Warm, she thought. She felt warm. A sigh of pleasure escaped her lips as she snuggled closer to the source, the heat that juxtaposed the stark chill of winter, the coldness that seeped through her cabin and her bedclothes and her sheets. She pressed her cheek into the fleshy, reassuring warmth, a smile she had so long gone without stretching across her pale face. Twice she opened her mouth to speak, but words failed to form on her tongue, so twice she closed it, simply opting to leave a gentle kiss in the palm cupping her skin; a noncommittal acknowledgment.

"Historia," a voice, the keeper of the heat, called. It was hushed and a bit hoarse, lacking the bite Historia used to find so familiar. Her chest ached at the sound. She let a shaky breath escape from her chapped lips, not risking to go any further.

"Historia," the voice repeated, louder. Despite the rapid beating in her chest and the unnoticed sob stuck in her throat, Historia remained silent. This is a dream, this is only a dream. She's gone. She squeezed her eyes shut and continued to repeat the last two words in her mind, as if chanting a mantra.

"Historia, no, I'm here. I'm here," the voice's words caught on the last word, and Historia felt hot droplets fall into her hair. She clenched her jaw and allowed the tension of her eyelids to cease; the tears in her hair and the sound of choked crying were far too real for an unconscious mind. Her body grew numb from feeling.

"Ymir?" Her own hushed voice sounded foreign and frail. The name she dared not speak in a number of past moons tasted strange on her tongue.

A sniffle, then a forced chuckle: "I finally manage to drop in for a reunion, and you won't even look at me?"

Historia found herself laughing at that. It sounded strained. "I'm not even sure you're real," she admitted. The situation was all kinds of absurd, even in a realm of restfulness.

"Then look at me."

Historia bit her lip. "No."

"You scared?" Ymir would almost sound full of herself if her voice wasn't thick with unbidden tears.

I'm not scared of anything, she wanted to retort. "Yes," she whispered back.

Ymir responded with a thumb stroking against her cheek. Historia tried not to lose control of her breathing under the (all too real) caress. They fell into a tense silence. The warmth Ymir provided felt stale, somehow.

"You're not real," Historia eventually said. "I don't think you are."

A thumb froze mid-stroke. "Then look at me to prove it," Ymir simply repeated, though it sounded more a question than a command.

And with a falter to her breath and shiver down her spine, she did.