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Linnell leans against the snack bar, listlessly picking at the charcuterie board. Bodies twirl around him, spirits perked up with the upcoming start of the new year. Though he’s not usually one for larger parties—he prefers a close ensemble—Flansburgh and a few of his friends had invited him.
He just needs to find them.
Eventually, he shakes up the discipline to heave himself up from the bar, stiffly making his way toward the living room.
The party he’s at is held in a rowhouse in the Upper East Side of Manhattan: a neighborhood of similarly quaint houses dressed in wreaths and red ribbons with homey squares of yellow all lit up. Sentimentally, he thinks, if he were to close his eyes and really listen, he could hear the laughter of their neighbors, the soft crackle of a new record, and the subsequent sound of smooth jazz as they, too, prepare to ring in the new year.
It’s a stark contrast to his and Flansburgh’s first New Year’s at their rundown brownstone in Park Slope back when their furniture was sparse and their company even fewer. It’s funny, really, how things change.
Abruptly, he spots Flansburgh through the crowd, pointedly gesticulating with a red solo cup as a grin sweeps across his face, coolly conversing with a friend against the back of the room. It’s a largely prosaic conversation Linnell isn’t really keeping up with: something about their respective lackluster dates, and Flansburgh’s half-committal New Year’s resolutions, and… Well, maybe he’s been keeping up a bit.
Impulsively, his legs move before his brain can catch up and, in a burst of sociability, he starts to shoulder through the crowd toward the pair. He can’t even try to suppress the smile that blooms across his face. The circumstances aren’t particularly in his favor, but considering they both haven’t had a proper conversation with each other that hasn’t been premeditatedly penned and arbitrated through their curated stage personas since their tour began, he figures it’d be nice to be able to catch up with his best friend, a familiar face in a sea of strangers.
As he comes closer, their voices rise within earshot: “Oh man, I hate to admit it, but I’d be way too shy to do that with someone else on New Year’s,” Flansburgh says, laughing in his drink. When he catches the sight of Linnell, a faint jolt of surprise crosses his face, and he straightens up.
“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” Linnell grins, hooking an arm around the other man’s shoulders. The weight of it shifts Flansburgh’s glasses just off the bridge of his nose, causing him to hastily jab it back on his face before whipping his head toward him.
Linnell loosens his grip, face faltering. Did he interrupt something? “I heard what you were saying. It’s—New Year’s resolutions?”
“Right. Yes,” Flansburgh says, strained.
His apprehensiveness sticks out like a sore thumb, with an embarrassment Linnell can’t quite place. After decades of friendship, it’s only natural that he’s been beholden to a spectrum of Flansburgh’s emotions: his buzzing pride hidden under layers of humble irony; his light awkwardness after a conversational faux pas during a mismatched interview; or his veil of ignorance after being totally lost within some spiraling conversation.
Just not… whatever this is.
Flansburgh continues: “It was just something I wanted to do, but… it’s not very realistic. Movie stuff. Hah…” He clutches onto his red solo cup, trailing off into strained chuckling.
Linnell opens his mouth to respond. However, his words seem to wilt on the trip from his brain to his tongue, and then his thoughts are overtaken by somebody decidedly not-John pulling at his arm.
He furrows his brow. “I…”
For a moment, Flansburgh smiles just slightly and gives a little wave before he too gets pulled away into another conversation, and the former gets hesitantly whisked away into the natural chatter of the room.
———
It’s nearly an hour before Linnell departs from his friends, retreating to the front stairway of the brownhouse. As he makes his way there, the noise of the party reduces itself to a lull. He exhales, letting himself melt into the carpeted bottom step. To his surprise, the foyer is unsuspecting and nearly serene, just how he likes it.
Remarkably drained, Linnell takes his reprieve and moves to stare out the window. Snow glitters across his vision. His eyes dance over the stained glass, before he stretches across the windowsill.
Sometimes, he enjoys just watching the world unfold in front of him more than particularly participating in it. Maybe it's his natural writer’s instinct, but he likes peoplewatching. Seeing how people interact with the world. Initiating and sharing moments that‘ll eventually turn into memories.
Linnell plays with the hem of his sweater and chews the inside of his cheek.
He sighs. After a few minutes, he’s about to launch himself back into the apex of the party before something catches his eye: arrowed toward the swath of cars that line the sidewalk, a figure with a hurried, yet conflicted gait interrupts his daydream, mumbling to himself outside.
Linnell presses his forehead to the glass, a welcome shock of cold greeting him as he attempts to decipher who it could be.
Warm light spills from the windows onto the snow-dusted steps, illuminating the man’s—John’s, it dawns on him—back as he makes his way to his car. His chest tightens. This, his brain subconsciously supplies, could finally be his chance to properly speak with his friend alone with nobody else there to bother them.
Taking one last glance at the party, Linnell silently takes his leave and steps out onto the welcome mat. Behind him, a thin strip of yellow light that disappears with a soft click, then a sobering chill that shakes him halfway out of his thoughts. Shivering, he wraps his arms across his chest and steals a glance over at his best friend.
Flansburgh’s bundled up in a thick, dark overcoat with a charming, patterned black-and-white tie peeking out of it. Right now, he’s playing a balancing game: both hands clutching two hastily-pinched metal tins while he tries to traverse through the leftover ice. There are flakes of snow perched in his hair, and, when he breathes, a warm cloud of white trails out of his mouth. Linnell wonders how long he’s been getting ready to leave.
Sharp wind slams the screen door shut, and Flansburgh startles at the sudden sound. He freezes.
