Chapter Text
Glen awoke with the acute sensation of having dreamt but could not recall anything of substance. Dreams, for him, were often vague sensations, ideas, maybe a visual perceived as through stained glass. It was common for them to be indecipherable. All he could gather was the sensation of sun in his eyes and a vision too bright to see. An hour later, Glen forgot he had dreamed at all.
He always got up very early, much earlier than anyone else, for he enjoyed his time as the first one up. Sleep was an obligation. He derived no pleasure or relief from it, and preferred not to dwell on it for any longer than needed. When he woke, he got up and spent the most time possible away from everyone, wandering his own halls and taking in the silence. Loneliness was not a choice for him, merely something that came with the territory, though he did not find it loathsome. Today, his isolation would be disrupted.
It was the dead of winter, so there were no living blossoms, no plants other than naked trees. Flowers were always brought into the manor to adorn the halls and accentuate the tapestries, but in winter everything felt barren. Glen didn’t know who had started this trend of decor, but it was a welcome dogma- in the winter one decorated with winter things. He did not dislike winter. It did not stop his near-pietistic favorites from flocking to him. Large deer, foxes with their little footprints in the snow, fully-fledged birds still swarmed and sang in his presence. Even indoors he felt he could hear their calls to him, a lament to his going where they could not follow. He did not mind the cold. He couldn’t remember if he had always been that way. He supposed it didn’t matter.
After rousing himself to dress and clean his face, he exited the manor, a heavy cloak atop his day clothes to keep out the wind. None blew, leaving only still piles of white snow. It sat high on the ground, heavily onto trees, blanketing everything in sight. It was almost sweet, how still everything was; it reminded him of places that he had never been but were distinctly his.
Calf-deep in snow with every step, he approached a tree to lean on and wait for the world to wake. It did, slowly, carefully, hesitantly. The morning gently opened the world to habitability. Stripes of blended, dreamy hues illuminated the sky, muted by the pale clouds but still peaking lavender and orange. It created a private world in the early dawn for Glen and his anticipated guest to be alone and indulge in each other. He basked in it as he bided his time.
Jack always walked over the horizon, trudging through the snow, so thick and pillowy it made to grab him by the ankles and beg him not to leave. He never took a carriage, insistent upon a full day trip, and wouldn’t leave until either early the next morning or very late at night. Late to the point of concern, really, often too dark for Jack to safely walk home alone. Glen always offered for Jack to stay the night, as he was not a terrible host, but Jack usually refused him. Enjoyment seemed to pass over Jack’s features as he did, as if it was a treat to reject him. Sometimes he accepted, though, and to play host for a willing guest seemed a victory. Daybreak always accompanied Jack’s arrival, when he knew Glen would be out and alone. Snow in his hair, cheeks rosy, Jack would march his way into view, looking like a holiday morning.
Glen liked the lack of affairs when Jack came by. Jack was never bothered by Glen’s practicalities nor most of his behavior, used to him by now. Glen didn’t have to look him in the eyes when he spoke, didn’t have to bother speaking when he didn’t want to. The social demand of eye contact was less strongly imposed upon those in Glen’s current position, to his relief. He usually just looked at the area around a person's nose when speaking to them. Fondness for Jack came in his apparent sympathy, where others only tolerated Glen’s indiscretion. When Jack came by, Jack could be Jack and Glen could be Glen.
Glen saw no point in salutations. He stood still in the snow, cold seeping through his clothes, clinging to him. Jack lifted his legs high as he marched up to him and plastered a silly looking smile on his face. A special smile was reserved for Glen, less wide.
“You never get cold,” Jack observed, in lieu of a formal greeting. The way the sun started to rise and glimmer onto Jack’s surface like a shimmering lake was humbling and familiar. It was somehow both something Glen could see with eyes closed and never dream of comprehending.
