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The morning air breathes in crisp thanks to the new spring season, the part of town they’ve chosen to loot is uncharacteristically quiet, their boots click against the sidewalk in effortless tandem, and Rick thinks that this run is shaping up to be everything he needed today. With the many complicated roles to play back home, he enjoys these moments away. It keeps his head on straight. There’s a sense of freedom Rick finds out here, away from the others. There’s no judgment, no suspicious eyes, no whispered rumors, and all those things melt away like a distant memory when he’s clicking along side-by-side with Daryl wordlessly, every fleeting moment of eye contact communicating mutual, unconditional respect. It’s a bond Rick has never experienced before, and it never fails to fill him confidence and tie off his frayed nerves. And really, that’s what Rick and Daryl are these days: Rick, a thick blanket constantly unraveling, and Daryl, the steady, fast working hands that fixes him up and keeps him whole.
Daryl being the attentive friend that he is, realizes that their runs together is part of keeping Rick whole—so he arranges for it to be just the two of them more often these days. Rick is grateful for it. Without a team of others, it’s less like a detachment marching into battle and more like two friends, hanging out. Daryl goes out of his way to make it like that. He chats, he cracks jokes, he keeps things light. Their ventures beyond the wall are, of course, preluded by the need for supplies. They always bring plenty back, too—Daryl is nothing if not a determined provider. But when it’s the two of them, Daryl will find a way and a bit of time to step back from the task at hand and do something fun—a temporary reprieve from the madness of the new world.
The first time he does it, Daryl finds a six pack of light beer in the house they're searching. He cracks one open and passes it off to Rick before popping one for himself. He leads the way out to the front porch and collapses in one of the deck chairs with a dramatic sigh. He throws his feet up on the railing, guzzles half the can down, and looks up to Rick, who’s standing there with a furrowed brow and his own warm beer awkward in his delicate grip. Then, Daryl looks pointedly at the chair beside him, communicating without words, follow my lead. So Rick sits, and he drinks half the can down same as Daryl. Not long after, they’re through the pack and talking loud and obnoxious like ol’ pals do. It’s so familiar, so pleasant, Rick nearly forgets the world is over. All that matters is him and Daryl, hanging out, drinking beer, at ease for the first time in forever.
Since that day, Daryl started going out of his way to find a way to get Rick loose-limbed relaxed like that again each time they went out. Twice more they found alcohol and got a healthy buzz. A few times they went swimming. Sometimes they’d just sit back and admire a pretty view. And once while looting a teenage boy’s room, Rick found a small glass jar with pot in it, so (after some coaxing from Daryl) they smoked it together and spent half the afternoon laid up on the queen-sized bed, studying the plain-white ceiling with bleary eyes, listening to Led Zeppelin albums on an old school boombox, and talking about stupid shit. It was like they were teenagers, and Rick admitted to Daryl it was the best he’d felt since long before the dead started walking.
So, Rick is bounding with excited energy now that he’s out with Daryl once again, and there’s a world of possibilities at their fingertips.
Daryl’s clicking stride slows to a stop. Rick’s eyes dart around wildly searching for walkers, but the street is as empty as it was a few moments ago. He steps up beside Daryl and asks, “What is it?”
Daryl’s got a smile on that Rick’s never seen before. He’s looking across the narrow street at a small barber shop. It’s styled to look old-fashioned, with black walls and a candy-cane colored pole out front. There are floor-length windows with hand-painted prices on either side of a the door. At the top is a twirly-lettered sign that reads, “Cutting It Close”.
Rick turns to look at Daryl with a raised eyebrow, but at the same time, Daryl says, “C’mon,” and takes off across the street. Rick follows, gun at the ready, until he falls in place next to Daryl at the shop’s entrance.
“What are we doin’?” he hisses, crouched down low next to Daryl, who’s fiddling with the handle on the door.
“Wha’s it look like?” Daryl says, “Don’t got nothin’ to get the lock open. Gonna bust the glass.” Daryl shuffles a few steps over toward the window, flips his crossbow around in his hands, and pulls it backwards, ready to swing. He gives one final glance toward Rick, and when he gets the confirmation he’s looking for—a short nod—he thrusts the handle of his crossbow forward and the glass shatters with a crash. A couple more swings and enough of it is broken away that they can both slip through the gap and into the shop.
