Winter's Requiem

( cw; swearing )

Wake up. The wind seemed to softly whisper. Wake up. It's all he can hear as his eyes slowly open. Everything is blanketed in snow and shrouded in mist, gentle flakes of snow falling with each gust of wind. 

But he can only hear the wind. He can't feel it, even when he holds his hand out. The snowflakes don't even land on his skin, it almost looks like it's avoiding him somehow— but the boy doesn't pay that much mind. He's too preoccupied trying to ascertain just where he was, and just who he was. 

So, he gets up. The snow doesn't crunch beneath his feet. At every turn of the head, there are polished headstones, stone crosses and icy flowers— but the writing. 

None of the inscriptions made any sense, like all of the text had been scrambled. Graveyards tend to carry a sense of dread as it were, but this almost feels like a horror movie. The boy didn't pay attention to his lack of footprints in the snow, hastening past the unintelligible gravestones and onto the barren, tree-lined streets.

And he simply began walking.

He doesn't know where he is, but everything feels familiar. The street signs are illegible. He wanders, eyes fixated down in between the gap of the frosted trees to the open ocean. The moonlit bay. He's following a path up to the only building that still had its lights on. The building is situated right beside a small, deep blue pool with water cascading down the rocks in the form of a waterfall. 

The moon is illuminating the snow a pale blue, contrasted by the yellow tint emanating from the lights outside and in. Attempting to interact with the door to the front did nothing. He had no choice but to step through it, although he couldn't shake the feeling that, perhaps, that wasn't exactly the normal way to enter buildings. 

The pub is empty. He scoffs a bit. Ahearn Falls Pub was never empty, but tonight it was.

There are sounds of clinking glasses at the bar counter, tables being cleaned, but with only two people doing those tasks.

Oisín was polishing the glasses.

Well, that's what he had been doing, until he must've noticed someone lurking after hours. It didn't take long for him to lift his head, likely to inform them that they were already closed; but their eyes met, and Oisín's face drained of every trace of colour he'd had. That's something he'd remembered about Oisín, his lovely, healthy, pink and red colouring. 

Then, the glasses in his hand shattered the moment they made contact with the floor, and he screamed. That seemed enough to force the trespasser out of the memory induced daze.

The boy immediately raised his hands, as if surrendering⁠— not like he could do anything, however. It was the first thing he thought to do. 

His mother jumped in reaction to his screams, quick to rush to his side.

All Oisín could say, in between quickened, uneven breathing was a string of words amounting to, "What the fuck⁠— how the hell are you here⁠—?"

Cordelia didn't seem to understand until she saw, and she, too, turned white as a linen sheet with a hand over her mouth to conceal a gasp. 

"W⁠— Why do you two look so⁠— so⁠—" The boy stumbled over his words a bit, actually letting out something of a nervous laugh with hands still raised. "So... terrified? You just broke one of your crystal glasses⁠—"

"Cal, how the fuck are you here, this isn't funny."

The boy couldn't stay still then, quickly getting closer despite Oisín taking a step back. "Is that my name?"

Both Oisín and Cordelia looked incredibly confused⁠— actually, the colour in Oisín's face was coming back. Not because he'd calmed down from the shock, no, this was becoming more reddened with blood beginning to run hot. 

"Is this some kind of sick fucking joke?"

"This isn't a goddamn joke," he retorted, but there's an almost pleading undertone to the irritation tinting his voice. "I don't know where I am, okay, but I know you and I know your mother⁠— I don't know what my name is. I don't know who I am." 

Oisín wasn't the one who spoke next, Cordelia was.

Her mouth moved, it started with your name is, but the words made no sense⁠— only to be followed up by her voice, English accented and incredibly gentle, "Don't you remember?"

Like she was worried about how he may react. 

"That can't be my name, that didn't⁠—" With a brief falter in his speech, Cal's eyes darted between Oisín and Cordelia. "No, that didn't make any sense, that isn't a fucking⁠—"

He's begun to notice how Oisín is shaking, with dark blue eyes seeming far bluer in contrast to the reddening of his cheeks. Like he's stuck between a sense of awestruck horror and something Cal could only guess was near-fleeting hopefulness. 

His voice is weakened when he speaks again, drawing a hand close to his chest, "Cal, how⁠— how are you here?"

Cal could only stare for a moment, his lips parted as if wanting nothing more than to give an explanation, but they slowly drew together in a tight line. He could only manage a quiet and unsure, "I don't even know where I am, Fitzy."

~~

Oisín tries. He tries to accept the image before him. Cal can so clearly see how it's tearing him to shreds and he can't do anything about it. If it hadn't been after hours, there would've been no smoking permitted inside the pub⁠— but these were drastically different circumstances than usual.

Cordelia wasn't going to chide her son for lighting a cigarette, nor for the broken crystal glass that her father-in-law had left behind⁠— not even for the two fingers of whiskey Oisín poured in a glass identical to that one. She swept it up and disposed of it in the bin behind the counter, avoiding Cal from meeting her line of sight again.