Glen shrugged as Jack came to stand beside him, movement heavy with layered clothing and cold bones. Glen couldn’t think of the last time the cold felt unpleasant to him, or unpleasant enough to discompose. He simply enjoyed the outside, and he always sought it when possible, lest the outside attempt to break in and claim him.
Words carried in little puffs in the air when Jack spoke, personal condensations from the lake of his body. “You know, Glen, the last time I was here I had the funniest conversation.”
“Did you?” Glen said, his eyes trained on his nose. Jack had these wayward little freckles and Glen enjoyed counting them. They had mostly faded with the season, but Glen knew where they were hiding.
“Yes. And, you know, they just had the funniest things to say about you,” Jack grinned, a sly thing that wrinkled his nose and made the spots even harder to detect. That wasn’t a good sign. Glen had long gone from perpetual frustration with Jack to a horrifying realization of mortal fondness, but was still wise enough to avoid total bewitchment. Jack’s glee was trouble. “And I just found the topic so quaint, I had brought it up with Alice, you know-”
“When did you do such a thing?” Glen’s voice lacked the cadence and affectation any other would carry in speech. Maybe a more charismatic man could sound smoldering and pleasant. Everything Glen did was the deepest reverberation on a stringed instrument, but with not enough rosin on the bow.
Jack was noncommittal. “The last time I was here. Does it matter?” There was a hidden accusation in that statement, but Glen decided it was too early to entertain subtext. It made being friends tiring. “The point is that it was a funny little thing, to hear how other people observe you. You walk about sometimes like you can’t be perceived, and sometimes I forget my opinions of you aren’t inherently universal- so I brought up the topic, or rather, jumped into one, and heard the funniest thing-”
“You’re stalling,” Glen interrupted. Jack didn’t stammer around a topic when he was nervous, but in attempt to be charming and relatable. Glen much preferred when the man was straightforward. “With whom did you have this conversation?”
“Ah, that’s right, you do know everyone’s name here, don’t you?” Jack said in compliment, rather than observation. Glen waved him off to discourage Jack’s bravado. It wasn’t how he preferred they speak.
A moment passed before Jack continued. Perhaps he had found some nugget in Glen’s expression. He eventually explained himself: “We were talking about you. And she described you as valorous . The valorous and mighty Master Glen.”
Glen paused. He had never taken Jack as interested in academia, so the need of a proper title was never anything they had discussed. On the same coin, Jack correctly assessed that Glen did not care for the general public's perception beyond a comment on his work. Glen felt he should be perceived as everyone before him. He knew Jack did not care to hear commentary on his existence and behavior either. It was one of his most defining traits. Jack initiating such conversation baffled Glen.
He rewarded the preposterous statement with a furrowed brow. Surely Jack found that expression so familiar he could see it with his eyes closed. “Someone said this?” he more or less accused, shifting as though interrogated. The morning was much too quiet, Glen decided, as there was nothing to drown out their noise.
“Would I make that up?” Jack answered with a doe expression. Glen turned his head away and snorted.
To say Glen found Jack treacherous wasn’t entirely true, but he wouldn’t consider him trustworthy either. If Glen were to slip and fall into the icy waters of the lake behind the manor, Jack would lay about the side of it, stroking his fingertips along the surface in mourning like a painting. Glen could pull himself up only by yanking that braid. To take Jack down for the company would be pleasant, but on introspection Glen would see his selfishness and flinch.
Hesitant, Glen sighed, his straight shoulders sagging. “I do not know what response you want from me,” he confessed. “Especially since it’s more complimentary than observant. I’m sure whomever you were interrogating was answering what they felt appropriate, not honestly. That’s the smart thing to do.”
“You disagree, then?”
Jack was being stubborn and did not allow the topic to die. Glen could tell him off, but Jack had only just arrived and Glen did not wish to offend. He answered, “Valorous is not what I would consider myself, no. I cannot imagine that being said genuinely and not coaxed.”
