Various pictures and art hung on the walls, all framed in elegant dark wood. A painting of the founding fathers signing the Declaration of Independence hung above the fireplace behind the table, and below that a framed picture of John's mother sat on the mantle. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, with her hair pulled back into a ponytail and her mouth open in a laugh.

John pulled out a chair and sat down, making sure to sit straight. He glanced at Martha, who was also adjusting her posture, while at the same time trying to make herself as small as possible.

Henry was sitting at the head of the table, papers and documents spread out before him. A pair of reading glasses were perched on his nose, and his ever-present phone lay face-down next to his hand.

One of the maids came in and set a plate down in front of John. The woman was quiet, like all the rest of the people who helped keep up the house. John's father had a strict rule that the help must not talk, unless spoken too or to clarify a order or ask a question.

"Thanks, Megan," John whispered, and she smiled at him before heading back into the kitchen. Martha, Henry Jr., and Mary all were served as well, and his father set down the paper he was reading. "Shall we say grace?" he asked, and the family bowed their heads.

This was one of the areas where John clashed with his dad. He believed in God, don't get him wrong, but he didn't know how much he really believed at this point. In all honesty, John was a bit terrified of the thought of God, especially since he had gotten the idea of LGBTQ community going to hell shoved down his throat for his whole childhood.

John picked up his sandwich and took a bite, making sure not to put his elbows on the table. Martha was sitting stiffly, keeping her eyes down, while Henry Jr. was sullenly picking at his food. Mary was happily chomping away, oblivious to the tension in the room. John guessed that was the perk to being the youngest.

As though he had read John's mind, his dad looked up. "Mary, chew quieter please, dear," he remarked, looking over the tops of his glasses and giving her a disapproving look. Mary shrank a little bit in her seat and clamped her lips together. John wanted to reach over and slap his father.

The rest of the meal was eaten in silence, with only the occasional sound of Henry flicking through papers to break it. John pushed his plate back slightly, and Megan swooped in gracefully to whisk it away to the kitchen.

John cleared his throat. "May I be excused?"

Henry sighed through his nose and looked up at John. "I would prefer that you partake in family activities, but since you've just returned from a harrowing flight, you probably need to rest. We'll call you at dinner."

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes and pushed his chair back. He walked out of the dining room and headed upstairs, shutting the door to his room as soon as he was inside.

He pulled out his phone and checked it. Alex had called three times.

John, it's me. Just checking to see if you were okay. Also, is Charlemange's thingie a terrarium or a tank? I'm kinda confused. Okay, just call me back whenever. Love you.

Hey, it's me again. Did your flight land safely? I'm getting worried, the snow's getting heavier outside and I really don't need a dead boyfriend. Please be safe. I love you. And if you die, I hope you know that I'm not adopting your turtle. I'm not good with living things. 'Kay. Love you. Bye. Call me.

Hey, it's me, and I really am getting worried? The weathermen are saying that the airports are shutting down from the storm. Be careful. I love you very much. Please call me.

John sighed. Alex was such a worrier. It was kind of cute, but also a bit worrisome when he over-thought things. He hit the call button next to Alex's name.

Alex picked up on the first ring. "Oh, my God, you're alive. I was so worried; do you know how much it's snowing here? Like, it's actually ridiculous, plus it's freezing, and it's really windy, so I was thinking that your plane crashed or something and-"

John cut him off. "Alex, I'm fine. My flight got in like two and a half hours ago, I just didn't have the time to call you yet. It's cool. I'm fine. Please stop worrying."

Alex breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay, good. I'm glad you're safe." He paused. "How's your dad's, by the way?"

John glanced at the closed door, "Everything's already going to hell, honestly. I got here and my sister had a bruise on her cheek because she talked too loud at dinner one night. So, yeah, it's just great."

"Jesus Christ, John, I'm so sorry."

"It is what it is," he muttered.

"Yeah, but no kid should have to deal with that, no matter the age," Alex said, and John silently agreed.

"One of these days I'm going to be the one who hits him, and Lord help me, because shit's gonna hit the fan so fast your head'll spin," John said, and he sat down in his desk chair and spun it slowly in a circle. "I miss you so much right now, it's not even funny."

"I miss you too. It's really quiet here and I don't like it. And it's cold."

"What does being cold have to do with me?" John asked, and on the other end of the phone Alex shrugged. "I dunno, but it's cold and I don't like it."

John started laughing. "Well, it's cold here too, so don't worry." A knock sounded on his door, and John swore. "Shit, I gotta go. I'll call you later, okay? Love you."

"Love you too!" Alex said, and John hung up.

His door creaked open, and Martha and Mary barged in, once again jumping onto his bed and sprawling out. "Sure, make yourself at home," John sighed, and Mary giggled.

"So...who were you talking to?" Martha asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Just my roommate. He doesn't know how to take care of my turtle," John said casually, shrugging. Martha grinned, "And do you always tell your roommate that you love him?"

John blushed. She had him there.

"So who's the dude? And how long has this been going on?" Martha asked slyly, wiggling her eyebrows. John rolled his eyes and smiled. "His name's Alex. He actually is my roommate, so I wasn't lying about that. He's addicted to coffee, very short, and writes likes there's no tomorrow."

