Chapter Text
Winston can’t remember the last time he felt clarity.
He’s been high since before he could remember, and maybe he should be more worried that he can’t call recall further back than a few years, but this is his life. Hit for hit, blow for blow, drink for drink—he’s never known anything else.
(A child’s laughter fills his ears. They can’t be older than three. Their little hands reach out towards him. He wants a drink.)
He doesn’t work. He doesn’t need to. Why would he when he owns this house? When it’s paid off? When the money from his parents’s fortune never seems to run dry?
The only reason he’s bothering to stumble towards the kitchen is because he doesn’t have anything to shoot or snort to chase away the hunger. His skin is tightly wrapped against his ribs and spine. He knows he must look horrific, but he’s long since broken every mirror in this house.
Maybe he can grab some stale cereal or something? It doesn’t matter. He just needs enough so he can coherently text his dealer. Bastard won’t sell if he thinks he’s about to keel over.
He knocks into a cabinet on his way, hard enough that a box falls from the top of it and spills all over the floor. He keeps pushing right past it, but he steps on something that makes him stop. It’s paper. No. It’s a picture.
He leans down to pick it up, but quickly grows so dizzy that he has to sit on the floor. With an angry grumble, he moves to rip it, but once again, he stops. He squints, then flinches back.
Front and center of the picture is a woman with white-blonde curls and the sharpest blue eyes you’ve ever seen. He immediately closes his eyes and presses his wrists against them. A flood of memories of his first—and last—love swarm him like flies. Only, he can’t swat them away. He just has to sit and wait.
When the dizziness of the swarm finally stops, he looks again. She’s still there, but now his attention is drawn to the child in her arms.
A little…something, about two or three clings to her. He truly can’t make out the gender, because the child is swaddled in a blue onesie, but its hair—also white-blonde, but pin straight—reaches its shoulders already.
In fact, there are even little butterfly clips in its hair, pushing it out of its face.
He frowns. That chubby little face is so familiar. Where the hell has he seen it? Obviously on his late love, but this one is different. He can’t for the life of him remember its name.
(A giggle. Bright blue eyes shining up at him. Little hands reaching out.)
He’s just about done giving himself a headache over it, when a slam makes him jolt. The dizzy spell that hits him when he stands too fast threatens to tip him over, but he catches himself on the cabinet. Dishes rattle inside, all shattered from one too many rough bumps.
His eyes flicker towards the door. He creeps towards it, and squints through the peephole. He sees the back of a mailman uniform. He stays rooted in that spot until the truck has long since gone, and then, he opens the door.
The sun hits him for the first time in however long since his last high started. He jerks away from it like a vampire, before his body adjusts. His eyes flicker towards the mailbox, to the street, then back to the mailbox.
He didn’t even know he had a mailbox. Let alone that it was overflowing like this.
It’s almost completely stuffed with letter after letter, all crammed in different ways to make it fit. The latest must’ve been a tipping point, because—despite the bang he heard—the damn thing is slightly open. Underneath it are more packages. Little ones, but packages nonetheless.
He doesn’t know why he cares, but something tells him to not ignore it like he always does everything else. It takes three trips to throw everything onto his dining table. The letters cover the entire thing. They’re all the same material, same color, and even use the same stamp—a horse jockey.
That’s when another hunger pang hits him. He digs through his cabinet, and finds a shitty old box of cereal. It’s fucking Frosted Flakes, which he doesn’t even like but can’t seem to stop buying for whatever reason. Like he thought, they’re stale, and he doesn’t have milk, so he eats them dry.
The entire time, his eyes keep drawing back to the pile of letters. He decides fuck it, and picks one up. His name, address, and a return address are all written in perfect, loopy cursive.
Some rich fuck who knew his folks probably sent it. But the question is, why the hell did they send so many?
He chews absentmindedly on his shitty cereal as he slices open the letter with his pocket-knife. He stops mid-bite when he reads the first words.
Dear Da,
(Tiny, tiny hands reaching out. Reaching. Reaching.)
(The softest giggle from the quietest baby.)
(First giggle. First steps. First word—Da)
"What did you say? Say it again."
DAⱠⱠ₳₴
"Take that, Michelle! I win!" More giggles, and he says it again.
DALL₳₴
"That's right, I'm Dada, buddy."
