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There’s a rare dusting of snow on the last day of school before winter break, the front lawn of Rusk High seemingly coated with powdered sugar. Rick’s boots leave behind vague footprints as he walks toward the door, a small red package tucked under his arm.
The last day before a break means school is nothing but a technicality. His morning classes alternate between watching holiday movies from the library and free periods where they’re allowed to talk or draw or write or whatever suits them. He and Shane spend math playing paper football.
The red-wrapped box stays with him all the way to his last class. Normally, it’s geography. Today, it’s a Christmas party. There are cupcakes and chips and dip. An old radio in the corner softly plays “White Christmas” while they all put their gifts under the tree. A five dollar limit means they’ll mostly be trinkets, but it’s the fun of it that matters.
Mr. Monroe outlines the parameters of the exchange. Everyone draws a number and gets the gift labeled with it. Then they sit in a circle while he reads a story. Any time he says “left,” they pass left. Any time he says “right,” they follow suit.
Rick draws his own gift at first, but it doesn’t matter. There’s a slim-to-none chance he’ll have it by the end. He sits in the circle with Shane to his left and Lori Ranes to his right. He looks up and finds Daryl Dixon dead across from him. His breath catches slightly on the way down.
“This is the tale of how Santa almost left an elf behind,” Mr. Monroe reads, leaning against the chalkboard.
Gifts change hands.
“It happened right smack in the middle of Christmas Eve, right around the time when Santa was delivering presents right here in Georgia.”
A simple package wrapped in brown paper makes its way into Rick’s hands, and he knows, just knows where it came from. Shane seems glad to be rid of it, but Rick never wants to let it go.
“In fact, it happened right here in Rusk.”
Rick reluctantly passes the present to Lori whose face wrinkles at it. The present in his hand seems objectively more inviting, all red and green stripes and a gold bow, but he can’t keep his eyes off the oddly shaped lump of brown paper.
“Santa had just left the mayor’s house, headed right for the old Greene farm.”
Rick’s heart pounds when he temporarily takes possession of the package again, only to slip it right back into Lori’s hands.
And so it goes. Back and forth. He holds the package and lets it go again. Sometimes Lori has it, sometimes Shane has it. At one point it ends up three whole people away and Rick thinks all hope is lost before it manages to find it’s way back into Lori’s possession. It’s clear the story is close to ending, and it’s clear she’s worried she’ll get stuck with it. Mr. Monroe has already made it clear they can’t trade, probably worried that people might get upset if they think people don’t want their gift.
Rick thumbs nervously at the red and green paper, waiting for just one more and only one more word. He silently begs Mr. Monroe to say it and jus stop.
“And that’s the story of how Santa almost left-”
Yes!
“Jingle right-”
No.
“there to the left of Old Man Greene’s Christmas Tree.”
Lori practically throws the little brown package at him, like if she doesn’t hurry up and give it to him, Mr. Monroe might keep going. But the teacher has already folded the paper and put it away.
“Go ahead and open your gifts.”
Rick stares reverently at the package. His brain briefly reminds him that he could be wrong about its origin, but when he looks up he finds Daryl watching him. Rick looks away quickly, too quickly probably. To his left and right, Shane and Lori have already torn into their presents.
“Nice,” Shane says quietly, pulling out a package of Silly Putty and a small Slinky.
Lori mumbles “of course” while she takes out two pairs of festive socks.
“Rick, you’re supposed to open that,” Shane says, nudging him with his elbow. “That’s the point.”
Gingerly, he finds a break in the paper and tugs on it, slowly ripping it open. His exhale sounds more like a gasp.
In his lap, on a bed of torn brown paper, sits a small wooden carving of an owl. It’s intricate, so much so that Rick’s almost surprised it doesn’t hoot and fly around the classroom. Slowly, he picks it up and turns it over in his hands, admiring the way the wooden feathers cascade down its back. It’s amazing and so Daryl that he nearly wants to swallow it just to force it closer to his heart.
He’s still following the lines of carved wood when the bell rings.
“Tough luck,” Lori says next to him, sympathetic. But she’s already up and gathering her books before he can reply that, no, it’s actually the best luck he’s ever had.
Rick stands up, intent on using this as an opportunity to actually speak to Daryl, but he’s already gone. Quickly, Rick throws on his jacket (he hadn't even bothered to bring books), rushing out into the cold.
Daryl’s already a ways down the sidewalk when he emerges. He's not wearing a jacket, his hands stuck deep into his pockets, his whole body pulled in tight, like he can somehow defend himself from the cold through posture alone.
“Dixon!” Rick yells, jogging down the steps and across the grass. The light coating of snow has melted away in the sun, leaving behind a swath of dull brown-green. “Daryl.”
