He always seems so warm. Sure, with yellow hair and orange clothes, he does dress like fire-- right down to his flame-blue eyes. Sure his carefree grin is as bright as the summer sunshine. But for all of that, late at night he shivers. He pulls the tattered (well-loved) blanket tighter around him, and tries not to shiver. Even in the summer, there are times when he will clench his chaw to keep his teeth from chattering, and close his eyes (so tightly!) to keep the lonely tears from falling (keep from seeing the empty moonlight.) But some nights, HE is here. Who would have thought alabaster could be so warm? Who would believe that eyes like thin winter ice (so cold. So fragile) could hold such gentleness? And so, deep in winter when the snow taps the window and the wind croons a half-familiar lullaby-- the boy does not shiver. He pulls closer to his winter-eyed lover, warmth branding into ice until neither cares where one ends and the other begins, and rests there. This should be so wrong, the boy thinks, but it also makes sense. Who wouldn't look for warmth in the snow?