His hands are warm. He cannot remember the last time he felt heat. But when he kissed her, she had given him her fire. The flame had crept under his skin, into his veins, making his blood run faster and his pulse quicken just a bit. The smoke had traveled down his throat, smoothing out his laugh that was once harsh and cold like chips of ice.
He had walked away with a small smile on his face, his eyes dancing. He hadn't seen her face fall, hadn't noticed her wrap her arms around herself and make her way back to her own dorm.
But now, as he looks at her from across the room, he can tell that there is something different. A strange sort of detachment that he has never noticed before. He sees the others watching her, each with a little of the same fire that dances in his eyes.
He finds her in the corridor and grabs her by the arm. Her skin is so cold it nearly burns. She turns to look at him. He steps closer, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears, the gesture oddly affectionate for him. He looks into her eyes. What he sees is ice.
She shivers and he runs a hand over her skin. She takes a step back. He asks her what is wrong, why he can't touch her.
She looks at the ground and replies that he is too warm.
He doesn't understand what she means, and tells her that she made him this way. He hadn't felt warmth in so long.
She knows, she says. But she doesn't want the fire anymore. She is tired of burning. She would rather die of cold.
And then she walks away, leaving him standing alone.
His blood is boiling, the warmth becoming overwhelming. He fears that he will not be able to stand it much longer. It is consuming him from the inside out. The smoke is suffocating, no longer smooth and comforting. The flame under his skin is itching, and the glitter in his eyes is near maniacal.
All at once, he understands.