Just Breathe Easy

A harsh winter deepens the solitude, but the quiet presence of another can turn pain into a fragile hope, binding two souls through shared, unspoken hurt.

“You’re shivering.”

The words weren't loud, but they cut through the frozen air like a razor, sharp and terribly quiet. Frank flinched, a violent, full-body jerk that was completely involuntary, sending a spray of wood dust and ice crystals from the log he’d been failing to split for the last ten minutes. His grip on the axe handle, already slick with sweat inside his worn gloves, failed him. The heavy head missed its mark entirely, swinging wide and burying itself deep in the frosted wood of the chopping block, its steel edge landing dangerously close to the toe of his scuffed boot. A painful, electric jolt shot up his arm, a shockwave that rattled his teeth and made the whole world seem to vibrate for a second.

*Shit.* He didn't look at Mark. He didn't dare. He squeezed his eyes shut for a half-second, the afterimage of the axe head blooming behind his eyelids. He couldn’t handle that steady, assessing gaze right now, the one that always seemed to see about three layers deeper than Frank was comfortable with. Of course he was shivering; the chill outside the small, drafty cabin had burrowed deep into his bones an hour ago, turning his joints to aching ice. His thin hoodie was a joke against this kind of cold. But that wasn’t it, not really. It wasn't just the cold. It was the silent, creeping invasion of Mark’s presence that had his nerves screaming, a high-frequency hum under his skin. It felt like standing too close to a power line, a dangerous thrum that was both a warning and a strange, compelling pull. Too much, too soon, too… fucking close. Always too close, even from ten feet away.

He wrestled the axe free with a grunt that tore at his throat, the steel groaning as it pulled from the wood’s frozen grip. “It’s like ten degrees out, man. What do you expect?” His voice was a harsh rasp, a brittle, defensive edge he usually reserved for his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. The words puffed out in a thick white cloud, hanging in the air for a moment before the vast, indifferent silence of the snow-laden forest swallowed them whole. He half-hoped Mark would just leave, take the hint, and retreat back into the woods he seemed to belong to.

Mark, maddeningly, didn’t rise to the bait. He didn’t move at all. He just stood there by the neatly stacked cords of firewood, a solid, immovable shape against the bruised purple of the twilight sky. He looked like he’d been carved from the winter itself, an elemental part of the landscape. His dark hair, cut short and practical, was already collecting a fine dusting of snowflakes that didn’t seem to melt. His jaw was strong, shadowed with a day’s worth of stubble that Frank knew from an accidental brush in the kitchen was rough enough to leave a mark. His eyes, even from this distance, seemed to absorb all the available light, deep and unreadable. He had his hands, bare despite the biting cold, shoved into the pockets of a faded brown work coat that had seen better decades. He looked… solid. Real. A stark contrast to the way Frank felt, which was like a collection of frayed nerve endings barely held together by skin.

He just… watched. Watched Frank with an intensity that felt like a physical weight, a pressure building behind Frank’s eyes. It was a calm, unblinking assessment that stripped him bare, peeling back the layers of sarcasm and anger until all that was left was the raw, shivering kid underneath. Frank hated it with a ferocity that was only matched by the desperate, shameful part of him that craved it. That wanted to be seen, truly seen, just once. That wanted this specific person, with his quiet strength and infuriating calm, to be the one to do the seeing.

The air smelled of damp earth, frozen pine needles, and the clean, sharp scent of impending snow, a smell so cold it made the inside of his nose ache. Each breath was a thin, sharp thing. He hoisted the axe again, pivoting his body to put his back to Mark, a useless gesture of privacy. He put all his frustration into the swing, the satisfying burn in his shoulders a welcome distraction. This time it connected with a clean, satisfying *thwack*, the log groaning as it split perfectly in two. He focused on the raw, pale wood, the intricate rings telling the story of seasons he’d never seen. Anything to avoid that gaze. But the awareness of Mark was a low hum beneath his skin, an electric current he couldn't shut off, a compass needle pointing north no matter which way he turned. He knew the exact moment Mark shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He could feel the slight crunch of snow under his boots as if it were his own.

