Snowfall and Shared Air

Jesse, suffocating under the weight of a winter formal and the unspoken judgment of his peers, finds unexpected solace in the quiet, unyielding presence of Ed, amidst the chill and decay of an old manor.

“—just a phase, right? Everyone experiments.” The words cut through the buzz of the ballroom like a sliver of ice, not meant for Jesse, not directly, but they landed square in the center of his chest. He clutched the rim of his sparkling cider glass, knuckles white. His tie, a dark green his mother insisted on, felt impossibly tight. The air in the grand hall was thick with the scent of pine and something else, something metallic and sharp, like too many bodies pressed too close together, generating static.

He watched the group of boys by the fireplace, all in their borrowed suits, laughing too loud, their faces flushed. They didn’t even glance his way. He was invisible, which was both a blessing and a slow, agonizing suffocation. His palms were slick. He just wanted to melt into the ancient, patterned wallpaper, become another faded detail in the crumbling opulence of Blackwood Manor. The whole place felt like a breath held too long, grand and decaying all at once. Cold air snaked through the gaps in the tall, arched windows, carrying the faint, clean smell of snow.

“You okay?” A voice, low and unexpected, brushed against his ear. Jesse jumped, nearly dropping his glass. Ed. He was always just... there. Standing too close, somehow, yet not invading. Ed’s hand, a solid, warm weight, settled briefly on Jesse’s elbow, just long enough to anchor him before pulling back. Jesse hadn’t even heard him approach over the tinny dance music and the general din.

“Fine,” Jesse managed, the word a thin whisper. He didn't meet Ed’s gaze, instead focusing on the way a patch of frost on the windowpane resembled a tiny, intricate fern. Ed smelled like cold outside air and something else, something clean and earthy, like damp soil right before a hard freeze. It was a scent that didn’t belong in this stuffy, perfumed room.

Ed just hummed, a low, noncommittal sound that vibrated slightly in the air around them. He didn’t push. That was Ed. The quiet, unyielding presence. He was like a tree in a storm, still and strong, when Jesse felt like he was made of brittle glass, ready to shatter. Jesse risked a quick glance. Ed’s jaw was set, his dark eyes scanning the room, not at Jesse, but *for* Jesse, as if cataloging threats. The protective instinct was a tangible thing, a subtle tension in Ed’s shoulders under the dark wool of his suit jacket.

Another burst of laughter from the fireplace. “Honestly, I don’t get it,” one of them said, a voice Jesse recognized as Mike’s, loud and confident. “Why even bother with the whole… whatever. Just be normal.” A wave of heat washed over Jesse’s face, prickling his skin. Normal. The word felt like a brand. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird trying to escape its cage. He thought he might hyperventilate right there, amidst the fake smiles and forced cheer of the formal. The glitter from someone's dress caught the light, sparkling like shattered dreams on the dusty floorboards.

He watched Ed’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly as they flicked towards Mike’s group, then back to Jesse. No judgment, no pity, just… observation. Understanding. It made Jesse’s breath catch. He hated being seen this clearly, but with Ed, it was different. Less like an inspection, more like a quiet recognition. It was unnerving. He could feel the pulse throbbing in his throat, a frantic counterpoint to the slow, steady rhythm of Ed’s breathing, which he was hyper-aware of. The space between them, though minimal, felt charged, humming with unspoken things.

“Too much,” Jesse finally said, barely audible. He gestured vaguely at the room, the crowd, the suffocating atmosphere. His fingers trembled against the cold glass of his cider.

Ed simply nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. His gaze met Jesse’s for a split second, an intense, almost physical impact, then dropped to Jesse’s hand, still clutching the glass. He didn't need Jesse to explain. He just knew. That knowledge, unspoken, was both terrifying and a strange, potent comfort. Jesse felt a flush spread from his neck up to his ears.

Without a word, Ed shifted, subtly blocking Jesse from the general flow of traffic. He didn't touch him, not really, but the effect was immediate. A small, protective bubble formed. Jesse could feel the warmth radiating from Ed’s side, even through their formal wear. The noise of the party seemed to dull, the chatter blurring into an indistinct murmur. The frantic bird in his chest quieted a fraction.

“There’s a room,” Ed murmured, his voice softer now, almost a suggestion. “Library. Back this way.” He didn't ask if Jesse wanted to go. He just started moving, a subtle lean of his body, a small, almost imperceptible tilt of his head, indicating the direction. Jesse, without thinking, followed. It felt like an instinct, a primal pull towards the safety Ed represented. He didn't question it. He just moved, one foot after the other, away from the glaring lights and the suffocating pressure.

They navigated the periphery of the ballroom, past couples swaying awkwardly, past clusters of students whispering secrets. Jesse kept his head down, acutely aware of Ed’s broad back just ahead of him, a shield. He noticed the scuff Mike on Ed's left shoe, a tiny imperfection that made him feel more real. They passed through a less-lit corridor, the air growing colder, heavier. Tapestries, thick with dust, hung from the walls, depicting hunting scenes that felt incongruous with the party going on just meters away. The scent of old wood and something vaguely herbal, like dried potpourri, replaced the cloying perfume.

Ed pushed open a heavy, dark oak door, its hinges groaning in protest. The sound echoed in the sudden quiet of the room beyond. The library. It was vast, filled with towering bookshelves, and utterly silent. Moonlight streamed through a single, tall window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the cold air. The air smelled of aged paper and something metallic, like ancient ink. Jesse stepped inside, pulling his shoulders in, feeling small. The silence was a shock, a sudden vacuum after the cacophony of the ballroom.