Daryl goes through first, and then Rick. He follows him through the window with his gun raised, but once he gets inside and looks around, he finds the place in-tact and walker-free.
“Huh,” says Rick.
The shop is tiny. The walls are red and the floors are black tile. In the front sits a counter with a cash register. Behind it are stylist chairs lining both walls. There are three on either side, each of them facing a beautician’s counter with an inlaid sink and a mirror rimmed with Hollywood-style lightbulbs. The chairs are the kind that are attached to the floor, and swivel around 360°. The seats are made of thick, fine looking leather; the base, constructed out of a polished silver that matches the glitter flakes embedded in the tile floor. The place looks frozen in time compared to the outside world. A menu board posted on the wall still has the prices written out in chalk—haircut, $14, beard lineup, $15, clean shave, $16, and on it goes—and each station is set up like their owner was due back any day now, complete with scissors and hair products and family pictures tucked into the mirrors’ frames.
“Don’t relax yet, Sheriff. Gotta check the back.” Daryl quickly makes his way to the far end of the shop and pushes a panel on the wall. It gives way to a room that Daryl disappears into, bow ready. Rick furrows his brow. He hadn’t even realized there was a back room. A few moments later, Daryl emerges with his bow over his shoulder.
“All clear,” he announces. Rick nods, straightens up, and holsters his weapon. He lets his eyes wander over the details of the shop as he meanders. While he looks around—running his hands over the tools, looking at the photos, wandering from one chair to the next—Daryl stands at the back of the shop and watches Rick move throughout the space. Rick has the feeling that he’s not meant to be in this place, but at the same time, he feels that Daryl is waiting for something from him.
At a loss for what to do, Rick offers up, “It’s nice.”
Luckily, his shot in the dark hit the mark. Daryl relaxes and he smiles. He looks around at the place himself and says, “Yeah. It is.” Then, he walks with purpose until he comes to a stop behind of one of the chairs—the second one on the left. He smacks his hands down on its top and rubs the leather like it’s a dog. It’s one of the most plain stations in the shop, albeit the messiest, with scattered supplies strewn across the counter. Daryl looks up to the mirror and watches as Rick comes up behind him. Rick sees his own confused expression reflecting back at him alongside Daryl’s enraptured smile.
Daryl points to the chair on his left. “That one was Roger’s. Great fuckin’ dude. Never did talk to him much, but I heard him goin’ on all the time and I always thought it’d be nice to have a couple beers with the guy.” He dropped his hand back down to the chair and pointed with the other hand to the right. “And there was Marisa. Never met a more badass chick in my life. Well…back then I hadn’t. Carol would eat a gal like Marisa for breakfast these days. I didn’t talk to her hardly at all, ‘cause she was a stone-cold bitch most times. Guess she was pretty easy on me though. So she wasn’t too bad.”
“You come here a lot?” Rick asks skeptically. He can’t imagine Daryl spending money on a haircut or a shave. Especially since Rick has seen him over a dozen times shaving his face with a hunting knife like an ol’ school pro. Something about the idea of Daryl sitting in that chair, baring his throat to some mysterious figure with a razor seemed entirely wrong.
Daryl scoffs and rolls his eyes. He says, “You really think I’m the type for that, Rick?”
Rick meets his eyes in the mirror and Daryl looks back at him, mischief flickering across his face. Daryl studies Rick’s reflection for a moment, and then his smirk breaks into a full smile and he swivels the chair around toward Rick.
“Sit,” he instructs. Rick gives him an apprehensive look, but does as he’s told: he slowly turns around and eases himself down into the cushy chair. As soon as he’s planted, Daryl turns the chair so that Rick is facing him. He leans down to examine the hair covering Rick’s cheeks and jaw. He is running gentle fingers through the beard, getting a feel for the length of it, turning Rick’s face up and down by guiding his chin when he says, “This chair’s mine.”
Rick’s intake of breath is so sharp that it causes him to choke on his own spit. He hacks around the obstruction and Daryl drops his hands and takes a step back so that Rick can work himself through it. Once Rick gets ahold of his breathing again, he beams up at Daryl with huge, disbelieving eyes.
