It falls softly, white flakes lightly cascading over him as a whirl of wind blows languidly. Trees wave lazily in tune with the wind's whistle, like a dance that can only be captured by still objects. Their leaves wave, fall, and then flutter to the ground. Patches of evergreen sit apart from bare deciduous, and in between the mixing of plants is a white field with a single, large rock resting away from the center, painstakingly positioned to give whatever perches on it a view of the frozen lake beyond the trees.

The crunch beneath his boot is pleasant. Waylon imagines it as the snap of twigs from a wild animal, pretending that he is listening to its walk as he follows its trail. The two, man and beast, parallel each other, one crunch swapped for another. He neither gains leverage over the animal nor loses his place behind it. The snow blows in his face and he narrows his eyes, absently wondering why he left his goggles at home but the thought passes almost as soon as it came.

After an indefinite amount of time—he wasn't walking too fast—he reaches the rock and slaps his palm against it. It is an interesting creation, with lines of different colors ranging from very sandy yellow to dark grey, and its surface is smooth but coarse enough for one to sit on without slipping. Reaching up to wipe the steadily growing pile of snow off its top, he anchors his fist into a small slot in the side of the rock and grabs as far on the opposite side as he can. With a grunt, he kicks off the ground and clambers on to the rock until he is kneeling several feet in the air. His knees burn and the spot where he knocked his elbow aches, but a sigh of relief passes his lips and he watches with a softened demeanor as the air circles away from him.

Shuffling on to his behind, he shrugs off his backpack and rests it across his lap. Unzipping it takes some effort with his gloves, but soon enough the smallest compartment is open. He digs around it until his fingers connect with what he's looking for.

Ignoring the slight tremor in his hand, he pulls out his phone and leans forward so that his elbows are on the bag. The wind has slacked, which comes as a welcomed surprise since he won't have to worry about water droplets obscuring the screen every time he wipes his phone. He turns on the screen, stares at the wallpaper, winces, and then moves his gaze back out to the wild with a huff.

The world before him is silent, yet it is far from dead. He once believed that during each winter the plants and animals died—it explained why he never saw any animals, and why the trees withered away in a matter of weeks, but stillness overcame not only the outside but the inside. He watched as life seemed to come to a halt and cold settled into places that should have been warm. Death seemed to be the only viable answer, or at least it had been before he recognized the brilliance and resilience that resided in nature.

Winter, as he has come to learn, is not a reaper of death, but of tenacity and preservation. He accepts the quiet with open arms, basks in it on occasion, but today…today the cold serves to merely numb his hollow chest.

Read Tue 9:37 PM

The time stamp is already burned into his mind, yet seeing it again ignites a flame. The hollow pit within him deepens as his eyes water and then dries from the cold. He wipes the frozen tears away despite the sharp sting from pressing leather into his eyes. Sighing, Waylon rereads the one-sided conversation.

"Miles, we're going to have to talk about this soon. Everything. With no appeasement because I'm really done with that and I can't keep this whole charade of 100% happiness up. Our /relationship/ can't and you know this.

"it feels like we're fighting an uphill battle

"And I don't want to think that everything is bad because it's not. Being with you in person is great but we aren't constantly together and I feel that there's been a shift in our relationship that's just leading us down.

"I value us and I value your friendship and love and I hope

"I hope you feel the same."

Read Tue 9:37 PM

His breathing is shaky now, body too sensitive to the cold and he hears the slight rustle of something behind him. Deer, probably, but even if he wanted to look he wouldn't be able to because everything just hurts and it feels like his soul is being ripped in half. He slides his thumb across the screen to look at their earlier messages.

Sun 6:55 PM

Waylon: I love you!

Miles: Love you too

Waylon: Goodnight, idiot

Tue 5:56 PM

Miles: I know what it is now. or what it's called: Self loathing. I have a problem with that.

Perhaps it was Waylon's fault that they're at this stage now. He could have negated his feelings to help Miles, could have held back for a few more days-

But that never helps, does it? Ignore the issue and repeat the cycle, save their crisis for another day? He's willing to wait for Miles, to help him where he needs it, to care for and hold him, and all Miles has to do is answer him. Tell Waylon that he needs time, or that he doesn't want to talk about it, or that he's going through his own shit and can't deal with their shit right now, but Miles is doing none of those. He is leaving Waylon in cold, bitter silence.

