. hands growing colder

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Cleo stirs, her head buried under a pillow to keep out the insistent creep of daylight. She wakes in much the same way as she had the past few weeks, slowly coming to with a sense of dread in the pit of her stomach, a general feeling of unease that she had come to know intimately over the course of this horrendous year. Today her usual feeling of dread is combined with a bitterness that was a relatively new phenomenon, brought on by a recent piece of news: she was going to be getting a $600 stimulus check. Today, this news was doubly depressing, swimming around her mind and making it difficult to feel at all festive, despite it being Christmas day. Groaning, she drags herself up from bed. Her phone is ablaze with Christmas texts, little gift and tree emojis taunting her as she dares to glance at the screen. What a joke. Forcing herself into the shower, Cleo isn't sure why she bothers to wash her hair and brush her teeth, a listlessness having settled so deeply into her bones. The pandemic had rendered her unemployed and whilst she'd initially loved having so much free time, the realization that she couldn't do very much with it had rather soured the mood. "Come on, come on," she mutters to herself, staring at her reflection in the mirror. It was time to snap out of this depression. For starters, the bangs she'd cut herself out of sheer boredom didn't look half bad, she thinks. In fact, perhaps today would be the first day in weeks, potentially months, that she'd bother to put on makeup. Without thinking too much about it, she's brushed pink along her cheeks, coated her lashes with dark mascara and run a flash of glitter across her eyes. Looking at herself in the mirror, she almost sees a glimmer of the version of herself she used to be.  Feeling strangely uplifted by this, an idea crosses her mind. She knows Theo's working today, as he had been practically every day, the absence of him and Lily contributing drastically to her low mood. But he couldn't help working, and so she'd do something nice for him. With one quick trip to the store, Cleo is back in her apartment building, stood outside the door to the apartment just down the hall from her own. She's dressed in an oversized red sweater and matching mask, her arms laden with shopping bags. "Hey, Ollie, you in?" She asks, knocking again. "I swear, I'm just stopping by. All you need to do is unlock the door and I'll be out of your hair."

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The air of the apartment drags with a heavy melancholy and nostalgia feels like dread within the soul of Oliver. He shuts out the daylight with black out blinds and slouches in an old green LazyBoy and stares at the television while as A Wonderful Life plays. He hates this fucking movie, but he can't help but hurt his feelings with it. It makes him feels the enormous weight of loneliness; grief creeps into him and finds himself pushing sorry tears from his eyes. There's these happy memories that seem unattainable as of late and the past keeps growing farther away. As the years pass, the details are losing their sharpness. Cheap whiskey splashes into his mouth and he leans back in the chair. It's his first drink of the day and it feels sharp on his tongue. He's been drinking so much of this shit lately that he might as well be their mascot. Ollie gave up on a lot of things pre-Covid, but during the pandemic he managed to give up on a few more things. One of them being shaving. He's looking at George Bailey's beautiful smooth face and almost thinks he should shave the thick nest of hair that's resting on his lower half of his face. But a rap on the door distracts him from the act. He ignores it. Does anyone in this building actually know he lives here? It was for Theo or Lily. I mean, obviously. But then there's this sugar sweet voice that makes his face roll in his tired head. He finishes off his drink and shoves himself up from the chair. It was Christmas. He unlatches the door and sees Cleo hiding under a fresh curtain of hair. "Uhm, hey," he's a bit groggy and awkward, "Merry Christmas."

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Looking at the bags full of groceries that are weighing heavy in her arms, Cleo remembers a crucial fact she had somehow forgotten in the fog of her morning: she cannot cook to save her life. The realization threatens to drag her back into her own misery, depression lapping at her ankles like the sea, the tide threatening to rush in and drag her under the surface. She almost hopes that no one's in, that she can creep back to her apartment and microwave whatever she can, eating it in the cocoon of her weighted blanket. But sure enough the door opens, a scruffy, impossibly tall man stood in a dark room. "Merry Christmas," she says, looking up at Oliver's face, unfamiliar through the beard. "Can you grab that bag?" she asks, gesturing at the third paper grocery bag she had abandoned at her feet, having struggled to get it all the way upstairs from the store. She invites herself in, brushing past him as she goes and catching the faintest scent of booze. What time was it? Ignoring it, she heads to their tiny kitchen, a mirror image of her own. She sets the groceries down and starts fishing out pots and pans. "If you're wondering why I'm here, it's not to see you," she clarifies, always feeling like he felt she had an unnatural interest in him. Probably because at one point she'd had an undeniably unnatural interest in him. "I was just sitting around my apartment feeling sorry for myself, when I remembered that Theo's working and I felt more sorry for him. So I'm here cooking him Christmas dinner so he can have it when he gets home. Ignore me!" The stupidity of the idea is slowly dawning on her but she can't back out now.  With an uncooked turkey crown, cranberries, sprouts, potatoes, carrots and stuffing all sat on the counter, she stands back to take stock. This couldn't be so hard, could it? She pulls out her phone, starting to scroll through recipes. She peels the vegetables, scores the sprouts. She decants things into pots. After about ten minutes, she hits a roadblock and has to come out to see Oliver, sheepish behind her mask. She pulls it off. "Quick question... How do you turn the oven on?"