“You used to work here?” he asks. Rick is awed by this new piece of information. He can see Daryl in all sorts of jobs before the fall, but his thick, muscled arms and calloused hands guides Rick’s imagination toward blue-collar work. In his mind, pre-apocalypse Daryl is a construction worker, mechanic, or repairman. Rick had toyed with a couple other ideas that seem equally plausible like truck driver, bartender, or cook, but eventually those ideas were nixed for one reason or another. He had never imagined this.
Daryl’s frowning at his shoes. He shrugs a shoulder and says, “Got a problem with that?” as if he expects Rick might.
Rick leans back into the chair and shakes his head. “Naw, I got no problem. Lost the bet though. I had a can of peaches on you bein’ in construction.”
Daryl scoffs and peers up at Rick from under long strands of hair. He looks nervous standing there, so wary of Rick’s judgement. “Ya tell anyone ‘bout this, I’ll gut ya,” says Daryl.
Rick blinks in surprise. He knows that Daryl likes to keep his past private, but he didn’t realize that details about it were held like secrets. Daryl’s embarrassed by this part of himself. Yet he chose to share it with Rick, because he trusts him to not misuse the information. Suddenly, Rick feels very privileged to be here. He was invited inside Daryl’s secret. He was given a chance to look around. And now he’s being asked for his opinion on it. Rick wonders if anyone has gotten to see as many sides of Daryl Dixon as him. As soon as he thinks, probably not, he realizes that it goes both ways. Daryl knows more about him than any other person, living or dead. They smoked pot together for christ’s sake. Even Shane couldn’t talk Rick into that one.
“I’ll take it to my grave. Better to keep them guessin’, right? Though I gotta tell ya, some of these guys have got crazy imaginations. Maggie’s got her money on you bein’ a male stripper. Glenn thinks you did desk work for the government, at the post office or DMV or somethin’.”
Daryl rolls his eyes. “Pft. Those guys are morons. Let ‘em think what they want. At least yer guess wasn’t dumb as shit.” He leans down and starts examining Rick’s beard again. Rick tilts his chin up and lets him do it. Now that he knows, Rick notices how practiced Daryl’s movements are. He touches Rick’s face with feathery precision. It’s soothing. Rick lets his eyes flutter closed and enjoys the feeling of Daryl’s steady fingertips on him.
“You worked here for a long time, huh?”
“Only job I ever had. You gonna let me take this mess off yer face?”
Rick peeks through one eye at him. “You wanna?” he asks.
“It’s real thick. Nothin’ more satisfyin’ than scrapin’ away a good beard,” he says. He stands, wipes his hands on his pants, and looks toward his station. He steps over to it and starts sorting through the mess. “Besides, ain’t no sense in coverin’ up that pretty face. Facial hair’s for guys who look better hidden ‘way.”
“But you got facial hair.”
“‘Xactly. Too bad I can’t grow more of it. Never could get it to come through on the sides,” says Daryl. He swings his crossbow and backpack off his shoulders, tosses them to the ground, and then bends over and rummages through his bag. When he turns back around, he’s got his canteen in his hand. “So? You ready to become clean-cut, good ol’ boy Sheriff Grimes ‘gain?”
Rick huffs a laugh and grins. “Well, how else am I gonna see the master at work?”
Daryl smirks and dives into his routine. He lets the chair back and Rick falls with it. Being suddenly laid flat catches Rick off guard and he gasps, but Daryl laughs and says, “You ever have this done before?”
Rick shakes his head. “Always did it myself.”
“I’ve never had it done neither. But people tell me it’s relaxin’,” he says as he covers Rick’s body with a towel. “Just lay back ’n’ let me take care of everythin’.”
“Okay,” says Rick. He lets his eyes fall closed again and wriggles around in the chair until he’s comfortable. For a little while, he’s just sitting there waiting for whatever come next.
He hears the screw cap of the canteen and then water hitting the sink’s basin. Daryl’s wetted hands press themselves against Rick’s fuzzy cheeks and stroke the water through the beard. Daryl repeats this a couple more times until the hair is slicked down. After he’s finished, Rick hears him walk over to his counter. Some items move around, clattering or dragging across the smooth surface, and there’s the trickling water sound again. The next thing Rick feels is a firm, bristled brush against his cheek, working a thick foam into Rick’s beard.
Rick sighs as the tension eases from his body. Daryl’s right, this is relaxing. The soft sounds, the careful attention on his face…it makes Rick feel safe and cared for. No wonder Daryl is so capable of evoking these sorts of emotions in others: he’s well practiced at it.
