#ot10kinda

[mushmin]

As December slants through the windows, with all the enchantment winter has, all the wonder and magic, it finds itself touching upon pain. But December does not recoil. It is used to being the season of pain, of remorse and words left unsaid. It is used to ring boxes hidden in packed boxes, being stacked into a moving truck. It is used to calls to suicide hotlines being cut off at the third ring. December is used to illuminating tear streaked faces with its solemn light, caressing tousled hair that has begun to fall out from stress or disease. December is used to loneliness. It is not used to this. It is not used to casting its gray glow upon a group of nine, not one, but nine men huddled together on a worn rug, clinging to each other until their knuckles turned white. December finds its way into the cracks between their fingers, into the small gaps between their bodies where their hips don't slot perfectly together. December knows the pain they feel when they can't fit like puzzle pieces, and it knows somehow, that once upon a time they did. It can hear sobs coming from the center of their tangle, whispers of, "He promised--" and "I could have..." but December knows that he lied and they couldn't have and the more it tries to fill them with light the more it seems to scald them so it stops. So it stops and it retreats, because it thinks it's best for them if they're allowed to pretend, just for a little longer, that there are no gaps and everyone fits just fine. That everything is just fine. December is used to pain. It doesn't mean it enjoys it. It doesn't mean it enjoys gleaning its light over the photos stuck to the fridge as it passes by. It doesn't mean it enjoys seeing an extra boy, one more that it hadn't seen on the ground, small and delicate with a smile made of spring and cheekbones higher than the clouds December sees, somehow making the rest of them glow a dull yellow like summer. December is used to pain, but it doesn't mean that summer is used to losing its spring.