Author's Note: I'm a bad author-person insofar as I've not updated in ages. Throw non-staining tomatoes at me.

Habit; 13

He rises from a cold bed, heads for the bathroom. Ten minutes in the too-hot shower: both a penitential scalding and temporary reprieve from the too-cold world. And yet, though the colour of his skin might serve as evidence to the contrary, he can barely feel the warmth. Inside, at his very core, he's chilled, and he wishes every damned day that it wasn't so.

He isn't asking for a fire; those are far too hot, far too dangerous. Too passionate: they melt the ice necessary for survival. They burn and, long since used to the cold, he'd rather freeze.