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Fingers, nimble and shaky, trace over the largely printed sixteen on the calendar that marked what the day was. The sixteenth of October, a Thursday, apparently. Below the numbers is a handwritten note; whose handwriting, he wasn’t entirely certain. He thinks maybe it’s Scott’s, but … maybe Eric has actually paid more mind to his penmanship lately, and realized that Gary really can’t read that scrawl he calls cursive.
Fifteen days. Shopping today; cleaning closet.
If he had to be honest … he wasn’t certain what the importance of the denoted number was. Seventeen days until … what, exactly? He picks the calendar up off the nail it has been hung by since probably before January, maybe, and tentatively flips through the days from now, counting them off. It’s been a long time since the accident, but he still has a hard time grasping what he knows should be instinctive; the passage of time doesn’t register like he assumes it must have before.
Sixteen … seventeen. Exactly seventeen days from now would be -- Halloween. Emblazoned loudly over the number thirty one, in bright orange, reads HALLOWEEN! , and below it, someone had drawn a generic cartoon ghost with a silver pen, and -- judging the art style alone -- someone else had doodled in a little jack-o-lantern. He smiles faintly, understanding now. Halloween was his favorite day of the year.
In that case, it must have been Eric keeping count. Sentimentalities like this were never something that eluded him. He was not the best person, no, but he was a good friend, and a great husband. Though, it’s a shame, Gary thinks, that he can’t remember the way Eric must have smiled at them on their wedding day.
Eric places a camera in his hands -- he can’t see it, through the fingers covering his eyes, but he knows from the feel of it what it is. After all, he had a rather hefty collection of various vintage cameras. If he had to guess, this one must be from the mid - nineties. Likely a polaroid. He laughs, leaning his head back against the broad chest of the man standing behind him, and holds the camera up.
He wonders aloud what the occasion must be, to receive such a spontaneous gift. It is hardly uncommon between them, but he thinks it has been some time since the last time.
Though he’s almost hesitant to answer, Eric offers a good natured quip about how he’s expecting a nice dinner tonight, gaining another laugh. It’s an easy sound, and God, it almost hurts to hear it some days. He leans down, pressing his lips ever - so - gently against Gary’s forehead before straightening up, taking his hand away. Gary cannot use his dark room so much anymore, and Eric thought perhaps it would be easier on him, if he didn’t have to develop the film himself.
Gary smiles, drops his eyes to the camera. His breath stutters on the inhale. He had been right, it was a polaroid; one that ran through 1997 to roughly somewhere in the early 2000s, but he wasn’t precisely certain on the date. A OneStep 600 Express, with a jade green finish. While likely not very expensive back in the day … almost a good twenty three years after its original production date, to find one in working condition, it must have cost a pretty penny.
Without a word, he raises the camera to snap a picture of Eric, who is not only caught off guard, but immediately blinded by the flash. While he rubs at his eyes and mutters an indignant string of curses, Gary takes the picture that the machine spits out, waving it around until the image begins to fade into view. In it, his darling, idiot husband of … five? six years? … looks like a deer caught in the headlights, one hand lifted just past his chest, as if he had anticipated the flash and had been trying to block it. Silly? Absolutely. Endearing? He would bet it against the Bible.
With another giggle, he sets the camera in his lap, careful not to let it slip, and tucks the picture in between his thigh and the side of the wheelchair. He would keep this one, no matter how much Eric protested. When your brain is no longer a reliable source of imagery and information, one had to rely on anything else the world could offer.
He loves it, and he informs Eric of this. And, he loves him too, he promises with a kiss, but maybe not as much as he loves that beautiful vase of flowers now sitting so inconspicuously on the table. He didn’t know even the most amazing florist could keep snapdragons growing on Christmas.
To the seasons, two months was a very long time. Within less than that, the very world around you could tumultuously change. The sun takes a backseat to the clouds. The snow gives way to the downpour, becoming some unappetizing slurry of dirty brown and gray; inconveniently slippery, and generally just terrible. The skeleton fingers of the trees flesh out in lumps of green with splashes of tentative watercolors in shades of pink, purple, orange … Two months could stretch on forever, ready to host this flurry of events and so many, many more.
But to Gary Harrison, two months feels like a blink of an eye. One moment, Eric is holding his hand beside the bed, helping him up for breakfast; the next, he’s in the hospital, and Eric’s hand is now the nurse’s, as she smiles brightly and asks him if he needs any help into his wheelchair.
It’s amazing, he thinks, how so much can happen, and yet, still seem like so little.
He carefully tucks a picture he’d taken an hour ago into the plastic sheet that covers the backing of the page, then traces his fingertip over it. His glasses are lopsided, and his cheeks are redder than he had thought, almost rivaling the scarlet teddy bear on his lap. Eric is leaned over him, one arm outstretched -- as he had taken this one! -- and the other wrapped firmly about his waist. His lips are pressed against one flushed cheek, and this, too, is amazing.
