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This year, the falling snow is pure and white, a harsh cleansing torrent that enveloped the world in a single night, and yet feels heart-breakingly gentle and fragile as they fall to his waiting hand. Something about the fleeting nature of it; if Xiao was a poet or something, something else, maybe he could have pinpoint why something so simple looked and felt so beautiful.
Perhaps because it is ephemeral. Perhaps because it is white.
Snow was always so red, so frighteningly red whenever he was around. But today, it falls, so gentle, floating, floating, as if nothing in the world could ever sway the little snowflakes. Things like wars, and death, and nightmares and loss never trouble something so fleeting.
The sound of a door opening, and Xiao looks back. You smile.
“Hey,” you greet. Overhead, a flock of birds chirp and flit in the air, dancing shadows left like footprints in the snow. He inclines his head in acknowledgement. “Good morning. Were you waiting for long?”
“No.”
“I’m glad,” you sigh. Force of habit: he keeps his eyes on you as you close the door and step into the light; the light sway of your hair, the snowflakes that tangle heavy on your lashes, the sudden frown. Your sleeves look like spring and a washed-up shore of a fantasy land, and the pastel blue flickers like a mirage as you shiver. “It’s cold today.”
Is it. You step to his side, and the crease in your brow deepens.
“What is it?”
You gesture vaguely at him. “You’re gonna wear just that?”
He blinks, confused.
“Aren’t you going to be cold?” Perhaps it’s a guilty pleasure, but he indulges in the worry that laces your tone, a bit too much. He crosses his arms across his chest, turns away. The guilt gnaws at him more than the heat of the pleasure, he tells himself, because someone who has caused so much destruction and anguish shouldn’t be allowed to feel so light inside.
“I don’t feel cold,” he says.
You hum. Xiao narrows his eyes as nimble fingers come up to untangle the sleeve that frames your right arm, and holding it up, the intricate patterns sewn on the fabric glistens in the light. Something beautiful, a word to describe the smile on your lips as you take his hand in yours, and slip the sleeve on.
He blinks at you. You stand back, proud of your little gift, and he thinks, maybe he should speak, tell you “thank you,” ask what in the archons is running through your mind, but his eyes are trained on you. Something, something else; if only Xiao was something else, someone else, anyone but himself, maybe he could pinpoint the flickering embers of warmth that sparked in his chest at the sight of your smile.
Your sleeve is warm.
He turns away. “I told you, I don’t feel cold.”
“But your skin’s so cold,” you huff, drawing back to his side like magnet. If only; his heart wrenches. The thought never leaves. If only he was something else than an incarnation of Death, then maybe –
Your hand wraps around his arm. He stiffens, eyes darting towards your figure, but you only hum in delight. Your touch is warm, almost painfully so, but it feels so addicting that he cannot bring himself to wrench his arm away from you.
“What are you doing?”
“Warming you up,” and you say it so simply, so off-handedly, that it catches him off-guard. You smile up at him, and his breath is lost to the wind. “Since my sleeve should keep your other arm warm, we should walk close so our other arms won’t freeze, right?”
He opens his mouth, but the protest wilts and dies in his tongue when you tangle your fingers together. Your hand fits so well in the space between his, and the few words he holds close to his heart turn heavy, almost choking; he breathes from his throat – he doesn’t feel the cold, he reminds himself, but this warmth is distinctly human.
Was he cold, after all? He can’t remember. It’s always been the same old numbness sinking into bones, into the depths of his marrow. Almost like a lover’s embrace, this sorrow. But your hand in his and your sleeve on his arm and the gentle way you look at him, it feels heady and –
warm.
If only; the words haunt him again. You squeeze his hand and tug him away from your house, and the words never leave his mind. If only he was something else. Human, like you. Not tainted by years and years of loneliness and death and the taste of dreams lingering on the back of his throat like venom, maybe then –
Maybe then, what? He’s too afraid to follow this train of thought, lest it gives him hope for happier times and a future without bloodshed. Waking up next to you, visiting the fields and picking apples with you, holding your hand like this, always.
So lost in his thoughts, the field of glaze lilies greets his vision like a surprise. Ah. He hasn’t even noticed that you’ve already arrived.
“The glaze lilies are still blooming,” you breath, awed. “Thank the Archons. I was afraid they might have gotten buried by the harsh snowfall last night.”
When you leave his side, his skin breaks into goosebumps, a familiar chill settles in, and he stares. This is cold, and that was warmth, he tries desperately to engrave the memory before it can slip away from his grasp.
You crouch in front of a flower and cup the flower in your palms. Xiao hangs back, lingering on the sides, away from your peace and calm, so he will not ruin it. He has already indulged in your kind warmth too much. He shouldn’t have. He shouldn’t have.
But then you turn to him and beckon him over, laughter trailing over your words, and he thinks of the pale sun glazing over your features, the snow in your hair, the sleeve in your arm that matches his. If only he was not Xiao, was never Alatus, just a random someone lost in the depths of your eyes, then he would tell you how beautiful you look at this moment right now.
“Xiao?” you call out. “What are you doing over there? Come on over!”
He sighs, because he has no control over his limbs when you peer up at him expectantly like that. Your smile grows brighter when he crouches next to you, shoulders brushing. You hum a song, and Xiao knows he has been indulging himself a bit too much, that he really should stop, but he finds himself staring at you once again.
Beautiful, he thinks. You are beautiful like snow, like the lilies, like warmth – you are beautiful the way all fragile things are; precious, because you are like a fleeting dust in the whirlwind of time. when the dust settles and the sun shines again, you will be lost amidst the waves like everyone before you has been lost, and he will remain and he will be alone like he always has been.
But not today, not tomorrow, not until a long, long time, he hopes. You are warm beside him and the snow that coats the ground is pure and white. For now, he wants to stay in this moment, just a bit longer.