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Untitled
Aspen Extreme
T.J./Dex, death story
He didn’t know how they got down the mountain. Blood slicked across one eye, the other squinted against sun on snow, and he couldn’t feel much else beyond Dex’s hands strong around his waist, one of his arms slung over Dex’s shoulder. Wracked with constant shivers that were a good sign, sign he could still feel the cold, still feel Dex shivering against him and protesting all the while that he was fine, he would be fine. Face on the resort’s posters or not, if Dex got him to a hospital they’d both be fired for his stupid mistake.
He stumbled a hundred times, fell once, and wouldn’t have gotten back up on his own. Didn’t remember getting back to the van, just waking up alone sitting in the passenger seat and knowing it was unfamiliar because usually he drove the van and there were several long moments when he couldn’t remember why he wasn’t driving, moments when his head didn’t hurt, exactly, just felt strange like the world had come unmoored and he started laughing at his own train of thought and the sound of course made Dex worry, eyes off the road and it was a miracle they made it to Robin’s cabin. By then he could feel his feet breaking through snow-crust again, Dex’s arms warm around him, both of them dry and warmer from the van and it occurred to him now that Dex must’ve changed their clothes, was maybe a little frightened that he couldn’t remember it happening.
After Dex died, T.J. thought, just once, just briefly, and he never mentioned it to anyone: If Dex hadn’t saved him that time, Dex wouldn’t have died. It was simple, really. There were a thousand other things that could’ve gone right before that day, that could’ve kept Dex alive (that damned avalanche report, or simpler still if he’d turned Dex down, sent him back to Detroit where he would’ve been bored and miserable and safe). But this one seemed most obvious. Most like a fair trade.
Or better yet, if he hadn’t been afraid to leave Detroit without him, or if he hadn’t left at all, if he’d taken the goddamned promotion and the one after that and the one after that and eventually hit retirement and lived on the barstool next to Dex’s at the pub nearest the house they would still share. Or even if they’d come to Aspen, if only they’d never heard of the fucking Powder 8, if only Dex hadn’t taken it as a challenge the way he’d taken everything as a challenge his whole life (And sometimes T.J. thought he could’ve been happy just being okay ski instructors. Another thing he never said.) and T.J. knew, and understood every sleepless night and every bottle of beer and every elaborately-naïve screw-up and. Couldn’t finish that thought.
The worst part was that Dex asked him to leave. Kind of. In his own way: shoving T.J.’s face through a mirror but he’d never understood much about love, the gentler kind. And then showing up last minute with ultimatums disguised as reconciliations, that spark in his eyes that T.J. had never been able to refuse. And even then Dex wouldn’t ask, (like he’d forced T.J. to ask) wouldn’t ask him to come home.
Or maybe the worst part was that if Dex had asked then T.J. would’ve had to say no, admitted that the $10,000 hadn’t come free. That every ugly word passed between them had been true, but Dex had needed the money, Dex needed the money and T.J. didn’t have anything else to sell.
There were things he knew about Dexter, things that he saw when they were alone or when they’d just finished a tough run, things hidden by the shitty clothes and the women. He didn’t like to leave Dex alone, that was at least half of it. Didn’t like to leave him alone, knowing what he knew. It was a bitter sort of knowledge, one that made everything guilty, or like an obligation. He knew what Dex thought about love—or, it wasn’t even on the level of thought, not since his father—but, somewhere in Dex’s heart lay an obsession and a need that terrified T.J. Terrified him. And thus his own women, and his own shitty clothes and his own jokes and constant reminders that Dex was his best friend—and nothing more.
After the avalanche, he had to drag himself down the mountain. Achingly aware of Dex missing from his side. Had to call the ski patrol, all the emergency paraphernalia associated with skiing, had to admit that no, he hadn’t checked the avalanche report, hadn’t even asked Dex if he’d remembered, either. And no he hadn’t been leading, not today. First time with Dex in the lead, dangling T.J.’s acquiescence like a rabbit’s foot and of course he died for it. In his darker moments, T.J. can believe that this is his punishment.
In his lighter moments, he can’t think of what that punishment would be for, exactly. For Bryce, except … that was for Dex, and …
Sometimes his lighter moments lead to his darker moments.
Standing on the edge of a cliff with only cascaded ice between him and certain death and a large part of him (approximately half and Dex-shaped) doesn’t care. Even the part of him that knows he has a chance of making it down safely is singing over how slim a chance it really is. Skill doesn’t always suffice, he’s learned that again and again and recently ... Recently he’s learned that skill is just enough to fuck you over.
End.
