A/N: This is the companion piece to 'Quiet', so if you haven't read that one, read after this one, Or before, doesn't matter. Anyway, enjoy :)
Cold
Grant Ward was cold.
So very cold.
That was good. He had grown accustomed to the cold. Cold meant that he wasn't hot. Cold helped him sleep at night. Sleep didn't come easy to him; it hadn't for months. The Berzerker staff, the rage that was dug up the second he touched it. Ten minutes of contact caused him months of suffering, with years, decades, left to go. He had nightmares, but the cold helped them go away.
He felt safe in the cold.
Contrary to popular belief, it wasn't the cold that killed. It was warmth. Warmth caused sweat. Sweat from his night terrors drowned him in a pool of his own fears and inadequacies. Warmth made him vulnerable. Soft. Weak. It started in his chest and emanated outward. He tried to hide it, to build up a wall of false strength and mask his weakness behind a façade of arrogance. It worked, but it always melted away. Cold helped it stay intact. Cold didn't melt, but froze, making him feel solid. Strong.
Cold was refreshing.
He breathed in deeply. The cool air bit at his lungs, filling them with refreshing coolness that swept his thoughts away. It didn't shy away from it's nature, nor did it shield him from its harshness. The frankness that accompanied it was shunned by those who didn't know. Not him. He knew it, tasted it, embraced it with open arms. Cold meant that he knew where to go in life. Cold means that he knew what he needed to do, and received the push he needed to do it.
Heat brought distractions. He couldn't afford distractions; not anymore. Being taken over by Lorelei showed him that being distracted could cost him his life. Cold wouldn't allow distractions. Cold was focused, almost too much, on its goal,and nothing more. Its goal, as far as he went, was taking away his heat little by little until he was as cold as she was. That was what he wanted.
He loved the cold.
He loved the cold. He loved being wrapped in its embrace after waking from another nightmare. His brothers, the staff, Skye; they all kept him up at night. Warmth from his chest ate away at him, chipping down his solid walls in a bid to reveal and expose the small boy that Grant was on the inside. The cold helped him build those walls back up. She comforted him, consoled him when sensing that he needed it most. She said nothing, but wrapped her dainty but sculpted arms around him and allowed her shoulder to serve as a pillow for his warm face. Her cold cooled him, brought him back from the depths of the raging hell burning inside him. She made him feel safe, secure in her arms.
Melinda May was cold.
Her cold, her natural cold, contrasted with his warmth. He was warm and she was cold. Together, when they conjoined as one, they made steam. The red hot steam that signified their relationship. His fingers touched her and he could feel his warmth melting her cold. She melted at his touch and he saw the real Melinda. The Melinda that was just as warm as him. The Melinda who was just as distracted as him. The Melinda who was accepting of him; both of him.
She saw him at his worse and he saw her at her most vulnerable. Together, they made steam, obscuring the world to who they really were. Together, they obfuscated the eyes of those who sought to pry past their walls and see who they really were.
Blood was warm.
Grant felt the warmth, his warmth, run down his arm. Warm blood, his blood, poured from the wounds on his palm, brought about from clenching his fists too tightly. Cold would have stopped him before it came to that. But, cold wasn't there. His entire bed was warm because she grew tired of him. She grew tired of him and his warmth. It was only a matter of time. Why would someone as cold as her want to be near someone as warm as him? They were opposites. Opposites didn't attract, despite what science applied to love said.
Cold hated heat.
Melinda May was cold and Grant Ward was hot. She enjoyed being cold, being ice. She didn't enjoy being near him after they made steam. She never let him touch her afterward, and shrugged him off if he did. He understood; he really did. His heat would melt her. Melt her down into an unrecognizable mush that would no longer be Melinda May. Melinda had an edge to her, crafted of unbreakable ice and forged in the coldest depths on Earth. His heat would have eventually melted that edge down into a dull nub that would have neither been effective nor desirable. To her.
He understood all of that, which was why he allowed her to end it. She was vehement, absolute sure, with no room for doubt in either of them. He didn't fight, he didn't argue, he didn't try to plead for her change her mind. Cold was absolute, there was no room for compromise.
The cold left him.
He felt empty without her lying next to him. The slowly building pressure from the residual steam between them kept him desiring her, desiring to feel the small pool of warmth within her that resulted by him and his actions. Her desires for him fueled his for her. Without her, he felt alone and empty.
He tried to keep his walls up, but with what Lorelei did, it was almost impossible. He felt nothing but the scalding hot heat pulsating and emanating in his chest. Thoughts and memories of Lorelei and her false heat mixing his, creating a inferno of false passion that was just to obfuscate her rewarding him for being a good little slave boy fan the flames within him.
He was burning.
He felt like he was on fire. He nails dug at his chest until crimson blood bubbled and streaked away from the scratches. His face contorted and twisted into on that screamed for help. He opened his mouth for her, for her cold to cool him down, but no one answered. His pleas echoed off the flames, returning to him and bringing with them more heat and more fire to add to the conflagration that was already beating against his chest, threatening to explode.
Hot, heavy breathes escaped him as he pulled himself away, drawing into the flames of his torment and guilt. Where else could he go? The cold that was Melinda May had left him. She made it perfectly clear that he and his warmth weren't welcome anywhere near her.
He missed the cold in its absence.
Hot tears ran down his face. He needed her; now more than ever. His hand slowly caressed the spot on the bed that would have been else occupied by her cold. It was cold to the touch, but quickly became warm and contaminated by his warm blood. He was Grant Ward, he who contaminated the cold. Cold fled from him, just as she did. He needed her, but she didn't need him. Once she got sick of his warmth melting her down, she cast him aside. Once she saw how warm he could get, with Lorelei and their kiss, she made sure to keep him as far away as possible.
He couldn't blame her. He was hot and she was cold. They had about as much business being together as a snowman did being in a sauna. It was only a matter of time before he melted her so much that nothing but the Melinda that she strove to hide from even him was all that was left.
He needed the cold.
He saw it. Warm, gentle, accepting, loving. Everything that cold wanted to hide. Everything that Melinda didn't want anyone to see, she showed him while they made steam. He saw it and wanted to see it again. He longed for it. He desired it, and her, and she ran away.
He understood.
That didn't stop him from wanting her more than anything. He loved her, and she was gone. Moved on with her life, her perhaps the next hot person who needed her for a time. She had moved on, and he was left behind to pick up the broken embers of his heart.
More burning tears ran down his face.
Why did she have to go? Why would she leave when he needed her to soothe the heat of his torment the most?
He loved Melinda, and she left him in the cold.
Pain hurt the most without the cold.