It takes a substantial amount of effort to stop himself from either slamming his phone against the rock or throwing it somewhere into the snow. Instead, he swallows a scream and rakes his fingers through his hair.

Warmth envelops his hands under the beanie, but it isn't enough to keep the unforgivable cold from seeping through the knitting. It chills him all the way down his spine and a violent shiver rakes through his body. However slight, the wind is biting and fierce and all he can feel are the tendrils of icy dread wrapping around his shoulders and pulling him into a pit of despair, and pain, and fear, and-

His chest constricts and a sob leaves him. He presses the back of his hand to his lips to stifle the rest but the leather fails as an insulator and he winces at hearing himself sound so weak. It's a dry cry with no tears or snot, a small mercy, sure, but that doesn't lessen the degenerating ache in his chest.

Outside of his self-pity he hears the whistle of wind, signifying its pick up as a surge of cool air whips around him. Curling into an upright ball helps retain his warmth, plus the layers of jacket, scarf, hat, gloves, and normal clothing work to keep him from feeling the weather's full impact. He's unsure how much time has passed when he's calm enough to raise his head from his arms and gaze out across the field to the frozen lake. A rim of snow surrounds it, like a white fortress, while the lake itself is a crisp blue. There's another rustle somewhere behind him, but with the growing wind and snowfall it quickly fades into the background and out of his mind.

Shoving his phone into his backpack Waylon sighs and mumbles, "Merry Christmas to me."

"And a happy New Year?"

He jerks forward and scrambles to the edge of the rock, whirling around like a man caught in the act of adultery. Opposite him is a man without a hat, apologetic smile on his lips, and a multitude of scars lining the right side of his face. It reminds Waylon of Harvey Dent, but he shuns that thought before his lips could twitch into a smirk.

The man cautiously steps forward and furrows his brows. "I didn't mean to frighten you. It's just strange to see someone out here in such," he glances around the field, "sorrowful weather."

"It's not that bad if you don't mind the snow. I'd say it's peaceful," Waylon says. Shifting his position so that he could slide off the rock and run at a moment's notice, he maintains a buffer zone between himself and the stranger while keeping a polite air about him. Mirroring the man's smile, Waylon says, "This is a park, you know. People can be anywhere."

"Yes, but I am fairly sure that this section of the forest is not within the city's jurisdiction." The man says this as if speaking to a child, which is only made worse because Waylon is pretty sure that there is a five or more year gap between them. The man levels him with a raised eyebrow.

Waylon wipes some snow off the bridge of his nose. "If this piece of land is neither government owned nor private property then I do not see where the problem is."

"I never said that there was a problem, Mr.?"

"Park."

"Gluskin," the man—Mr. Gluskin—says. He tilts his chin up which shields most of his scars from Waylon. The name rings a bell somehow, although Waylon doubts that he has ever met this man before.

Another gust of wind hits Waylon's back, causing him to shiver and draw his hands into his lap. Now that his heart rate is almost normal and he's prompted on his knees, he scans over the length of Mr. Gluskin's body.

He adorns a brown overcoat that is buttoned all the way, the collar of it hidden beneath a thick, black scarf. It hangs behind his left shoulder, waving slightly with the wind. Gluskin's hands are clasped in front of him, the leather gloves resembling Waylon's but with a cleaner cut and slick finish. Yet despite the small details of his attire and face, if Waylon places his attention elsewhere and not directly on Gluskin, the man seems to vanish almost entirely. Not that he becomes translucent, but highly insignificant in the grand picture; he blends into his environment while simultaneously standing out like a sore thumb. The paradox rattles Waylon until Mr. Gluskin shifts uncomfortably, probably due to his—far from inconspicuous—staring and blank expression.

So, figuring that the other man isn't imposing an immediate threat, Waylon settles back on to his bottom and crosses his legs, dragging his backpack along the rock until its resting in front of him. He absentmindedly toys with the bulge of his phone. "So how long were you standing behind me?" he asks. "I don't think that's something most people would do if they're trying to tell someone to stop trespassing."