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Her small frame hugs giant bags of groceries and he's about to reach out to offer to bring them up, when she forces herself into the apartment. He scoops up the bagged turkey and follows her with a bit of a curious glare (can you glare curiously?). He's expecting her to drop and go, but she hovers around and unloads their cupboards. His fingers massage his temple. This was too much for a morning. "Ah," he crosses his arms and frowns at her. He doesn't know when Theo will be back, but knowing his saint of a brother.. it likely won't be till the food is plastic wrapped and cold in the fridge. Oliver digs into the fridge and pulls out a beer. "Good luck," it opens with a hiss and he gives her situation another look over before settling into the next room. A Wonderful Life feels tainted now that Cleo is here. He feels exposed... like shouldn't he be watching Billy Bob Thornton piss himself as Santa? Isn't that the type of person he is? His thumb hovers on the remote but he can't will himself out of his sole tradition. "Fine," he mutters to George Bailey while ripping over a box of Christmas chocolates. There's a lot of chopping, banging and clattering in the next room. When it goes silent, he wonders if he should check in. But ah, no need. "Hm, not sure," he lies. He presses pause and heaves himself out of the chair once more. "Here. Bake. Then.. probably 350," he looks at her turkey, "you're just going to put it in like that then?"

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The enormity of her undertaking is physically manifested by the mountains of food, the petite girl barely able to get to grips with it. She had spent weeks now wondering what she'd do for her own Christmas meal, eventually deciding she'd order Chinese takeout and pretend it wasn't Christmas at all. She pictured her sister at home with their parents in Alaska, furry antlers on her head as she sang along to cheesy songs and helped their mom with all the food prep. Cleo, by contrast, would be in the living room with their dad, helping him to collapse cardboard boxes and singing along to their own traditional Christmas watch: About a Boy. Her heart hurt with longing for her family, regret at not being able to see them threatening to kill what little Christmas cheer she had. Instead, she soldiers on. Her eyes follow Oliver as he grabs a beer and she goes to say something about it, only to remember that she'd usually be at least four glasses deep in Champagne at this point. She continues with her research, leaning against the kitchen counter and scrolling through impenetrable instructions, a slow fear that she might end up poisoning her friend creeping up on her. Heading to the doorway, she leans against it, her blue eyes flickering at the screen. Was that It's A Wonderful Life? She's about to ask when he tells her he doesn't know about the oven, making her heart sink. "Oh, okay," she starts, though she trails off as he stands. He really was so tall. He seems even more so as he comes to join her in the kitchen, surveying her handiwork (or lack thereof). "Got it, thanks," she says, trying to keep their interactions minimal. In the past he'd made it very clear to her just how little interest he had in her habit of chattering away, and after losing her job she'd finally gotten the hint. Still, as he questions her turkey, she can't help but pout as she looks up at him pleadingly. "I'm a vegetarian," she says despairingly, realizing once more how ill thought out this scheme was. "Can you help me? For Theo, I'm scared I'll ruin his day... at best, maybe kill him at worst. Then I'll be out of your hair, promise this time."

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A difficult Christmas wasn't unique to the pandemic. Other than being Padre fucking Theo/Pio he thinks the reasons his brother usually chose to work it was because of their parents. Their mother loved Christmas and their father was a bit of a Scrooge - though by the 23rd he was usually coaxed into the heart of it.. or the stomach of it, since their mom went full in with baking and cooking. Their Christmases were thick with tradition. From watching corny movies, to taking a Christmas Eve sled or walk. Since their passing, Christmas was a sore point for Oliver. "Really?" he didn't know she was a vegetarian. Had she mentioned it before? He couldn't remember. Though he rarely cooked for himself, years being a the bar and helping his mom through Christmas dinner had shaped him up to be useful enough in the kitchen. "He probably won't be home, you know that?" He washes his hands and starts to prep the turkey. He pulls bits of out of it to put in a separate pot for gravy, and throws a stick of turkey on the bird. "Christmas dinner's really easy," he shoves the pan in the oven, "the only thing is. You bought a turkey for twenty fucking people, so this'll take about four hours."