“The fire’s dying.” Mark’s voice, when it finally came, was a low rumble, a counterpoint to the wind whispering through the skeletal branches of the birch trees. It wasn’t an accusation, or a command. It was just a fact. Yet it landed on Frank with the force of an indictment. *You’re failing at this, too. You can’t even keep yourself warm.* Mark wasn't here to fight. He was here to witness. And that was so much worse.

With a final, angry movement, Frank jammed the axe into the chopping block, leaving it standing upright, the handle vibrating from the force. His shoulders were bunched up by his ears, his neck a column of solid tension. The thought of going inside that cabin, with its suffocating memories and the ghost of every sad Christmas he’d ever endured, made his stomach clench. He’d come here to be alone with his misery, not to have it observed by the one person whose opinion, for some godforsaken reason, was starting to matter.

He turned and crunched towards the back door, each step a conscious effort to project a confidence he didn't feel. He could feel Mark’s presence behind him, a silent, steady shadow matching his pace. The cold was a physical thing now, biting at the tips of his ears and the end of his nose, turning them numb and pink. He fumbled with the old iron latch, his fingers stiff and clumsy, refusing to cooperate. For a second, he was twelve again, trying to get this same door open, his hands shaking for a different reason, the sound of his parents’ shouting still ringing in the silent house behind him. *Just get inside. Just get away.*

He finally got the door open, the wood scraping against the frame, and pushed his way inside. The warmth, scant as it was, hit him like a punch, thick with the scent of old wood, dust, and the sharp, resinous perfume of the dying pine branches in the fireplace. Mark followed him in, his larger frame seeming to shrink the already small space, bringing the clean, cold scent of the outdoors with him. He closed the door behind him with a soft, definitive click, shutting out the world. The sound echoed in the sudden stillness.

The cabin was exactly as he’d left it: a controlled explosion of his life. A makeshift table near the frosty window was littered with his art supplies—sticks of charcoal, graphite pencils, a kneaded eraser worked into a grey, tortured shape. A half-finished, angry sketch of a lightning-scarred tree was tacked to the wall. An empty mug, stained with the ghost of his morning tea, sat next to a worn paperback with a cracked spine. It was his fortress of solitude, and now it had been breached.

Without a word, Mark moved past him. The space was tight, and his arm brushed against Frank’s back. It was more than a flicker. It was a slow drag of thick canvas against the thin fabric of Frank’s hoodie, and the heat that flared underneath was instantaneous and overwhelming. A jolt, hot and sharp, shot through Frank’s system, and for a half-second, he forgot how to breathe. His entire body froze, every muscle locking, his mind going completely blank except for the lingering, phantom sensation of that touch. He went directly to the stone fireplace where the embers pulsed like a failing heart. He knelt on the hearth, his back to Frank, and picked up the iron poker. The methodical, unhurried way he stirred the ashes, coaxing the last bit of life from them, was mesmerizing. Frank found himself staring at the broad expanse of Mark's shoulders, the way his muscles shifted under the thick fabric of his coat. He was a force of quiet competence, so unlike Frank's own chaotic energy. There was an infuriating grace in the way he moved, a certainty that made Frank’s own fumbling feel all the more pathetic. And yet, he couldn’t look away.

Feeling suddenly useless and exposed in his own space, Frank lurched towards the tiny kitchen nook. He grabbed the heavy ceramic pitcher and splashed water into the kettle, the clatter on the worn countertop sounding like a gunshot in the heavy silence. He looked down at his hands. They were trembling, a fine, uncontrollable tremor that had nothing to do with the cold. He felt raw, stripped of his skin. He was performing normalcy, and failing miserably.

“Tea?” The word was a croak, barely audible over the sound of him fumbling with the knob on the gas burner. He didn't turn around, focusing instead on the small hiss of ignition and the bloom of the pale blue flame. It was a normal thing to do. A shield of normalcy.

A beat of silence stretched, long enough for Frank to think he’d have to repeat himself. Then, “Black.”

Mark’s voice was still that low, steady anchor in the swirling chaos of Frank’s head. Just that one word. No follow-up questions. No ‘you okay?’ or ‘what’s wrong?’. Frank felt a wave of gratitude so intense it almost buckled his knees. The absence of prodding felt like a gift, a silent permission to just be a wreck without having to explain it.