Daryl pauses, bouncing where he stands, keeping his body moving to try to stay warm.
“Yeah?” he asks, when Rick finally reaches him, the owl tucked between his fingers. Daryl starts walking again, not saying anything when Rick falls into step beside him.
“This is yours, right?” Rick asks, unfurling his hand.
Daryl shrugs.
“Yeah, so? What about it?” he asks. Rough. Defensive.
“Did you make it?” Rick closes his hand again and puts both it and the carving in his pocket.
“Didn’t say we had to buy anything. Just that we shouldn’t spend more’n five.”
“So you did? Make it?” Rick asks, brushing the wood within the confines of his jacket. It’s smooth, even around the edges of the details.
“Yeah,” Daryl finally admits while the two of them cross the street. “If you don’t want it, I-”
“No,” Rick says, blurting it out a little too quickly. “I just wanted to know.”
“Mhm.”
They walk on, passing by front yards dotted with plastic snowmen and wooden candy canes. The two of them stop on a corner, letting traffic pass. Rick watches Daryl shiver. And for some reason he finds himself shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over him. He’s cold too, but at least he’s wearing long sleeves, unlike Daryl trying to make it work in a faded brown tee shirt.
Daryl turns to him, eyebrows furrowed even while he grips the jacket around him like a shawl. Rick speaks before he can.
“I’m glad I got it,” Rick says. “It’s amazing.”
The traffic clears, but they don’t cross.
“You can put your arms in that if you want,” Rick says, gesturing to his jacket, even while he genuinely wonders if it’ll even fit Daryl’s arms. Face still a picture of suspicion, Daryl slips his arms in. The thing would clearly never zip, but at least he’s a little more protected from the chill.
Rick breaches the space between them to reach into the pocket and take out the owl.
“How long did this take?” he asks.
“On and off for a few days. Maybe five or six hours.” Daryl shrugs and looks out at the street like he intends to cross, but there’s traffic again.
Five or six hours. Rick turns the owl over again and looks at all the details, thinks about how long Daryl’s hands held this single piece of wood. How they shaped it from a simple block into something so breathtaking, into something almost as breathtaking as its creator. Why would anyone want a yo-yo or a bag of candy over this?
“Jesus,” Rick whispers. “That’s incredible.”
He looks at the face of the owl again before adding, so quietly the whoosh of a passing car nearly drowns it out, “You’re incredible.”
Daryl fidgets with his hands in his pockets. The traffic clears again, but Rick doesn’t point it out, even though he’s starting to shiver, the cold seeping through his shirt. He knew a long time ago he’d gladly freeze to death to spend a few fleeting moments with Daryl Dixon.
“It’s nothin.” Daryl shrugs.
“Bullshit,” Rick says, and Daryl shoots him a look like he’s surprised Rick would swear. “Wanted it the whole game after I guessed it was yours, and I’m not disappointed.”
He doesn’t know why he confesses that right there next to the stop sign, while an SUV with a Christmas tree strapped on top whizzes by, but he does. He remembers the first day of high school and what it was like to see Daryl sitting alone across the cafeteria. He remembers the day he realized how much his eyes always seem to find Daryl whenever they're in the hallway or a class together. He remembers how a single brush of shoulders near the pencil sharpener once made his lungs stop functioning.
“You didn’t even know what it was,” Daryl says. This time when he looks out at the street, it’s clear. He steps off the sidewalk.
“Didn’t need to,” Rick says, before following him across. “It was yours.”
He’s not sure he’d intended to tell Daryl how he felt when he started following him. Mostly, he’d wanted to know if he sculpted the owl himself. But those three words betray him even more than an outright confession. Each syllable seeps affection, Rick’s voice desperate with it.
It was yours.
Daryl’s not stupid. Rick knows that and has always known it, despite what any of their classmates might think.
Daryl stops after they’re out of the street, turning his feet toward the bus shelter and siting down on the bench. Rick has never understood why they didn’t put walls on the damn thing to block out the wind. He tucks the owl into his pocket and sits, wrapping his arms around himself. Their knees touch and neither of them make any effort to change that.
Daryl opens his mouth once and then closes it. He drags his bottom lip between his teeth and worries at it, a habit Rick’s so used to admiring from afar that it makes his chest ache to see it so close.
“You want your jacket back?” Daryl finally asks, looking over at him where he’s rubbing his upper arms, forcing a little heat back into his skin.
“You need it more than I do,” Rick says. And it’s still true, no matter how inviting the fleece lining peeking out near Daryl’s chest looks.
But Daryl takes it off anyway, handing it back over, and Rick knows enough to know there’s no changing Daryl’s mind once it’s made up. He pulls it back on, the warmth left behind by Daryl’s body making him feel a little dizzy.
