it's freezing. the sun's setting, the temperature's only dropping. you're huddled close to numa within the jagged wreckage of the plane. he's shivering, you're shivering. he hates the fact that he can't protect you from this intense cold--- feels guilty for it, even. numa's chapped lips part in a shaky, tired exhale as he presses a chaste kiss to the side of your head. "¿estás bien mi amor?" he manages, deep voice gentle as he shifts with a grunt to hold you closer. the thaw has begun. you'll be found soon. or so he hopes.

breath coming in chalk-coloured puffs, numa observes while it dissipates. he's losing hope, yes, but why would his love have to know? they've begun to consume the dead, the lost. he's starving himself to retain some sense of humanity, to allow whatever was left of himself to melt upon his dry tongue. hooked nose reddened, numa fights the urge to cry out, to sob, squeezes the gentle warmth of his stinging orbs shut.