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Summary
“But your hands,” the pen stills, although the hand holding it is poised to continue drawing all the same, “do your hands hurt at all?”
There is nothing on his palms but the prick of discomfort and fever-sweat. If it weren’t for the tiniest snowflakes rising from his Vision every now and then, Kaeya would believe he’s lost touch with the cold. But for all the numbness he’s acquainted himself with, the idea of not feeling even his frost strikes worst, makes marks in his heart reaching deeper than the scarring over his life lines.
The snowflakes rise up again in a gentle flurry, instead a response now to agitation and stress. Albedo is quick to take notice. He goes cross-eyed when he tracks their settling atop his hair.
“No,” Kaeya says. He tries to rein his emotions in. “They don’t hurt at all.”