The kettle began to shriek, a thin, piercing sound that cut through the cabin’s quiet hum. Frank poured the steaming water into two mismatched mugs, the bitter, earthy scent of the tea leaves unfurling in the air. He carried Mark’s over to the hearth, where a new fire was already catching. Mark had added kindling and a fresh log with that same infuriating, quiet efficiency. Flames were already licking at the dry bark, casting flickering, dancing shadows on the rough-hewn walls, making the small room feel like a cave—a shelter.

He didn't return to the kitchen. Instead, he sank to the floor a few feet away, leaning his back against the rough wood of an old armchair, cupping his own mug in both hands. The ceramic was almost too hot to hold, but the heat seeping into his frozen fingers was a tangible comfort, something to focus on. Mark was still sitting on the hearth, back against the stone, his long legs stretched out, watching the flames. The firelight carved his face into angles and shadows, highlighting the straight line of his nose and the soft curve of his mouth. For a second, Frank thought he looked beautiful, a dangerous, stupid thought that he immediately tried to crush. The silence returned, but it wasn't empty anymore. It was thick, resonant, filled with the million things they weren’t saying.

That’s when it started. A faint, tinny melody drifting from the old battery-powered radio on a dusty shelf. ‘Silent Night.’ Frank’s entire body went rigid. His breath hitched, and the rim of the mug clinked against his teeth. His gaze shot to the window, where fat, lazy snowflakes had begun to drift down against the darkening sky. The song, the snow… it was a gut punch of manufactured cheerfulness.

He was eight years old. The tree was leaning, glittering with too much tacky, silver tinsel. His mother was humming that exact song, her voice thin and shaky and painfully off-key, just weeks after his father had slammed the door for the last time. He could still smell her cheap perfume, a cloying floral scent she wore to feel pretty. He could still taste the dry, chalky gingerbread man he couldn't swallow, the crumbs sticking to the roof of his mouth. He remembered the way the fairy lights blurred into a watery, distorted mess as he tried not to cry, because his mom was trying so, so hard.

He squeezed his eyes shut, a sharp, stabbing pain blooming behind them. The memory wasn’t a memory; it was real. It was happening right now. His chest tightened, a band of iron squeezing the air from his lungs. He couldn't breathe. He curled in on himself, drawing his knees up to his chest, trying to make himself smaller, to disappear into the floorboards. This was it. This was the monster he’d run from, the suffocating grief he’d driven three hours into the middle of nowhere to escape, and it had found him. It had found him, and Mark was here to see it.

From the hearth, Mark watched the change. One moment, Frank was a tense line of quiet misery, staring into his mug. The next, he was shattering. It wasn't loud. It was a silent, violent implosion. The tremor in his hands became a full-body shudder. His shoulders hunched, his head dropped, and the sound of his breathing became a ragged, desperate fight. Mark’s own chest tightened in response, a fierce, protective instinct flaring to life. He’d seen Frank angry, sarcastic, withdrawn. He’d never seen him broken. The sight of it—this raw, unguarded pain—was a punch to the gut. He had to do something. The urge to cross the space, to wrap his arms around Frank and physically shield him from whatever ghost was haunting him, was a physical ache. But he held back. That would be for him, not for Frank. He had to be an anchor, not another wave.

A hand settled on his shoulder.

Frank gasped, his eyes flying open, a raw, panicked sound tearing from his throat. The touch was warm and firm, a solid weight in his spiraling chaos. Mark. He’d moved without a sound, his face now inches from Frank’s own, his dark eyes wide with a concern that held no judgment. His thumb brushed the sensitive skin of Frank’s neck, just above the collar of his sweater. It was a feather-light touch, an exploratory caress, but it sent a thousand volts through Frank’s system. His body went taut, a rigid line of pure, animal resistance and a desperate, howling craving for that very touch to never leave.

“Easy,” Mark murmured, his voice softer than Frank had ever heard it, a deep resonance that seemed to vibrate right through his bones. “Just… breathe. C’mon, Frank. With me.”