"And what's he majoring in?"

"English and Law."

"Ah, sophisticated," Martha said. "If he were a girl, he'd be everything Dad wanted for you."

John's smile fell. He knew that his dad would never support him. "Yeah, well, I'm not planning on telling Dad about him."

His sisters both nodded. They all had a collective agreement that no one talked about LGBTQ around their father.

"So is he gay or what?" Mary piped up, and John shook his head. "Nah, bi." Mary nodded.

"So how long have you guys been going out?" she asked. John shrugged, "Since September."

"Jeez, you jumped onto that wagon pretty quickly!" Martha teased, and John crumpled up a Post-It note and threw it at her.

She squealed and ducked out of the way, letting the Post-It fall between John's bed and the wall. He sighed, "Aw, look at that. I have to dig that up now." Martha started giggling.

John was happy he had made her smile.

X

Alex woke up gasping. It was the same dream as always: walking through the wrecked ruins of Nevis, finding bodies and wreckage everywhere. Except this time, it was John's body that he found in place of Isabel's.

He sat up in bed, shivering, and pulled the blanket tighter around around him. It was freezing in his room, but he couldn't tell if he was shaking because of his dream or the cold.

"Damnnit, Elijah," he muttered, and got up to start a cup of coffee, dragging his blanket with him. Elijah was their dorm advisor, a nice guy in his twenties, but he was constantly forgetting to turn the heat up, and Alex was at the end of his rope over it.

The coffee pot hissed and crackled, and soon the smell of fresh, delishious goodness filled the room. Alex poured himself a mug and sat in his desk chair. He didn't want to go back to sleep, but at the same time he didn't want to stay awake. He would lose, either way.

He missed John so much. If John was here, he probably wouldn't be panicking. If John was here, he probably wouldn't be having nightmares like this.

Alex raised the mug to his lips and blinked when he realized that he had drunk the whole cup. He did that sometimes; spaced out and forgot what he was doing. His therapist had called it dissasociating.

Alex set the mug down and got up, wandering over to John's bed. He was planning on stealing some blankets, at least until fucking Elijah remembered that other people lived here too, and that they were freezing their asses off, but John's bed was so soft. And it smelled like him. And it had that turtle pillow-pet thing propped in the corner that John practically strangled in his sleep.

Alex curled up in the pile of blankets, wrapping himself up in a blanket-burrito. At the last minute, he reached out and grabbed the pillow-pet, tucking it close to his chest.

He fell asleep breathing in John's scent.

John couldn't sleep.

It was quiet in his house, like usual. It had to be quiet for his father, who could hear a creak in a floor board all the way across the mansion, even when he was sleeping so soundly that he was practically knocked out.

John rolled over and stared out the window that was opposite his bed. It had stopped snowing, and now it was peaceful, with a white blanket stretched out across the lawn, like a fluffy white comforter. It would melt in a few hours, once dawn broke, like almost all the snow did in South Carolina. It never stayed for long.

He missed Alex. In their room, it would be pitch black, and the only sound would be from both of their computers whirring quietly as they charged on their desks. Alex would be curled up into a little ball on his bed, probably with his mouth open, a book lost somewhere between the covers, and John would be stretched out, practically hanging off the side of the bed (he didn't know why he did that, but he did).

He missed his turtle, and his friends, and he had only left that morning. He hated this house; it was so much different from their old one. This one was cold, and too big, and was like a museum: you can look however much you like, but don't touch anything.

In his old house, John had his room with fluctuating colors of blues and greens, and it felt like he was underwater. His mom had painted his room when he was little, and had added small artistic touches to it: a little flock of sea turtles swimming over the doors to his closet, a manta ray flying next to his desk, a tiny colony of coral clustered next to the baseboard.

And then she died, and his father made John paint his room white before putting the house up for sale. John had cried, even though he hadn't let his dad see it. He silently let tears drip down his face as he painted over the artwork his mom had handcrafted specially for him, just one more thing Henry Laurens was erasing from his children's memories.

His room here was white, too. John had barely bothered to decorate it, because what was the point? It would never be the same. Everything had changed.

He had his desk, and his bookshelf, and a corkboard with a few pictures stuck to it: him, Laf, and Herc, all grinning in their marching band uniforms, holding their instruments, John and his siblings, standing on the beach, with the waves crashing down behind them, John beaming so hard his face might crack open, standing proudly in front of a Phantom of the Opera poster from his ninth grade band trip.

There was one more photo: John and his mom, just a few months before she had died, both of them sitting on a tree branch at their old house, smiling at the camera. Out of all of his siblings, John was the one who looked the most like his mother. He had the same curly, exploding hair, the same freckles scattered in one giant constellation across his face and down his shoulders and back, the same amber eyes.

John missed his mom so much it hurt. She had been something amazing, and everyone had known it. When she walked into a room, it was like your eyes were drawn to her. She was magnetic.

If John's dad was the earth, then his mom had been the sun. Bright, shining, beautiful- everything revolved around her. Not because she demanded it, but because without her, there was no light, no happiness, no warmth.

But like every sun did, she had burned out.

And now there was no light. No warmth. No happiness in his house.

Now it was just a cold, empty shell.