The Snowflake

Chapter 1“The first fall of snow is not only an event, it is a magical event. You go to bed in one kind of world and wake up in another quite different, and if this is not enchantment, then where is it to be found?” —J.B. Priestley Theophile Lekas gazed out over the crowd in the nightclub. He took another swallow of his third mojito. The taste was all right, but it wasn’t the reason he drank them. The crushed ice was what made his spirit sing—or something along those lines. Words had never been his thing. The beauty of ice was something that couldn’t be described, and should people failed to see it, the world would come to an end. He rubbed his chest, the cold from the drink made him shiver, and looked out over the sea of dancing people. Perhaps too small to be called a sea—pond?—words again. He grimaced, ignoring the way the bartender raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t said it out loud, he didn’t think, and if he had, the music would’ve drowned it out. Out there, rubbing against a man way more handsome than Theo, was Dylan Mincer. Dylan—tall, dark, and mouth-watering. As unique as a snowflake, as beautiful as cut ice, and as unaware of Theo’s existence as the rest of the world’s population. Perhaps Dylan should be his next project. When his musician exhibit was finished, he needed to woo the world with something new. Not everyone had been wooed by the show, of course, but he couldn’t continue making sculptures for weddings and banquets, or he’d end up ramming an ice pick in his temple merely to end his misery. A homage to the male beauty. Bubbles spread in his chest. He could have Dylan pose for him, could bring him out to his barn where he could model while Theo sculpted. He could already see the clear ice glistening as he shaped it into a copy of Dylan’s abs—there would be abs, he was sure of it. He wanted to learn every little dimple and ridge of Dylan’s body, wanted to transfer every scar and every sign of life lived onto the ice version. Beauty is made of imperfections and those imperfections made Dylan perfect. Theo rubbed his neck to clear his head of the thoughts swirling in there. “Another?” One of the men who had been dancing with Dylan appeared by his side. “Erm…” Theo swirled the remaining contents of his glass. The ice had melted, and some sad-looking mint leaves clung to the rim. “You like mojitos?” The man was shouting, and Theo did his best not to scrunch his nose. “I like ice.” The man’s laugh was as loud as his shouts. “I know.” He clapped Theo’s shoulder and motioned for the bartender. “A beer and a frozen margarita for my sculptor here.” Theo straightened and studied the man’s face. He’d remembered that nose. It sloped. It wasn’t big, rather narrow actually but with a rounded tip and in combination with the heavy brows it looked ridiculous. They hadn’t met. Theo might not be good at names, and he might not be good at remembering things, but shapes he knew. “Hey, where did you—oh…” Dylan Mincer. Theo’s breath caught, but before he could smile, Dylan was glaring at him. “Dylan.” The one breathy word shouldn’t have been audible, but for some reason, the music stopped in the exact same moment as Theo was having a verbal orgasm. “You two know each other?” Nose-guy smiled, nodded between them, and draped an arm over Dylan’s shoulders. His brain would have looked better on the ground than in his head. “Never seen him before, but you have, I see.” Dylan turned his glare to Nose-guy who chuckled and Theo pictured a chisel protruding from his neck. “Nah, we haven’t met before.” Nose-guy nodded towards Theo as if he wanted him to back his story. Theo kept his mouth shut. “Yeah, right.” Dylan signalled to the bartender. “You hurried off the dance floor and managed to buy a drink for a complete stranger before I could get here.” The bartender placed a margarita glass with what looked like scooped ice in it in front of Theo, and he tuned out Dylan and Nose-guy. Sure, it was Dylan Mincer, but a piece of ice slid down the outside of the glass, reflecting the light. The salt on the rim could almost be mistaken for ice too, but it wasn’t as beautiful as the edges of the crushed cubes. It saddened him that it would melt. When he made sculptures, the melting aspect was part of it. A sculpture lasted for several hours, but details would fade away. A display of life’s ephemerality—or something. Light caught in water drops sliding down an icy surface. “Dylan, this is Theophile Lekas. Theophile, this here is—” “Dylan Mincer.” Why Theo had to say his name he didn’t know, but it was as if his tongue longed for the caress of it—or whatever. He stared at the air behind Dylan and Nose-guy. If he couldn’t bring Dylan home now, they could just as well leave him alone. “Have we met?” Dylan took a step closer, his frosty grey eyes narrowing. Theo shook his head. “Not really. You were the year above me in school. I remember you.” Remember. Theo almost rolled his eyes. “Oh…” Dylan frowned, and Theo catalogued the way his muscles moved. “Wait—” He turned to Nose-guy. “Theophile, wasn’t that the guy who was as unique as an Elvis impersonator in Vegas?” The floor shook under Theo’s feet. An Elvis impersonator? “Yeah, well, people like when I write things like that.” Nose-guy chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. Theo glanced at the frozen margarita. If he drank it, he’d throw up. “You wrote it?” Dylan’s eyes were wide. “Jesus, Dale, that’s pretty f*****g mean.” “What? His sculptures look like they belong at Disney World or something. I’m not saying they aren’t skilfully made, but loads of people who work at Disney World can draw Cinderella. It doesn’t make them artists. Artists are those who create something rare, something unrepeatable. Sculptures of people playing instruments have probably been made a thousand times.” Theo filled his lungs with the too-hot air. The lights from the dance floor drilled holes in his eyes. He was a little unsteady as he got to his feet, but managed to squeeze himself through the crowd towards the door without falling over anyone or stepping on their feet. The chilly winter air washed over his face as he stumbled out through the door. It had to be below freezing. Perhaps he should sculpt something when he got home. It would be a lovely night to bring out the chainsaw and start shaping Dylan. Was that unique? “Hey, wait! Jesus, you’re fast.” Theo turned right in time to avoid Dylan grabbing his arm. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry he said those things, I’m sorry I brought it up. It was just, I don’t know, I remembered where I’d heard your name.” Theo stared. Dylan Mincer was talking to him. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” Dylan jammed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. It didn’t make him any smaller. “Is…” What had he called him? “Dave coming?” “Nah, Dale is an i***t. Decent lay, but still an idiot.” Theo nodded, not sure what to make of the information. He wasn’t gonna test to see if Dylan was right. “Sorry, I’m a little drunk.” Dylan flushed and looked away. “I wouldn’t normally say a thing…Come on, let me buy you…ice cream?” Theo nodded. As if he’d walk away from Dylan. This was his chance to bring him home, and he had been waiting far too long to waste the opportunity just because Dylan had been dry-humping an i***t. Dylan belonged to him, and soon he would realise it too.