"I wasn't reprimanding you, Mr. Park," Gluskin's smile is borderline charming. "And I've been out here for some time now. Actually saw you come out of the trees and climb on to this rock. I would have spoken to you earlier, but you didn't seem very approachable at the time."

Waylon sighs into his palm. "You don't say," he drawls.

Gluskin flashes Waylon a certain look that expresses confusion and interest before crossing the space between them—more specifically, him and the rock—and leaning his elbows against the stone. He peers up at Waylon and Waylon can't help but think of a puppy.

"If I may, and hopefully I'm not stepping on any toes," he glances at Waylon's boots, "but why did you come out here? This field is pretty far from the park, let alone the city."

It's a good question, reasonable at the very least for someone to wonder why he was outside, in the middle of practically nowhere, nonetheless, to simply sit on a rock and watch the snow fall. It's strange, especially for city-dwellers, and he lost his chance to fake an accent and pretend he was from the country minutes ago.

But Gluskin isn't outside of this scenario and Waylon can deflect his embarrassment on to him. "Why are you out here so far away from the city?" he asks a little too nasally.

Either Gluskin didn't pick up on the bratty-ness or he ignores it. "Since you're asking," he starts, "I don't live too far from here. Haven't been much of a city person since I was a child; although, I do make my living there. It's a worthwhile commute."

"What do you do?"

"Now aren't you inquisitive," Gluskin says with a chuckle as Waylon's cheeks burn from the teasing. Shifting so that he's leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, Waylon answers, "I don't see a problem with being curious."

"And there is none," Gluskin shakes his head. When he looks back up at Waylon there is softness to his eyes that makes Waylon want to recoil; however, he ignores the urge and welcomes the lightness with a slight, barely visible nod. "Anyway, I asked you a question first and you neglected to answer it."

Waylon waves dismissively. "I answered it with my own question."

"I don't think that's the way it works, Mr. Park."

"Well," Waylon says, dragging out the syllable until the word perishes in the wind. Snow is still falling; although, it seems to be lazily drifting than coming down to blanket the ground. He tries to spot his footprints but they are hardly visible by now, only the closest ones leaving any indication that someone ever breached its perfection. He knows that Gluskin is waiting patiently, can feel his gaze on his face, but instead of encouraging him to answer it makes Waylon want to shield himself or snap at the man.

Why does Gluskin care—no, care is too strong of a word, the man is simply curious. He knows this, knows that Gluskin is just trying to make small talk but the topic is too sore and all Waylon wanted to do was hide away from the world for an hour before having to slap on a mask and act like he isn't dying on the inside. Waylon tastes something wet on his tongue and realizes that his mouth is open; he snaps it closed with a flush.

"Are you alri-"

"I'm fine," Waylon cuts Gluskin off hastily, not wanting the man to finish his sentence. He doesn't want pity or sympathy or anything else this stranger may want to give; he wants silence and snow and cold and emptiness, all in one, slammed right into his gut for him to revel in until Miles answers him.

But when does Waylon Park ever get what he wants?

"Mr. Park," Gluskin says as he slides along the rock until he is directly in front of Waylon. His arms flex for a second and Waylon is sure that the man is about to jump on to the rock with him, but Gluskin apparently dismisses that idea and sticks to stilling Waylon with a look of concern.

"When you came out of the forest your head was down and you looked completely dejected," he says. "You must have felt the snow pelting your face, but you showed no reaction to it. You are not okay-"

"I'm fine-"

"You are not and I am just," he cuts himself off there and casts his gaze aside, eyebrows furrowed, tongue coming out to wet his lips and taste the melted snow that had gathered there. He seems wary, or contemplative, and Waylon imagines a row of gears turning in his head. The younger man does not interrupt the silence though, curiosity causing him to wait for the other to speak.

After what seems like forever, Gluskin turns back to Waylon with a slight smile. "Just trying to be considerate, is all."

Sure it is, Waylon thinks but is careful not to say. He can sense the unknown motives of this man, yet they are too vague and obscure to place. Is it possible that he is actually a Good Samaritan and just wants to help another person out? Sure, but the odds are highly unlikely and Waylon's fight or flight instincts are settling at the base of his spine.