"I don't believe you," Cal mumbled, pushing a hand through his hair as he glanced over to watch Oisín exhaling smoke from his nose. Hearing the entire explanation Oisín gave him from start to finish hadn't been good enough. "Like, yeah, I don't remember who I am but come on, obviously I don't believe you."

"Then I can't really fuckin' help you if you don't want to believe me, can I?"

"You said yourself, you weren't even there."

Oisín shook his head, leaning his forehead into his palm with eyes shut. "Then I guess I'm lying to you. Not like I saw you after or anything."

"Oisín," Cordelia said, now standing in front of them from behind the bar counter. "Take him to St Finbarr's."

There's snow lightly hitting the double glazed windows, sounding almost like a dying, weak winter’s fire. Oisín slowly allowed his eyes to open, looking at his mother. Those words weren't rough nor commanding. No— they were full of dread. Cordelia's expression gave it away, and now, Cal didn't want to know what awaited him at St Finbarr's. He didn't get the chance to protest, however, as she looked directly at him. "That's the only way to know who you are, and he has to be the one to take you."

"Mum I⁠— I can't⁠—"

"You have to."

She's unwavering. There's something statuesque about her stance, posture straight and almost rigid. Cal notices, then, how Oisín has her eyes. Deep, dark blue. Almost identical to the water of the falls outside, and to the bay he'd seen walking up to the pub. 

He can see how Oisín's throat seems to tighten, how the cigarette is slowly burning out but he is now too interested in staring down into the glass of amber liquid to notice. 

That was short-lived. Oisín knocked the rest of the whiskey back without so much as a flinch, flicking his dying cigarette into the empty fireplace positioned a ways away from the counter. 

He's standing up, now, pulling his heavy grey coat from the coat rack by the entry. 

Cal almost doesn't want to follow, but he's growing somewhat desperate. Maybe Cordelia was right. It was starting to feel like that would be the case⁠— although he would've enjoyed a glass of whiskey for himself before the trip. How rude. Oisín hadn't even offered him one, but he was already pulling on his coat and scarf that had been hiding on the rack. It was too late to be offered any kind of refreshment. 

So, Cal slowly stepped back from the bar counter, still looking over at Oisín before turning to Cordelia. She was polishing the glasses her son hadn't quite done yet. 

"I'm sorry for scaring you, Mrs Fitzpatrick." 

Those eyes are ever so slightly softer, now. Ever so slightly sadder. There's a faint twitch in her brow, as if she wanted to furrow them but somehow refrained. "It's okay, I was only surprised. It's nice to have you stop by again."

So I have been here before.

There's nothing else for Cal to say, he simply flashes her a half-hearted, tight-lipped smile before turning back in Oisín's direction. He's waiting for him with a hand on the doorknob. 

And so, he goes to him.

The door opens with the wind blowing tufts of Oisín's black curls out of his face, but Cal can't feel it. He hasn't felt a single thing since he woke up, and his clothes don't shift at all in reaction to the gust of cold air against both of them. He had to assume it was cold.

Everything was covered in snow, and snow is generally cold. 

Oisín's footsteps crunched the very snow beneath them, but Cal still couldn't hear his own steps doing the same thing. 

It's only been a few minutes of hearing the wind in his ears and noticing the yellowish light disappearing into the blue-tinted fog of the wintry night. Only the moon is lighting their path, and Oisín hasn't uttered a word since they set out.

His shoulders are ever so slightly slumped with gaze firmly fixed ahead. Cal doesn't know whether to speak or not⁠— but the silence is broken, and it isn't his doing.

"Cal."

"Huh?"

Oisín's hands seem to be fidgeting in his coat pockets as his gait only briefly slows before he needlessly kicks up a bit of snow.

"Why... did you come to me." 

Cal heaved something of a chuckle, a crack of a smile appearing on his face as he sped up his pace just enough to walk beside him. "Well I needed somewhere to go, didn't I?"

A quick retort of, "Don't make this into a joke," came from Oisín as he shook his head, kicking up more snow once again. "You could've gone to see Layne, Nix, Brennan⁠— fuck, you could've even gone to Josie MacNamara, why the hell did you come to me?"

Though they continued walking, Cal found himself looking down at him before silently shifting his gaze to look at the whitened ground. He didn't know how to even process what he'd just heard, let alone formulate a response. Those people, he could remember them but somehow, they didn't seem as important as Oisín. 

"... I honestly don't know," says Cal, swallowing back somewhat dryly. All he could do was shrug his shoulders. "I was wandering and I just... sort of ended up⁠—"

"At my family's pub?"

"Yeah, that." 

Oisín dragged his teeth across his lower lip, then, upturning his head to look at Cal. "I didn't want to see you again, y'know. I was starting to come to terms with everything and then poof, here you are. Scarin' me half to death."

"I didn't mean to scare you⁠—" He spoke, although casting something of a glare towards his companion at such a revelation. "Look, I don't remember what happened between us, okay? I don't remember what I did."

