Nastka hadn’t moved when the cold reached for him.
He felt it first as a theft rather than an attack, the warmth beneath his palm thinning and folding inward, not shattered, not punished, simply reclaimed. The air around Il’kiyo sharpened until it felt almost edible in its cruelty, and Nastka watched it happen without offense.
Not because he enjoyed discomfort.
But because he recognized the gesture for what it was.
His fingers remained there one breath longer than necessary::: not to insist, not to challenge, but because he was measuring something invisible. People thought touch belonged to closeness. Nastka had always thought touch belonged to reading.
Then he withdrew his hand. Not dramatically. Not obediently. As if the rules of the room had shifted and he had merely adapted. His smile arrived late.
The kind of smile that appeared when someone realized they had opened a book and found the author staring back from the margins. He looked at Il’kiyo for a moment longer. Then spoke beneath his breath.
“Bones cradled by foundations.”
The phrase rested there. Not repeated for understanding. Repeated because he liked how it sounded.
His head tilted. “That almost sounded tender.” No mockery. Worse. Curiosity.
Because Il’kiyo spoke of devouring and unwantedness and endings with the ease of someone describing weather, yet laughed brightly enough to shake frost loose from invisible rafters. Beautiful things often lied more elegantly than ugly ones. Nastka had always found elegance interesting.
His gaze drifted, not to teeth, not to scales, not to threat, but to intent. “You assume I came here to be the owner of yours” His expression softened. “You assume I came here to survive.”
A pause. Not for effect. Just enough for the room to notice.
His mouth curved. “Neither flatters me enough.” The cold remained. Or perhaps he had stopped pretending warmth mattered as proof of belonging. His eyes returned fully. “You decide whether something becomes wanted or eaten.”
Almost fond.“But confidence and hunger are cousins more often than people admit.”
His smile shifted. Older. Not kinder. Something remembered. “And I never asked for your service.” His eyes flickered briefly toward Il’kiyo’s mouth. Then back. Innocent. Intentional. “I asked for your attention.”
And there it was. Not conquest. Not comfort. Not permission. Attention.
Attention could be hospitality.
Attention could be warning.
Attention could be the first thin crack in ice before a lake discovered it had been carrying weight for too long.
Nastka gave a small shrug. “You can devour me for rudeness if you like.” His smile deepened. “But do not mistake standing in your cold for submission.”
His expression changed subtly. Not less amused. Just older.
“You know…” His voice lowered. “There’s an old Polish story.” Not dramatic. Not offered as wisdom. Just offered. “My grandmother used to tell it in winter, when the windows froze over and the house smelled of wax and boiled apples.”
His eyes unfocused for a moment. Then returned. “There was a man.” His mouth curved. “A collector of cold things. He wandered between villages during terrible winters offering bargains, warmth for names, silence for stories, snow for promises. People gave willingly. Because people always traded parts of themselves when frightened enough. But one winter he came to a village and found an old woman sitting outside her cottage with no fire lit. Not freezing. Not suffering. Simply sitting. Waiting. He laughed and asked why she stayed outside. And she told him... ‘Because winter is not cold unless you stand alone.’"
Nastka smiled faintly. Il’kiyo would probably hate that sentence. That made him enjoy it more.
“The collector found it absurd.So he offered her everything he offered everyone. Warmth. Protection. Endless snow. She refused. Said she had nothing worth taking. And when he asked why she stayed, she answered, ‘Because if I leave first, you’ll never learn that cold is easier when someone remains beside it.’”
Nastka looked at him then. Not as though expecting agreement. Not even reaction. Just sharing. His voice remained quiet.
“The collector hated that. Because men who survive through distance often hate being witnessed. Men who build themselves into storms dislike being told someone would sit in them willingly....“So he waited. Days. Weeks. Until eventually, he realized she wasn’t waiting for rescue. She was simply keeping him company. And when he left, he found his cloak heavier. Not with snow. With warmth stitched into the inside. His smile became quieter.
“My grandmother always ended it the same way.” His eyes stayed on Il’kiyo. “Never trust the one who offers protection in exchange for absence.” A pause. Then softer, almost amused.
“Because sooner or later, the one who stays without being asked becomes impossible to forget.”
His smile returned, not victorious. Just certain in a way that felt unreasonable.
Then he looked at Il’kiyo fully. “You think being kept means being owned.” His head tilted. “I think being kept means being chosen.”
A breath. Not theatrical. Not demanding. Just honest.
And perhaps that was the most dangerous thing Nastka had done all night: not touching him, not enduring the cold::: but looking at Il’kiyo and speaking as though he had already noticed something others missed.
“If you think permanence means imprisonment…”
“…you’ve never met someone who stayed because leaving became less interesting.”
A pause. His mouth curved faintly.
Then, almost idly, as though he were speaking about weather, or tea, or nothing at all, he added:
His smile became smaller.
He let the silence become its own thing.
His eyes remained steady.
“I think my town would become far more interesting if you stayed.”
Not because he wanted to own winter.
Not because he wished to survive it.
But because there was something beautiful about storms no one sat beside.
And Nastka had never been particularly afraid of getting snow in his hair.