"I appreciate the offer," Waylon begins despite the rejected gleam that flashes through Gluskin's eyes, "but I promise you that…that everything is okay. I really just want time to think."

Gluskin perks up with that. "Then allow me to join you," he says and bends his arms in preparation to jump.

"By myself" Waylon shouts before Gluskin could propel himself on to the rock. The man leans back so that his arms are no longer bent, but his palms are still planted firmly on the side of the rock. Clearing his throat, Waylon says, "I want time by myself, to clear my head."

"I won't bother you," Gluskin tries.

"That doesn't count as me being alone." He tries to laugh in a poor attempt to lighten his words but it just turns into a hoarse cough and lends to the cold burning the tips of his ears and nose. "Look, I don't mean to sound harsh or anything, but I really would like time to myself. Just me and nature."

"It'll be like I'm not even here," Gluskin, the bastard, tries once more and if Waylon glares at him for his persistence, who could blame him. Why is Gluskin fighting him so hard? It's perplexing, this determination to be near him, especially since it's coming from a complete stranger. Waylon opens his mouth to say no, to tell Gluskin to leave, when he notices the man's stance and before he can protest Gluskin is already hurling himself onto the rock beside Waylon.

"What are you doing?" Waylon squeaks and grabs his backpack to place it between them.

Gluskin wipes off the snow on his gloves. "Is it not obvious?"

"Well y-yeah, yeah it's pretty obvious. But why?"

"You interest me," Gluskin says passively, as if stating a fact, while Waylon's show of embarrassment only grows. He hardly spares Waylon a glance before settling into his spot beside the man and tightening the scarf around his neck. "And I was tired of standing."

Waylon frowns. "You could have gone home."

"And so could you, but your stubbornness kept you here." Gluskin scratches his chin, and as if the comment is an afterthought, he says, "Like a little minx."

Waylon shivers again, but he's sure that it's not because of the cold. Ignoring the churn in his gut, he turns his bag so that the straps are facing Gluskin and opens the compartment with his phone in it. Still no messages. He puts it back as his heart sinks even further.

"So you're just gonna sit here with me, huh?" He asks pointlessly; the answer is obvious.

Gluskin quirks his head to the side and says, "Why are you asking so many questions? I'm sorry, Mr. Park, but was it not you who said they wanted silence?"

"I can wait for silence when there are more pressing matters on the table," he mumbles this, and it must have caught Gluskin's attention because the man is staring at him again. Waylon tries to hold his resolve for as long as he can, but his resolve must not have been much because within a minute he is cracking. Sighing, Waylon drags his hand down his face and grumbles into it, "I just wanted to sit and think for a while, okay? I'm going through a…a break up, I guess, with someone I've spent years with and all I wanted was to sit in silence and deal with it. Okay?" His shoulders shake and fingers flex over his nose. Inhaling sharply, Waylon holds it until his lungs ache. "Now can we just do this or should I go into excruciating detail about my failed love life?"

Gluskin just continues to stare at him in unreadable silence, so Waylon rolls his eyes and looks away, focusing on watching individual snowflakes float until they disappear.

When his body relaxes as much as it can with how cold it is, and his thoughts melt into a slosh of nothingness, Waylon wonders what Miles is doing. Is he sitting at home on his computer, hunting down the next lead for a big investigation? Or is he laughing over a table, beer in hand, surrounded by coworkers? If Waylon chooses to stretch his imagination he can see Miles slumped on the couch, the skin around his eyes darkened from lack of sleep, empty cans and glass bottles of alcohol and soda scattered around him, phone in hand, staring at Waylon's messages and trying to figure out how to respond. Would he put so much effort into their relationship? Does he even care?

Waylon's inhale is shaky, thoughts swarming in his head like ravenous torrents. He clutches his backpack until his fingers feel numb and the leather from his gloves stick to his skin. Gluskin is still sitting beside him but his form is blurry, nothing more than a silhouette in Waylon's narrowing vision. He stares at the point where grey stone meets white snow and tries to pinpoint the exact line where the switch occurs. It shifts his train of thought for a few minutes, but ends in no avail when his gaze moves to the outline of his phone and his hearts sinks again.