Next to him, Daryl rubs his hands together. And Rick doesn’t know why or how he even has the courage, but he reaches for them, taking them between his and rubbing his palms and fingers over chilled skin. He brings Daryl’s hands to his mouth and blows.
He feels Daryl tremble, the vibration traveling down his arms. When he looks up, he finds blue eyes boring into him so intensely that his breath catches, his lungs struggling to catch up. Emboldened by the fact that Daryl doesn’t stop him, Rick slides his fingers across the backs of his hands and wraps them around both wrists, moving Daryl’s arms down and gently pulling them around his middle while he moves closer, encouraging Daryl to wrap his arms around him within the jacket.
There’s no reason they can’t both be warm.
Rick doesn’t stop until he has Daryl pressed against him. And it takes a second for Daryl to respond, his arms hanging loosely around him, but he finally does, tightening them around Rick’s back and squeezing.
This close, it’s easy. Easy to rub warmth into Daryl’s back. Easy to turn his head and nuzzle into Daryl’s neck. Easy to whisper “I really like you, Daryl” right against the shell of his ear.
And Daryl’s quiet at first, though he doesn’t let go. But he finally mutters, “me too” and it’s enough. It’s more than enough.
Rick holds him until the cold fades from his limbs, only pulling away because he knows if he’s out too much longer his dad will probably send out a search party.
When he lets Daryl’s arms drop away, he slips off his jacket and puts it around him again. They’re almost to the trailer park, and Rick can stand being cold a little while longer.
Daryl doesn’t protest, slipping it back on his arms and standing up when Rick does. Rick hesitates before moving back out onto the sidewalk. He wants to do something else, wants to do it so bad that he aches with it. And he’s not sure if he should do it here or not until Daryl starts to leave the shelter.
Rick reaches for his wrist, grabbing him and stopping him in his tracks. His heart pounds with the knowledge that he’s never done this before, that he might not even know how, but that he can’t possibly let Daryl go without it. Not now.
Another tug and Daryl willingly moves close to him. Rick steps forward until cowboy boots meet hiking boots. He looks at Daryl, sucking in a breath, his stomach a twirling mess of nerves and anticipation.
He wishes he’d planned this just as much as he’s glad he didn’t.
He looks at Daryl’s mouth and licks his lips. Hands shaking, he puts both palms on Daryl’s cheeks and leans forward, pressing his lips against his. Daryl presses back. And it’s too hard, too much. Teeth clack, and both of them flinch. Rick laughs nervously.
“Sorry, ain’t never...”
“Me neither.”
Rick tries again, softly brushing his lips against Daryl’s this time. He cautiously adds pressure until he finds what feels right, and then he chances his tongue. The new element makes things messy at first, neither one of them clear on exactly how this part’s supposed to work, but they power through until they find something like rhythm or harmony or synchronicity.
Quietly, Daryl whimpers into his mouth, his hands clutching at the back of Rick’s shirt. Rick clutches back, his arms up under the jacket. He never ever wants this moment to end, even though he knows it has to. And soon.
Wrenching apart is almost physically painful, with Rick claiming Daryl’s mouth twice more before he’s finally able to make himself stop, and it’s clear to Rick he’s not the only one who doesn’t want to let go as Daryl’s hands slowly drag across his back in their retreat.
“I wish...” Rick doesn’t finish the sentence. Because he wishes a lot of things. That he was old enough to stay out as late as he wanted so he and Daryl could make out for hours in the cold. That this had happened sometime other than the start of winter break, right before they pretty much have to go a full three weeks without seeing each other.
“Me too,” Daryl says.
Together, they walk away from the shelter. Rick takes his hand at some point, casually holding it while they pass by more yards covered in Christmas cheer. Daryl drops his hand about a block away from the trailer park, and Rick doesn’t ask why or try to take it back. He gives the jacket back too, shoving his hands back into his jeans pockets.
In front of the park, they both pause.
“This is me,” Daryl says. Rick doesn’t say he knows, that he’s been hyperaware of Daryl’s existence for a very long time. He just nods and wishes he could take another kiss.
“Guess I’ll see you around,” Daryl says, glancing back at the rows of trailers behind him.
“You will. Hopefully before next semester.”
“Hopefully,” Daryl agrees. “Bye, I guess.” He shrugs and turns around.
“Bye,” Rick says after him, resisting the urge to reach out and touch him one more time. He sticks his hand in his pocket instead, finding the wooden carving and brushing it with his fingers like it’s an extension of the boy walking away from him.
“And Rick,” Daryl says, turning around and walking backwards to call back to him. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” Rick says.
And as he walks away with his hand wrapped tightly around the owl, he thinks that it already is.