“John?” Flansburgh says breathlessly, belatedly catching Linnell’s eye. The wind whips around his hair, blowing his bangs out in front of his eyes. “What are you doing out here?”
Linnell eyes him blankly for a moment, trying to formulate a reasonable reply. Belatedly, he realizes he must look completely crazy; in his haste, he had forgone his coat, regrettably leaving him only in black slacks and a thin sweater for warmth. Biting currents rush to his face and make his eyes water, giving him the impression that he is looking at Flansburgh through a kaleidoscope of white snow and broken glass.
Blood rushes to his face. “You didn’t say bye,” Linnell blurts out. “I was… I was just wondering where you were. You don’t, um, usually leave us hanging like that.”
He smiles pitifully. “…I wasn’t leaving. Not yet, anyway. I think I’ve just, ah, had my fill of excitement for the night. ” He shrugs his shoulders, chin gesturing to the containers in his hands. He angles himself toward Linnell. “Help me out? Back pocket. My keys.”
Linnell’s hair is beginning to stiffen when he meets him on the side of the road. The awkward angle forces him to maneuver under Flansburgh’s coat to fish them out of his too-low pocket. As his knuckles brush against his hip and the back of his pants, hot breath from Flansburgh’s nose ghosts across his ear, and he reels back warmer than before.
Flansburgh sets down the last of his belongings in his trunk, eyeing Linnell as he does so. Silently, he takes off his glasses and wipes the fog from the lenses, putting them back on in total clarity a second later.
It’s a moment of silence before his face breaks out into a stupid huffed-out laugh. “How... How do I even go about this?” He says, barreling on before Linnell can say anything. “I, uh, I figured because it’s New Years and—I know that we were just together at yours for Christmas, but I figured that I would get you something nice.” He sighs. “It’s no Cadillac, but…”
He pulls out a dark, textured suitcase from his trunk, hesitatingly handing it off over to Linnell, who takes it with a tentative delicacy. It’s… surprisingly heavy, his brain remarks before he goes to bend down and his fingers hurry to unbuckle the clasps concealing the inside.
When he cracks open the case, he gasps at the sight of a brand-new bass clarinet, his face lighting up like a firework. His fingers run rampant against its silver-plated keywork and sleek blackwood body. The velvet lining of the chest is still smoothed over in an untouched, singular direction, and he glides a thumb over it in awe.
Experimentally, he presses his lips around the mouthpiece, feeling the low rumble of its mellow sound and Flansburgh’s eyes on him before placing it back in its case.
It takes a moment to come up with a response, but he eventually just looks up at Flansburgh with a look he hopes is as sincere as he feels. “Thank you,” he says weakly.
Flansburgh’s gaze remains firmly on their surroundings. “Anytime.”
He says nothing. Curiously, Linnell follows his gaze and pins it down to the television back inside the house, blurred by the glass dividing them. CNN‘s airing the ball drop now, ticking down the few seconds left until midnight. He sees John‘s friend from earlier. She’s slinging her arm around another woman‘s waist, and tilting her head delicately against the other‘s. He has to tear his eyes away.
Linnell’s mouth runs dry. “We should probably head back in now. The ball’s about to drop.”
Instantly, he’s scrambling to his feet, setting the clarinet case limp against the railing. In the window’s reflection, Flansburgh‘s face twists itself into a painful look of resistance.
“Wait,” He spits out. “Before you go I, ah, need to tell you something. Do something.” He inhales sharply. “I just need to know that you won’t regret it. Do you understand?”
Linnell bites his cheek hard.
This entire day he hasn’t gotten a thing. Tell me, his head whines. Tell me. What is he missing? Ever so slightly, he’s inching himself closer. What can I not see in him?
He pulls himself even closer. Flansburgh’s head tilts automatically. In an almost head-spinning epiphany, he realizes he’s barely an inch away from his friend. He swallows. From this close, he can see it now, the full picture: Flansburgh’s nervous stillness, the softness in his cheeks, the curve of his lips. It’s terrifying; it’s addictive. For just a second, he feels he can read him like braille, before he realizes that maybe he can’t.
The clock strikes midnight.
Linnell nods mindlessly. “Obviously. It’s me.”
When Flansburgh leans in, it’s clumsy. Their noses meet before their lips do, and it takes a moment for his mouth to move and his arms to press into Flansburgh‘s sides. For a fleeting moment, the only thing he can process is the blackness behind his eyes and the warm, foreign feeling of John’s lips on his, and then it’s gone.
Suddenly, when Flansburgh hurriedly pulls away, a pit forms in Linnell’s stomach. He can’t breathe. He’s never felt so helpless before.
Flansburgh’s swollen mouth silently hangs open, before he tentatively bites it back into a straight line.
“Happy New Year, John.”
Before Linnell can react, Flansburgh’s already pulling open the driver’s door, and then he’s just watching the car drive away until he can’t see its headlights anymore.
He breathes out harshly, shakily. He wants to chase him down. Come back, he wants to wail. Show me you don’t regret it either.
A deep chill runs down his back. Naked trees thump against the roof. At midnight, the wind is unforgiving. It spirals around him, choking him, dampening the New Year's cheers with an incessant, never-ending howl.
He groans, pulling at his palms where Flansburgh’s sides had just been. He slumps down on the bottom step, pressing his head against his knees. His mind tries to imagine Flansburgh right now: snow annoyingly frozen in his hair, nose flushed with red, fingers poking at his bottom lip as he swerves through Manhattan.
As he lets out a mortifyingly wet breath, he realizes something brutal.
Limp against the railing, he still has the clarinet.