"I," he hears himself say, yet his voice is nearly unrecognizable. Small, fearful, he's never had the most bravado but when did he start sounding so despondent? "I've spent three years with this person, a-and it feels like everything has," he swallows, "has amounted to nothing."

There, he said something. Waylon waits for Gluskin to add his input, or tell him to continue, but the stranger allows the wind to blow and Waylon lacks the energy to look at Gluskin and see where his thoughts stand. Rubbing his thumbs together, he blinks hard and tries to work past his fear of judgment. Gluskin is a stranger, anyway; the man asked for this and Waylon shouldn't give a damn what he thinks if he'll most likely never see him again.

Gaining a bout of confidence and indifference, Waylon presses on. "Anyway, the issue here is that…my partner and I aren't talking to each other. I know that he's busy with work and investigating and all, but I see him make time for other people and hold conversations but with me, it's different. I feel like I can't talk to him, and it doesn't help that he doesn't put in the effort.

"Maybe I'm just being stupid, y'know? Maybe I'm asking for something that he can't give or maybe I'm making an issue out of something so simple and fixable. I just," here Waylon sighs and squeezes his eyes shut, allowing the snow to wash over him for a second…and then another… "I can't keep rejecting my feelings because I'm trying to appease him. It's so painfully obvious how I can't deal with this over and over again, and I know what I should do. I should—no, we should break up. I know this. We're unhealthy. What do you do to repair a dying relationship? They're supposed to be built upon trust and communication and safety.

"And I hate having to make that choice, Mr. Gluskin. I hate knowing that I'm going to be the one," his breath catches, denial urging his mouth to close but he can't stop now, not here. "It's my decision. Three fucking days of silence, how can I ignore the answer? He's not going to talk to me. I know it, Gluskin. He's not going to talk and I'm going to have to do it."

He forces himself to breathe out slowly before continuing. "I'm just afraid. I'm afraid of letting go, of ending 'us.' I don't, I don't want to. But it really feels like that'll be for the best."

If the weight of the air is any indication, it's too heavy for him to deny. It takes some time, but soon Waylon is flexing his fingers and opening his eyes to stare out into the tranquility around him. He's terribly cold from being out for so long, and his feet are practically inexistent. But the cold is peaceful, and having someone there with him in this time of despair is a God-send.

With words of gratitude on his lips, Waylon turns to face Gluskin and is shocked when he finds empty space. "How the hell," he mumbles to himself as he pats the place where Gluskin was sitting. The air is still as he crawls to lean over the rock's edge, peering over its side to see if the man slipped off or decided to hide.

The patch of snow on the ground is unbroken.

"Ha ha, Mr. Gluskin. I spill my heart out and you decide to lighten the mood by playing a joke," Waylon says to the air while standing up with his hands on his hips. He searches the field for any signs of life, staring at the snow and trees with growing anxiety as nothing catches his eye. Gluskin couldn't have just disappeared, not with how close they were sitting. It would have been impossible to sneak away as cleanly as he did; so why is it so hard to find him?

Waylon feels a sense of despair wedge in his gut the longer he stands there helplessly, perplexed beyond his understanding and searching for a sign of the stranger. Determined to scour the entire field until he finds Gluskin, even if that means stumbling upon his house like a lost puppy, Waylon moves to hop off the rock when he feels his phone vibrate from inside of the bag.

He has half the mind to not look at it (he's not in the mood to talk to anyone, quite frankly), but for some reason he feels drawn to it. He could look for Gluskin in a second, anyway, he decides as he grabs his phone and unlocks it, watching as it automatically opens a text message.

Today, 1min ago

Miles: Hey Waylon, I don't know if you're ready to forgive me…or if it's even worth it, but I'm sorry. This is my fault. Everything. Every little bit of this. You didn't do anything, and you don't deserve this. I needed to say this sooner, but I just couldn't get the words together. I wasn't mad at you; I was mad at myself…and some of that anger was taken out on you. This is my fault.

Today, 30s ago

Miles: Waylon, please

Today, just now

Miles: Waylon?

Miles: ...I'm sorry