You fall asleep most nights to memories of battle.
You dream of your brother; the other half of yourself, of your soul, and the wrenching ache of loss that never leaves, no matter what you do.
Cool air sliding over you pulls you out of your nightmares, and you open your eyes to pale fingers brushing tears away.
"You'll catch your death," Fred whispers, and you feel a tiny smile tug at your mouth.
"I do." The press of his mouth to yours is cool and sweet, and too brief.
You still feel it in the morning.