Jack shifted, leaned his body halfway to catch Glen's gaze, peered up at him. His eyes were green as the moss that formed on the lake in hot summer, but given the season, Glen figured his eyes were the only green to be found anywhere. He had stolen it all away to be in his visage, leaving nothing but white. Glen’s hand twitched.
Bangs falling, sway of his earring reminiscent of a whispering breeze, Jack hummed, “Truly?”
The heroism of Glen Baskerville was less heroism and more due diligence. It was less a philosophy and more an obligation, though perhaps true it was all-encompassing. No parade in his honor was necessary, no flower petals in his face; his desired scenario was to perish on the property of Baskerville and become one with all of them, with the manor. It mattered not the person he was nor the things he said. He would turn to ash like the rest, covered in white snow. Perhaps a vase of forget-me-nots by his bed chambers tossed aside in a month, the same as the man before him. Even when his quiet, ghoulish figure wandered the manor, the petals of the forget-me-not would have all fallen and spread in the wind. Their seeds would be again planted and brood till next bloom. There would be no point in grieving them, for that would be preserving them, the embalming of long decayed ideas in another’s mind.
Glen never liked forget-me-nots.
“It is inaccurate,” Glen said with finality. “Though I can see why it amused you so. It’s a handsome compliment, but without sincerity it feels florid and wrongfully placed. And I would prefer you not ponder it for too long.”
“But pondering, my dear,” Jack said cheekily, and Glen looked away finally, for his glimmer had begun to hurt his eyes. “Is the root of intellectualism.”
“Since when do you consider yourself an intellectual?” Glen cut in, flat to the point of stodgy. There was no pretense or softening of words, and to one who did not know him- which, seemingly, applied to much of the Baskerville staff- it could appear he was calling Jack stupid. He had no intention of calling Jack stupid, and did not think that he was. If anything, he considered him too smart for such self-designation.
Thankfully Jack answered, “Since never,” with a little laugh towards which Glen could admit he was fond. So fond, in fact, that Glen gave his own little laugh, one that wrinkled his nose. The sound scared off the wildlife observing them. Glen thought it both ominous and romantic.
X
As the morning went on and the hour went from near-universally unbearable to bearable among eccentrics, Glen carried out his duties with halfhearted efficiency, struck by bursts of energy to complete every task imaginable and then nadirs of lonely contemplation and silence. While Jack’s visits were a blessing, he did not spend every moment by Glen’s side, often dallying with Alice or other people in the manor. Glen thought to make more time for Alice, alone in her tower, but the shadow that fell over him at the mere idea of it was colder than the snow. The longer he waited, the more he would earn her scorn, but waiting could postpone consequences indefinitely.
However Jack was not allowed to distract Gilbert that day, for the child had lessons to learn and tasks to do under Glen’s wing. Glen wouldn’t mind if Jack took the other one, though in the end it mattered not, as they were roused and summoned to him together. They slept in the same room and would not separate until they were older, when it would be easier to isolate them. Gilbert was wide-eyed and pleasant as always, a respectful child, one Glen was soft enough to consider adorable, albeit not aloud. Vincent kept his eyes downcast and trailed close behind, frantic to not let Gilbert leave his sight for too long.
Glen had not planned much aside from lessons of etiquette, in which Gilbert excelled. It was entirely possible Glen slacked in his duties to teach Gilbert, but the boy was so eager to please. He supposed it wouldn’t be difficult to catch him up in days of ease. Again longing for the outside, Glen offered Gilbert a stroll around the grounds together, which Gilbert graciously accepted. Jack was likely in Alice’s tower anyways. She and Gilbert were to be kept occupied and as far from each other as possible. They mixed like a kitten and a hawk.
So Glen took them out- or, rather, took Gilbert out, while Vincent followed along. It was positively adorable to see how Gilbert carefully stepped in Glen’s footprints in the snow, trailing along like a little duckling. The sun made the snow look like glitter. Glen was open to explaining how icicles were formed or how snow was made, but only if he was asked. Gilbert was a bit too polite to wonder, so they walked in silence.
