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It’s been snowing for at least the last twelve hours, and there’s no sign of stopping. It was the biggest snowstorm New York City had seen in years. Foggy had mentioned that the entire campus seemed lit up with the snow even after the sun had set, the streetlights reflecting off the soft blanket of white that had covered the entire city. Brighter than the dreary gray the day had been, he had said.
Matt wishes a little he could see it. When he was younger, before everything had gotten complicated, snow days were the best days. He and his dad would go outside, get into a snowball fight (Matt never lost, but that was almost certainly Jack’s mercy on his son), and build a snowman. Then when all was said and done, Jack would whip up some of those Swiss Miss packets that are never quite right with the ratio of powder to milk, and he and Matt would enjoy the cozy softness of winter in the shelter of their small apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.
But currently, the snow just sucks. It certainly does help temper the stink and sounds of the city but navigating the city has become a pain. No matter how carefully Matt listens, he can’t tell when the ground is just slick with either slush or ice. His cane keeps getting stuck in the slush, and sometimes the sidewalks just aren’t cleared at all. One moment it’s nice and clear the next it’s up to his knees and his cane is useless. The landlords are supposed to hire people or get around to it, but with this level of snow, the entire city is brought to a standstill. If it were up to Matt, he wouldn’t be out at all. He’d lost the edge of the curb ages ago and no amount of sound is going to help him find it buried in the combination of slush and snow. He shuffles on.
The snow had lightened up a few hours ago, going from a full nor’easter gale to just a consistent falling of (rather large) snowflakes. Optimistic, Foggy had convinced Matt to head to campus together get some work done. THAT, and Foggy had some meeting for planning some social extracurricular he had picked up. It was supposed to be quick, and he had promised to grab Matt from the library once he was done to mess around on Butler Lawn before walking home together. But Foggy’s been stuck in this club meeting for the last three hours, and Matt has no idea when it’s going to be done.
He had finished his readings and case study a while ago and he had grown bored of studying in the library. Normally, he was happy to work ahead while waiting for Foggy, but Butler Lawn has been a bustle of activity. As the snowstorm continued to subside into a gentle flurry, the sounds of students excitedly building snowmen and laughter rang clear across the lawn. Curious, Matt had packed up and wandered outside, but now that he was here, an unpleasant feeling had settled into his gut. His chest is pulled a little too tight, like the air is being forced out. And if he thinks a little too hard, he thinks he can taste the rise of bile from his stomach. There’s no point in doing anything in the snow without someone else around. Just a soggy soggy endeavor. He closes his eyes and forces himself to exhale slowly, listening to the gleeful laughter around him and hearing the amorphous blobs of snowman absorb the sound around him. He wants to go home and curl up in a blanket and sleep away the winter.
His thoughts wander back to Foggy. Could he have gone off with his meeting friends and left him behind? Foggy had so many friends. Maybe Stick has right; life was better without anyone to let him down. Matt COULD listen for it, confirm that Foggy had left him, off to build a snowman and play in the snow with other, less moody friends that didn’t spend all their time—
Matt’s phone buzzes, a call coming through. Foggy, it says. A whirlwind of noise greets him before he even has the phone to his ear.
“—migosh MATT, I’m so sorry the meeting just kept going on and on – Brian just kept nitpicking the schedule and it just—UGH— I’m on my way to the library are you still there hold on I’m coming I am…” Foggy’s stream of thought rattles on, but Matt’s not listening. The pit in his stomach has given away to blissful relief. “—buddy? You there? Are you still in the library?”
So much relief is coursing through Matt. The pit in his stomach has vanished in an instant, and now he’s lighter than a feather. Foggy didn’t forget, and he’ll almost certainly regale Matt with whatever the drama was during his meeting. Foggy is still repeating his name on the phone.
He breathes a long breath out, “I’m just outside the library, Foggy.”
Foggy had arrived soon after calling. Together, they had quickly found a spot on the lawn that was unoccupied and gotten to work. The snow was sufficiently damp, packing easily into dense mounds. His snowman section was currently roughly the size of watermelon. Nearby, he could hear Foggy grunting as he pushed around a substantially larger chunk of snow. A warm fuzzy feeling had been steadily building in him; the snow day had begun to take on the wonderfully simple quality they had once been.
