He is thawing.

He doesn't remember, exactly, but there are dark shadows at the edge of his memory—cold, so cold it burned him, so heavy it froze him. Unending dreams of ice.

Now he burns again. Andros's tongue sets fire to his throat. Nerves he's forgotten he had stir to life. He drags his sweat-slick fingers along Andros's spine and is rewarded with a shudder. It's almost too hot to bear now, the two of them beneath the blankets, but he would rather burn to death than freeze again.

Andros digs his nails into Zhane's shoulders and they press themselves together, slowly rocking until they've both remembered what it is to be alive.