A deer approached the path’s edge, attracted to Glen, antlers taller than his arm was long and formed like a tangled brush. It looked at him for a long time. Upon noticing it, Gilbert quieted so as to not startle the creature. But Vincent, just a moment too out of rhythm, took too many steps, and its eyes landed on him; the creature darted away.
The blond child was not pleased despite speaking unaffected words. Gilbert said, “Aw, Vince,” so fondly it made Glen uncomfortable, open affection sounding foreign. Vincent sniffled about it being dumb how easily spooked animals were. Glen said nothing, watched where the buck had left before he continued.
He was not bothered by the cold weather but noticed the boys’ discomfort. They were bundled up, of course- Glen had instructed that a coat was not enough for going out, they needed a scarf and preferably a hat- but wind seemed to pass through children like linen. Gilbert was too quiet and well behaved to complain, undeniably enjoying any time spent with his master, even if it was in silence. Yet he shivered, little nose and cheeks red, breathed out with a shudder. His brother was tougher, and despite his size, seemed less affected overall. Glen couldn’t imagine why.
“Are you cold?” Glen asked, attempting to be friendly rather than interrogational, but the way Gilbert shook his head suggested fear of causing offense. Communication was not Glen’s strong suit. There was no use pretending it was. Perhaps it was hard for Gilbert to admit coldness when Glen was so clearly unbothered. The child wanted to appear grown up. So Glen assumed.
Gilbert’s younger brother hissed. “That’s not true. You’re cold,” so Gilbert denied it again, insisted he was fine. There was a little back and forth between the two: one asserting the other would get sick, the other declaring that improbable. Glen didn’t have the energy to explain both were just as likely to get sick from the cold as anyone- but then Vincent sighed, begrudgingly removed his little winter gloves and moved his little hands to his mouth. He blew out what hot air he had to give before reaching over and touching Gilbert’s cheeks, bestowing what little warmth he had unto him.
The sight nauseated Glen. He turned decisively from the display and looked at the sky. Even that was too bright. His eyes watered. Still, he would rather blindness than that. Anything but that.
X
Jack returned once Glen commanded the boys take tea and time by the fire to warm up; Glen had moved to play the piano and be left to brood. Scrunched up like a hedgehog on the chaise lounge against the wall, Jack seemed to think Glen’s pouting was unimpressive. Yet he made no comment of it, so perhaps Glen was being paranoid. Dispiriting, Jack chose to sprawl where he was instead of joining him; Glen enjoyed the other man’s musical talents but did not know how to broach the topic. While watching someone play music was normal, the way Jack did it was not. It always seemed Jack considered cannibalism in his appreciation.
Attempts to assume intent were pointless, though, as Jack never gave much away. He eventually commented, “You play music like you’re trying to prove you’re a god.”
Glen’s fingers stumbled to a stop, ending on an awkward high-note. He didn’t look over at him when he spoke. “Prove to who? You?”
“Mmm, no,” Jack hummed, a faux thoughtfulness to his tone. Or perhaps, a genuine thoughtfulness. “to yourself, maybe. Or to someone else. Not me.”
“I thought we were done with you attempting to define my being into small characteristics.” Glen preferred to not have a repeat of the earlier morning, especially as lunch approached. Too many hours had passed for the topic to still linger.
“If you were, I wasn’t,” Jack remarked. Glen heard him shift from where he was lounging. “so my bringing it up isn’t out of nowhere. Sorry to disappoint.” Jack did not sound sorry in the slightest.
Glen glared down at the keys as if they could prevent whatever Jack was planning to say. Potentially, were he to start playing again, he could drown out Jack’s words next time he spoke. Instead, Jack sounded like he was attempting to soothe him. Something wasn’t quite right about it all. Something was just a little wrong, as was typical of Jack. “I was hoping you wouldn’t deny me the conversation this time.”
