Four guys, four hearts, one path.
Lonely, floppy-haired Cristoforo is lost in the snow with no memory. Now, he must find his way and his identity. Who will help him: Carlo, Giacomo, or the mysterious Angel? Read "Flakes" now to find out. #lightnovel...
Nearby, silver-tipped eyebrows rose over a sinister smile as the one who lurked nearby responded to what he overheard.
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Cristoforo was finally safely and warmly sheltered, but now, there was a man with silver-tipped eyebrows walking toward him. His heart raced as he watched the otherwise dark-featured man step closer and closer. He was quite tall. He was also nicely dressed—that is for a businessman caught between a deal and drinks. This one clearly made an art of both. Realizing he could handle neither at the moment, Cristoforo became nervous, for one or the other was clearly coming his way.
He looked toward the man in case he was wrong. Maybe he was walking toward but not to him? Alas, he was still making his approach—directly. More disturbingly, he wore the hint of a menacing smile on his face. If Cristoforo was nervous before, he was scared now. "What does he want from me? I best figure that out, for he is only a step or two away."
The approaching man's shadow was just about to darken Cristoforo's feet when its approach was halted by a sure-footed stranger. The stranger's sturdy foot came down like a pile driver breaking earth. This man, heretofore unseen by Cristoforo, planted himself between the one with the silver eyebrows and his sitting prey.
Cristoforo looked to the newcomer's face, but he could not see its features with the brilliant ball of light blazing directly behind his head. All he could see was his silhouette, which was rather well-proportioned. His strong legs were topped by a pronounced v-shaped torso, which supported broad shoulders and a powerful neck. Cristoforo was uncertain if this was the silhouette of a man or a statue.
Like the other stranger, he was also well dressed, but this one was outfitted as much for dinner as he was for the deal. Cristoforo hoped he grew up to look like this man, and while he could not see the stranger's face, he was sure it was fine face—one he would proudly call his own.
The stranger with the silver tipped eyebrows quickly stepped to the side. He walked away scowling like he had just given something up. Cristoforo wondered why he was so sullen, but before he could ponder this, the new stranger's head eclipsed the blinding ball of light. This allowed his face to suddenly come into view. Cristoforo was bothered by it, for it was indeed a fine a face—too fine. "Why would someone want to be that handsome? That's just showing off."
Knowing he would never be that handsome, Cristoforo became sad, but his sadness quickly morphed into madness as the stranger stepped before him and picked up his hand: "Oww, why are you hurting me!?!"
The broad-shouldered stranger stood holding Cristoforo's hurt hand between his own. Compared to his strong hands and thick forearms, Cristoforo's own looked sleight: "I feel like a girl with this one standing before me." This realization troubled him.
"You are hurt." The stranger's voice sounded as solid and sturdy as the rest of him looked.
Cristoforo's cheeks heated with a blush. He did not know why, but this stranger unnerved him. "The other one scared me . . . this one makes me nervous. Why do these men make feel this way?" He withdrew his hand angrily: "Stop! Don't, my friend is helping me."
