Worming on past autumn and up through winter, ports and plugs make themselves apparent through the pains of cold metal embedded in weak flesh. Burns and scrapes long since healed give way to the curling and purpling of skin and blood. The aches and pains of joints and connections shorting out at the collapsing batteries of frigid air.
Throughout this he still takes the time to marvel at his solidifying breath on the cold air; to gaze in admiration at the pristine cleanliness of new fallen snow. She guides him to take care of himself in these conditions. She does not see the snow the same as he. She sees an inability for travel. An inability for food. An inability for the comforts she only recently acquired.
She recoils at the pristine untainted whiteness, reminding her of that place. He hides the pains it causes him, for she does not need more reason to dislike the blank wonderland he takes such beauty from.
She notices anyway. A wincing at touch, a groan at movement. Hesitant reluctance at her offers to couple together is the final click in the laboring cogs spinning in her mind. After time of coaxing and pleading she is able to inspect damage. The ice burned warping of the skin frightens her; not for what it is but rather that he would hide. She begins to fear at what else he does not tell her, what else she does not know about him.
She fixes him, she bandages him. Whimpers and cries throughout the process bring pity upon her. upon him. She forces him inside until the ling nights of cold slowly fade and shift into a budding prospering of spring. The etching of the winter's bite healing as he now gains new grass stains and learns about the new growing of the world.