Ed closed the door softly behind them, the click a final seal. He didn't turn on any lights. The dim, silver glow from outside was enough. Jesse hugged himself, rubbing his arms. The chill in the library was deeper, bone-deep. Ed moved to the window, looking out at the snow-covered grounds, a dark silhouette against the pale winter night. Jesse watched him, his own breathing still a little shallow. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, but it wasn't oppressive here. It was… a relief.

“They’re always… like that,” Jesse finally said, his voice raspy. He couldn't bring himself to say *who* 'they' were, or *what* 'that' meant. But Ed knew. He always did.

Ed turned from the window, his face shadowed, but Jesse could sense his gaze. He walked over to a worn leather armchair, upholstered in a faded crimson, and sat down. He didn’t slouch, but his posture relaxed, a quiet invitation in his stillness. “Yeah,” Ed said, his voice a low rumble. “Some people just… are.” He didn’t offer platitudes. He didn’t say it would get better. He simply acknowledged the ugly truth of it.

Jesse walked towards a smaller armchair, its fabric torn at the armrest, and sank into it. He felt exhausted, suddenly, as if the tension had drained all the energy from his limbs. “I don’t… I don’t know why it bothers me so much.” His voice was barely a whisper. He wanted to scream. He wanted to be invisible. He wanted to be seen, truly seen, without fear. The contradictory swirl of it made his head ache. He fiddled with the cuff of his shirt, avoiding Ed's steady, unwavering gaze.

“It bothers you because you feel it,” Ed said, simply. He didn’t add 'and that’s okay.' He didn’t need to. The quiet conviction in his tone was enough. Jesse looked up then, meeting Ed's eyes properly for the first time since they entered the library. They were dark, deep, and held an intensity that Jesse found himself drawn to, even as it unnerved him. There was no judgment there, only a profound, almost ancient understanding. It felt like a crack in the wall, letting in a single, precious shaft of light.

Jesse felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to cry, or maybe laugh. His throat felt tight. "I just... I'm tired of it. Of pretending." He didn't elaborate. He didn't have to. The air between them hummed with the unspoken weight of his confession. He watched Ed, who remained perfectly still, absorbing Jesse's words, letting them hang in the air without rushing to fill the void. This was different from anyone else. No one else ever just *listened* like this. No one else waited for Jesse to catch his breath, to find his own words, however broken.

After a long moment, Ed leaned forward, just slightly. "You don't have to pretend here." It wasn't an order, or even a suggestion. It was a statement of fact, solid and unshakable. Jesse felt a warmth spread through him, unexpected and profound, like a ember suddenly catching flame in the deep chill of the room. He felt the tension in his shoulders ease, just a fraction. He pulled his knees up, resting his chin on them, feeling a tiny bit safer. He liked the quiet hum of Ed's presence. It was a comfort he hadn't known he needed.

He watched the moonlight filter through the old glass, painting silver streaks on the dusty floorboards. He saw his own reflection, faint and shimmering, in the dark glass, a ghost in the periphery. He looked so young, so lost. But then he shifted his gaze, and Ed was still there, a solid anchor in the quiet room. Ed was looking at him directly now, not with pity, but with a gaze that held a quiet strength. It wasn't a glance that demanded anything, but offered everything. It was a silent promise.

“It's not easy,” Jesse said, his voice stronger now. He still felt raw, exposed, but the fear was... different. Not gone, but diminished, held at bay by the unspoken pact between them. "There's always someone..." He trailed off, the images of Mike's group, of countless other judging faces, flashing through his mind.

Ed nodded. "No. It's not." He paused, then spoke again, his voice low, almost a murmur against the vast silence of the library. "But you're not alone in it." He didn't offer a dramatic hand, no grand gesture. Just the simple, profound truth, delivered with an unwavering conviction that pierced through Jesse’s lingering doubt. Jesse stared, really stared, at Ed. For the first time, in a very long time, he felt something bloom inside him that wasn't anxiety or fear. It felt like possibility. It felt like acceptance. The chill of the manor still seeped through the walls, but it no longer reached his core. Something else, a quiet, fierce warmth, had settled there instead.

Ed stood, then, moving slowly, deliberately, towards the window. He looked out into the vast, snowy expanse of the estate, the skeletal branches of old oak trees clawing at the pale sky. The manor itself seemed to breathe around them, a heavy, ancient presence. Jesse watched him, a strange calm settling over him. He felt seen. Not just understood, but truly seen, and somehow, that felt like being truly loved. A quiet, terrifying, beautiful kind of loved. He stood too, drawn by the pull of Ed’s silent contemplation, and joined him at the window. The snow fell in soft, relentless flakes, coating the world in a pristine, chilling white. It was beautiful, but it was also desolate, vast, and unforgiving.

He glanced at Ed’s profile, sharp and resolute against the backdrop of the winter night. The ghost of a smile, small and fleeting, touched Ed’s lips, not aimed at Jesse, but at the stark beauty outside. It was a private moment, one that Jesse was allowed to witness. He knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that while this night was a turning point, the world outside was still waiting, full of its own shadows and its own cold truths. The manor, with its secrets and its silent decay, felt like a silent witness to a fragile, brand new beginning, one that was far from over.