Snow’s House

The house was small but warm, with ivy curling along the gate and chimes tinkling above the porch.

He hesitated at the doorbell. 

His hand lingered there longer than necessary.

Not because he didn’t want to see Snow, but because doors had a way of teaching him what came after kindness.

What it cost.

He told himself this was different.

That Snow wasn’t like that.

His pulse didn’t believe him.

The silver button gleamed beneath his finger.

His breath fogged in the air.

Flashback

Another door.

Peeling paint, beer bottles littered near the steps.

A voice shouting his name.

The smell of fear.

He’d rung that bell once, too.

And the sound that followed had been pain.

The present snapped back as the door opened.

A woman with silver hair and kind eyes smiled. “Oh, you must be Sahara. Come in, dear. Snow’s upstairs. He’s been sick all day.”

“Thank you,” he murmured.

The stairs creaked beneath him, each step stirring faint echoes.

The scent of lemon tea drifted from the kitchen.

Snow’s room was soft with sunlight. 

Books lay open on the floor, pages fluttering from the fan’s slow breeze.

Snow was bundled under blankets, cheeks flushed.

“Hey,” Sahara whispered.

Snow stirred, eyes half-open. “You came.” He got up, laying his head on Sahara’s shoulder, “you really came,” he muttered.

Snow’s grip tightened for half a second, instinctive, desperate before he seemed to realize what he was doing and went still.

Like he was bracing for Sahara to push him away.

His voice dropped, barely audible.
“You didn’t have to.”

Sahara turned away.

“Are you sick,”

Snow rubbed his head on his shoulder, “You smell good.”

Sahara sighed, pushing him off, “Yep. Definitely something wrong with you.”

Snow laid backwards, his head facing the ceiling, blanket on his lap, “Why’d you come…check on me?” he muttered. “I thought you were mad at me.”

Snow’s eyes searched Sahara’s face too carefully, like he was memorizing every shift in expression.
Every breath.

As if anger might turn into something worse if he missed it.

“Mrs. Heather forced me,” he set down his bag.

Snow’s smile was faint but genuine. “Still counts.”

Sahara sat beside him, flipping through the review packet.

“She’s forcing me to study. Not like I’m gonna pass but I might try to get a question right.”

Snow chuckled.

“You won’t get a passing grade.”

Sahara elbowed him, “So much for helping me, huh?”

Snow turned his face toward Sahara, 

“I was using reverse psychology.” His face was flushed and his pupils were wide, 

A moment later, warm fingers brushed his wrist.

Sahara felt it then, not flirtation, not confidence.

Nerves.

Snow’s fingers weren’t warm from fever alone. They trembled, hesitated, pulled back the moment Sahara’s hand stilled.

As if touch was something he only borrowed.

Sahara silently studied, looking at questions he could somewhat understand.

Snow’s fingers trembled like a leaf and his eyes unfocused.

“I missed you,” Snow mumbled, voice slurred with fever, “Don’t..don’t leave me,”

Sahara froze. 

His pulse leapt.

“Don’t… don’t say stuff like that.”

Snow’s hand slipped back under the blanket. “Sorry.”

Sahara looked away, pretending to read. His chest hurt in a way he didn’t have words for something between guilt and longing, wrapped tight like a knot.

Snow sniffed.

“Do you hate me now…please..don’t hate me.” He kept sniffing,

Sahara turned.

Snow was crying.

He was crying like a baby begging him to not

Hate him.

Sahara wiped his tears.

“I don’t. I can’t bring myself to. You know I forgave you.”

Snow went very still.

Then he nodded once, like he was accepting a fragile truce with the world.

His fingers clenched into Sahara’s sleeve — not pulling, not demanding — just anchoring.

Snow leaned closer, “Can I lay on you,”

Sahara’s chest tied itself into knots like a Christmas present.

“Sure.”

Snow fell on to him, his fluffy hair was warm on Sahara’s chest.

It felt

Comfortable.

He almost wanted 

More.

His heart began to beat.

Snow looked up, “So warm, you’re so warm.”

Sahara blushed, “Okay I think you need some rest,”

Snow gave him that stupid grin again, “I’m too lazy to move. You move me.”

Sahara chuckled.

“No.”

Sahara dragged him by the bed.

Snow’s eyes fluttered to sleep.

