There's no sense of reality, or even what is considered surreal. His entire world has molded into an abstract composition of skin and touch and bright, beautiful blue eyes. He's drowning in warmth and humanity, in the feeling of being touched and not feeling like it's necessary to touch back but wanting to anyway. Fingertips burning, he reaches out. Frostbite is non-existent, not after Winters has flooded him in heat, in affection.
He feels like he's floating, somewhere beside his mind. He feels so detached, so utterly different – he begins to wonder if this is what living feels like. Aware, sharp knowing of being present within his own body; a capsule of vitality and life so numbly unacknowledged before. Has he been dead this whole time? An epiphany, erected upon stolen glances and quickening heartbeats and curling intestines, has swept him up in its torrents. He has been caught in a hurricane of Winters, captured in a new reality where blood stays under the skin and screams are no longer of pain.
He's gone. So far gone, but he cannot imagine even wanting to crawl back. Not when his mind is fogged with this sudden infatuation. A rush of thrill, of fright and passion, is fueling a flame of pure static. They're burning a double-sided candle, maybe even one of the Roman variety, but in the dark no one would be able to tell. In the dark, the world has been tossed aside and subjected to their blissful lover's ignorance.
Relief like he's never known, brought by gentle words and tender touches, suffocating blissfully and willingly in this lovely madness.
It makes no sense at all. And for once, Roe just doesn't care.