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It was difficult to pin down, but there was a very similar energy in Oliver's apartment as there was in her own. Little context clues that he was in a similar headspace to her; drawn curtains, unwashed plates in the sink, the day drinking. Since Lily had left for New Mexico she'd allowed herself to slip, the tidiness of the place slipping with her. Though it shouldn't and she felt guilty that it did, seeing that Ollie wasn't having a holly jolly Christmas either made her feel a little less alone. "Yes," she said curtly, deciding to leave the next thing she felt like saying unsaid: so thanks for making it so that I work in a crab restaurant now. After all, she didn't anymore, and she couldn't blame him for that one. She feels more than a little put out by his comment about Theo. "What, ever?" she says, opening the door to the fridge to see if there's enough space for her to store the food once it's cooked. She helps herself to a beer, tapping it against the edge of the counter to pop the cap off. She rolls her eyes behind his back as he tells her long it'll take, ever the voice of negativity. But she fixes a smile to her face when he turns, "that was intentional, maybe he'll be home by then. Besides, you're a growing boy, you can eat it too." She takes a sip of the beer, feeling suddenly awkward around him. Not a feeling she's used to. "Thank you. You can go back to your movie if you want, veggies I'm kind of moderately, almost okay at."

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He leans against the counter and yawns. It was close to noon, but the earliest he'd been up for a while. He'd been laid off since April and the darkness had hit pretty deep the past while. Shorter days, not being able to afford pain medication and being so bored out of his mind that drinking became his only form of entertainment. And though he'd never admit it, Theo working longer hours had made him feel an impossible loneliness. Cleo was annoying, but at least she was filling the apartment. "Don't cook those yet," he lazily presses against the doorway as he exits the room, "they'll be four hours of mush." He moves around the room and switches on the lights to the small Charlie Brown-esque tree his roommate had set up. He cracks the blinds open only slightly, just to throw off the feeling of a dungeon. There. A little more festive. Plopping back in the chair, he presses the back button on the remote and it lands back on the browsing menu. "Here. That'll be a while, you can choose something."

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Oliver had so efficiently dealt with the turkey, prepping it expertly and effortlessly, that Cleo was more sure than ever that she would never gain the ability to cook. She should have bought everything oven ready, but then that was always more expensive and money was a relentless worry for her at the moment. The insult of $600 was still weighing heavy on her mind, banishing whatever hopes she had previously had for a more uplifting Christmas, even though her parents had sent her $400 as her present. She sighed, wondering why she'd done all this... but she was still glad to be here, with something to do, and someone to keep her company. Albeit sulky company. "I know," she says defensively, though she didn't really. She starts tidying up some of the rubbish, plastic wrappings and peelings and such, simultaneously glad Ollie isn't watching and missing the company. Once everything is as prepped as she's able to make it, she heads into the other room again, now dimly lit by a crack in the blind and the Christmas lights. The latter make her heart skip a beat. The tiniest taste of festive spirit warms her from the inside out, and she sheepishly settles into the corner of the couch, sipping her beer. "No, no, you can keep watching. I feel bad, disrupting your day and everything. I can wait at mine, actually," she says, remembering that she lives a mere 60 second commute away. "I'll set a timer and come back."

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"C'mon," his thick brows settle into a furrow and he encourages her with a nod at the television. "Put on your favourite one," he tosses her his heavy wool - and terrible scratchy - blanket and settles the box of chocolate to a neutral place to share. The Christmas lights did seem to warm the space, or maybe it was having another person around that made it seem more festive. He takes a long sip of beer, the awkwardness clings to the air heavily. He wish Theo was here to hold the conversation, so he could just quietly get drunk and listen. "Last year I had a Hungry Man turkey dinner." He remembers the meal not being fully cooked and biting into half frozen mashed potatoes. "This is definitely an improvement and I haven't even eaten it."

