White snow, making white trees, white ground, and white buildings.
The simplicity of it all was kind of blinding him.
Of course, he was wearing a white shirt as well.
Why wasn't he freezing?
He supposed that he was good at not feeling things if he didn't want to. He didn't have a coat, so he just blocked out the cold.
Pity that didn't work for emotional-type feelings as well.
He stared into the forest, his eyes searching out something, anything that wasn't white.
About ten feet in, the white faded into grey, which faded into black shadows.
That was something, he guessed. But…
He didn't like to go in the forest. He'd rather stay out here, with the white. Nothing good had ever come of going in there for him. Why test his luck? The only person who would care about his cowardice was no longer alive to do so.
He turned sharply from the trees and began to walk away. His shoes were not made for ice; they slipped, he fell.
He landed ungracefully in the snow, skidding a few feet before crashing against a solid bank.
Wet, white hair flopped down in his face, obscuring his nearly colorless eyes. As he pushed it back, he noticed that his hand was bright pink from the cold. However, if it hadn't been pink, it would have been white. His skin was that pale, you could see it through his soaked shirt.
Damn all of the whiteness.
He sat there, not quite having the will to get up. It was quite depressing that his life amounted to this one moment, sitting here being soaked through by snow, wearing only a white shirt and wet pants, surrounded by a suffocating lack of color.
He had come out here to think, and was instead becoming blind.
He was also being jerked violently upward.
He righted himself as he stood up, and looked straight ahead.
He proceeded to be shocked by the only color he had seen for at least an hour.
Green.
"You looked cold." The face with the color stated this simply.
The boy standing in front of him was also wearing a white shirt, but the colors of the hair and eyes were saving him from certain insanity.
"What business is it of yours?" He had his guard up. Why was this boy suddenly looking out for him? The boy should hate him, despise him for what he'd done.
The other boy shrugged. His hair was damp as well, his face pink. The two white shirts were interchangeable, sopping and see-through.
The two just stood there, looking at each other and dripping.
Finally, the other boy spoke.
"I know what you're doing, what you're feeling."
He felt defensive and angry. Oh, so he knew, did he?
"I don't feel cold. I don't feel anything at all."
That was a lie. He had begun to feel the iciness of the air; and never stopped feeling the emotions.
The other boy raised an eyebrow, challenging his untruth.
He felt a strange need to get another blow in.
"You wouldn't know. You don't."
"Don't I?"
The words hung in the air as he remembered the other boy's past, his story. Of course he knew.
He avoided the question by asking another.
"If you think it's so cold, why don't you have a coat?"
"Same reason you don't."
The two were more alike than either would ever care to admit.
"And why's that?"
The other boy quirked his lips. Although the smile reached his eyes, it was sad; haunted.
"We'd like to think that we're immune."
The other boy stared right at him, eyes bright, contrasting so immensely with the white.
"You would think that after a few times, you'd get used to the guilt. But you don't, trust me."
He nodded. They were gone, they were both gone, and it was all his fault.
The other boy kept talking.
"There's no one here now, the place is empty; finally beaten. There's nothing left here for either of us."
He nodded again. Nothing except for their culpability.
"So why are we here?"
They both knew the answer. It lay in the White Tomb, over by the frozen lake.