“MATT!” Foggy’s voice jolts him out of his thoughts, “This is NOT amateur hour! It’s going to take all night if you’re only packing it onto it; you have to roll it around!”
Laughing, he gets up and starts to push his snowball. Thirty minutes later, Foggy and Matt’s modestly sized snowman has joined the steadily growing army on Butler Lawn. According to Foggy, there’s a sculpted face that makes the snowman look just like Gaston from the Beauty and the Beast. Matt thinks he remembers what the character looks like as he runs his hand over the absurdly large chin of the snowman’s head.
“Hot chocolate then?” asks Foggy, “I think Marci mentioned there was a solid place up the street.”
“Sounds great,” and Matt makes to go grab his backpack out of the snow.
As he bends over, something pelts him in the back. Small chunks of snow fall to the ground around him. Foggy is laughing loudly, and Matt laughs too before quickly snagging a handful of snow and flinging it back in his direction, hearing Foggy yelp as the snow finds its target.
“So,” Matt says. “Hot chocolate.”
Foggy leads the way, careful to point out icy spots and uncleared snow to Matt. The dessert shop is jam packed with every other student and New Yorker who has had the same idea. Matt hugs a little closer against Foggy’s arm, the noise and bodies of tens of groups pressing into him. Foggy doesn’t seem to notice the proximity, instead staring at the board over the counter.
“Matt, there’s like ten hot chocolate options.”
He snorts at the flatness of the statement. “Pretty sure I’ve only ever had Swiss Miss. What are they?”
“Okay buddy, we’re about to get an upgrade… There’s dark chocolate, milk chocolate, white, and… oh! Spicy hot! And then they have mint, hazelnut, … orange? I think I’ll try the spicy hot one.”
Matt does his best to give Foggy what he hopes is a deadpan look over his glasses. “You can’t even eat a 2/5 spice pad thai, Foggy.”
“It says it’s just cinnamon and a little cayenne! It can’t be that spicy.”
Matt gets the plain milk chocolate. It smells like winters with his dad, but the smell is quickly overpowered by the smell of cayenne pepper from Foggy’s open cup.
“Fogs it’s going to take you out. I can smell the cayenne from here.”
Foggy just laughs and goes for a sip. There’s a brief choke that quickly transitions into a cough, “—Matt, it’s all—” he breaks off coughing again. “It’s all just cayenne, holy—” More coughing.
Once he finally clears all the offending cayenne out of his system, Foggy clears his throat with faux dignity before declaring, “Matt, there’s no cinnamon; it’s all just cayenne. I thought I was going to die. You’ve got to try it.”
The offending scent of spice is thrust closer, and Matt holds his hands up, cane in one hand, hot chocolate in the other. “Sorry, but my hands are full.”
He sips his drink as Foggy resolves to nurse his own beverage, breaking off into another coughing fit. The hot chocolate is thick, much thicker than any Swiss Miss packet he’s mixed up. It’s sweet – honestly, too sweet for Matt– but it tastes like warmth and home. He savors the rich scent for another moment, before deciding he cannot bear another sip of chocolate syrup.
“Do you want mine? It’s way too sweet.”
Foggy instantly perks up from his overly spiced beverage. “Really? Are you sure you don’t want yours? The milk chocolate one is supposed to be the best! You don’t like it?”
Hot chocolates are exchanged. In the name of not letting the spicy hot chocolate go fully to waste, Matt agrees to take a sip, experiencing the same coughing fit as Foggy (it really is loaded with just cayenne; there’s not even the faintest scent of cinnamon). The pepper isn’t even mixed in well, hitting the throat far too abruptly. Foggy finishes the milk chocolate in record time. Undefeated sweet tooth of the family, he says.
And then it’s time to go home. Matt may have been all caught up on his work for the time being, but Foggy has at least three hours to make up for after being dragged into the never-ending meeting earlier today. Foggy enthusiastically narrates the walk home, turning the potentially miserable slushy trudge into animated landscape. They meander slowly, indulging themselves in how the snow has softened the urban structures and, along with it, done away with the rush-rush attitude New Yorkers so often had. The city feels cozier, friendlier; and Matt feels his heart melt just a little with Foggy. Perhaps the snow and winter weren’t so cold and unbearable with Foggy around.