Sanders Sides One Shots & Shorts

Worthless (Ambiguous Ship)

Hi! A good friend of mine, SassyCC , and I did a bit of a writing exchange! With a one-word prompt: "snow," we both wrote a short story. I don't know if she's posted hers yet, or if she wants to. But she's a fabulous writer, and I highly recommend her work if you're looking for something new to read (bonus, she's a Sanders Sides writer too!) Anyway, this is the story I wrote! Enjoy :)

TW: Angst, implications of violence.
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Date Published: Dec 21, 2020
Word Count: 1258
POV: Patton, 3rd Person

Patton sits in his bedroom, framed by the curtains of the frost-covered window. His fingers are wrapped around a mug of tea. His nails pick at a chip on the rim of the cup as he gazes out of the window. From here, on the second story, he can see the patch in the snow that his husband's car had left after taking it to work this morning. He imagines that he's gotten there safely, after a careful and diligent drive. Then, Patton imagines that the tires had lost their grip on the road, that the ice carried the vehicle right off of the edge of the long bridge that spans the river. He imagines the metal barriers groaning as they give way the car pushing through, over, and down into the unforgiving, freezing black water below.

He takes a sip of tea. Patton tries to shake the thought from his head. It's not the thought of it that disturbs him, it's the fact that it doesn't that sends his guts tying themselves into knots.

Best not to think about it, probably. So, he shoves the turmoil into a little box that he keeps swallowed in his stomach. It's been getting heavier lately. Not in a way that makes him think that the base of his belly will burst, giving out under the pressure. It's more of a deadweight. Bitter and brittle like the dragging metal of a shackle, but bearable enough that sometimes he can forget it's there for a while. Now, he distracts himself from it by going downstairs to clean up the mess from last night. He busies himself with pouring the rest of his tea down the sink and washing the cup, and then the stack of dishes on the counter. Then, he sweeps up the broken glass on the cupboard floor, and tidies up the living room by fixing the displaced furniture.

They never used to fight like this. Before they'd been married, their love had been hitchless. His husband-to-be had made his life into a fairytale. He was the one who had taught Patton how to dream, who had given him glimpses of happily ever after. At times, those memories feel like no more than fiction. His husband had always been a storyteller.

But then there are those nights when the lake down the street freezes over. When the trees are lit with captured stars and moonbeams encased behind glass and the refraction catches on the snowflakes. They flicker and dance like fairies that have the sky for their ballroom. When Patton and his husband struggle to stay balanced on the unsmoothed ice, their skates tugging awkwardly with every push. His husband holds him close, and through their coats and mittens and scarves, it feels warm. He holds Patton like he is all he'll ever need. As if he is breath, and love, and light. Maybe the way the blades suspend Patton's feet from the ice is why he always feels like he's flying. It is on nights like those that Patton feels like precious royal jewels, feels like he is worth something.

Patton picks the lamp up off of the floor, and sets it back on the corner table by the couch. His back aches with the movement. There are lilacs and violets blooming under his skin there, he's sure. With his hands outstretched and wrapped around the body of the lamp, Patton's eyes catch on the band of metal that circles his fourth finger. He'd agreed to wear it back when he was still a teenager. He's never taken it off. At first, it was because he felt some sort of allegiance to it. He'd watched his husband be broken apart by life's cruelty, and in a weird way it felt like their matching rings were a way for Patton to tie part of his husband's life together; the part that they shared. Nowadays, it's been on his finger for so long that it almost feels like it's grown to be a part of him. Like he couldn't take it off if he tried. It's as if it really is bound to his heart by blood. Occasionally, it feels more like a prison than a privilege.

But then there were those days when the afternoon sun soothes their cold-bitten cheeks. When neither of them have anywhere they need to go. When they go skating, Patton and him, on the community rink with mugs of homemade hot chocolate in their hands. The cocoa tastes more like boiled water than chocolate, because the neighbourhood kids whose stand they buy it from are trying to make the most with what they have. But it's warm enough, and the heat would defrost the ice that his husband has caged his split heart in. Then, Patton sees the man he'd fallen in love with. He watches with complete and total adoration as his husband serenades him. He sings the carols playing over the loudspeaker like they are love songs he'd written himself. The snow dances to the music. It is on afternoons like those that Patton is reminded of what he wants heaven to feel like, reminded that all of this is worth something.

There's no use in dreaming now, really. Patton knows it, too. He's made his choice. He's had his chance. No amount of wishful thinking, "should haves," and "what ifs," are going to change the fact that it is too late for him. His age is creeping up on him like warm weather to winter. It's rising over the mountains on the horizon, approaching gradually but quickly. The snow of his youth will melt bit by bit, washing itself down the street drain with the rest of the waste. Soon, there will be nothing left of it. Unfortunately for Patton, he's spent all season indoors.

Even though he knows the pointlessness of imagining, he can't help but wonder. He can't stop himself as he sits in the family room of the home he feels like a guest in, when he opens the box in the pit of his stomach. He lifts the lid only slightly. As is, he is fully aware that dwelling on thoughts like this is self-indulgence. He can only permit himself to have one, lest he get too carried away with fantasy. For that, he supposes, is how he messed up his life in the first place.

He allows himself to hold the thought for a moment. He cradles it in his hands, washes it over his tongue to be able to taste as much of it as he can before he has to put it away. He wonders what would have happened differently. What would have happened instead, if he'd known then what he knows now?

If he'd said no?

Then...

Then, there would have been mornings when no one else was awake. When Patton would have slipped out onto the frozen river before the sun had even risen enough to greet him. When he would have been the one dancing, not the snow, spinning and swirling clumsily on his skates. He wouldn't have had to care how ridiculous he looked, because he would have had no cares in the world at all. He'd have skated and skated and skated until his muscles ached and he was warm all on his own. He would have been the music, the show, and the audience all at once. It would have been on mornings like that when Patton would have lived. Then, maybe his life would have been worth something.

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Hm. This was going to be happy... oh well.

Anyway, go check out SassyCC if you haven't yet, because her writing is absolutely beautiful. I highly highly recommend her book "Love is When..." and also just any of her work, she's incredible. Also she's one of my close friends and I love her :)