“When have I ever denied you?” Even as Glen spoke, he could think dozens of times. It wasn’t an intentional lie, merely an impulse. Even if talking to Jack was difficult, he was still the most approachable person with whom Glen conversed… Yet Glen still struggled to make the connection.
“This morning, clearly. I can’t think of a more unsatisfactory ending to a conversation.”
“You’re not thinking hard enough, then.”
“Oh, don’t be like that!” Jack wailed, playful and girlish, invading Glen’s personal space. He sat next to Glen on the duet bench, rocking with expression, but did not touch him. Glen wondered if the touch would burn, how long it had been since he had been touched. The staff, the Baskervilles, everyone- all avoided contact with him. If Glen initiated piano play, would their fingers brush?
He played a few notes, Jack played a few more. Piano was not Jack’s hobby of choice, nor even his preferred instrument. He was more of a mechanic than a virtuoso, adept at bowed instruments, namely the foreign kokyu, but music was the only place where, if Glen led, Jack followed. Jack kept up well without deep formal training, never being one for tutors or the stuffy academic environment in general. Opinion unified them in that regard.
They did not play together long, much to Glen’s dismay. Eventually Jack’s movements slowed with snuffed excitement. Glen lamented in silence as he finished the measure. There was no keeping them civil on the topic. Their fingers had not brushed.
“If I didn’t know you, I would say you were trying to distract me.” Jack smiled wryly, leaning back from their shared seating on the duet bench.
Absent minded, Glen pawed at the keys, not enjoying the moment. He shook his head, only to tack on, “It will be lunch time soon. I simply don’t want to discuss such matters before eating. Will you be joining me?”
Jack did not respond, merely got up, leaving a depression on the bench. Glen supposed it was warm where he had sat. When Jack left the room, promising they would speak again after lunch, Glen reached over to feel where Jack had been, catching little more than a ghost.
X
Glen got some work done in Jack’s absence, but not as much as he would prefer. His mind would dip into blank thoughts and muted frustration. He finished his tea. Fires in all of the fireplaces to keep out the chill, candles in every corner to chase away the shadows. The tall, familiar ceilings of Baskerville Manor echoed with every step, amplified by the silence of the outside.
Some of the manor’s women were weaving a new tapestry to display in the winter. Some displays were seasonal. It had been tradition since long before Glen was born. There was nothing he could say to influence its design, but the depiction of him on a tapestry was like a large, black line amidst the bright colors and patterns, his image a hard contrast to the background choices. Their use of the color red made him like a hollow shaft against a phoenix’s feathers. They depicted him as a shadow skulking from behind the trees, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it. He could think of nothing else so fitting. He called the women by name and left them to their work.
Next he met Jack with tea and an invitation to play cards. Chess was their game of choice, but Jack had moods to play a little bluffing card game instead. It functioned on deception and numbers, likely why Jack liked it so much. A year or two ago, Glen’s mentor would have rapped his knuckles for playing a poor man’s game. With the man gone, Glen was in no position to refuse, having accomplished the tasks he had been saving for the afternoon.
Jack dealt a hand of cards. “Vincent told me about the deer. He said he was sorry he scared it away.”
Glen had practically forgotten. He examined his cards and discovered three of them had the same number. Jack covered his cards as he glanced at them, as if Glen was the type to peek. Glen was not.
“They come near the property all the time. It is not anything to fret over.”
“Yes, but you know how children are,” Jack smiled, putting a small round token on the table. He had given Glen a stack of chips prior, now untouched next to him. “he sees meaning in things that we do not. He thought it was special in some way.”
“In what way?” He bet two tokens.
“He wasn’t very clear. He just had the feeling that it had been important,” Jack reiterated, adding three tokens. “and when we talked about it, he seemed a little distressed. Hardly unusual, but I figured it was worth mentioning. Something about the way the animal looked at him and the way that it looked at you being different.”
