The snow falls cold and grey, everything is grey now. He tilts his head up toward the sunless sky – how long has it been now, since they saw the sun last – and a few snowflakes fall between his lips. They taste like ashes. They burn against his skin.
There are protective clothes he should wear - great, big bulky things, like those spacesuits you saw in movies once. The air burns faintly in his lungs and he doesn't care, it's not so bad here. Besides, this isn't a secret he needs to keep right now, there's no one around that doesn't already know.
There aren't that many people around at all.
The familiar tingle of soundless sound travels up his spine and Mac's hand lands on his shoulder.
"What are you doing out here?" Mac sounds… worried, he decides, and his voice sounds hoarse. The latter, at least, is just the air tearing at his lungs.
Methos smiles up at the grey sky and catches a snowflake on his tongue. "I like the snow," he says.
He can hear the frown in Mac's voice when he answers. "You hate the cold."
"Yes," he tells Mac and he sounds too distant, even to himself. "But I like snow."
He turns to look at Mac's worried face. Mac thinks he's losing it, and Methos almost wants to tell him that out of everyone, Methos is the last one he should worry about. Mac isn't doing too good himself. But he doesn't say anything, because even after everything, Mac's too much himself – there's no way he'd let Methos off without an explanation.
His eyes turn back to the bleak grey of the sky.
Maybe it doesn't matter now, but old habits die very hard indeed and things might still change. Mac wouldn't understand.
Five thousand years, give or take – more give now than take, but still – and he's let them believe that, if there's even anyone left to care. Five thousand, because it's almost unfathomable. Almost, and that's the key. It's true, of course, most things are when you're as old as him. It just depends on the way you look at it.
There were other names before Methos and before that, maybe, no name at all.
There'll be other names after.
"You should come inside," Mac says, quiet and careful, like his words might be enough to send Methos over whatever edge Mac thinks he's standing on.
"In a moment."
Mac hesitates for a second, before leaving. Methos turns his eyes from the dreary sky and looks at the equally gray back of his friend as he walks back to the cottage they're staying in.
The world is taking too long to die.