Music. He was remembering music, and how he used to love it, and how it used to swirl around his fingertips as water, or sand, or space. But, oh, how it hurt. To reminisce is to quietly embed tiny shards of glass into one's peace, and Spock was feeling incredibly fragile, precarious.
His eyes opened and there was Kirk. There was exhaustion and feeling horribly used in a cold and unwelcoming place. There was a cool hand on his own and he flinched and Kirk looked as if he had expected it.
"Please leave"
"I can't"
"You are perfectly capable"
"No"
Waves crashed over him. He felt as a fish, tapping the glass, all the while knowing it had somehow ended up trapped and caged in a tiny existence. The loneliness of knowing you are disposable.
The dark and the chill settled stiffly between them. Spock did not move. Kirk rose only once, to raise the heat. Spock watched him with dark eyes and dark features and Kirk silently thought that the saddest song in the world was not music after all, it was a battle between Vulcan and Human: It was a man who would not speak with his mouth but was writing volumes with his eyes and the night sunk into itself and into Spock with an awful sigh of resignation. Morning would come.
The sun awoke to find two men asleep but not content. Light streaming through the window awoke both men, and Kirk quietly reached out to the darkness in the bed.
"Spock?"
The Vulcan moved with an equine grace into a sitting position, slowly meeting Kirk's eyes, a softness that Kirk had not noticed was there until it had left present once more.
"Every world, Jim, is made of ice"