Even asleep, his brow stayed faintly furrowed.
His body leaned toward Sahara like it was instinct.

Like sleep only felt safe if someone else was there to witness it.

Sahara fell back to ground,

“This guy…”

A silent sob came from Snow.

His crying wasn’t loud.

It was the quiet kind, breath hitching, shoulders curling inward, the kind that came from someone trying not to be seen.

Like he already expected to be punished for needing too much.

“Don’t leave me…please I’ll…I’ll..”

The words didn’t sound dramatic.
They sounded practiced.

Like something he’d learned to say before it was too late.

Snow flinched.

Not dramatically, just enough to notice.
Like he’d stepped too close to a line he wasn’t supposed to cross.

“I didn’t mean,” he started, then stopped himself.
The apology came automatically. 

Too fast.

Sahara sighed, 

What the hell is wrong with this guy? Why is he so clingy…

Sahara picked him up like a log, Snow was strangely 

Light.

Too light.

Not fragile, restrained.
As if he carried himself carefully, conserving space, conserving presence.

Like someone who learned early not to take up too much room.

He tried to put him down, but Snow refused to let go.

He held him with a tight grip, it was impossible to break.

How could such a light guy have such a tight grasp?

The door opened, his mother walked in.

She put down two cups of hot chocolate and then turned to face them.

“I hope-Oh. He gets like this when he’s sick. Sorry,” She sighed,

Sahara chuckled, “It’s fine,”

“When he was younger, he got a bad fever. My husband and I were away, so he was alone. He’s always been…alone. That’s why I appreciate you checking on him.” She smiled politely and shut the door.

Snow’s grip tightened at her words, not embarrassed, just exposed.

His eyes stayed shut.

He didn’t look at Sahara.
Like he was afraid of what Sahara might see now that the truth had been spoken out loud.

Sahara sat down on the bed as Snow lay, his arms wrapped around him.

“You gonna let go yet?”

Snow smiled — but it was thinner this time.

“If you want me to,” he said quickly.
Too quickly.

 He chuckled, 

“Come lay down with me.”

Sahara shook his head, sighing.

He crawled into the bed, facing Snow.

“Why are you so,” He chuckled again like there was something funny, “cute,” He muttered.

Sahara glared at him playfully, “You idiot, do you call every person you meet cute?”

Snow hesitated before touching Sahara’s bangs, his hand hovering like he was waiting for permission that never came.

When Sahara didn’t pull away, relief softened his face, brief, unguarded.

Fear still lingered underneath it.

But for now, he stayed.

“No.” He smiled, “Just you.”

The Locker Room

Charlie stared at the mirror, droplets of water sliding down from their damp hair.

The reflection stared back, half-boy, half-ghost.

They pressed a hand to the glass.

The person looking back wasn’t who they wanted to be.

If I could just…

But the thought trailed off, swallowed by fear.

If Justin knew,

if anyone knew,

would the smiles turn to whispers again?

Outside, the coach’s shout rattled the lockers. “Practice canceled!”

Apparently Charlotte’s brother had talked back again.

Charlie slipped away before anyone noticed.

Back at Snow’s

Snow leaned back against his pillow, hair tousled, eyes glassy with fever. The room smelled faintly of lemon and old paper, the air warm despite the storm pressing against the glass.

“You’re nice when you pretend not to care,” Snow murmured, voice loose and unguarded.

Sahara looked up, startled. “I said let’s study.”

Snow smiled, slow and drowsy. “Same thing.”

Outside, the wind rattled the window, branches scratching like restless fingers. The sound made Snow flinch almost imperceptibly before he turned his face away, pretending to adjust the blanket.

Sahara didn’t notice.

He was watching the way Snow’s lashes trembled when he blinked, the way his breathing hitched before evening itself out again. There was something fragile there, something trying very hard not to ask for anything.

Sahara swallowed. 

He reached for his pills, fingers brushing the bottle in his pocket then stopped.

For once, the noise in his head had gone quiet.

Snow shifted, his hand slipping from beneath the blanket to rest near Sahara’s sleeve. He didn’t touch him. Not quite. Just close enough to feel the warmth.

Outside, the storm deepened, rain tapping insistently against the glass.

Inside, something small and bright began to thaw.

Neither of them named it.

And maybe that was why it survived the night.