A/N: I'm not so great at writing Leo. I'm not sure why. I love him, but I've always had issues writing about him. I hope this is enjoyable nonetheless.

One more thing: Major spoiler warning. This fic is spoiler-free in the beginning, but there are huge spoilers near the end. If you haven't read volume 15 yet, do not read this.

Snow is falling, and Leo is sitting in the courtyard. He cherishes these moments of solitude, which have become so scarce as of late. He takes these opportunities whenever they present themselves, but it's hard to find time for himself. The sharp aggression of Elliot's voice, however endearingly passionate, does not really allow for sorting through one's thoughts.

Snowflakes gather on the tips of his eyelashes, delicately intricate, like tiny white spiders. They melt as soon as he blinks, his vision temporarily obscured by the moisture. In an unusual turn of events, he did not bring a book outside with him today, and his fingers admittedly feel rather useless without a spine to trace. But he needs this, because escapism is alluring.

He is different. His head is full of meaningless words and phrases that assault him from every angle. Glimmers of gold dance before his eyes, but if he is the only one who sees them, it's better to veil them with a thick curtain of black. Escapism is alluring, because it reminds him that when he begins to overflow, he can simply run away.

But that doesn't solve anything.

He knows this, no matter how many excuses he makes for himself, no matter how often he tries to pretend otherwise.

Leo hasn't been whole in years. There's a chasm somewhere in him; if he taps his chest with a finger or clenched fist, he thinks, a soft echo will be heard. There's something missing, and he doesn't know how to find it, or replace it—a part of him is hollow, hollow, hollow. For all his reading, he doesn't know how to be filled.

Who will understand? He is alone. A long-dead father, a mother devoured by a beast not of this world. His blood has run cold; he will not have a woman. Who does he turn to? Who will listen to a foolish young man with a head full of voices and eyes blinded by twinkling lights? Elliot is precious to him, but despite all he knows, he does not understand. He can't. All the beauty he sees is common knowledge; his bones don't rattle with a thousand voices.

Even so...he tries.

That's better than most people.

"Leo? What're you doing out here? You're not even wearing a jacket."

Leo sighs gently at how quickly he's been discovered. But it's all right—he was already beginning to feel the migraine pounding at his skull from within. And besides, it's a pleasant reminder that Elliot cares for him.

(He would never admit this out loud, of course.)

"I'm just enjoying the snow," he replies, shrugging carelessly, as if he wasn't just picking apart his entire life. "It's not that cold, anyway."

He isn't facing Elliot. When he looks at him lately, he feels a twinge of something bitter and aching, something that makes his head throb with emotion. He doesn't know what it is. Elliot is too good to be true, a miracle in his life of misfortune—a sign of things to come?

But if he considers that possibility, he knows he'll paralyze himself with anticipatory grief. Elliot is the beating heart of his life; Elliot reminds him he's still alive. And when Elliot sighs, agitated, and slips his own coat over his shoulders, Leo thinks:

As long as he's here, I can bear it.

Everything has changed.

Leo's mind flashes furiously through every idyllic image, every memory and what-could-have-been. A thousand voices chatter in his ears, overlapping, ceaseless, unstoppable, unbearable. Scissors were taken to that blessed curtain of black, and he can't ignore it now—his eyes overrun with explosions of bright gold.

He's found others. Others like him, who he can relate to. Is this the price he pays? He longed for someone to understand him, yes. But Elliot was there. And as long as Elliot was there, he knew he would be okay.

Elliot isn't here anymore.

He remembers that day, snow drifting downwards from the sky, flakes floating serenely in midair. He wonders if it will snow again this winter.

He hopes for a fucking blizzard.