Untitled
Aspen Extreme
T.J./Dex, death story
He didn’t know how they got down the mountain. Blood slicked across one eye, the other squinted against sun on snow, and he couldn’t feel much else beyond Dex’s hands strong around his waist, one of his arms slung over Dex’s shoulder. Wracked with constant shivers that were a good sign, sign he could still feel the cold, still feel Dex shivering against him and protesting all the while that he was fine, he would be fine. Face on the resort’s posters or not, if Dex got him to a hospital they’d both be fired for his stupid mistake.
He stumbled a hundred times, fell once, and wouldn’t have gotten back up on his own. Didn’t remember getting back to the van, just waking up alone sitting in the passenger seat and knowing it was unfamiliar because usually he drove the van and there were several long moments when he couldn’t remember why he wasn’t driving, moments when his head didn’t hurt, exactly, just felt strange like the world had come unmoored and he started laughing at his own train of thought and the sound of course made Dex worry, eyes off the road and it was a miracle they made it to Robin’s cabin. By then he could feel his feet breaking through snow-crust again, Dex’s arms warm around him, both of them dry and warmer from the van and it occurred to him now that Dex must’ve changed their clothes, was maybe a little frightened that he couldn’t remember it happening.
After Dex died, T.J. thought, just once, just briefly, and he never mentioned it to anyone: If Dex hadn’t saved him that time, Dex wouldn’t have died. It was simple, really. There were a thousand other things that could’ve gone right before that day, that could’ve kept Dex alive (that damned avalanche report, or simpler still if he’d turned Dex down, sent him back to Detroit where he would’ve been bored and miserable and safe). But this one seemed most obvious. Most like a fair trade.
Or better yet, if he hadn’t been afraid to leave Detroit without him, or if he hadn’t left at all, if he’d taken the goddamned promotion and the one after that and the one after that and eventually hit retirement and lived on the barstool next to Dex’s at the pub nearest the house they would still share. Or even if they’d come to Aspen, if only they’d never heard of the fucking Powder 8, if only Dex hadn’t taken it as a challenge the way he’d taken everything as a challenge his whole life (And sometimes T.J. thought he could’ve been happy just being okay ski instructors. Another thing he never said.) and T.J. knew, and understood every sleepless night and every bottle of beer and every elaborately-naïve screw-up and. Couldn’t finish that thought.
The worst part was that Dex asked him to leave. Kind of. In his own way: shoving T.J.’s face through a mirror but he’d never understood much about love, the gentler kind. And then showing up last minute with ultimatums disguised as reconciliations, that spark in his eyes that T.J. had never been able to refuse. And even then Dex wouldn’t ask, (like he’d forced T.J. to ask) wouldn’t ask him to come home.
Or maybe the worst part was that if Dex had asked then T.J. would’ve had to say no, admitted that the $10,000 hadn’t come free. That every ugly word passed between them had been true, but Dex had needed the money, Dex needed the money and T.J. didn’t have anything else to sell.
There were things he knew about Dexter, things that he saw when they were alone or when they’d just finished a tough run, things hidden by the shitty clothes and the women. He didn’t like to leave Dex alone, that was at least half of it. Didn’t like to leave him alone, knowing what he knew. It was a bitter sort of knowledge, one that made everything guilty, or like an obligation. He knew what Dex thought about love—or, it wasn’t even on the level of thought, not since his father—but, somewhere in Dex’s heart lay an obsession and a need that terrified T.J. Terrified him. And thus his own women, and his own shitty clothes and his own jokes and constant reminders that Dex was his best friend—and nothing more.
After the avalanche, he had to drag himself down the mountain. Achingly aware of Dex missing from his side. Had to call the ski patrol, all the emergency paraphernalia associated with skiing, had to admit that no, he hadn’t checked the avalanche report, hadn’t even asked Dex if he’d remembered, either. And no he hadn’t been leading, not today. First time with Dex in the lead, dangling T.J.’s acquiescence like a rabbit’s foot and of course he died for it. In his darker moments, T.J. can believe that this is his punishment.
In his lighter moments, he can’t think of what that punishment would be for, exactly. For Bryce, except … that was for Dex, and …
Sometimes his lighter moments lead to his darker moments.
Standing on the edge of a cliff with only cascaded ice between him and certain death and a large part of him (approximately half and Dex-shaped) doesn’t care. Even the part of him that knows he has a chance of making it down safely is singing over how slim a chance it really is. Skill doesn’t always suffice, he’s learned that again and again and recently ... Recently he’s learned that skill is just enough to fuck you over.
End.
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