Once the foam is applied in a generous layer over his cheeks, jaw, and neck, Daryl steps back over to his his counter and Rick peeks at him. Daryl turns around with a large paper towel and catches Rick’s eye. He smiles at him and places the paper towel on Rick’s chest.
“You’re good at this,” Rick says.
“Thanks.”
“I never would have guessed this for you. But now that I see it, it makes sense.”
Daryl shrugs his shoulder and turns back to the counter. He opens up the top drawer and pulls out a folding razor with a sleek black handle. When he turns back toward Rick his eyes are looking fondly over the sculpted curves of the razor in his hands. He turns it over and back again.
Daryl says, “I never understood why people spend money at a place like this. Seems stupid. And vain. Who cares ‘bout yer hair or yer facial hair or whatever, right? Waste of time, worryin’ over those things. But this’s where I landed, and I didn’t mind bein’ on the other side of the equation. I did all the shavin’ when I was on shift, ’n’ I got good fast. Already knew how to use a knife from huntin’ as a kid. Cuttin’ beards ‘way ain’t much diff’rent than that.”
Daryl opens up the razor and walks around behind Rick’s head. He stoops down low and suddenly they’re so close that Rick can feel Daryl’s breath against his face. So, he does the appropriate thing and shuts his eyes again.
Daryl starts at the top of Rick’s cheek and drags the razor against his skin with a confident stroke. Rick feels him wipe the removed hair and foam off of the razor onto the paper towel on Rick’s chest. Daryl repeats the motion again, and Rick sighs softly through his nose.
“This is real nice,” he says, and Daryl yanks back his third stroke and swats Rick’s shoulder with his free hand.
“No talkin’, dumbass,” he says. Rick clamps his mouth shut and peeks up at Daryl. Rick gives him a childlike look that means both sorry and not sorry at the same time. Daryl laughs and shakes his head. The third stroke comes down the side of Rick’s jaw, as smooth and skilled as the two before it.
In an attempt to deter Rick from saying anything else, Daryl fills the silence with conversation of his own. As he works Rick’s beard away, he tells him how he ended up in his line of work. In Georgia, it’s possible to start working as a barber at sixteen, if you’ve got the proper licensing. So when Merle’s friend promised his baby brother a job so long as he got trained first, Merle used his drug money to put Daryl through barber school. Daryl was happy to do it, even though it was two types of school on top of each other, ‘cause it meant a full time job with decent pay and tips. He saved up everything he made so that he could move out of his daddy’s place as soon as possible. He got his GED and bought himself a trailer. But he kept working at Cutting It Close, ‘cause it was honest work and good people.
“I was doin’ this from the time I was sixteen until the end,” he says, “I was standing right here, shavin’ some dudes beard when it all went down. Right out that window—” he says, and jabs his thumb over at the front of the store, “I saw some guy get his fuckin’ face tore off by a walker. Fuckin’ gruesome. The guy’s screamin’ for his life, for his momma. The whole fuckin’ place panicked. Everyone ran outta here so damn fast. Guy I was workin’ on bolted with half his face done. But I was kinda numbed out. Didn’t run, ‘cause I wasn’t sure where to go. I started closin’ like it was any ol’ day. Cleaned the place and locked up afterward. Went home and sat there ’til Merle showed up. He was in jail at the time, so when I saw that ugly mug on my doorstep I knew the shit had really hit.”
Rick loves every minute of this. Daryl’s sure hands guiding the blade across his skin, all his focus on Rick, that deep, soothing voice bestowing secret knowledge so freely…it makes Rick’s chest feel full. He can’t help but think what a privilege it is to know Daryl Dixon the way he does. Somehow, this—Daryl shaving Rick’s face—is more intimate than any experience he’s had with Lori, Carl, Judith, Shane…anybody. ‘Intimate,’ feels like the wrong word to describe an interaction with his best friend, but Rick feels close to Daryl. Every second of this morning has been a gift. Even though it seems like a mundane thing, Rick knows he’ll remember this for the rest of his life. And what other word besides, 'intimate,' could possibly describe all that?
Daryl removes the hair covered paper from Rick’s chest and grabs the towel draped over his body. He rubs it soft over Rick’s red face to wipe away any residual foam or loose hairs. Then he brings the chair upright and walks around to the front of Rick.
