"Hello, Taemin," he says softly, cracking a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, a small cloud of fog brushing out of his pale, perfect lips. He pats the space next to him, motioning for me to sit next to him, and as I ran to him, he wipes the space as if to clean it for me. When I snuggle next to him, he smiles. 

"How have you been?" I look up at him, smiling, more than happy to see him again. He was my only friend, the only one who would talk to me. And all year, I would wait for this moment to meet him, even if just for a few hours. Jonghyun, who brought Summer, never even bothered to look for me, but I did meet him once. He talked about nothing else besides Autumn, whose name was Kibum. 

I still wished though, that Minho would be strong enough to stay with me on Earth, to linger, to fight the invisible force that would pull  us away and return us to months and months of slumber. I hated it, because it was lonely. Up there, up in the clouds, I lived by dreaming. 

"I've been better," he replies, looking away to stare at the snow he had brought. "And you?" he adds, but it came out only as a whisper. 

I gaze at him, suddenly unable to speak. Why was it that he always looked sad, lonely.. pained? Just because he was assigned to Winter, and to bring coldness to the Earth? Does he really have to be cold, too? Or maybe he was really made like that, the same way I am made like this. Happy, despite the loneliness, despite having only, well, one and a half friend. Is it because I bring Spring? 

It was unfair. Why couldn't I be sad, and why couldn't Minho be happy? 

When he notices that I took too long to answer, he turns to look at me, his eyes calm, deep, telling me there was something going on in his mind, telling me he was unhappy. I felt myself frowning, but try to stop myself because I didn't want him to think of it wrong. 

"What's wrong?" he asks, eyebrows meeting for  brief moment, a look of worry flashing in his eyes. 

"Nothing," I lie. 

He looks away again, sighing, and I watch another cloud of fog escape his lips before disappearing into thin air. And even though it was difficult, I tear my eyes off him, too, and stare at the direction he was, wondering what in the world caught his attention, what he was staring at. 

"Taemin," he whispers suddenly, and when I turn to look at him, I find him still looking away, his eyes distant. "Would you want to walk around the Earth with me?" 

And for a moment, I thought I saw him brighten up when he smiled. The pale blue of his skin almost seemed to disappear a little, seemed to fade into a light pink, much like my complexion. That was another difference between us. He was a sad person, and I was a happy one. And while he had that pale, almost icy kind of complexion, I had the pink, blooming one. I could write a list of differences between us and it probably would never end. 

I blinked, confused. "What do you mean? Haven't you done that already? You might get scolded for bringing too much snow," I say softly, trying not to sound too worried. 

He sighs and nods, and I could see him becoming pale again. Guilt washed over me, but still, I knew it was for the better. I've tried it before, walking around the Earth twice, leaving a trail of flowers and plants behind me, and I was scolded by the voice. I was mad at the time, wondering how in the world bringing too much flowers to the world was a bad thing, but I thought maybe because I wasn't doing my job right. And I just didn't want Minho to commit the same mistake I did. 

"I'm sorry," I tell him, and he looks back at me, his round eyes staring right into mine. And for a moment, I felt my breath catch in my throat, seeing his long, beautiful eyelashes. 

He smiles and chuckles. "It's okay, Taeminnie." 

I smile back and place a hand on his, trying not to gasp at the coldness and the overwhelming pain that washed over me so not to offend him. And I watch as the pale blue on his hand fade into a soft pink, similar to mine, except mine was brighter. And I smile, knowing I was sharing my warmth, yet a little voice in the back of my head starts yelling at me, saying, "He's made of ice, you idiot, he's not supposed to like warmth!" But when I look up to his face, I see him smiling, his face brightening up, too. 

"That feels nice," he whispers huskily, still not looking at me, and his hand adjusts under mine so it was warmer, and then the bright pink crawls up his arms, spreading. 

I stare at him for a long moment, pressing my lips together, and then I look the same direction he is. We stay like that for a very, very long moment, staring at nothing in particular, sharing comfortable silence, holding hands, sharing warmth. The cold wind blows, and I try not to shiver, but I fail, miserably. I felt Minho looking at me, but I try to ignore it, yet it never disappears. I shiver again. 

"I'm sorry," he says suddenly, and then I turn to him, confused. I was surprised that he was not pale anymore, but completely bright, blooming, just like me, but I hide it and secretly smile instead. 

"What for?" 

"It's too cold, isn't it?" He cracks a crooked smile, failing to make it reach his eyes, yet effectively make my guts melt. 

"It's fine," I say, unsure if I was lying or telling the truth, yet he chuckles again. 

I turn away again, and I feel his gaze disappear from me. We stay like that again, for a very long time, until I hear him gasp. I turn to him and gasp as well, quickly snatching my hand away from his when I see vines wrapped around his wrist, making it's way up to his arm, a few buds of flowers and some leaves growing on it. But as soon as my hand leaves his, it stops growing, the buds and leaves wither, and his complexion returns to it's pale, light blue, icy. 

"I'm sorry," I exclaim, panicked, but he laughs. And I smile because his laugh was gorgeous, and his eyes brightened, no sign of sadness. 

"It's completely fine. I actually liked it." He chuckles, his smile never leaving. He gazed at the plant wrapped around his wrist, grinning as he placed one bud between his fingers, observing it's texture. But his smile falters when the plant fell off, and I frown because his bright aura disappeared. 

"They won't grow when it's too cold, that's why I melt the snow before I let them grow," I tell him, smiling gently in attempt to cheer him up. "But I can make you another one." He smiles like an excited child, and my heart flutters. 

"Can you make one that grows in the cold?" he asks, eyebrow furrowing slightly in wonder. 

I hesitate, before saying, "I'll try." And he grins before nodding. I close my eyes as I take in a deep breath, and then, very carefully, I search for it within me. The flower that grows in the cold. And I see Minho in my mind's eye, staring away with sad, distant eyes, and I feel the overwhelming loneliness that comes to me when I touch him. And I see it as a flower. I pull out my hand, my eyes still closed, feeling my eyebrows furrowing. I imagine Minho's beauty, his smile, his touch, his aura. 

And when I open my eyes, I'm holding a flower. Fully bloomed, the petals of it in such a pale, soft shade of blue, it's stem a faded green. The center, such a dark blue that it almost looks black, just like his hair. And the petals shine because of the small, crystal-like ice that grew there, and I gaze at it, surprised when a single snowflake falls from the sky and lands on it, softly, lightly. And then it stays there. 

I look up at Minho, who was staring at it with bright, shimmering eyes, a delighted grin gracing his lips. "Can I hold it?" he asks me, his eyes leaving the flower for only a second to glance at me before he stared at the flower again. And I chuckle and nod. 

"Of course, you can. It's yours, I made it for you." I smile when he grinned, gently taking it between his fingers and running the tips of them across the petals, his smile never fading. 

"It's beautiful," he whispers, eyes becoming half-lidded. 

Of course, it's you. "It is," I chuckle. 

And I watch in fascination as the dark blue of his irises very slowly fade into a very pale red, and I realize I'd made him happier than ever. Because that happened only rarely. When the emotion of ones like us changes, the color of our eyes change, too, and if I remember clearly, red meant happiness, sometimes love. But love was usually a very dark red, almost blood red. Blue meant sadness. 

And Minho's eyes were always blue. 

But then the thought disappears -- my mind stops working altogether, when Minho turns to me and smiles, his aura brightening up so quickly that it surprised me. And I couldn't help but smile back.