He didn’t pull him closer, didn’t try to hug him or offer some bullshit comfort. He just stayed there, his hand a solid, unwavering anchor against the tsunami of Frank’s panic. The heat from Mark’s palm was a strange, grounding warmth that started to seep through the thick wool of his sweater, a single point of focus in the overwhelming static. Mark took a slow, deliberate breath, and Frank could feel the slight movement, could hear the soft rush of air. He was showing him how.

Frank couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. He could only stare at the dancing flames, at the way they consumed the wood with a quiet, hungry ferocity. The carol on the radio faded into a hiss of static. He focused on Mark’s hand, the strong fingers, the faint, reassuring roughness of calluses against his skin. A tremor ran through him, a violent shiver that was part fear, part relief, and part something else, something terrifyingly new and vulnerable. He wanted to shove him away, to scream at him to get out, but his muscles were locked, refusing to obey.

Shame, hot and acidic, burned its way up his throat. He felt pathetic. A grown man, broken by a fucking Christmas carol. But Mark didn't pull away. His hand remained, steady. A silent promise. This wasn’t a flaw to be judged. It was just a thing that was. A part of him that Mark was seeing, and not looking away from.

Slowly, painstakingly, Frank forced his lungs to work. The first breath was a ragged, tearing gasp. The next was a little deeper. He focused on the rhythm Mark was setting with his own quiet breathing, a steady beat to match. In. Out. The pressure in his chest began to ease, just a fraction. He could feel his own heart, a frantic bird beating against his ribs, but Mark’s presence was a counter-rhythm, coaxing him back from the edge.

“Thanks,” Frank whispered. The word was a fragile puff of air, barely audible. He still couldn't look at him, terrified of the pity he might find there, terrified of what his own eyes might reveal. The silence that followed was different now. Less fraught. Softer.

Mark finally removed his hand, a slow, deliberate movement that left Frank’s shoulder feeling instantly, shockingly cold. Bereft. But then Mark shifted, not away, but closer, his body pivoting on the hearth until his shoulder and thigh were pressed firmly against Frank’s. The contact was a whole new kind of shock, a broad, warm line of pressure from his shoulder to his knee. It startled Frank, but he didn’t pull away. He was too tired to fight, too tired to do anything but feel. He could feel the solid warmth of Mark’s body, the sheer physical reality of him, a steadying presence against his own trembling frame. It was a silent invitation, a closing of a distance that Frank, in his shattered state, could never have bridged alone.

Letting out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding for a year, Frank leaned into the touch. He let his head tip back against the wall, angling it just enough for his temple to rest against the solid curve of Mark’s shoulder. It wasn’t a decision. It was an instinct. A moth to a flame. Mark didn’t tense. He simply accepted the weight, a quiet, unwavering pillar. The scent of pine and woodsmoke clung to Mark’s clothes, an earthy, grounding smell that pulled Frank into the here and now. He felt the subtle shift of muscle in Mark's shoulder as he settled, and a ridiculous, treacherous thought surfaced: *This fits. I fit right here.*

They sat like that for a long time, the fire crackling and spitting, the snow falling in a thick, silent curtain outside the windows. The world beyond the cabin felt miles away, muffled and irrelevant. There was only this small, warm space. Only the two of them. A strange, fragile peace began to settle in Frank’s chest. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been wound, how much energy it took to hold himself together, until Mark’s quiet strength gave him permission to finally let go.

“My mother…” The words came out as a low, raspy whisper, surprising him as much as they might surprise Mark. He didn’t know why he was saying it. The confession felt like it was being pulled from him by the silent, steady pressure of Mark’s body against his. “She… she loved Christmas. Even after he left. She tried so damn hard. Every year.” He paused, swallowing against the painful lump in his throat. He picked at a loose thread on the knee of his jeans, staring at his own hands, but he was aware of every inch of Mark’s body pressed against his, the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Mark remained silent, a patient, potent presence. He offered no empty platitudes. Just the gift of being heard.

