Snowflake
(Yours, In Murder)
–
The mere thought of comparing love to snowfall makes the tea turn sour in Tom’s mouth, but he does so anyway. He does so before realizing it, even, as he stands by the window watching snowflakes fall on the ground and melt – disappear. He stands long enough to see them pile one over another until the white sheen doesn’t melt anymore.
He thinks: this is how it happened.
He kept falling for Harry again and again until the feelings became too solid to ignore, and much too real to vanish. All the little things and the big things had overlapped in ways too complicated to untangle. The lust and obsession he had felt in the beginning were now no less than what they had been then, but the suffocating fondness brought a new, admittedly unwanted, dimension to everything.
He wanted Harry and he has him now. He wanted Harry to love him and now Harry loves him. He didn’t – and still doesn’t – want to love Harry in return. Not this way. Not the way other people love.
He cannot say that he wouldn’t have this any other way. He would, if he could. Being in love is scary, and he fears that one day Harry will want someone else. That his brilliance will not captivate Harry anymore, that his looks will spark no attraction and his presence would rouse no desire.
Each day he spends loving Harry feels like a risk. A risk he stumbles to take anyway.
marlowfication 