“Lemme get a look at ya,” he says as he bends over so he’s eye level with Rick’s freshly-shaved face. Rick smiles at him as he skirts his fingers over the sensitive skin and when Daryl flicks his eyes up to Rick’s, he smiles back, a barely-there, pleased little thing that radiates the same kind of contentment that’s settled inside Rick.
“Alright,” Daryl says. He claps his hand over Rick’s neck and looks into his eyes. “You’re all set. Sheriff Grimes is back, ’n’ better than ever.”
Rick grins. “Thanks,” he says. And he leans in and presses his lips against Daryl’s. It was a close-mouthed peck that lasted less than a second. The kind of kiss he’d plant on one of his children’s foreheads, or on a woman’s cheek. Rick hadn’t even realized the implications of what he’d done until he pulled back and saw Daryl’s wide eyes and flushed face.
They stare at each other for a moment, silence hanging between them as Rick’s blush races to catch up with Daryl’s. Daryl seems frozen there, with his hand cupped around Rick’s neck, their faces only inches apart. Rick opens his mouth to explain, but then closes it again when he realizes he can’t. What the hell was he thinking, kissing another man on the mouth? Not just any man, either. No, it was Daryl Dixon. The reserved, touch-shy man that flinches at unexpected contact and prefers a good three feet between him and anyone else. And for christ’s sake, Rick kissed him!
Finally, Daryl breaks both the suffocating eye contact and the silence. He drops his head a fraction of an inch so that he’s looking at Rick’s chest. He says with an awkward laugh, “What the fuck was that man?”
Rick swallows. “I dunno,” he says quietly.
Daryl huffs another uncomfortable laugh and releases his hold on Rick’s neck. He straightens up and shoves his hands in his pockets. He stands there in front of Rick, bouncing his leg nervously, chewing his lip, body tense. The sight of it makes Rick’s gut churn. He hadn’t meant to make things weird. He kissed Daryl without thinking—because it felt natural to kiss him—but now he wonders what the hell is wrong with his head to make him ever think that kissing another man’s lips is a natural thing to do.
Daryl says, “Is that normal? Only friend I ever had was my brother, so I uh—I don’t really know…what…guys…”
Rick clears his throat and sits forward in his chair. He keeps his eyes on his hands. Briefly, he considers lying to Daryl. Daryl trusts him enough to believe it, so long as Rick delivers it convincingly. But the idea of lying to Daryl just to save himself from embarrassment makes Rick’s gut do a nauseating flop.
“No,” he says, “No, I can’t say that’s normal.”
“Well then what the hell, man?” Daryl says. He laughs again and peeks up at Rick with one eye. “That’s—that’s kinda gay, Rick. I don’t—I’m not…”
Rick grimaces. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. He rubs his hand over his face. It feels wonderfully smooth. When he opens his eyes again, he sees Daryl staring at him questioningly, eyes asking, how did you mean it, then? Rick lets his hand fall back into his lap and clasps them together. He holds Daryl’s gaze and hopes that his face expresses the necessary sincerity to make Daryl understand. He says, “I didn’t mean nothin’ like that by it. I guess I wanted to say…” he shrugs his shoulder. “…thank you. I appreciate you showin’ me this place. I’m glad that I got to know this part of you. I’m grateful for the shave, too,” he says, and rubs a hand over his chin. “You did a real nice job. I dunno, Daryl. I never been real good with words. Never been good with sayin’ how I feel. Guess my dumb brain decided I oughta show you. Went ahead and did it before I could think twice.”
Daryl drops his eyes down to his shoes. He nods, an expressive up and down shake of his head that means, I hear you, I understand you. When he looks up at Rick again, his eyes are soft, and that small smile is back. The sight of it calms Rick’s wracked nerves. He didn’t ruin things between them. He and Daryl were gonna be okay.
“Y’know, I feel like I oughta say somethin’ now. ‘Cause yer gettin’ all sappy on me. But ya know I ain’t any good with words neither. You an’ I are the same on that. So…” Daryl says. He gnaws at his lip for a second as he looks at Rick. Then he flies forward and plants a lightening-fast kiss on Rick’s lips. He moves so quick, there and gone in an instant, Rick barely has time to process what’s happening. If it wasn’t for the lingering wetness of Daryl’s spit and the slight tingle from where their skin touched, Rick would think he imagined it. But there it is, clear as day, and Daryl is standing in front of him, bashful and pink, kicking his shoe across the tiled floor, looking so damn adorable—Rick realizes he’s blushing too.