That was conceivable; animals adored Glen in their devout ways. They probably adored Gilbert for the same intrinsic reasoning. It was not Vincent’s fault so much as Vincent’s lack of qualities needed to keep the deer at all. However, to explain in detail would be useless, and to a child would be a fool's errand. Glen matched Jack’s bet, then switched two of his cards out.
To fill the ensuing silence, Jack said, “Oh, and for your information, I asked about your reputation and the term valorous again. I’m sorry to tell you that is the genuine, honest consensus of everyone that I had asked.” Typical Jack, he didn’t sound sorry at all.
Glen had known the topic would be brought up again, but groaned nonetheless. “These are slanderous accusations against my name.”
“Could it really be slander if it’s complimentary?”
Jack had him there. “Inaccurate, then, and not based in fact. I do a job and run a household here. I have a function and I am capable of completing the tasks given to me. I wouldn’t tie duty with heroism.”
Jack put down more tokens. “Of course, your perception is different than theirs, Glen. You need to take that into consideration. Taking in the homeless-”
“Not at random.” Glen cut him off, looking down at his cards instead of Jack’s face. He upped his bet to give himself something to do, not taking note of how much put down.
Jack sighed. “… not at random, no. Though in this case I don’t think it matters.”
“Weren’t you lecturing me about context just a moment ago?”
“That is a silly argument and one I will not entertain.”
“What about you, then?” Glen said, sick of the issue and unsure what Jack hoped to gain. He didn’t want to have the topic reevaluated, he just wanted it to stop. “I thought you didn’t like to have traits assigned, or to be analyzed and perceived like this, and yet you’ve been doing it to me all morning, having me under scrutiny.”
Jack did not respond right away. The silence stretched too long, like a note that was held for too many beats. Glen glanced up from his cards to look at Jack’s face, in anguish and frustration upon seeing the blank visage before him. Jack didn’t look annoyed or offended. He simply stared at Glen, as if Glen had not just antagonized him.
The small table near a window allowed the light from the outside to wash Jack out completely. Glen couldn’t see any freckles, could only hope to imagine where they could be.
Jack chose his words carefully. “I don’t care for it, no.”
Glen thought to ask if Jack lacked empathy. He attempted eye contact for a moment, frowning, before looking at Jack grew too unpleasant. Sometimes, he could recall why he once disliked Jack.
“I was honest when I said it was funny to me. Everyone’s perception of you was different from what I had expected. It surprised me. I had no agenda other than speaking my mind and gathering your thoughts… though I see you are now frustrated. I had wanted to speak of it only today, and then never broach the topic again.”
Glen was not one to put his elbows on tables. It was impolite, and he knew better. Yet he lifted his elbow onto the table and rested his cheek in his palm. He tapped his blunt nails to his temple, eyes wandering, taking in what Jack said and letting it simmer. He noticed that Jack did not put on the airs of apology, despite his earlier admission of fault. Jack was giving an explanation.
“I’ve been frustrated for a long while, Jack.” Glen nitpicked, perhaps in an attempt to make a connection. He looked outside the window, where Jack’s reflection on the glass was foggy, and yet still so distinctly him. Glen looked odd sitting across from him. Instead, Glen decided to focus his eyes on the outside.
Jack, hesitantly, quietly- more soft than Glen had ever heard his voice before- called out, using a name that Glen had not heard in a long while, the wrong name, someone else’s name. Glen did not respond to it.
Silence again, before Jack sighed in defeat. “Come now. We should finish the game.” That got Glen’s attention. He looked to see Jack put in all of his little tokens in offering. Glen glanced at his measly trio of matching cards. He sighed, folding, putting his cards onto the table in defeat.
“I knew you were going to do that,” Jack said, his voice sounding far away.
