man in it and the jaws are closed and I act so surprised, as if I had no idea this would happen.

And my brain will say, Oh! A MAN. Whatever shall we do with him? And then I pick his bones clean, cast a spell of resurrection, and we do it all again in the morning because what am I if I'm not some magical, carnivorous bird to sweep into this glorious nest at holiday time and get. fucking. stuffed.

Honey water and sweet sauce.

I'm sorry, I spent today on the drive with King of Donairs because you can't get a real Halifax donair here in Vancouver and oh, don't they know it. But that's okay. I bought an armload and then we sat in the car with copious handfuls of napkins and shitty cans of Diet Pepsi for the full 1987 effect and ate them off our laps, bringing the rest home for later.

(Spoiler alert: 'Later' was as soon as we had our coats off.)

I missed a chance to go to Rosemary Rocksalt (my second favorite love, just kidding, I love everything technically) and now I'm perusing subscription New York bagel deliveries online.

I've had four hours of sleep. I am a fucking mess but a Full and Content mess, fuck you very much and Sam says I'm going to go to hell because I haven't been to church at all and advent is just flying by, picking up speed as it heads downhill.

You should be the one to talk. 

I'll see you there. 

Good, because I've missed you. I give up the fight and let him have it only so he gets my point, shoved deep into his chest. I don't like Matt. I used to love Matt but then he hurt Sam over and over again. Matt is Sam's Cole and someday one of them will die from heartbreak. It can't be Sam. I will shelter him with my spindly arms but he won't be the one. He was meant for a greater life than this.

Or maybe this is the greater life. After all, we have donairs. Real ones. Not ones with lettuce, cheese or chicken. Christ, Vancouver.

Postevil.

I was kidnapped briefly last night for a nightcap. Caleb made us a couple of concords (so good! Violet tea, grape juice, gin and a bunch of other bits and bobs), and had a fire roaring away in the great room off the kitchen. I'm game. I'm always ready. Except he sat down after putting our drinks on the table and patted the space beside him on the big wraparound couch. The lights are off, only the fairy lights and the flames showing me the room, empty save for him. I move to sit next to him and instead he pulls me into his lap. Old dog, old tricks. I anchor my knees against his hips and lean forward for a kiss as he tucks my hair behind my ears.

Up close the fine lines of time melt into a crinkled, delighted grin and he is eighteen again. Up close his fingertips are soft against my head. Up close is the habitual, historical stubble that burns my skin so readily, flaying me open so he can suck the meat right off my bones, leaving me deconstructed, limp on the floor.

I turn and fetch our drinks, twisting at the waist without leaving his arms. A sip confirms it was worth accepting this invitation. He follows my lead, tipping his glass up without taking his eyes off mine.

This is so good. 

You're so good, Neamhchiontach.

I should be asleep. 

Come stay with me tonight. 

I tilt my head, watching him. What's in it for me? I tease him. It's an old tease, going on decades now, but only when things are good.

Whatever you want. 

I want some fresh baked bread. 

I'll head out in the morning. 

Right now. 

Let me make a call. 

I don't actually, I just wanted to see how you were going to pull that off. 

I was going to call the Keg and see if they could do take out. 

Oh my God, I love Keg bread. 

He laughs. You really don't ask for much. 

Have you ever made that offer to anyone else?

His eyes darken. Of course not. Actually, that isn't right. I did make the offer to Lochlan, and to Jacob. 

Were they on your lap? I make the joke before my brain can register the meaning and I want to cry suddenly.

You're worth absolutely any price to me. That has never changed, Bridget. You know this.

I finish the drink in one gulp, putting the glass on the table. His is only half-gone but he does the same. I move to get up from his lap but he holds my wrists, my hands against his heart. I lean in once again and give him a very soft, very light kiss.

Goodnight, Diabhal. 

Don't call me that anymore. 

I shall be my own lyric transcriptionist, and boy is it getting frustrating.

Remember this playlist? I think I've done it again.

When the broken fall alive
Let the light take me too
When the waters turn to fire
Heaven please let me through

Oh. So beautifully done. It's like The Great Divide and Psycho had a baby and named it Far Away. I wondered for a while if it would be a cover of Nickelback's Far Away and that had me a little worried because Jacob LOVED that song but this is new, thank God. And new Breaking Benjamin music is always an amped-up especially-excitable thing to a Bridget.

(If I had Spotify (I don't because industry reasons), my top artist would always read BB, because I default to them constantly. Not sorry.)

None of this is to be confused with anything else in my music catalog, like  Farther Away by Evanescence, Never Far Away by Chris Cornell, Deepfield's So Far Away (this shares a name with Avenged Sevenfold's So Far Away but the second is original while the first is a cover) U2's Stay (Far Away, So Close), So Far Away by David Gilmour (not related to the Deepfield or Avenged Sevenfold songs), Over The Hills and Far Away (Zeppelin, naturally), or Coldplay's Postcards from Far Away.

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.