“I’m glad you’re my friend, Daryl,” Rick says, and Daryl’s blush darkens. He nods once, a quick thing which says feeling's mutual, and then turns toward his counter. He gathers up his supplies (the razor, the foam, and brush) and shoves them into his backpack. Once he shrugs the pack on and grabs his crossbow, he turns back toward Rick.
“Still have work to do, huh? Got everything you need?” Rick says, as he stands up and brushes himself off. Daryl grunts out an affirmative. Rick leads the way back toward the front of the store, and instantly, Daryl falls into step beside him, their boots clicking across the floor of the barber shop. Daryl knocks into Rick’s side playfully. Rick sways and quickly shuffles to maintain his balance. He grins over at Daryl and Daryl looks back at him with his own rascally smirk. “What?” Rick laughs.
“I’m tryin’ to figure out how lil Judy survives all her daddy’s kisses when he’s got a sandpaper mouth.”
“What?” Rick laughs incredulously.
“Ya got the driest lips on the whole damn planet, Grimes. Prolly scratchin’ up her soft baby skin. Do yer lil girl a favor an’ get yerself a chapstick, man. Actually…” Daryl slows to a stop just as they reach the busted out window. Rick stops beside him and they turn to face one another as Daryl digs through his back pocket. He pulls out a thin, plastic tube of peppermint flavored chapstick. “Ya can ‘ave this un. I got ‘nother.”
Daryl pops the cap off and steps up to Rick. Rick heart speeds up in his chest at the sudden closeness of their bodies, but he doesn’t step back. Carefully, Daryl swipes the waxy stick across Rick’s bottom lip, and over the top. When Daryl parts his lips as an example, Rick follows his lead and lets his jaw go slack. Daryl smears a bit over the corners of Rick’s open mouth. Once he determines that Rick’s lips are thoroughly coated, he demonstrates how to work it into the skin by rubbing his own lips together. Rick imitates him. Daryl smirks at Rick, and Rick smiles back. Then Daryl kisses him.
Rick gasps quietly through his nose, but it gets caught in his throat because Daryl’s lips are warm and soft against his own. This time the kiss isn’t fleeting. Daryl lets his pursed lips hold steady over Rick’s. Their mouths are firm against one another, and then they’re moving too—it becomes a series of tentative, plucking kisses that release soft smacking sounds into the barber shop. It’s chaste, but it makes Rick’s body tingle all over and his lips feel like they’re vibrating under Daryl’s careful attention. So Rick rests his hands on Daryl’s hips and holds him there to keep this strange new pleasure a little while longer, and Daryl meets the action by placing his hands on either side of Rick’s smooth jaw. He rubs his thumbs along the skin and Rick sighs happily. He turns his head to the side and pulls Daryl closer and their lips suck lightly against one another, a give and take, a push and pull that they fall into effortlessly. It's like they've been doing this as long as they've been friends.
Maybe it’s unusual, hell, maybe it’s downright weird, but Rick loves what it feels like to hold his best friend this way. He loves the way he feels safe and cared for under Daryl’s strong hands. Most of all, he loves the slide of their lips, communicating all sorts of things that Rick could never put to words. Rick thinks that the two of them were always meant to be this way. After all, they so rarely needed words to communicate. Why should they need them to say things like you’re important to me or I’m glad to have you in my life or I love you? And Rick knows this today isn’t the last time he’ll feel the need to kiss his best friend, because when the world’s gone to shit, it’s important to remind the people you care about of those sorts of things.
The two of them pull back at the same time, and they look at each other, all smiles and shining eyes. It would be different between them now. A friendship filled with secret, stolen kisses whenever privacy allows and situation dictates. Rick rubs his hands on Daryl’s hips, drops his gaze, and laughs. Daryl answers with an amused huff of his own.
“Much better,” he says, as he passes the chapstick off to Rick. Rick slips it in his back pocket and nods Daryl forward, the smile still hanging on both of their lips. Daryl ducks through the hole in the window. Rick follows him out into the empty street. They walk into the beautiful spring day together, side-by-side, striding in easy tandem, closer than ever before.