X
Jack had stretched himself throughout the manor, spending dinner with the young boys and then dessert with Alice, so Glen had consumed his roasted pheasant and vegetables in the loneliest way possible. What would have been a good meal tasted bland in his mouth, but he willed himself to finish it, loath to waste. It was not often he was completely alone for meals, but Jack was by far his most interesting companion. He ate alone, not even the wandering ghoul in his company. Glen was almost certain his former mentor was going to lack the energy to eat soon, and anyway, spending more time than necessary with him was the least favorable option.
Once it was dark and the fires were roaring, the young boys were sent to bed by staff, though they were surely still awake, snuggled either in their close but separate beds or huddled under a single blanket to whisper together into the night. Glen didn’t know. Despite the affection felt towards Gilbert, he refused to go into that room, and hadn't been in there since he was small.
The night was still bright with snow, white flecks floating down from the sky and accumulating onto the preexisting pile, covering all of the tracks that had been made earlier. Nostalgia gripped Glen, who went outside again, having nothing else to do. In the foyer, he ran into Jack, who was hastily donning his cold weather clothes. He looked up as Glen approached.
“Oh,” Jack said, his smile strained. “Glen. Hi. You’re coming?”
Glen answered with action, draping his cloak around himself and stepping out into the cold. Jack trotted behind him and together they made fresh prints in the snow.
“The custard was good,” Jack chimed, and Glen had to wonder if he was still attempting reconciliation after their earlier conversation. He was being awfully avoidant of the topic he had been forcing down Glen’s throat all day. “Alice didn’t like it, though. I had to finish it.”
“I’m surprised she ate it at all.”
Jack shrugged, barely noticeable under all of the layers of his clothes. Snowflakes already decorated his eyelashes, but he didn’t seem to be bothered. “When was the last time you visited her?”
Glen did not answer; both because he lacked the knowledge, and because he was unsure if he would disclose it. Jack, probably taking his silence as an unwillingness to converse on the topic any further, just waved a hand and said “don’t worry about it”, and so Glen did not clarify.
The night was somehow soft and inviting and hard and dangerous at once. The two stood out in the snow for some time as Glen looked for things to say, but all felt fuzzy and wrong. Sometimes conversation with Jack meant walking a dangerous line, and Glen suspected a single misstep would allow Jack to eat him alive. On the other hand, refusing to cross the bridge meant he would never see the man again. Glen didn’t know which was worse.
“Will you be leaving tonight?” Glen asked, pitch lower than intended.
Jack nodded. “I should head back, yes.”
“You can stay the night,” Glen implored, the guest room Jack would sometimes sleep in already well prepared and warm. He was sure the children would all be pleased to see him again in the morning. But even before he finished the offer, Jack shook his head, a little smile already creeping its way to his face.
“Then, at least, take a carriage. Someone will drive you home, it’s much too late already.”
“I prefer to walk, really.” Jack wasn’t looking at him, attention with some far off thing Glen couldn’t see.
“I know,” Glen sighed, already brushing some snow out of his own hair. “I know you do.”
If he spoke anymore on the topic it would sound suspiciously like he was begging Jack to stay, so he dropped it for the moment. He knew he would inevitably pick it back up again, right before Jack would leave. Still desperate, he decided to swallow the bitter topic of Jack’s desire. “You wanted to talk of personality traits earlier.”
Jack met his eyes for the briefest moment, and inside all of that green Glen could see himself. Disturbed, he looked away. Looking in his eyes was like looking in the sun. “I had.”
“I still do not agree with valorous ,” Glen choked, suddenly deeply vulnerable and uncomfortable. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. “And I stand by that. I do what I’m told… what I’m supposed to do. Even if it’s good things. I wouldn’t describe myself that way, and I don’t want to hear you describe me that way.”
Jack’s eyes carved into him, left marks on him in their emptiness. It was the worst experience Glen could imagine, talking to him at that moment. He hated it. The combined darkness of night and light of the snow made it impossible to see even the shadows of freckles on his face. Glen couldn’t attempt to look for them. Worst of all, Jack didn’t respond.
