𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙏𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙒𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙊𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙐𝙥.

White Lillies.

Thanksgiving morning was strangely alive despite the cold. The whole neighborhood seemed to be working toward the same thing. Clear the driveway, warm up inside and start cooking. By tonight, every house on the street would be glowing with people and food.

The scrape of two snow shovels echoed down the street. Metal bit into packed snow before dragging across concrete with a long, gritty hiss. Killian drove his shovel into another drift and threw it onto the growing pile beside Paul Rickert's driveway.

His breath rolled from his mouth in thick white clouds, disappearing almost as quickly as they formed. Despite the cold, he'd worked himself warm enough to unzip his jacket halfway. His beanie sat low over his ears, hair damp with melted snow that refused to stay brushed back.

Beside him, Paul paused for a second longer than usual before straightening.
He rested both hands on the handle of his shovel.

Killian noticed immediately.

"You know," He remarked, breaking the easy silence between them. "I think this is how it starts."

Paul looked over. "What?"

"The decline."

Paul raised an eyebrow.

"You hurt your knee once, next thing you know you're making weird noises every time you bend."

"I do not make weird noises."

"You literally do."

"I grunt."

"You wheeze."

"Hey, I've earned the right to wheeze!"

Killian laughed as he tossed another shovel full aside. Paul didn't answer right away. He stabbed his shovel back into the snow with more determination than necessary, grunting quietly as he lifted another heavy pile.

Killian had noticed the limp the second he'd pulled into the driveway.

Paul wasn't old, he was far from it. But these days, he carried himself like someone whose body had finally started keeping score. He had years of climbing ladders, fixing roofs, crawling beneath sinks and under cars, builing literal houses... eventually something had to complain. Paul would just never admit it.

"I give it six months," Killian continued.
"Then you're yelling at neighborhood kids for stepping on your lawn."

Paul pointed his shovel at him. "I already do that."

"...Fair."

Their laughter carried across the quiet street before dissolving into the cold air.

It still surprised Killian sometimes how easy this had become. Months ago, every conversation with Paul had somehow circled back to West. If they weren't talking about him, there was usually an awkward silence waiting around the corner. But somewhere between listening to old records, fixing shelves in Paul's garage, and grabbing coffee after work, that had changed.

Now they could spend an hour together talking about absolutely nothing. Killian hadn't realized how badly he'd needed another steady adult in his life until Paul had quietly become one.

The scrape of their shovels filled the next few minutes. Snow landed with soft thumps along the edge of the driveway.

Eventually Paul cleared his throat, "West tell you he's not making it for Thanksgiving?"

Killian's shovel slowed.

"Yeah," He answered quietly. "...He told me last week."

Paul nodded once, and the scraping resumed.