Some days, he had to appreciate the biting irony that the world continued to mercilessly dole out to those that inhabited it. For a spring morning, it was still rather frosty -- for lack of a better term -- but the sun shone brighter than the stage lights on a Hollywood production. In honesty, it was frigid and it was beautiful. With the thick wool blanket over his lap, the too - large sweater and the scarf wrapped around his neck and shoulders a good three times with some excess cloth still to be seen, Gary wasn’t too bothered, but at his side, Eric Cartman shivered against the breeze slithering through the budding tree branches.
Though he had lost feeling in his own hands some time ago, he’s able to seek out Eric’s hand, pressed into the mess of blankets, and he pulls it up to his face, guiding his fingers flat against his cheek, so that he can lean his head against his palm, and breathe hot against his wrist. Maybe it would help him warm up; maybe it would simply offer a false comfort that would settle him.
Before them, the waters of Stark’s Pond ripple and fight against the thin sheet of ice that still lays over it, in places. He wonders if the fish have returned already; if the frogs have a tolerance for the cold like this? Eric says he doesn’t suppose so, since they’re cold blooded, aren’t they? Wouldn’t they freeze? Gary supposes that he does have a point, but surely they must have some way of regulating it … He’d love to take a picture of them, for his photo album. Or, well, one of them. He has about four, now.
Though it’s begrudging, Eric stands, and moves behind the wheelchair. Though he is far from optimistic about this, he tries his best to make Gary feel better, though. Maybe there will be a fish in there, having swam up from God knows where it was before. Maybe it would come up close to the edge, and with the water so clear this spring, maybe Gary would get a really good picture of it. Worse comes to worst, the ice was full of intricate, and rather beautiful cracks. Surely he could take some pictures of that to bring home, right?
Yes, Gary supposes that a few pictures of the ice will do. Eric even goes so far as to try finding patterns in the breaks. One he says looks like an anatomically correct heart; Gary doesn’t see it, but he takes a picture of it anyway.
Eric asks him where he is going, and Gary wonders. He doesn’t remember saying he was going anywhere, nor does he remember having ever made a move to leave. He still has Eric’s hand in his own, but the other hand was now on the left wheel of his wheelchair … and his camera was on the floor. He frowns, apologizes; explains that he isn’t going anywhere, and Eric is quick to scoop up the camera, hand it back to him, and tell him that he should take a picture of the Easter eggs, so they can eat the damn things.
Though the paint is scuffed and the flash has cracked from the number of times the camera had taken a spill against the wooden floors, it still offers a beautiful picture, and that is something he’s thankful for. This one, he presses into the hand holding his, before slumping over to rest his forehead against Eric’s shoulder. He’ll eat later, he’s too tired right now, maybe they could take a nap.
Even with six other people in the room, it feels impossibly, unendingly empty -- and simultaneously overcrowded and claustrophobia - inducing. He doesn’t know if it’s the atmosphere making it so hard to breathe, or if it’s the impossibly calm demeanor of the face he cannot tear his eyes away from.
Though it’s a cliche best avoided, there’s nothing else to say; the silence is deafening. There is no sound of an erratic heartbeat in his ears, he doesn’t hear the blood rushing … it’s just silent. A maddening thing; he didn’t believe it before, but he certainly does now: total silence really can drive a man to the brink of insanity. He waits, keeps waiting, to hear him say something, anything … Come on, Gary. Your brothers and sisters are here, you know? Your parents. David, Mark, Amanda, Jennifer -- you can’t ignore them. You can’t …
But, clearly, he can. He says nothing. He doesn’t even look in their direction. It’s surreal. Maybe, he thinks, touching him will get his attention; grabbing his shoulder and shaking it will force him to swat at him, to get him to stop, that’s completely unnecessary, Eric, and if you want my attention, you can wait for five seconds, thank you. His hand doesn’t seem like his own; although he presses his fingers to what he knows must be cold, ungiving flesh, he doesn’t feel it at all.
Then … he must be asleep. You can’t feel things in your dreams, right? That’s how the myths go, anyway. Pinch me, I must be dreaming . Ha, haha. He’ll wake up any minute, Gary’s hands on his cheeks, and an eager smile pressing into his own … and he’ll ask if Gary feels like making pancakes for breakfast this morning, or if they should go out to Benny’s and get something.
A sudden weight, heavy on his shoulder, catches his attention; it’s Mark, face stoic as he peers down at his brother. Catching Eric eyeing him, he offers a weak smile, and the hand on Eric’s shoulder tightens in a supportive squeeze. As he looks away, he can’t help lingering briefly on the way Eric twists the simple wedding band around his finger.