White, or moonstone.

1999. It snows quite heavily for the first time that year, and Shiki sleeps like driftwood through it. Occasionally, her lethargy becomes uncontrollable; this was one such time. She dreams of a golden sky, distant lights, and a pale softness that is both comforting and something to be wary of. Perhaps there is a black umbrella somewhere in the dream, but that detail disappears quickly.

Mikiya lets her sleep until the next afternoon, busying himself with small tasks in her apartment and quietly preparing rehydration and nourishment. Is this hibernation? he jokes to himself, but this isn't really a joke at all. He finds himself glancing over at her sleeping form to make sure her chest still rises and falls, and the way she sometimes tosses and turns reassures him. To distract himself, he becomes lost in his thoughts of the long conversation from the previous evening in the snow, letting the experience stain into his very being in silence, so that it is no longer a distinct memory.

Shiki wakes, and rebounds to her usual self quickly. It has stopped snowing and the world outside is blanketed white and smothered; she admits it is beautiful. The tea Mikiya has prepared for her is warm and strong, and as she sips, she glances up to see that his attention is elsewhere, far out in the snow beyond the window. He is quiet. Later, she would reflect on this and decide he was being unusually contained, repressed, misaligned - as if he was fighting to not rush over and embrace her.

"Mikiya," she says, to prod him, and he seems to snap back into place.

"Hm?"

"Nothing."

"…We should go outside."

"Uh, what?"

He smiles. "We should go and play in the snow."

"Are you serious?"

There is a startling sparkle in his eye. "Oh, yes. It will rehabilitate you."

Oddly enough, she finds herself agreeing to the proposition. Before she knows it, they are bundled up and stepping outside into the cold, and she regrets it - almost. The chill seeps quickly through her red jacket and she pulls a weighty scarf up to her nose. But Mikiya seems so jumpy, and is fixing so much of his attention on her, that her curiosity gets the better of her. Let's see then, she thinks, let's see what this "playing in the snow" will be like.

"There's so much," he says, and lets his boots sink one after another into the snow with a satisfying scrunch. All is muted and still, shadows warm blue, some streetlights glowing orange already as the sun turns the snow a golden cream. Shiki stands motionless, dazzled by the sight despite herself, and Mikiya in his black coat waits with a gloved hand outstretched.

It's a familiar scene, somehow, and she doesn't like the look on his face.

She ignores his hand and steps forward - and stumbles like an idiot. He catches her, steadying her at her arm and her waist, murmuring "Careful," close above her - and she is surprised by his solidity and the sensation of his hands briefly upon her. But the moment passes and she shies away, embarrassed. How can something like this still affect her? And Mikiya begins to walk as if nothing happened, saying, "Let's go," and that in turn makes her frown.

He walks slightly in front of her, still a little unstable from his injury, but much improved compared to the last time they walked together. It is a mystery that takes her attention for but a moment, and fades quickly into the assumption that he has recovered without her noticing. His gloved hand swings in tantalizing reach with each step, but she doesn't take it, digging her own hands as far as they can go in her pockets. The dark black of his figure - his hair, his back, his arms - is a persistent shape in her vision, so crisp against their pallid surroundings.

He's close and feels far, she thinks uneasily; like he has discovered a solemn truth and is still coming to terms with it by himself. But the sparkling snow is pretty, crunching softly beneath her, and it calms her mind and her heart. It really is so familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

"Shiki, are you cold?" The usual sort of question.

"I'm good. Where are we going?"

"Hm. I don't know…"

The world is golden, powder blue, silvered ivory. She shivers, not from the cold, but from its soft, stifled, agitating beauty. They reach an open, empty parking lot between buildings, surrounded on one side by dark trees embellished in white along their branches. The sinking sun crawls through the spaces, casting long shadows. The snow covering the parking lot is untouched; not a single footprint blemishes its smooth surface. Shiki pauses, but Mikiya begins to wander into it, leaving behind a trail of uneven depressions.

"Shiki, we could build a snowman," he calls from the middle.

She grimaces. "No way."

"Okay, how about a snowball fight?"

"That's… a little better, but…" She shakes her head. "What is up with you, honestly…"

Yet her feet lead her into the lot, crunching step after slow crunching step, because his figure is too lonely in the open space. He smiles, bends down, scoops the cold powder into his gloved hands, and packs it together with the gentleness she expects from him. She, too, bends down and grabs a handful of snow, compressing it without bothering to form a sphere.

Mikiya throws the snowball at her, and utterly misses.

"I didn't even think about dodging that," says Shiki. She flings her lightly-packed chunk of snow and it breaks upon his arm before he can step to the side.

He laughs. "Let me try again."

Another arc that doesn't come close - but she pretends to duck away, hands in her pockets. A couple more throws, back and forth, and he keeps missing.

"Come on, are you being serious?"

He looks away and laughs again, sheepishly. "Well… Not much depth perception."

In response, the pain in her ribs is sharp, nearly visceral. But she has already thrown another snowball at him, and it lands square on his chest, a white blossom on his black coat. He stands motionless and smiles at her, in that sad way she doesn't like to see.

"I guess this is no fun for you, Shiki. Sorry."

"…Nah. It's not that." She looks to the side, narrows her eyes. "But my hands are damn cold now, so I've had enough."

"Ah. All right." His voice is soft, suddenly frail. They each know they have spoken and not spoken for the other's sake. The silence is delicate until he steps forward unsteadily and reaches for her hands.

Shiki starts. "What -"

"Well, you said your hands were cold," says Mikiya. "And - you know - I have gloves on, and you don't." A stupid excuse that doesn't make much sense. He clasps her hand on either side of her, and she thinks they might be trembling; yet another mystery for her, because they have held hands many times before.

"Shiki, are you happy right now?" he asks suddenly, and she is taken aback.

"Something's very wrong with you today, Mikiya."

He laughs again and doesn't meet her eyes. "You might be right." His hands squeezing hers are warm through the gloves and his nose is quite pink. They are standing so close that they could simply reach out and wrap their arms around each other if they wanted to. Their breaths fog the air between them. She desperately hopes no one is looking.

"I don't know why, but I missed you," he says. Now his gaze lingers, as if to take in her features, and his eye shimmers behind his glasses.

She wrinkles her nose. "Uh, did you have a weird dream or something?"

"Hmm. Maybe."

"That's real vague."

"Yeah." He closes his eye and rests his forehead on hers - a rare gesture - and she receives it wordlessly, feeling warmer and warmer from her ears to her fingers. A surprisingly pleasant sensation.

A moment passes, and it is as if Mikiya snaps back into place once again.

"Let's head back for a hot drink," he suggests, pulling away. He doesn't look as sad anymore, so she is somewhat relieved.

For once, they walk back hand in hand. They leave behind the field of snow, once pristine, now tumbled and pockmarked for someone to find and muse over. The shadows deepen, the sun fades away, lamplights glow over snowy banks and muffled boughs, and he strides warm and solid beside her.

"I guess I am," she mutters to herself. Mikiya gives no indication that he heard her, but she later watches his sleeping countenance, utterly relaxed and beautifully calm, as if he was slumbering deeply at long last in a soft white cloud.