Chapter Text
The first thing Ivan noticed that morning wasn’t the cold.
It was the way his breath fogged up the inside of his mask like a badly timed smoke machine.
He tugged the fabric down to his chin and exhaled deliberately, watching the pale mist drift away. It was kind of pretty, in a “death-is-coming-for-your-sinuses” way. The air bit at his skin, sharp enough to make him squint, and goosebumps crept up his arms despite the layers he’d thrown on. The rebellion base wasn’t exactly well-insulated—apparently “down with the aliens” didn’t include “upgrading the heating.”
“Morning, Ivan.” Dewey shuffled past with a thermos in hand, the steam rising from it like a beacon of everything Ivan didn’t have. Warmth. Comfort. Good life choices.
Ivan offered a lazy salute, already regretting being awake. “Morning. Enjoying your hot beverage while the rest of us freeze to death?”
Dewey chuckled. “You could make your own.”
“Or,” Ivan said, voice flat, “I could continue suffering and make it everyone else’s problem. Way more efficient.”
He didn’t stick around for Dewey’s amused shake of the head. The hallway led toward the outer door where teams usually gathered for prep, and the closer he got, the more the cold seemed to worm under his clothes. By the time he pushed the door open, the winter air slammed into him full force.
He lasted about ten seconds before the itching started.
It began as a faint prickle on the back of his hands—easy to ignore. He flexed his fingers, shoved them into his jacket pockets, and told himself it was nothing. The cold always made him itchy. Always had. Even back in Anakt Garden, when “cold” meant “air conditioning turned up a little too high,” he’d scratch absently at his arms without thinking.
By minute three, the prickle had evolved into a full-on, mosquito-rave under his skin. Red splotches were blooming along his wrists like bad graffiti. He yanked his sleeves down over them and glanced around to make sure no one was watching. Great. Just what he needed. Random, unsolvable skin problems. Again.
Hyuna’s voice cut across the courtyard, crisp as the air. “Ivan. Mission briefing in five.”
He gave her a thumbs-up he didn’t really mean. She turned back to Isaac, already discussing routes, because of course she trusted him to show up and not be falling apart. Ivan rubbed his wrist through the fabric, scowling at the itch like he could intimidate it away.
Spoiler: he couldn’t.
Till appeared at his side without a sound, like he always did. Ivan didn’t jump anymore when that happened. He’d just developed the permanent habit of pretending he wasn’t startled, which was almost the same thing.
“Morning,” Ivan said, tilting his head toward him. “Or whatever part of the day this frozen wasteland counts as.”
Till gave a faint huff through his nose, signing quickly with his gloved hands. Cold?
“Genius deduction.” Ivan flexed his fingers, ignoring the burning itch climbing up his forearms. “You should work for the rebellion.”
Till rolled his eyes, but his grin was obvious even behind his scarf. He signed again, You look— He paused, searching for the sign, then gestured loosely around Ivan’s face. Weird.
Ivan clutched his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “Weird? Me? Impossible. I’m a picture of rugged winter beauty.”
Till’s shoulders shook with a silent laugh, and Ivan felt that stupid warm flutter in his stomach that had no business existing when his skin was staging a revolt.
“You’re just jealous,” Ivan added, leaning closer with a mock-conspiratorial tone. “Not everyone can pull off the frostbite chic.”
Till gave him a flat look that said, as clearly as words, You’re ridiculous. Then his expression softened. He reached out and tugged one of Ivan’s sleeves down properly, his gloved fingers brushing over Ivan’s wrist just long enough for Ivan’s breath to catch.
He forced a grin to cover it. “Thanks, nurse.”
Till signed, Take care. A simple phrase, but it lingered longer than it should have. Ivan answered with a cocky salute to hide the tiny, involuntary way his heartbeat had sped up.
As Till headed toward the armory with the others, Ivan stayed in the courtyard a moment longer, rubbing at the angry patches hidden under his jacket. It wasn’t just “cold makes me itchy” anymore. The hives were spreading in uneven blotches, and the skin felt like it was buzzing under his touch. He scowled down at it like it had personally betrayed him.
He’d just have to power through. It wasn’t like anyone had time to baby a rash.
Hyuna’s voice carried easily across the courtyard. “Gather up!”
