The world fractures. 

Shatters into a million shards of noise, colours; blurry shapes that collapse and rise back up out of the ashes as Henry watches with wide eyes. 

The emerald of the perfectly sculpted grass blends with the deep indigo of the sky- and the fragments of bright stars scattered across its canvas dredge up a distant memory in his mind. Freckles across a delicate nose bridge. A first kiss. Awkward; fumbling. The fire of his family's rage when they, inevitably, found out.

Eyes emerge out of the haze in Henry's mind, trailing little wisps of memory behind them. Grass and sky- mingling together in two perfectly round irises- flicker across his vision. 

But these eyes are closed. They are real. Henry is close enough to them that he can pick out the faint veins snaking beneath the surface of the skin- lavender and cobalt and crimson. Something catches in his throat, and his suspended breath breaks out of him, stirring fine strands of chestnut hair across cheekbones equally as delicate. 

Those eyes flick open. And they are hazel, not blue. Flecked with sparks of flaming gold; not green. 

Suddenly, Henry is tumbling back to earth in a confused rush. The air floods out of his lungs once more, his head filling with clouds and air, and a strange pressure in his chest is beating painfully against the cage of his ribs.

He remembers where he is.

He remembers who he is.

He remembers who he's supposed to be; where he's supposed to be.

He remembers who the hazel eyes belong to.

He remembers who's lips the taste of still lingers on his own.

This is a mistake.

A jolt passes through his body, and then his hands are on Alex's shoulders, shoving him roughly away even as his whole body screams to pull him closer; to kiss him more; to tangle his hands in that hair, to trace the lines of those cheekbones, to whisper unspeakable things in those ears.

No!

He rages silently at himself. Images of his family- Bea and his mother and Phillip and the Queen- fly through his mind like hurricanes, leaving him feeling stranded and confused in their wakes. He can imagine all too well what Phillip or his grandma would do to him if they ever found out about his mistake. And that's all it is. A mistake.

His eyes cut over to the boy opposite him.

Alex.

He stumbles a little, still recovering from the force of Henry's shove, his eyes wide and confused, and his lips still pursed slightly from the kiss. The mistake. Henry tries out the taste of the words in his mouth, rolling them around on his tongue.

Mistake. Alex.

Sour. Bitter. The sting of a poorly concealed lie.

Henry can't take it anymore.

His head, or his heart?

His family, or his future?

He can't stay here.

An apology fumbles its way out of his mouth, but he never hears himself speak the words. The world has faded away again. Something is blazing in his chest- the same, stubborn spark that first alighted in his chest the moment two lips touched. It could be the alcohol, or the lingering lightness in Henry's head; the bubbles of helium gas rising up inside of him- but the world seems to sway as he takes his first step.

A second.

Snow crunches under his heel. His gaze yearns to stray back behind him- to seek those eyes again, that can set him ablaze even in the dead of winter, in a snowy garden, under the night sky. He bets even if he were six feet under, arms crossed in a coffin, Alex's eyes would bring him back to life, set the wood of his prison alight and free him from the dirt.

A third step.

A fourth.

The night wraps him into a cool, velvety embrace, and the flame in his gut begins to dim with every step he takes away from Alex.

From the boy lost in the snow.

Only it's not Alex who's lost, but Henry.

***