Chapter Text
Christmas morning came in soon enough. The storm had finally burned itself out, leaving the city hushed under a clean, uneven layer of snow.
They piled into the car, snow crunching under boots as they settled into their seats.
Drift slid into the driver’s side, hands already on the wheel.
“Okay final check. Everything’s there, right?” She said, looking back at Scott.
“Pretty sure, yep,” He said.
“Okay, seatbelts everyone,” Drift said. “I don’t want anyone flying through the windshield.”
Shelby rolled their eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
They all laughed together.
“Relax,” Drift said, turning the key. “It’s fine.”
The car lurched forward, tires crunching over the snow. Drift pointed out a few rooftops sparkling in the sunlight, and Shelby was already juggling thermoses next to her.
The city passed by in a blur of white rooftops and sparkling icicles. Soon enough, they were scream-singing along to Christmas songs on the radio.
The car smelled faintly of cocoa and pine from the thermos of hot chocolate and small wreath they’d brought along.
Drift weaved carefully between parked cars and slushy intersections, while Shelby and Scott pointed out the apartments that took the time to get Christmas decorations.
After a few hours, the buildings grew smaller, and the streets less crowded as they got to the suburbs.
Neat rows of houses sat under a soft blanket of snow, roofs frosted white and icicles dangling from gutters. Mailboxes lined the sidewalks, some with wreaths or little holiday flags fluttering in the wind.
Scott leaned forward from the back seat, peering out the window. “That house has like, five different Christmas lights flickering. Who even has that much patience?”
Drift laughed. “Anything is possible with enough holiday spirit!”
Driveways were half-shoveled, revealing patches of concrete and tire tracks, and a few children’s toys poked out from the snowdrifts.
The occasional dog barked from behind a fence, echoing faintly in the crisp morning air.
Drift eased the car around a corner, and for a moment, all three of them sat in contented silence, watching the orderly, snow-dusted houses glide by, a gentle calm settling over the car after the chaos of the city.
They pulled into the gas station at around noon to stretch their legs, tires crunching over snow.
Drift and Shelby walked over to the bathroom and Scott stayed in the car for a bit before leaving to take a short walk.
His mind wandered for a bit, excited to finally see both the place where he met his now family and the source of all their collective trauma after so long of a wait.
After a few minutes, he turned back toward the car, stretching his legs.
As he approached, he noticed a distinct lack of movement inside before his gaze instead turned to the convenience store connected to the gas station.
Shelby and Drift were leaning close together over a small display, laughing quietly, pointing at something.
Curiosity pricked at him, and he moved closer, brushing snow from his sleeves, wondering what they might be looking at.
He walked in and started heading towards them, starting to hear their conversation.
“But Santa!” Drift said, holding in a laugh.
“What’s going on with Santa?” Scott said.
In Drift’s hand was a little Santa figurine.
It looked absolutely ridiculous—the paint was uneven, the beard was molded into one solid lump, and the hat leaned at an angle that suggested it defied the laws of physics.
Shelby pinched the bridge of their nose. “Why does he look like that?”
Scott squinted at it, then leaned closer. “Why is his arm like that?”
“No one knows,” Drift said. “That’s part of the charm.”
“His face looks like one of those popsicles with the faces on them that never has the face on right,” Shelby said.
They all started laughing maniacally at that.
Shelby glanced at the price tag, still wheezing. “He’s twelve dollars.”
Drift didn’t even hesitate. “He’s coming with us.”
“Yeah, no, we're getting him.” Scott replied.
They piled back into the car, the little Santa figurine wedged carefully into the cup holder.
Drift pulled back onto the road, and the gas station lights shrank behind them, swallowed up by the gray-white stretch of winter ahead.
The suburbs thinned gradually. Neat rows of houses gave way to longer stretches of road, fewer streetlights, trees standing bare and dark against the snow.
Shelby had fallen asleep and Scott rested his forehead against the window, watching the scenery change. He’d bought his knitting supplies with him and finally finished his scarf so he’d run out of other things to do.
They passed a small town half-asleep for the holiday, diners filled with families and couples enjoying food together, and a lone convenience store glowing like a lighthouse in the snow.
Hand-painted signs wishing Happy Holidays hung crookedly from lampposts, some already dusted over.
Eventually, he closed his eyes and let himself fall into slumber.
With time, the road began to climb slightly, the trees grew thicker, branches arching overhead like ribs encasing lungs.
The car rolled forward, carrying them into the place they’d been wanting to visit for days.
They knew they’d entered the true vicinity of Oakhurst when the canopy suddenly got thinner—big, centuries-old oak trees being replaced by younger ones that had grown in place of the forest Abolish burned down.
The scenery in the area was quite different from the city, far less snow and far more greenery.
The animals had already started to live closer to the old town, though not usually lingering too long—likely in fear of getting hunted by wolves.
Without the old forest and the town wall, the remains of the town were in their full view.
By early evening, they reached the part of the lake with a steep enough incline to prevent them from going any further while in the car.
They’d decided to set up camp to make sure they wouldn’t be left wrestling a tent in the dark.
Cleo and Pearl were already waiting for them, setting up a campfire.
Cleo was the first to spot them.
“There you are!” she said.
Snow clung to the edges of their coat, darkened where it had begun to melt.
“You made it,” Pearl added. “Road wasn’t too bad, I hope?”
“Define too bad.” Drift replied.
Snow crunched under their boots as they unloaded the trunk, Cleo immediately grabbing one of the tent bags and slinging it over her shoulder like it weighed nothing.
Shelby followed suit, bringing bags of snacks and thermoses of hot chocolate.
Scott lingered for a moment longer, eyes drifting toward the lake. It was half-frozen, the surface dull and glassy, trees reflected faintly along its edge.
He exhaled, then joined them.
Eventually, the tents took shape—crooked at first, then slowly corrected after a few muttered complaints and one dramatic collapse.
Scott sat back on a fallen log, watching the sparks lift into the air.
Around him, voices overlapped—someone teasing Drift about the tent, someone else offering marshmallows, Cleo nudging Pearl closer to the fire.
Eventually, Cleo glanced up toward the hill beyond the trees, its slope just visible through the branches.
“You should go before it gets too dark,” she said, softly.
Scott nodded. He stood first, brushing his hands together. Shelby and Drift followed, gathering their coats in silence.
The path upward was narrow and steep, the hill rising patiently above them. Mud clung to the ground in uneven patches, and each step felt deliberate.
By the time they reached the top, the lake was out of sight, and they were faced with the grave of their old friend.
Scott knelt, gloves sinking into the cold ground. He reached into his bag and pulled out the scarf—the one he’d finished in the dim early mornings, watching birds on fire escapes.
The stitches weren’t perfect. One edge curled slightly no matter how much he tried to fix it, but it was his. He draped it carefully over the stone, adjusting it until it sat just right.
“I finished it,” he said quietly, more to the air than to anyone else. “Took me long enough.”
The wind tugged at the fringe, and for a second he pressed it down with his palm, grounding himself.
His chest ached, but it wasn’t the sharp, spiraling pain from before. It was steadier. A reminder that, at the end of the day, grief is memory.
The first person to make him truly feel. The first person he loved, and that loved him. The person he had full intentions of spending an eternal life with.
Behind him, Shelby shifted their weight. Drift sniffed, then muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “It suits him.”
Scott didn’t turn around. He just nodded, fingers lingering on the yarn one last time before he stood, snow clinging to his knees, and said it for the first time.
“Merry Christmas, Avid.”