It was the silence Deimos noticed first, when he appeared in the mortal realm. Coming from Ares’ place on Olympus, where Ares was busy blowing his stack over whatever Zeus’ brat had done this time, it was an abrupt, startling change to find himself surrounded by absolute quiet. From the heavy grey sky above to the trees bent over with layers of snow, to the ground at his feet where he stood, sunk ankle deep in the chill, cold whiteness, nothing stirred. No birds flew above or brushed snow off tree limbs, animals hiding back in the trees, and before him, the open, snow-covered field lay flat and undisturbed by any footprints. White on white and a silence as heavy as the wet flakes of snow that fell from above, catching in Deimos’ hair, sticking to his face, the chill of their touch seeping in, inviting him to lie down, listen to the silence, be a part of it.

He shook it off; that wasn’t what he was here for. He’d come because...because. Because there was a splotch of color out there, in the middle of the field. Stark and black against the endless white, unmoving, but no snow touched it, either.

Deimos started to lift a foot, to walk out there, but hesitated. His footprints alone broke the expanse of snow, the illusion that nothing living had set foot here. It didn’t seem right, somehow, to trudge all the way out there, break through the snow, force his presence on an untouched world. It was effortless to lift himself up, make the two footprints he’d made disappear, walk over the top of the snow without leaving a single track, but it was nothing he’d ever bothered with before, either.

His footfalls were soundless, and when the leather of his shorts creaked as he walked, he sent that away, too. Snow fell against him, no wind to drive it, but steady and sharp, cold pinpricks against bared skin, leaving damp patches as it melted.

When he stopped, his boots were just shy of touching a black-clad hip, but he didn’t try to make the contact, didn’t kneel down, reach out to touch a face as white as the snow around it. In his mind he did. He could see his fingers spreading against a cold cheek, sliding up over smooth skin, brushing still eyelids to tangle in thick black hair, he could even imagine the faint brush of warm breath against his wrist -- but that broke the fantasy, because of course it wouldn’t be warm, nothing was. Skin as white as snow, and just as cold, but not frozen, never that. Still supple and soft, lips pale and colorless, but a mouth still wet and welcoming, tongue sleek and cool against his. Long fingers still nimble and quick, sliding over him, drawing sound after plea as they left chilled flesh in their wake.

“You’re here,” Deimos said, and even his whisper of a voice seemed odd, beating against the silence like the wings of a dying bird against a window. “Why?”

Laid out like a parody of Caesar’s favorite pastime, arms stretched to the sides, palms up, legs outstretched, booted feet crossed on over the other, Strife remained so perfectly still, not a flutter of an eyelash or even a breath drawn as he spoke. Lips barely moving, his voice was soft as the snowfall itself, a gentle fall of words that joined the chill around them. “Because you were coming.”

Deimos frowned, fingers curling against his palms before extending again, pressing flat against his bare thighs. “But...I didn’t know I was,” he said, licking his lips, feeling the skin begin to chap in the cold.

“I know.” A breathy whisper, the phantom caress of a breeze that was never there.

The snow was cold against his knees, and Deimos hadn’t realized he was moving. He knelt there, next to Strife, hands spread on his thighs, snow coming to rest on him, stark and white for long moments against his skin before melting, leaving another patch of his knee damp and chill.

The snow was touching Strife, too, he realized. It was no whiter than Strife’s skin where it landed, a sharp contrast against his leathers, but when it vanished, melted away, there was no dampness left behind. Or perhaps it wasn’t melting at all; maybe it was just going through him, adding more snow to what lay beneath his body.

Holding in a small, weak sound that wanted so desperately to escape, shatter the silence, Deimos moved consciously this time. He stretched out on his side next to Strife, sliding close to him, but not touching. If he’d extended the fingers of the arm beneath him, he could’ve easily hooked a few metal rings of Strife’s shirt, but he kept his fingers loosely curled, kept his arm stiff beneath him for a long moment, holding him up just enough to see all of Strife’s face. But Strife was so still, so pale, and there were no more words.

Closing his eyes, Deimos tentatively lowered his head, wondering in a horrible way if he’d only meet snow. But Strife’s arm was hard beneath his cheek, his sleeve leather supple, chill from the snow, but dry. Deimos let out the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding in, an explosive sound that he quickly cut off, as wrong as it seemed in the quiet laying heavily on them. He kept his mouth open, though, lips parted, trying to breathe in Strife’s scent, taste it, that familiar mix of leather, metal, blood and want, but the only taste was the bite of snow that fell on his lips, the only scent the sharpness of cold.

Another touch to his lips, and he thought it was snow again, but it lingered, pressed in. Pads of fingers, brushing softly against him, sliding upward to linger at the corner of his mouth. Deimos opened his eyes; Strife had twisted to face him, soundlessly, was looking at him, eyes pale and cold as the blue ice of a glacier, pupils slightly dilated, fixed unerringly on Deimos. He slid his hand down, pressed it against the base of Deimos’ throat, and Deimos gasped soundlessly at the burning cold touch.

Strife slid his hand down further, the movement pulling at the front of his shirt, a cleanly sliced hole gaping open on the left side, white skin and something bright and red visible, and Deimos couldn’t look. He closed his eyes again, choking back a moan as Strife’s hand spread wide over his chest, cold stabbing through the leather, through him.

“You’ve never stopped being mine.” Strife’s face was close to his, but there was no breath from his words, nothing but the words themselves falling between them.

“No,” Deimos agreed breathlessly, wanting so badly to reach down, slide his hand over Strife’s leather-clad wrist, link his fingers with Strife’s, hold him. He couldn’t make himself move, as frozen as the world around them. “I--I never stop thinking about you,” he said, a shiver working its way through him, teeth trying to chatter.

“I know.” And Strife’s lips touched his.

Deimos opened his mouth beneath the light touch with a pained moan, Strife’s name lost between them. Chill and needing and wet and he pushed into the kiss, angling his head so he could get at Strife’s mouth better, slide his tongue in deeper, and--and there was still nothing to taste but cold and snow against his mouth and air around him.

Eyes snapping open, Deimos found himself looking at nothing but snow, stretching out before him, falling against his open mouth. Pushing himself up, he licked his lips, hoping desperately for something, anything, just the faintest lingering taste. But, of course there was nothing. Because Strife had never been there. He never would be.

Fists clenching, Deimos sucked in a deep, shaky breath, the cold burning his lungs.

Strife was dead. Years gone and forgotten to most. Never to Deimos, though memories were all that was left. That, and whatever his imagination could use to torment him. He had to get a grip, couldn’t let this keep happening. It wasn’t real, never could be, and--

The flash of color caught Deimos’ eye. Half turning, he froze as he saw it, the spots of red, that bright color that seeped from a vein, or dripped from a heart wound.

He was moving, knees breaking through the crust of the snow, hands leaving deep furrows as he threw himself forward, pressed his lips against the spots, open-mouthed, tongue reaching out to taste -- and finding nothing but snow.

Pushing back, he looked down and saw nothing but the imprint left by his mouth and tongue. Nothing else, no color but white. Endless white and cold.

Around him, the snow continued to fall; the silence held sway. Where it touched his cheeks, the snow melted and trickled down, warm now. Leaving the taste of salt on his lips.

__________________________________________