“If you insist on this analysis then you are the only person whose opinion matters to me. You can give me your statement if that is what you want, and I can give you mine. I care not for what handsome words of one who does not know me. I care for what you think and what you think alone.”
If it had been anyone else it could have sounded impassioned and wonderful, it could have been the thing that made Jack stay and not go. But it came out of Glen’s mouth a bit too wrong, a bit too needy, too forceful, too flat, everything awful at once. A crescendo made of his own nightmares, too much an awkward, forced vibrato.
“… You are my friend, after all.” He added, an octave too low. He let his hair fall in his face.
Jack was silent for some time, the echo of Glen’s words muffled by the snowfall. He didn’t move, didn’t so much as blink- then finally he turned his head, smiled, laughed a little. Glen suddenly hoped for something.
“… Alright,” Jack said, only a little strained. He laughed again, scrunching his nose. “You want to know how I would describe you, then?”
Glen saw no point in repeating himself. He was silent, waiting expectantly.
“I think of you as… someone who would snuff out a candle with his bare hands.”
Glen paused, mulling the words over in his mind, tasting them once he figured they were ready and had marinated long enough. It wasn’t a cruel thing to say, nor was it a handsome compliment. He was calling him either so stupid, strong willed, or stubborn as to hold fire in his hands- possibly he meant all three, it mattered not- yet determined enough to have it out. He didn’t think it was wrong to say.
He smiled a tiny thing in satisfaction, a sight only for Jack, who mirrored the gesture. After that, Jack turned to leave, lifting his legs comically high to step in the snow.
Glen reached out and grabbed Jack’s arm right above the elbow, perhaps a bit too tight. It was enough to stop him even if that was not at all Glen’s intention. Jack’s smile fell from his face. Glen had a cold sweat on the back of his neck, and began to wonder what he had done. Did he think that if Jack understood Glen’s flaws, he understood everything about him? Everything, good and the bad? Did he think it would be so simple as to keep everything the same with that knowledge, as if nothing had ever changed?
Glen didn’t know what to ask, he didn’t know how to beg. He gave Jack something that he certainly didn’t want to hear, gruff and woefully impassioned: “You are very… reactive.”
It wasn’t as flowery or poetic as what Jack had said. Jack seemed to flip it around in his mind. Historically Jack did not enjoy being called much of anything, but- perhaps it was because Glen had mentioned it prior, perhaps it was because of the establishment of it being the first and last time they would broach the topic- he did not recoil. He stared at Glen as if there were some hidden meaning to his statement, aside from simply the word reactive .
“Reactive,” Jack tried the word. “Huh.”
Glen felt foolish, still holding onto his arm with the urgency of a little boy awakened from a nightmare. He was nonetheless reluctant to let go. He wanted to tug him back, tell him to stay, his home was so terribly empty without him. Even if there was always an underlying danger when speaking to Jack, or an emptiness that he could never grasp. He understood Jack as a pit, yet preferred to be known in that trench than to be above ground and alone. It would be fine if Jack took all the good from him so long as he stayed.
His shame won. He released Jack’s arm and backed away. Jack looked to where he had been grabbed then back at Glen.“You should head back inside before it gets too cold.”
He didn’t feel the need to explain that he didn’t feel cold, that he wouldn’t feel cold, that the cold didn’t bother him anymore, that it hadn’t bothered him since he was a child when another’s hands had touched his face and he’d sapped all the warmth from them, someone else made cold whilst he grew warm. Glen didn’t need Jack knowing that. He wanted Jack to think of him as a good person- not a good person based on false expectations and misinformation, but a good person with his flaws, a good person that he knew. He didn’t want to tell him that when he touched the fire he never lit another one again.
He watched Jack leave into the night. His figure disappeared over the horizon, gone somewhere beyond the trees. Glen turned to head back inside, seeing no point lingering until his return. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a deer, its antlers taller than his arm was long.