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Cleo didn't realize just how out of practice she was when it came to being around other people until now. She didn't know what to talk about or how to carry herself, she'd forgotten what was a reasonable expectation. But she's glad that he doesn't encourage her to leave, is even warmed by his gesture of throwing her a blanket and sharing his chocolate. She pulls the scratchy wool over her bare legs, picking up the controller and flicking over the options until she's hovering over About A Boy. Before she can think better of it she flicks it on, letting the warmth of familiarity engulf her as the soundtrack starts to play. As he speaks she realizes this isn't an unusual Christmas for him. Any self pity she'd felt wanes, guilt taking its place as she thinks about how ungrateful she is for her family. "If it is an improvement it's not down to my efforts," she says, offering him a grin. Hugh Grant's voice rushes to fill the silence, that iconic opening line she remembers so well. "In my opinion, all men are islands." She glances at him again, thinking about how they could have been sat alone, apart, just a couple doors down. She's glad they're not. "The beard is... a look. Are you trying to look as un-twin-like as possible?"

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He repositions the heating pad on his back and pulls another blanket over himself. He finishes his beer and reaches to put a finger of shitty whiskey in his glass. The nagging pain in his back is more normal than not, but the drinking helps him forget about it a little. About a Boy plays on the screen and though he's never seen it, Hugh Grant makes him feel a sense of familiarity. Is it really a Christmas movie though? Or is a Christmas movie in the way that people fight that Die Hard is a Christmas movie? "Come on, at least you can manage vegetables," he kids, thinking of the carrots turning into an inedible mush. "Thought I'd take it for a spin, I'll probably shave it down to just a mustache for New Years," he rubs the course hair on his chin and shoves a chocolate in his mouth. "You usually go home for Christmas?"

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She sinks into the couch. It felt strange to be in someone else's home, even a home she had visited many times, that was in all regards identical to hers in layout and size, only flipped. She knew that Theo's room was off to the left of the room they were in, which meant that Ollie's must have been to the right, though she wasn't sure which door. Childishly she hoped it was the one furthest away, only because that would be the equivalent of her's at her place. She's not sure why that idea would please her, but it does. The movie is a welcome taste of home. A story about the solitary Will finding out, through the help of young Nick Hoult as socially awkward Marcus, that being on your own isn't all it's cracked up to be. "There's a good bit in this where he talks about dividing up your time into units to help it pass," she explains, "since his dad wrote a Christmas song and he lives off the royalties, he's never worked. All I've done this year is think about this movie, dividing my time up into units." She unpauses it, promising to herself that she wouldn't disrupt the whole thing in case he hadn't seen it before. "That turkey is going to be 8 units, by the way. This movie's just over 3." She looks over at him, picturing him with a porn 'tache. "Mhm. I really miss the snow. What about you, do you ever see your aunt?"

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Much of her life reflected his own. From Alaska to hospital beds, to this small apartment complex. They were running paralel, but at the same time they were so divided. Oliver wasn't fond of many people. He found most of them annoyingly flawed, selfish and generally the same people but different suit. Working at the bar had left him slapping the same label on everyone. Cleo was all of those things too, but she acted like she knew him. And maybe there's something to be said about observing someone. Maybe she did know him better than many. He squirms in his seat a little as he listens to her, trying to find comfort when there was never any to be found. "One unit is a half hour?" It's not a movie he'd ever watch, but he's trying to be a cheery version of himself so he holds back negative commentary. "Yeah, me as well. Not last year, but usually we'd spend it together. I think she's just spending it with her boyfriend. I should probably call her."

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She watches as he fidgets slightly, and instinctively she can tell it's truly a physical discomfort, rather than a manifestation of awkwardness. Though she was sure he felt that too. Years of being in a hospital bed for long stretches made those tells as familiar as the movie they were watching, the obvious sign of a physical pain that couldn't be sated. Just looking at him made the faint hysterectomy scar that ran across her abdomen throb, though she knows better than to say anything or to offer any help. There really wasn't much in the way of help available to him, especially when it came to help she could offer.  Feeling powerless, she forces her eyes back on the screen. "Exactly that. See, Will is an island. He doesn't want anyone in his life and finds it especially annoying when those close to him, particularly the women around him, meddle." She grins at him. "It sounds like I'm putting this on for your benefit but I swear, it's what I watch every year. My dad and I cry laughing every time Marcus kills the duck with the bread... just wait for it."  She nods, trying to picture what his saintly aunt would look like. What a Christmas with the three of them would look like. She falls quiet again, taking a swig of beer. "I'm sorry Theo's working. It's quiet, isn't it."