“She’d bake those stupid sugar cookies,” Frank continued, the memories tumbling out, raw and unedited. “The ones that were always a little burnt around the edges. And she’d put up the tree and use way too much tinsel. And play those god-awful carols on a loop until I wanted to scream.” A ghost of a smile, sad and fleeting, touched his lips. “She tried so hard to pretend it was all okay. That we were okay. Normal.” His voice cracked on the last word, a raw, wounded sound that echoed in the quiet room.

He closed his eyes, the firelight still a warm red against his eyelids. “It never was. It was just… a spotlight. On everything we’d lost. On him.” A single hot tear escaped, tracing a cold path down his cheek. Then another. He didn’t bother to wipe them away. What was the point?

Mark shifted, a subtle movement, and a warm, rough palm settled gently on his cheek. The touch was so impossibly tender it stole Frank’s breath. His thumb stroked away the tear with a reverence that felt like a prayer. Frank’s breath hitched again, a different kind of shock this time, a tenderness so unexpected it pierced straight through his armor. He leaned into the touch, a small, involuntary movement of pure, unadulterated need. He hadn’t been touched like this in years. Maybe ever.

His eyes opened, and he was looking straight into Mark’s. They were dark, deep as a forest at midnight, but they held no pity. Only a profound, steady understanding that went deeper than words. In that moment, Frank felt seen—not just his anger or his art or his sarcasm, but the broken, grieving kid underneath it all. And he felt, for the first time in a very long time, completely safe.

“It’s okay,” Mark said, his voice a low thrum that Frank felt in his teeth. It wasn’t a platitude. It was a fact. A gentle permission. “It’s okay to remember. It’s okay that it hurts.” His thumb stroked Frank’s cheekbone, a slow, mesmerizing rhythm that sent a shiver of pure connection down Frank’s spine.

Frank couldn’t look away. He was caught in that gaze, pulled into the quiet, unwavering warmth that radiated from Mark like heat from the fire. The exhaustion that settled over him was immense, a heavy, bone-deep weariness as years of tension began to drain away. He didn't know what this was, what they were doing, but in this moment, it was enough. It was everything.

He saw Mark’s eyes soften, saw them drift down to his lips. The air in the room seemed to thin, to crackle. Frank’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, wild thing. He watched Mark's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. A subtle shift, Mark leaning in, the space between them shrinking, becoming charged with a new kind of energy. Frank’s eyes fluttered shut. Anticipation, fragile and terrifying and potent, bloomed in his chest. *Yes,* a voice in his head whispered, a voice he didn't recognize. *Please.* He could feel Mark’s breath, warm and smelling faintly of the cold night air, against his forehead, then his cheek. The world narrowed to the frantic beat of his own heart, the scent of woodsmoke, and the overwhelming, tender closeness of this boy who had somehow become his anchor.

Then, just as he felt the whisper-light touch of breath against his lips, a phantom pressure that promised contact, Mark pulled back.

Just an inch. Just enough for Frank to open his eyes, feeling both dizzy with relief and sick with disappointment. Their faces were still impossibly close, the air between them humming. Mark’s eyes, dark and serious, held a question now, a silent, vulnerable invitation. He wasn't taking; he was asking. He was giving Frank the choice, the control he’d just lost. Frank could feel the heat rolling off Mark’s body, could feel the quiet strength that was both a shield and a magnet. He knew, with a certainty that was both exhilarating and terrifying, that something fundamental had just cracked wide open between them. The ghosts hadn’t vanished, but they were no longer the only thing in the room.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, a soft, silent blanket erasing the world. Inside, the fire roared. Frank looked at Mark, at the boy who saw him, really saw him, and felt a surge of something fierce and protective in his own chest. He needed this. He needed this connection.

His hand, moving with a will of its own, reached out, finding Mark's on the floor between them. His fingers were clumsy, cold as they brushed against Mark’s knuckles. For a terrifying second, he thought Mark might pull away. Instead, Mark’s hand turned, palm up, an offering. Their fingers intertwined, a slow, deliberate weaving that felt more significant than any kiss. Mark’s hand was warm and strong, his calloused fingers closing around Frank’s, a quiet, solid promise that sent a wave of heat all the way up Frank's arm.

He didn’t know what would happen tomorrow, but for now, in the warm, firelit cabin, with his hand in Mark’s, he didn’t feel quite so alone in the storm.