Artie doesn't dream of Lima until New Year's Eve. That night, Artie dreams of flying, and then falling towards a golden field, yanked by fear. But, just when his panicked, angry self saw the earth too close to his nose, he landed in his mother's arms. She felt soft as a bundle of feathers. She spun his eight-year-old self around, and kissed his forehead, and then she spoke, low, in his ear: goodbye.
He remembers what he'd told her he'd do, but it goes fuzzy. Artie reaches consciousness before he opens his eyes, but after he finally clears them of gunk, he realizes he's not alone.
It's his new family. Sam sprawls on top of the covers on his other side, dead to the world. Tina's curled up tightly in Kurt's - well, Santana's - refurbished dumpster chair. One of Rachel's stuffed animals serves as a pillow; Artie idly wonders if Tina took it without asking, and then he realizes she did. She's not a graceful sleeper, either. Mercedes called dibs on the couch last night, serene as Liz in Cleopatra. Blaine crashed in Kurt's bed, but there are only two sets of footsteps padding through the loft: Rachel and Santana, trying their best to argue quietly amongst five different sets of snores.
By now, New York City traffic is white noise, even while muffled by the falling snow. It's the light that burns brighter, and Artie has no idea why neither Sam nor Tina are awake yet.
Cinnamon and apple cider smells waft in. Pretty and festive, but, you know, generic. He's not used to their taste in candles. With great effort - ugh, stiff arms, creaky shoulders - and a dry mouth, Artie feels for his phone on the nightstand and turns carefully over on his side. Someone's rolled his wheelchair against the wall and placed his folded glasses on the seat, so Artie has to put the screen close to his face to thumb through his contacts list.
"Hi, Mom," Artie croaks. His tongue feels thick and furry and his clothes feel warm, clingy, stifling. It didn't feel like flying, and a sharp pang throbs behind his breastbone. "Happy New Year. I love you."
"Hi, Artie. Love you too, sweetie." Clunk, crash. His mom was a zombie in the mornings, and she was liable to pour hot coffee all over the counter or all over the front of her bathrobe unless that bang told her the carafe had found her mug. Hazelnuts. Pecans. Fresh toast and peanut butter. The spidery branches of the maple tree outside their kitchen, dark and webby against a cloudy sky. Less bright, not forgotten. Artie closes his eyes and swallows. She asks, foggily, "How are you doing?"
"I thought I'd get a head start on my New Year's resolution. It's my only one."
"I knew that's what it was," his mom rasps. Artie can hear her smile. He can see her, framed by a camera's lens, raising the mug to her lips as she inhales the smell. She appreciates it, but her sigh feels melancholy. "I miss you too, Artie, so much. Tell me everything about the party."