But Oisín wouldn't stop shaking his head, once again lowering it. No words left him, but Cal could make out the sight of a single word being exhaled under his breath. Liar.

Cal didn't comment, rather he took a hand from his pocket and pulled it through his ashen blonde hair, allowing it to fall against his forehead in the same motion his arm fell at his side. 

The trees, frosted and numerous, began to disperse as they drew closer to what appeared to be a small, old church. Right beside it, an equally old and small graveyard.

"Uh, why are we back here?"

"This is St Finbarr's, obviously." 

"But this is literally where I woke up⁠—" Cal said as he finally stopped walking entirely. "This was the place with all the fucked up headstones."

Oisín took a few more steps before pausing as well, turning to face him. He didn't muster so much as a noise, however. His eyebrows are somewhat furrowed. Cal can only stare, seeing that colour in Oisín's face, his nose reddened by the cold and eyes faintly watery from the wind. All Oisín did was move his head, a simple gesture for Cal to continue to the cemetery⁠— and so, he did. 

They don't exchange words. Cal can see that the engravings on all of the headstones are still scrambled and nonsensical. He's trying to make those words somehow coherent, but he can't.

He doesn't even know where Oisín is taking him. 

Until they stop.

The snow that had been falling so steadily has ceased without Cal realising. They're standing in front of a headstone⁠— a blank headstone. Cal looked at Oisín, finding him with a lowered head and eyes closed. Like he was praying. He didn't know what to do, this had him right back where he'd started. 

Rather than interrupt, Cal waited until he saw Oisín's eyes open once again.

"Why did you bring me back here?"

"You woke up here— that was just a coincidence." Oisín mumbles as he lifts a hand from his pocket, seemingly wiping something away from his face. 

The question Cal really wants to ask is a demanding, desperate why the hell is this headstone blank. But he dares to reach out to his friend, placing a hand on his shoulder. Oisín flinched the moment he'd touched him, and Cal felt the fabric of his coat. 

"Oisín, what happened between us?"

Those had been tears he'd wiped away, now using the same hand to cover his eyes. He couldn't manage a response, even when Cal gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Out of the corner of his eye, Cal noticed the inscription on the headstone beside the blank one was suddenly legible. 

Cillian Callahan. 

The blank headstone isn't blank anymore. 

There's a crack in Oisín's voice as he says, "I'm so sorry for everything, Cal. I'm sorry I hung up on you, for everything I said, I didn't know what was going to happen." 

Cal's hand isn't on his shoulder anymore, he knelt down into the snow, reaching out to touch the headstone that only had Callahan written on it. The polished stone is cold to the touch and his breath caught in his throat. Oisín stood in place and tried to dry his face with his coat sleeve.

We'd been arguing, hadn't we? Even the best of friends do that sometimes, but I didn't really remember just how angry you'd made me. 

Tracing the invisible engravings with his finger, Cal closed his eyes as he went over every marked inch of stone before letting them open once more.

In loving memory of,

Cain Callahan. 

September 14th, 1999 ⁠— October 21st, 2018. 

Above you rise, looking upon us, awaiting our return; 

to the loving arms, which embrace you now. 

"... Cain Callahan." He whispered. My name. Cain Callahan. 

We were fighting that night⁠— God, we'd never been so nasty to each other before then. I don't blame you for hanging up on me. 

It's like he'd put on a pair of glasses⁠— everything seemed to piece itself together at that moment, and it made hearing Oisín's muffled crying all the more painful. His best friend as he remembers now. 

"Fitzy, you're crying over me, now?"

"Fuck you⁠— I'm⁠— I'm not crying over you, God⁠—"

"Oisín," Cal is standing once again, looking at him. Oisín is trying to hide the tears, concealing the lower half of his face with his blue tartan scarf. That is, until Cal drew a bit closer and took his face in his hands. "I'm sorry."

His friend is shivering, sniffling despite attempting to compose himself. "I didn't mean what I said, I swear to God, I didn't mean any of it."

"I didn't either⁠— y'know we would've gotten over it pretty quickly." 

"Yeah, if you hadn't fucking⁠—"

Cal let out a laugh. Not a happy one, but more of a laugh to diffuse any rising tension. Oisín being upset was worse than the realisation thrust upon him only moments before. "Can't change it now, huh? We got a chance to make peace, I think that's pretty fuckin' lucky."

He knows his hands must be incredibly cold, but he can feel everything now. He wants to savour it. With a small tug, Cal pulled Oisín into a tight embrace. As Oisín slowly wrapped his arms around him, burying his face into his shoulder, Cal spoke with a smile audible in his voice. "No hard feelings?" 

"Yeah," Although his friend couldn't manage a laugh or a smile of his own, Cal felt him nod followed by a muffled, "It's whatever." 

Oisín kept his eyes closed, unwilling to open them. Even when the sensation of chill wrapping around him had disappeared. He had nothing he was holding onto, now. Lowering his arms to rest at his sides, Oisín only opened his eyes then. Staring through the dim, snowy night, at the ever so faintly blurred name directly in front of him.

Cain Callahan.