Snow really does suit Glen.
Out by the lake with wisps and flurries falling around them, Jack thinks they should probably go inside where it is warm, but he can't bring himself to do as much. Glen is dozing, curled into a little half ball in the puddle of his blood red cloak, and while there is the threat of him catching a cold, Jack can't do anything that would rouse him and usher him inside.
He looks so lovely like this.
Everyone says that he is pretty – golden and full of sunshine, but Glen ishandsome. He's handsome in an ethereal way, with lines that are sharp but not, with a sort of feline grace to the entirety of him, down to the long, low-lidded lashes that are currently dusting his skin along with the snow.
The snow itself tangles itself into his hair, crystalline white before it melts into nothingness, dusting Glen in glitter and splendor and everything that Jack has never known – never been born into – but oh, does he like to look at it – does he like to look at Glen.
A snowflake drops onto Glen's cheek, fluffy and pure and clean, and Jack watches as it melts down the length of it, an unsalted tear for whatever dream is making Glen's brow furrow and his hands clench upon nothing.
Jack smiles to himself, easy and soft as ever, and lifts a hand to brush his fingertips through Glen's hair. He really should wake him up – should bring Glen out of the cold and take care of him and hold him.
Better yet, he wants to wrap him up and never let him go.
Would a blanket of snow do that? Could he forever encage Glen as his if he could cover him in the chill of fluffy white? Jack wishes that were the case – wishes he could bury himself into it as well, permanently fastened to Glen's hip, wrapped up all the same in layers of red velour with his face pressed to the shadowy wisps of the Baskerville lord's hair.
Without knowing it, Jack has bent down and pressed his lips to the crook of Glen's neck, and he breathes in deeply as if to memorize the man's scent. All expensive woods and roses and sweetness, because Glen is so very sweet when it comes down to it, to tolerate someone like him that is so clumsy, so silly, so… so… so many things.
"I'm sorry," he whispers into curve of one pale ear, and only after pressing a kiss to that elegantly arched jaw does Jack draw back, braid trailing over his shoulder as he looks at Glen one last time, wistfully fond.
Maybe staying in the snow isn't the best idea, after all.
"Gleeeeennnn~! Wake up!"