Ivan dragged himself toward the main room where a handful of rebels were already huddled around a cracked table, maps and scribbled notes spread across it like someone’s over-ambitious art project. Hyuna stood at the head, arms crossed, that particular mix of tired and terrifying she wore better than anyone else. Dewey and Isaac flanked her, both looking annoyingly awake.
Ivan dropped into a chair like gravity had suddenly doubled. The wood creaked in protest.
Hyuna gave him a pointed look. “You’re late.”
“I was busy communing with the frost demons,” Ivan said. “They say hi.”
Isaac snorted; Hyuna didn’t even blink. “This is a simple supply run. We’ve got a narrow window before the patrols change. Ivan, you’re with Dewey on the south route. In and out. No detours.”
“Detours?” Ivan widened his eyes in mock innocence. “Me? Never.”
Dewey gave him the kind of side-eye that translated to every single mission, Ivan.
Hyuna tapped the table. “Stay sharp. The cold’s working in our favor, but it’s not forgiving. Keep your gear sealed. No mistakes. Don't forget to visit Luka for directions in full.”
Ivan bit back a grimace. Yeah. About that. The itching on his arms had reached a dull roar now. His skin under the sleeves felt like someone had swapped it for sandpaper. He forced himself to keep his expression neutral. Nobody needed to know he was falling apart over something as stupid as… winter.
The briefing wrapped quickly. Hyuna barked final instructions, and everyone scattered to gear up. Ivan pulled on his outer gloves, flexing his hands until the seams bit into his skin. If he could just get through the next few hours without scratching himself bloody, he’d count that as a win.
Outside, the sky was a dull, pale gray—like someone had tried to paint “winter” but gave up halfway. Boots crunched in the thin layer of frost as the small teams fanned out. Ivan adjusted his mask back over his nose, regretting it immediately as his breath fogged up the inside again.
“Ready?” Dewey asked, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“Born ready,” Ivan said. “Regretting it ever since.”
They set off down to take a visit to Luka. Wind whipped through the bare trees, carrying the kind of cold that went straight for the bones. Ivan hunched his shoulders and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. The itching didn’t stop. If anything, the exposure made it worse.
He kept his eyes forward, sarcastic quips ready on the tip of his tongue, because that was easier than thinking about the angry red blotches spreading like spilled paint under his jacket.
---
They caught Luka in his usual spot — tucked away in the narrow room that passed for a planning office, half-buried in papers and screens. The faint hum of the old equipment filled the space, warm compared to the icy hallways outside. Luka didn’t even glance up when they stepped in; his fingers kept moving across a keyboard with the same quiet precision as always.
“Reporting for cartographic enlightenment,” Ivan announced, leaning dramatically against the doorframe. “Guide us, oh map wizard.”
Luka finally looked up, blinking like he’d just surfaced from deep thought. “You’re late.”
“Technically,” Ivan said, “Hyuna was late assigning us, so really, I’m early.”
Dewey gave him a look. Luka just sighed softly and gestured them closer. “Come here. I updated the patrol maps this morning.”
They stepped over, and Luka pointed to a grainy aerial image on the screen, tracing the route with a pen. His voice stayed low and even — the kind that made complicated things sound simple. “South route. You’ll follow the old tram line until you hit this junction—” tap “—then cut east. Patrol shift here, here, and here.” Three more taps. “If you stay within the buffer zone, you won’t be seen.”
Ivan tried to listen. He really did. But the heat in the room made the itch flare worse, like his skin had decided to throw a tantrum now that it was safe indoors. His wrists burned under his sleeves, and he scratched absently through the fabric before realizing Luka’s eyes had flicked toward the movement.
Luka didn’t say anything, but there was a small crease between his brows. He glanced back to the map and continued, “If you lose contact, follow the fallback path along the river. Dewey has the updated codes.”
Ivan nodded, a beat too late. Dewey elbowed him lightly. “Pay attention.”
“I am paying attention,” Ivan muttered. “This is my paying-attention face.”
Luka’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close. “Right. Just… don’t improvise.”
“Me?” Ivan put a hand to his chest in mock offense. “When have I ever done that?”
Neither Luka nor Dewey dignified that with a response.
Luka leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his temple. For a second, the quiet stretched. His gaze flicked again to Ivan’s hands, then to his face, like he wanted to ask but couldn’t in the bustle of pre-mission chaos. The room wasn’t private, and there were always ears.
He settled for, “Stay warm,” soft enough that it almost got lost under the hum of the monitors.
Ivan forced a grin. “Always do.”
He didn’t.