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My brother Charlie told me that when he first met his boyfriend Nick, he felt like leaves were fluttering throughout his body. His friend Elle, apparently, had the more common sensation of butterflies.
When I met Michael Holden, I felt…snowflakes: cold, quiet, heavy yet light. Prickly but soft.
I…don’t know what that means.
Charlie has tried to tell me that now he sometimes feels zaps and sparkles when he touches Nick. And, well, I don’t want to think about that. He is my brother.
I have never felt butterflies, leaves, zaps, or sparkles.
Just the quiet cold calm feeling of snow.
…But I like it.
Usually, my brain feels busy. I worry—usually about my brothers. I don’t understand most people my age, just Charlie, really. I don’t actually like most of my friends. I’d rather be alone, or with Charlie or Oliver. Everyone else feels fake.
But Michael quiets a lot of the noise in my head, with a soft, gentle blanket of snow.
He is not fake.
Don’t get me wrong. He’s strange. And I don’t understand him. But he’s kind, and he’s interesting. And I like being with him. Somehow, I like him better than being alone in my room, which I’ve never thought about my friend Becky.
Michael has one blue eye and one green one, thick black-framed glasses, and curly, side-parted hair. He is my friend. And when I’m around him, I feel different than I’m with anyone else. But also, I apparently don’t have a crush on him.
The first time I met Michael, it was at a New Year’s Eve party. I was there to watch over Charlie, really (he had just got out of an inpatient facility). But when I saw Michael, I felt the snowflakes.
Charlie didn’t really need me there. He had Nick (and I have no one).
Michael found me later at the party, after that initial flurry. We talked. It was awkward—he’s awkward—but it was also real. At midnight, Harry and his cronies set off a series of fireworks, and Michael kissed the top of my head. Or maybe it was a snowflake. I felt that cold calm all through my veins.
Perhaps it’s appropriate that a few weeks after meeting Michael, it snows. School is cancelled, and we’re sent home. I don’t leave, though.
I sit outside the art classroom, warmed by an electric heater (I am not okay). I had grabbed the heater and plugged it in via a window, and it’s keeping me warm as the cold blanket of snow grows and grows. The overhang of the roof is keeping me dry, but it’s still so very cold.
Cold blanket of snow.
Stinging my face. Quiet. Soft.
Threatening to overwhelm.
I miss Michael. I’ve made a mess of our…friendship. I think he tries to tell me things, but I don’t listen. I don’t hear him (I am not okay).
He’s an ice skater, and he’s serious. And he gets very angry, which seems so unlike him. But I’m starting to think it might be central to who he is.
I don’t understand him.
But I like him.
Do I need to understand him?
My thumb hits his contact in my phone. I didn’t mean to do that. Did I mean to do that?
He answers, but he’s quiet.
Right, I am a bad…friend.
“Michael.”
Quiet. Snow piling up. Smothering.
“Michael. I’m never sure if people are pretending to be nice to me or not. Everyone is pretending, and I don’t know what’s real.”
Avalanche of silence.
“I—”
“I’m angry at you, Tori.”
I feel ill. I fucked it up. I want to roll over, into the heater. Melt this suffocating snow. Heat. I want to feel pain (I am very not okay).
Fuck.
“Am I a real person, Tori?” I hear on my phone.
I roll back towards his voice as he continues on.
“Or am I just here to make you feel better about yourself?”
“Michael—,” I cut in. “Michael, you are real. I am—” I stop. The snow is piling up. Silence fills my lungs. I want to tell him how much he means to me. I gasp.
“Michael, I promise,” is all I can get out. The phone goes silent.
I sit in the cold. The snow grows.
Time passes. I am alone. And cold.
Finally, I hear his voice again. “Tori.” He’s here.
I startle, slipping on his icy tone.
He studies me, his blue eye and green eye surveying me. Taking me in.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
“I didn’t know where else to be.”
“Tori.”
I just look at him. The pressure of it all is keeping me silent, still. Like the building snow.
He takes a deep breath and offers out a hand. “Tori, we should leave.”
I take the proffered hand and pull myself up. The heater wobbles at the movement, and I panic. What am I doing?
Michael calmly turns it off and leads me back into the building. He pauses to unplug the heater and pulls it back inside, where it belongs.
He grabs my hand, and we exit the school. Soft snow, impressions of footprints, quiet streets. My hand stings where we are connected. He walks me home.
When we reach my street, I pause. “Why did you come for me?”
He shrugs. “Because I care.”
I take his other hand, and a soft warmth fills my arms as we complete the circuit of our touch. He looks at me softly, pausing expectantly at my lips.
Oh.
Do I want that?
I look into his eyes and panic, briefly. “It’s beautiful,” I say. “Don’t you think the snow is beautiful?’’
“I don’t know,” he says. “It’s just cold. It’s romantic, I guess, but it just makes things cold.”
I press my lips together at his words, and he looks uncomfortable. I pull him towards me by his hands, and he glances at my lips again.
“Michael,” I whisper.
He tilts his head, and his lips press against mine. Surprisingly, to me, I find it nice. I like it. He changes the angle of his face, and I pull him towards me by the back of his neck, curly hair coarse against my fingertips. I feel snowflake after snowflake. These are peaceful ones. Cold, but soft. Creating a warm blanket as they grow and multiply. Quiet. My brain is so quiet.
He pulls back and looks at me warily. I deserve that.
“That was…nice,” I say.
He smiles a tentative half-smile. “Yeah?” I nod softly.
He grabs my hand tightly and pulls me towards my house. I invite him in, and we run up the stairs to my room. Charlie rolls his eyes when he catches me as I close the door securely behind us.
We’re not supposed to close the door. It’s very inconvenient.
“Tori?” Michael asks, bringing me back to the present.
I angle my head towards him and shrug. I pick up the postcard Charlie sent me from Paris and start fiddling with it absent-mindedly. Smoothing the corners, tapping it against my knee as I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed.
Michael covers my fidgeting hands with his. “Tori, why were you at school in the snow? Why did you call?”
I breathe in. I don’t want to talk about this (I am not okay). “I…don’t know. I wanted to be alone, but I didn’t want to be alone.”
He nods, like he understands the utter nonsense I just said.
“I have been feeling…prickly?” I look at him, and he looks back at me. “I don’t feel normal. Sometimes it hurts.”
His eyes flicker in concern. “What hurts?” He asks quietly.
“Just being, sometimes. Existing. Talking. School. My head. Everything.”
He nods again. Then he hugs me against him. I don’t hate it. It feels like he’s wrapping me in a blanket. I feel my cheeks get wet and realise that I’m crying. He just holds me tight, head against his chest, and he drops little snowflake kisses on the top of my head.