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But what was once in his lungs is now clogging his throat, thick and slow in a way the cold doesn’t quite clear out. He should not be cold, not really. He’d tended to his ever-cycling cast of bruises and bumps with snow straight to his skin until it had frozen almost to the point of pain itself. It was the only time he’d ever let himself cry. Matt still doesn’t cry unless he’s out here, unless his shit of a father decides to give him something to cry about. Even then, he waits, not wanting to give his father the satisfaction. So he cries when he’s alone with his thoughts and the prairie grass. He doesn’t always know what he cries about anymore. He just cries, really. He forces his eyes to focus on the light purple veins of a swaying flower, sees the force of the sun and the contrast of petals, delicate and seasonal. He’s laid here and watched generations of the blooms come and die off and now he feels as ancient as the land he lies on, has felt ancient in a way that only kids who learn diplomacy through trial-by-fire truly do. He was barely in grade school when he started fighting the tug to be out here. He wonders, pillowed by the grasses once more and half tempted to just drift off, wonders why he fights it at all. He could just fall asleep. He could just fall asleep for a long time, let the prairie wind carve channels through his bones, let the seemingly unending root system build its way into his chest, his skull, until he’s inextricable from the only place he’s felt okay. Maybe then, for once, he’d feel alright. He feels the selfdeprecation rise in his chest like a laugh. But he doesn’t let it out. He doesn’t want to bother his beautiful neighbours. When was the last time you came here? He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand and sat up to keep from choking on the things that sat at the back of his neck. Slowly he extracted himself from the grip of his surroundings. He fought the tug of swaying grasses, the comfort of numbing air, the scent of his own tears, and the sound of nothing. He fought the steady, reassuring calm of hibernation. Fought the endless blue above him even as he walked to his car, half tempted to get lost in it still and never return. He’d come back, this much he knew. He’d drive down this road again and inexplicably stop. He’d lay in the comforting arms of a field that had been there to witness his worst. Maybe he’d cry, cathartic and ugly, in a way even his therapist hadn’t really seen him. For now he cranks his car window back up, starts the ignition, and drives past. Matt stares straight ahead.