DALLAS
Dear Da,
I couldn't sleep last night because I know it's over between me and Sylvia.
Not in the sense that we will stop the song and dance we do. I can't abandon her when I know she needs the protection. But, we've reached a point we can't go back from.
Even if we get back together, she'll never have my ring again. I don't know why that thought makes me so cold.
Maybe it's the feelings I had for her finally freezing over like the rest of my emotions. I know that sounds corny, but Ponyboy is always saying I'm so tuff and cold. Sometimes I feel like that. Like I'm just frozen over.
Other times I feel like I'm drowning in what I feel, but the ocean I'm in has a thick sheet of ice over it, and no matter how much I scream and claw and punch, I can't get out. If there was just an opening, maybe I could take a breath, or I could stick my hand out so someone could pull me out.
Either way, I feel cold.
It's the betrayal still setting in. Building a nest in the branches of my heart, where I'll never be able to dislodge it.
If it was anyone but Timmy, I wouldn't feel like this. But it was. So I do.
I'm not bitter anymore. And maybe that's the cold front blowing over my heart talking, but I know what Sylvia and I had was real. And I know one day, when she finally moves on, we'll pass each other on the streets and I'll smile. I'll remember the moments that were like fire heating my blue lips.
That's passion. I can't help but wonder if you and Mama had that same passion. I've got a distant memory of you two laughing and dancing in the kitchen, but I don't know if it's real. I don't know if I made it up between all the drugs and the screaming and the pain.
I hope it's real.
"The best love is the kind that awakens the soul. That makes us reach for more. That plants a fire in our hearts and brings peace to our minds."
She was never my peace, but damn did Sylv light a fire in my chest. I think, in another life, where we were both different, we could've really been something.
But here? In this life? I just feel cold.
Best,
Dallas
Winston doesn't have a single clue on what to do with any of that.
That chubby little baby with clips in his hair is grown now. When the hell did that happen? Did he...did he really miss it all?
He wants a drink. He wants a hit. He wants something to stop his head spinning and the cannon ball of guilt sitting heavy in his stomach.
The envelopes that still surround him all say the same return address. Tulsa, Oklahoma. His home town. When the hell did the kid get all the way there? Why didn't he notice?
He stands shakily. This isn't his problem. The kid is alive and probably doing fine if he's seeing girls. He needs to call his dealer so he can forget.
He needs to forget.
Winston stumbles back to his room. Past the box of pictures, past the cabinet of broken dishes, past the abandoned door covered in stickers.
He collapses onto his bed, struggling to push himself up and reach for the phone. The desk catches his eye. It's covered in dust and trash, but the paper and pens there are unused. It hasn't been used since...
Michelle was the writer between the two of them. She wrote short stories that she would read to Dallas. She wrote poetry. Her books are in the desk, collecting dust like the rest of her things.
"He's a poet, just like you," Winston mumbles into the air.
He makes a manic decision in that moment.
He abandons his search for his phone and instead grabs a pen and the stack of paper. Then, he stumbles his way back to the dining room, back to the letter, and pens out a reply.
Dear Dallas,
I'm really sorry to hear about you and Sylvia. I know how rough it is to lose a girl you really care about. But, you outta know you deserve better than some broad who'll fuck your friends behind your back.
This Timmy guy seems pretty damn important to you, but I hope you have some better friends than him.
I know what you mean when you say you're drowning. I feel like that too, a lot of the time. Certain things help me breathe, but you best not be doing any drugs. It's not the right way to stop drowning. It feels like it, but really? It's just dragging you deeper under.
That passion you find in someone isn't rare. Anyone can be a blaze, but it takes someone real special to just be warm to you.
I don't know when you got so mature, but you're definitely better than me. It's a good skill to be able to let go when someone hurts you, and I'm glad someone taught it to you.
That memory you have is real. But, I don't know which one you mean. Michelle and I danced a lot, especially when she was pregnant with you. You loved Nat King Cole something fierce. Even after you were born, you went crazy whenever we played Unforgettable.
I wonder if you still dig him. Kids these days are all for Elvis now, ain't they? Let me know, maybe I can send ya some records.
Keep your chin up, and don't let any girls break your heart.
From your old man,
Winston
With that, he folds up the page and sets it aside. He's got a hell of a lot more letters to reply to, so he grabs the nearest one on the stack and gets back to it.